The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “Certainly, Mr. Willard,” Pontowski replied. “May I present Lieutenant Colonel Janice Clark, the base commander?”

  Willard looked at Clark the way someone would examine roadkill. “As Colonel Clark is on the list to be interviewed, any contact at this time is inappropriate.” He turned to Clark’s waiting minivan and driver. “Our transportation, I presume.”

  “Of course,” Pontowski said. He escorted the team to the minivan and waited while they climbed in. “May I escort you?” Pontowski offered.

  “Does the driver know his way around the base?” Willard asked.

  “Of course,” Pontowski replied. “But under the circumstances—”

  Willard interrupted him. “General Pontowski, apparently you don’t appreciate why we are here. We must operate independently in order to learn the truth of the matter. Any un-warranted contact at this time would be prejudicial to our investigation.”

  Pontowski stepped back and saluted as Clark’s driver jammed the minivan into gear and stomped on the accelerator. “Welcome to Camp Alpha,” he muttered as the van careened around a corner and disappeared.

  “Charming people,” Clark said. Together they walked back to the command post.

  The Scud hit two hours later.

  The first reports flooding into the command post indicated that the missile had hit on the extreme southwest corner of the base, missing the main complex by a thousand meters. Pontowski leaned over the center console as he listened to the damage reports. When the runway was reported as clear and undamaged, he ordered the KC-10 to launch and hold south of the base. “Any casualties?” he asked.

  A sergeant answered. “The Rock says two security cops were in a defensive fire position near the point of impact. Doc Ryan is there now.”

  “Stay on top of it,” Pontowski ordered. “Colonel Clark, any word on the GAO team?”

  “The last I heard they were still at operations interviewing pilots.” She punched at her communications panel and called the hardened shelter. She spoke briefly to Maggot and broke the connection. “They say the GAO’s left and are coming our way,” she told him. “They should be here any moment. Apparently they’re not happy campers.”

  The GAO team that ran into the command post had definitely lost some of its self-composure but none of its arrogance. “General Pontowski,” Willard barked, “what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

  Pontowski was confused. “What am I doing?”

  “First this missile attack and now our airplane taking off without us.”

  Pontowski handed him a phone. “You really need to speak to the PLA about the missile. As for the KC-10, I ordered it airborne for safety. We can recall it when you’re ready to leave.”

  Willard was shouting. “Recall it immediately!”

  “Certainly,” Pontowski said. “I take it your investigation is complete.”

  “No, it is not!”

  “Can I be of any help before you leave?”

  Willard took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his face. “Did you order the use of CBU-58s at Kuala Lumpur?”

  “Directly order? The answer is no. But I am responsible, as I cleared my pilots to engage. Further, I allow them to use the best tactics to ensure their survival and the weapons best suited for the target. I don’t second-guess them, Mr. Willard.”

  “Then you’re also responsible for the attack on the innocent civilians on the bridge at Bahau this morning?”

  “If you’re referring to the attack on the ZSU-23 that shot at and hit one of my aircraft, the answer is yes.”

  “Have your rules of engagement been approved and published?”

  “Approved by whom?”

  Willard was not used to being questioned, and he turned a light shade of purple. “The national command authority. Who else would I be talking about?”

  “Do you mean by President Turner?”

  Willard’s face turned a deeper purple at Pontowski’s intransigence. “I mean by the legal controlling authority of our government!”

  “At the risk of forever confusing you, sir, the American Volunteer Group is under the operational command of Southeast Asia Command. Further, I seriously doubt if the ‘legal controlling authority of our government’ has a clue when it comes to the ROE in this theater.”

  Janice Clark interrupted him. “General.” She cast a glance at the doorway, where a haggard-looking Doc Ryan was standing with Rockne.

  “I couldn’t save them,” Ryan said. He turned and left.

  “Your two cops?” Pontowski asked Rockne.

  Rockne’s face matched his nickname. “It was a direct hit.” He pulled himself erect, almost at attention. “Sir, when the KC-10 lands, can we hold it long enough to load the body bags? Sergeant Maul can escort them.”

  “Absolutely not!” Willard shouted.

  Pontowski turned and fixed him with a hard stare. “Mr. Willard, that KC-10 is not taking off without them.”

  “We’ll see about that!”

  “Please do.”

  For a moment the two men stared at each other, locked in a contest of wills. Willard broke and scurried out. “You haven’t heard the last of this!” he shouted, determined to have the last word.

  Clark shook her head and muttered an obscenity under her breath. “Why,” she wondered, “do I get the feeling we’re being hung out to dry?”

  The White House

  Monday, October 4

  The muffled beat of the drum coming from Lafayette Park was barely audible in the president’s bedroom. But it was there, pounding at her subconscious with its unrelenting message. Maddy’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up, her heart racing. What was I dreaming about? The luminous hands on the clock announced it was just after four in the morning. She breathed deeply, and soon her heart slowed. She hesitated before turning on the light. She knew that simple signal would send out waves like a huge rock splashing into a placid lake, until the White House was awash in activity, fully alert and tuned to her needs.

  She reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. Within seconds there was a discreet knock at the door. It was her maid, ready to be of service. “Coffee, please,” Maddy called, starting the day. She padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. For a few minutes she let the hot water course over her body, savoring the moment. Her maid was there with a warm robe when she stepped out. She ripped off her shower cap and shook her hair. “I’ll wear the dark blue jumpsuit with the presidential logo for now,” she said. The older woman looked at her in a state of mild shock, and Maddy smiled. “Well, if Winston Churchill could wear his ‘siren suit,’ I can, too.” Another thought came to her. “We start at the normal time today,” she said.

  “It’s too late, Madam President,” the woman replied.

  Exactly eight minutes later Turner walked into the Situation Room. The three officers on duty had been warned she was headed their way and were ready. She sat in a chair next to the big monitors instead of her normal chair across the table. “A quick update,” she said, picking up a hand controller. DAY 29 flashed on the center screen, and within seconds she was scrolling through the Spot Update, the current synopsis of the war the NMCC updated every thirty minutes. The UIF was still driving hard to the south, but the air-interdiction campaign was slowing them down.

  “The Saudis are fighting like demons,” a duty officer said. It was true. They were in the thick of it, throwing every unit they had into the front line and taking heavy casualties. “By the way, we know how the UIF is moving supplies south.” He called up a map display tracing the UIF’s supply net into Saudi Arabia. “They took their lessons from the North Vietnamese and the Ho Chi Minh Trail,” he explained. “But lacking a jungle for cover, they adapted to the desert. First they dug a series of tunnels under the border.” His pointer circled eight dashed lines that started in Iraq and reached south, across the border, aiming toward King Khalid Military City. “They range from five to twelve miles long. Our analysts estimate it probably took them three years to
construct them. Once clear of the border, they leapfrogged ahead and built aboveground tunnels to serve as drive-through storage bunkers.” Another chart showed a spiderweb of truck trails reaching into the desert. “They made no attempt to hide the truck tracks, and we’ve destroyed over two thousand trucks moving south.”

  “Where did we think all these trucks were coming from?”

  “Because of the tunnels,” the officer answered, “we couldn’t detect them crossing the border. So we assumed they were ours, captured when King Khalid City fell. Then they made sure we saw exactly what we wanted to see. The entire road net is littered with burned-out hulks. What we didn’t see were these aboveground bunkers.”

  A high-resolution image showed a truck track in the desert paralleling a ridgeline. “This is fairly typical. All they did was extend the side of the ridge, much like a snow shelter on a railroad track in the mountains. If you look close, you can see how a truck can dart in here from the main track, drive down the tunnel, and come out here, rejoining the main track. We estimate as many as a hundred trucks can hide in this tunnel until any threat has gone away. Then they dash for the next tunnel.”

  “Why haven’t we bombed these tunnels?” she asked.

  “This is new, very new. The CIA and DIA just put it together. The big lesson here is that low tech still works, if you’re willing to pay the price. The analysts are calling it ‘Saddam’s Spider.’”

  “So this desert pipeline—Saddam’s Spider, if you will—is in full flow?”

  “Packed with men and supplies,” came the answer. “That’s how they were able to mount and sustain the current offensive.”

  Turner’s fingers drummed a tight tattoo on the table as an idea began to form in the back of her mind. She hit the advance button on her hand controller to cycle the screens. The casualty status report was next. The total number of Americans killed in action had reached 2,011. She hit the pause button when the names of the current casualties appeared. “Yes, ma’am,” the duty officer said, “we saw it, too.” The name of Colonel Robert Scovill was at the top of the list.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “As best we know, he had just arrived at his battalion headquarters when the enemy broke through. It was a rout. But he formed up a unit of stragglers and led them in a counterattack. They held on long enough for reinforcements to arrive and turn it around. It was afterward…a dudded mortar round exploded.”

  She fought for her breath. Then, “Please, give me a moment.” The three men quickly left. I last saw him when? Friday night. Tears formed in her eyes. How long ago was that? Her relentless mind drove her on, offering no refuge. Fifty-six hours ago. Not even three days. Oh, my God! How much can I ask of them? Her body shuddered with a wrenching sob. His name flashed at her. I will remember, she promised. Then the tears flowed, not just for Robert Neil Scovill but also for all of them. Slowly she regained her composure, as an icy calm descended over her soul. I will not forget! She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and hit the intercom button. “Please have my staff join me here.”

  “They’re in the hall, Mrs. President.”

  Richard Parrish was the first through the door, closely followed by Nancy, her personal assistant. Turner stood while the rest filed in and found seats around the table. Mazie was the last to enter, and she stopped, not sure what she was seeing. “We’re going to end this war,” the president said. She looked around the room. “Not as soon as I would like, but soon enough. And we will not lose the peace. Richard, get with Stephan at State and Mazie and develop an end-game strategy. Also, I will be making an announcement in thirty minutes in the Press Room.”

  “Ma’am,” Parrish said, “it’s only five o’clock. No one will be there.”

  “Then I’ll be talking to an empty room.” She fixed them with a steady gaze. “And by the way, we’re going to win this election. Please excuse me. I have to call Colonel Scovill’s family.” Her staff quickly left, not sure what to make of what they had just experienced.

  The small Press Room was packed when the president walked in. She stood at the podium and looked around the room, bending each one to her will. “Earlier this morning I learned that Colonel Robert Neil Scovill, USMC, was killed in action within hours after joining his unit in Saudi Arabia. I believe many of you knew Colonel Scovill from the briefings he gave at the Pentagon. He also briefed me numerous times, the last being Friday evening. I had come to rely on Colonel Scovill and trusted his judgment. But he was never happy here and wanted to be with his men. Colonel Scovill was first and last a Marine, and he gave his life fighting for the freedom of others. I can only honor his sacrifice.” She paused and looked at her hands.

  “Second, my worthy opponent in this election has repeatedly charged that I am a prisoner of the White House, unable to meet the challenges of this conflict and afraid to make a decision. He is right about one thing: I have given my full attention to this war and as a consequence have been held close to the White House. Personally, I would like to see how he responds to the demands of the moment. Therefore, I’m offering to meet him in a debate to last no longer than ninety minutes, within the next thirty-six hours at a place of his choosing—as long as it’s not too far from here.” A wave of laughter worked its way around the room. “No moderator, no set format, no prearranged questions. He gets to make the first statement, and we go from there. The offer is on the table.”

  She turned and left the stage.

  Wilding arrived at the Situation Room at exactly seven o’clock to meet with the ExCom and the president. His eyes burned, and he felt a weariness that was dragging him down. “General Wilding,” Turner said, “thank you for coming.” She stood and paced the floor. “Mazie, when can we expect the Germans to launch their offensive?”

  “H-hour is 0100 hours local, Thursday morning,” Mazie said. “That’s five P.M. Wednesday evening here. The vanguard starts to deploy and move to the border tonight.”

  “General Wilding,” Turner said, “I just learned about Saddam’s Spider. I assume you will be targeting it in the very near future.”

  “Starting today,” Wilding said.

  “Focus initially on the southern end of the Spider,” she said. “I want–”

  Wilding stood up. “Madam President, we’ve been through this before.”

  She nodded. “Indeed. But hear me out. The moment the Germans launch their offensive, seal off the northern end of the Spider. I do not want any supplies returning north.”

  Wilding’s head came up as his fatigue disappeared. “Brilliant. We hit the southern end hard, they push more supplies into the Spider to make up for the losses and keep their offensive going, the Germans attack, and we seal off their logistical effort in the Spider.” His face grew hard as he looked at her, the pieces falling into place. “They’ve dug their own graves.”

  “Exactly,” Turner said, returning his gaze.

  The lights were on in the Oval Office when Bobbi Jo Reynolds and the election committee sat down to meet with the president. “Thanks for staying so late,” Turner said.

  “Thanks for the dinner,” Bobbi Jo replied. The small group went to work, bringing the president up to date on the campaign. “There is bad news, Mrs. President. We’re running out of money. Campaign contributions have slowed to a trickle, and our supporters appear to be in a wait-and-see mode.” A serious matter, but they were all pros and knew how to work around the problem of diminishing finances. They were about finished when the door opened and Patrick Shaw slipped into the room.

  He gave them all a big grin. “I just got off the phone. Leland and his boy have agreed to a debate. Tomorrow evening, 6:00 P.M., at Georgetown University.” His news was greeted with approval all around, and the committee rapidly finished its work. Finally they were gone, and her day was over. “Well, Mizz President,” Shaw said, “you gotta render that son of a bitch tomorrow.”

  “Any suggestions on how to do that?” she asked.

  “If we’re lucky, he’ll bang the drum
on three issues: leadership, failed intelligence, and diplomacy.” Shaw could hardly contain himself. “You know the answers—but give them the last word every time.”

  Twenty-six

  New Mexico Military Institute

  Monday, October 4

  Zack and Brian arrived ten minutes early for the afternoon briefing in Dow Hall. Neither teenager’s strong suit was punctuality, and ten minutes early set a new record for them. But it was a wasted effort, as every seat in the room was taken and they had to stand at the back. Just as the Army captain giving the update on the war stepped up to the podium, two football players came through the door and edged in front of them. “What happened to practice?” Brian muttered.

  The bigger of the two players, a defensive lineman, stepped on his foot. “Hey, this is where the action is.”

  The captain looked around the room. “We’re going to have to find a larger place,” he said. Zack and Brian agreed with him as the two football players squashed them against the back wall. The computer-driven projector clicked on, and the captain quickly summarized the fighting in the Gulf and in Malaysia. “The UIF’s rate of advance toward Riyadh appears to be slowing, but there is still some hard fighting ahead for the coalition forces before it is stopped. The arrival this Friday of two major convoys will certainly improve the logistics situation. However, the situation on the Malay Peninsula is much bleaker. At the rate the PLA is advancing, it appears Singapore will fall within two to three weeks.”

  “Hey, Pontowski,” the lineman said, “it looks like your old man is gonna get his ass kicked.”

  “Asshole,” Brian muttered.

  The captain called up another image on the screen. “Today I’d like to look at the win-hold-win strategy being pursued by the United States. I think it’s fair to say, given the circumstances, it is the only viable option.” He outlined the details of the strategy, focusing on the lack of strategic airlift necessary to make it work. He finished, “Unfortunately, the timing is all wrong, and I seriously doubt that we can win the war in Saudi Arabia in time to redeploy to Malaysia and save the hold. It looks like SEAC and the American Volunteer Group are being hung out to dry.”