The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “I want to stay,” Tel said.

  Kamigami shook his head. “I need you back at Alpha for a formal debrief.” It was a weak excuse, and both men knew it. “Get some rest. We move out in an hour.” Tel turned to leave and find a tree to rig his hammock. “One thing,” Kamigami said, stopping him. “What happened to the midnight pisser the corporal took out?” One of the hard facts of special operations was that you couldn’t take prisoners in the field.

  Tel hesitated. Did he want to admit that he had stripped the unconscious man, strung him up by his heels over the stream, and punched two holes in his neck? “He’s still there, hanging around.” He couldn’t help himself. “Someone will find him.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Thursday, October 7

  The ExCom gathered in the Situation Room for the ten o’clock meeting and quietly found their places. Vice President Kennett looked across the table and nodded at Mazie and Butler. “Well done,” he said.

  “The waiting was the hardest part,” Mazie said. “I wasn’t sure if von Lubeck could deliver.”

  “It is a new role for the Germans,” Butler said. “Personally, I was more worried about the Turks.” He fell silent when the door opened, and came to his feet when the president entered. Everyone in the room joined him.

  For a moment she stood there, her eyes bright and clear. Then she smiled. “The drummer’s gone.”

  Butler hoped his face did not give him away. As acting DCI, he had a few options not available to the average human being, not to mention politician, and had simply exercised one. Madeline Turner smiled at him, and the color drained from his face. There was no doubt that she knew. “Please be seated,” she said, letting him off the hook.

  “The protesters hate success, Madam President,” General Wilding said. “May I offer my congratulations for Operation Saracen?” He searched for the right words, not wanting to sound like a brown-nosing apple polisher. “Convincing our allies to open a second front was brilliant.”

  “The credit belongs to Mazie and Bernie,” she said.

  Wilding allowed a tight smile—he knew how it worked. “If I may,” he said, starting the briefing. For the first time in weeks the news was good, and all the tension and worry that had borne down on him with a relentless and crushing weight was finally lifting. “Operation Saracen is going well, and the Germans reached Mosul two hours ago, nine hours ahead of schedule. The Iraqis have fallen back into the city and are showing unexpected resistance. The Germans plan to leave a covering force in place, bypass the city, and drive for Baghdad. In the south, Operation Anvil is hammering hard at Saddam’s Spider.” He warmed to the subject, venting his pent-up frustration while reveling in the change of events. “We plan to open a major offensive in seventy-two hours. We’re going to hold them by the nose while kicking them in the butt.” But then reality intruded, and he clamped a tight control on his emotions. “We still have some hard fighting in front of us, Madam President. But we have the logistics and personnel in place to do the job now.”

  Turner tapped her fingers together. “Malaysia?” she asked.

  The screens on the TV cycled, and Wilding took a deep breath. “The situation is unclear, Madam President.” He pointed to SEAC’s defensive line centered on Segamat. “It appears that SEAC is holding. Unfortunately, the AVG lost another aircraft earlier today, but the pilot was unhurt and has returned to duty.”

  “Stay on top of it,” Turner ordered, “and do what you can.” Her voice turned to steel. “I hope you’ve started planning for redeployment to Malaysia.”

  “Indeed we have, Madam President,” Wilding replied. “But the lack of airlift is the limiting factor.”

  The briefing was over, and Turner came to her feet. The ExCom stood with her. “We’ll fix that problem when this is all over,” she promised. She paused for a moment. “I can’t thank you enough.” Her voice cracked with emotion, and she quickly left. Outside, in the corridor, shouting and cheering coming from the main floor echoed down the stairs. Nancy reached for her personal communicator to warn the staff that the president was returning to the Oval Office, but Turner stopped her. “Let them enjoy the moment,” she said. “They’ve earned it.”

  Rather than return directly to her office, she strolled through the West Wing, keeping in the background. Everyone was clustered in front of TVs and bouncing with excitement as reporters and political pundits searched for the right words to describe the turn of events. Even the most hostile commentators were comparing Operation Saracen to General Douglas MacArthur’s Inchon landing in the Korean War.

  “A brilliant maneuver…”

  “Governor Grau strangely silent…”

  “Syria’s ambassador to the United Nations has petitioned for an in-place cease-fire.”

  A loud “No way!” chorused from her staff.

  “I’d like to speak to the press,” Turner said to Parrish.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he sang. He punched at his communicator, warning the press secretary as he followed her down the hall. Ahead of them, they could see reporters running for the Press Room. “Give them a few moments,” he said. They spoke quietly, going over what she should say. “Ignore Grau and Leland,” Parrish counseled. “Keep it brief and make them focus on what’s ahead.”

  Madeline Turner closed her eyes for a moment. Then she nodded and led the way into the Briefing Room. As one, the reporters stood and applauded.

  Thirty

  Central Malaysia

  Friday, October 8

  Kamigami maintained a relentless pace, pressing his men to make the rendezvous with the three helicopters. They had been in the field almost five days, and in the world of special operations that was an eternity. By now it was a certainty that someone was out there looking for them. The answer was movement and speed. Thanks to night-vision goggles, superb charts, and a GPS, they could move through the jungle at night and make good time. But it wasn’t easy.

  They reached the landing zone just after midnight, seventeen minutes before the Pumas were scheduled to arrive. The men collapsed to the ground, breathing deeply and gulping water. Half of them knew they were going home and started to relax. But Kamigami was merciless. He posted lookouts and briefed his four team leaders. “The two teams returning to Alpha board the last helicopter, the rest get on the second Puma. I’ll board the first aircraft with the replacement teams. Helicopters get attention, so minimum time on the ground. I want us out of here in less than a minute. Count your men; no one gets left behind. We all lift off together and egress the area together. Once clear of the area, we split. One and Two head north, Three returns to Alpha.” The muffled sound of the helicopters brought them to their feet. “Move,” Kamigami ordered. He pulled Tel aside. “It’s easy going in; it’s the getting out that’s hard. Remember that.”

  “Good hunting,” Tel said. They shook hands as the first Puma settled to the ground. Kamigami ran for it without looking back and climbed in the side door. The eighteen men returning to Camp Alpha clambered on board the last helicopter. For a moment Tel hesitated. Then he ran for the second aircraft.

  The helicopters lifted off in quick succession and flew low over the jungle canopy, heading to the southeast. Sixteen minutes later they flew up a river valley and entered the Gunong Besar mountain range. The river glowed like a silver ribbon in the moonlight, and the helicopters dropped even lower. When the river split, the first two Pumas turned north, toward the Taman Negara, and the third continued to the south, heading for Camp Alpha, fifty miles away. For the forty-two men on board the two northbound helicopters, it was a bumpy ride, as the pilots used terrain masking to escape detection. Exactly thirty-six minutes later the two Pumas hovered over a jungle clearing and the men jumped out. Tel was the last off and made his way through the tall grass, trying to look inconspicuous.

  Kamigami was crouched beside a tree, giving his team leaders last-minute instructions. “You’ve got three hours before daylight,” he told them. “Use it.” He gave them the rendezvous coor
dinates and sent them on their way. Without looking up, he said, “Tel, get your ass over here.” He waited. “The next time I give you an order, do it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tel answered, not the least bit intimidated.

  Camp Alpha

  Friday, October 8

  Clark’s driver accelerated across the runway at the midfield intersection, leaving the main base behind them. Once clear of the runway he drove down the road that led to the weapons-storage area. Clark pointed to a muddy dirt track, and the driver made a hard turn off the asphalt, sending a wave of water over a recently dug defensive fire position. He jerked the minivan to a halt when he saw Rockne and Boyca standing beside a bigger, heavily reinforced bunker. He jumped out and ran around to open the sliding door, grinning at Clark. “We here, Missy Colonel.” She climbed out, followed by Pontowski and Doc Ryan.

  Rockne threw them a crisp salute and led the way down into the bunker. “This is the operations bunker for Whiskey Sector,” he explained. They gathered around a wall chart as Rockne detailed the base’s defense plan. “I’ve divided the base into three sectors: Whiskey, Yankee, and Zulu.” He traced the boundaries of the sectors on the chart, which reminded Pontowski of a big T. Two long sectors lay side by side, parallel to the runway, and formed the stem while an oblong sector crossed the T, like a big cap. Rockne circled Zulu, the northern sector that formed the cap. “Any attack will most likely come from the north. That’s why the Malaysian Army laid a big minefield in this area before we arrived. Unfortunately, they didn’t make a plan of the minefield. The really bad news is that they laid it inside the tactical boundary.”

  “So why did they plant the mines there?” Clark asked.

  “Because it’s outside the base perimeter fence line,” Rockne explained. “They never considered the tactical boundary. At least there’s nothing in this sector, so I’ve turned it into a kill zone.” Four jets took off, forcing him to wait for the noise to subside.

  Pontowski checked his watch. “The first go of the morning,” he told them. He tapped the chart, pointing to the sector on the western side of the T’s stem. “It looks like everything important is in Yankee sector—the runway, command post, aircraft bunkers.”

  Doc Ryan said, “It looks like the base medical station and the command post are at the hub.”

  Clark studied the map. “It all makes sense,” she said. “If we come under heavy attack, we can give ground and fall back in concentric rings to the hub. One thing I don’t understand. Only the fuel dump and the weapons-storage area are on this side of the runway. Wouldn’t it be better to place Whiskey Sector ops bunker on the other side of the runway where you can better defend it?”

  “We thought about it,” Rockne said. “We rigged the fuel dump and the weapons igloos with demolition charges in case we have to withdraw. But there was no way we could get the firing wires across the runway. We have to detonate them from here.”

  Pontowski saw it first. “Neat, Chief, very neat.” His eyes narrowed. “If we come under attack and have to give up Whiskey, we can blow the fuel and ammo dumps.”

  “Exactly,” Rockne said. “Whoever gets caught in Whiskey is going to have a very bad day.” He showed them the panel that activated the charges.

  “Let’s hope,” Ryan said, “it won’t come to that and we’ll all be long gone.”

  “In an evacuation,” Clark told him, “the security police are the last to go.” Worry filled her eyes. “If they go.”

  “Oh, no,” Ryan said, at last understanding.

  “It goes with the territory,” Rockne said, trying to be philosophical about it.

  Clark checked the time. “We’ve got an inbound C-130 with more personnel. It might be some cops. Why don’t we go meet it?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Pontowski said.

  Rockne led the way in his pickup with Boyca. Doc Ryan trailed along with Clark and Pontowski in her van and sat in silence, calculating how to evacuate wounded if they abandoned the base. A dull explosion brought him back to the moment. “It came from the north,” he said.

  Clark keyed her handheld radio and called the controller in the main command post. But before the controller could determine the source of the explosion, Rockne’s pickup was racing for Zulu, the northern sector. The controller in the command post was back on the radio. “Two civilians are in the minefield. One is down, the other is waving for help.”

  Clark’s driver floored the accelerator, trying to pass Rockne. “Slow down!” Clark shouted in Malay. He did and followed Rockne to the edge of the minefield. Behind them, two fully loaded A-10s lifted off.

  Pontowski watched them as their landing gear came up and they turned out of the pattern. “Those were the alert birds,” he told them. “I’ve got to get back to the command post.” Clark told him to use her van and that she’d stay with Rockne.

  “I’ll stay here,” Ryan said.

  Rockne grabbed a pair of binoculars out of his pickup and swept the minefield. “They’re kids,” he said. He pressed the zoom lever. “One’s down, the other is standing there, not moving.”

  “How are we going to get them out?” Ryan asked.

  “It’s for damn sure I’m not sending anyone in there without a map,” Clark told him. “How long will it take to sweep a path?”

  “A couple of hours,” Rockne replied, still studying the two boys. “The one kid is indicating his buddy is hurtin’ bad. I don’t think we got the time.”

  Ryan shook his head. “So we’re going to let him die?”

  “Maybe not,” Rockne answered. “Come,” he called. Boyca jumped out of the pickup and trotted to him. He knelt down beside her and pointed to the boy standing in the minefield. Then he patted the ground. “Seek,” he commanded. Boyca sniffed the ground and started to range. She stopped. She had found a mine. “Good girl,” he said. “Seek.” Again the dog sniffed the ground and stopped. “Good girl.” He pointed toward the boy. “Seek.” Boyca did as commanded and worked her way toward the boy, stopping whenever she found a mine.

  “I didn’t know she could do that,” Clark said.

  “Neither did I,” Rockne replied, his voice full of pride. “Oh, no,” he moaned. “Doc, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Ryan was walking slowly into the minefield, a first-aid kit slung over his shoulder. “Following her path,” he called. “Muddy footprints.”

  “Doctor!” Clark shouted. “That’s dumber than dirt!” But he kept on walking. She sucked in her breath and waited. “Losing a dog is one thing,” she grumbled. She exhaled in relief when he reached the two boys.

  “Boyca,” Rockne called. “Stay.” The dog sat on her haunches and waited while Ryan worked on the boy. Then he stood and gave a thumbs-up. He handed his bag to the uninjured boy before picking the other one up in a fireman’s carry. “Boyca,” Rockne called. “Seek.” He slapped her leash against his thigh, hoping she would seek and come at the same time. She did.

  Two more A-10s took off, heading north as two entered the pattern for landing while Ryan walked out of the minefield. Clark was beside herself with anger. “Doctor, that was dumb.”

  Ryan ignored her. “We need to get him to the med station.”

  “For his sake,” Rockne said with a straight face, “I hope you know what you’re doing this time.” He looked up as a C-130 entered the pattern. “Let’s go,” he told the two officers. They loaded the boys into the back of his pickup, and he deposited the doctor and the boys at the medical station before dropping Clark off at the command post. Then he hurried back to the parking apron where the C-130 was unloading. He parked and clipped the leash to Boyca’s collar. Together they walked across the ramp, where a familiar figure was waiting with a group of thirty-three security cops. “Welcome back, Sergeant Maul.”

  “It’s good to be back, Chief,” Jessica said, meaning it. She knelt down and stroked Boyca’s head. “You been a good girl?”

  “The best,” Rockne replied. He looked at the waiting cops and stifled
a snort when he saw Tech Sergeant Paul Travis and Staff Sergeant Jake Osburn. “I thought you two were minding the squadron at Lackland.”

  “We were,” Travis replied. “But we got backfilled from the reserve.”

  Jake nodded in agreement. “We thought you might need some help.”

  “We’ll find something to do with your worthless bodies,” Rockne allowed.

  Clark stood at the back of the command post and waited. Maggot was at the center console talking to Maintenance Control while Pontowski was in the communications cab on the secure phone to SEAC headquarters. Pontowski waved her into the glassed-in booth when he saw her. “We’re surging,” he told her. He held up a hand and listened for a moment. “We’ll do what we can,” he promised. He broke the connection. “The PLA’s broken through at Segamat. Singapore’s two regiments gave a good account of themselves before withdrawing. It’s bad.”

  Maggot stuck his head through the doorway. “Two Scuds just hit Changi Airport and Pulau Tekong. SEAC headquarters got shook up, but they’re okay.”

  “Those weren’t Scuds,” Pontowski said. “SEAC better move before they find the range.”

  Taman Negara

  Friday, October 8

  It was near sunset when Kamigami stepped out onto the jungle trail, looked both ways, and sniffed the air. Someone was bivouacked nearby and cooking. He ordered his team into a quick-reaction drill, and within seconds they had shed their heavy bergens and were ready to engage. “We’ve been on this trail before,” Tel told him. “We’re twenty kilometers from the PLA’s base camp.” He quickly checked his GPS and plotted their position on a chart. “Sorry,” Tel muttered, “we’re twenty-one kilometers away.”

  “Close enough,” Kamigami allowed. He motioned Tel to silence when he heard movement on the trail. Almost immediately a man trudged into sight, bent under a heavy load. Kamigami’s eyes narrowed as he took the man’s measure. This was a soldier, not a porter. Then another came into view, and Kamigami started to count. Every six to eight seconds a heavy-laden soldier passed in silence, totally unaware of the men hiding less than six meters away. Two hours later a bevy of officers brought up the rear, totally unencumbered and talking loudly. Finally the trail was deserted. “How many?” Kamigami asked.