The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  He almost fell out before the pilots righted the helicopter. The smoke cleared, and he could see holes punctured in the floor near the aft bulkhead. Now the nose of the helicopter came up as it autogiroed to earth. He had mere seconds before they hit the ground, and he tried to strap back in. But he could find only the left strap of a seatbelt. The Puma hit the ground and bounced, twisting and pitching forward as he held on with a death grip. It hit again and corkscrewed back into the air, this time throwing Pontowski out the door.

  Clark stood in front of the four body bags lying on the ground. Behind her, the dormitory was a smoking hulk. Slowly she clenched her fist and relaxed. Without a word, she climbed into the van and ordered her driver to take her to the medical station. She had to talk to Doc Ryan. She was there in two minutes and hurried down the concrete ramp that led inside. She was immediately assaulted with the heavy antiseptic odor that announced she was in the presence of medical wizardry. Ryan was bent over the casualty, talking quietly as he stitched up the man’s inside thigh. “You are one lucky dude. It missed your balls and got the fleshy part of your thigh.”

  “Doc, how many wounded?” Clark asked.

  Ryan looked up from his task. “Six. Two critical. We need to air-evac them out. Soonest.”

  “I ain’t goin’ without my buddies,” the man lying on the exam table announced.

  Ryan grunted. “Your call.”

  Clark’s radio squawked at her. It was the controller in the command post asking her to return ASAP. “I’ll get back to you,” Clark promised, running from the bunker. This time it was quicker to run to the command post than drive and she was there in less than a minute.

  Maggot told her the bad news. “The control tower monitored a Mayday from Pontowski’s helicopter. They took ground fire and augered in about ten miles south. I’ve scrambled Waldo and Buns to take a look.”

  Clark clamped an iron control over her emotions and was all business. “We’re hurtin’ for POL. You might want them to recover at Tengah for refueling.” Tengah was a Singapore Air Force base.

  “That’s doable,” Maggot said. “But we’d have to bring ’em here for rearming.”

  Waldo checked in on the radio. “Rocker One and Two rolling now.”

  In her mind’s eye Clark could see the two Warthogs roaring down the runway and lifting into the clear air, and like Maggot, she had to wait. But that wasn’t in her temperament. She strode into the communications cab. “I need to speak to the MAAG in the Singapore embassy. And I mean now.”

  Southern Malaysia

  Sunday, October 10

  The pain was a tiger, ripping and tearing at him when he tried to move. But he had fought the tiger before and willed himself to move. Inch by inch he pulled himself across the rice paddy, barely keeping his head above water. He tried to move his left arm, but his shoulder roared with pain, making him dizzy. He stopped and used his right hand to position his left forearm across his chest. That helped, and he lay on his right side, pulling himself toward the low dike that bounded the rice paddy. Every time he tried to take a deep breath, more pain coursed through his body. He was certain he had broken a rib and had pierced a lung. Finally he reached the low mound of dirt and pulled himself into a half-sitting position, careful not to move his left arm. The pain in his chest subsided, but he knew the tiger was still there, ready to leap out of the fog that bound him tight. He tried to take a deep breath, but that only unleashed the tiger. Slowly the fog eased, and he could think.

  Breathing, bleeding, and bones, he thought, reverting to the basics of first aid. He already knew about the breathing, so he checked for bleeding. Nothing. He forced himself to hack up some phlegm. Again the tiger roared, but what he spit out was clear. Okay, bones. He ran his good hand over his body. Other than a bruise on his left temple and the big hump protruding on top of his left shoulder, he was okay. He touched the hump and flinched with pain. “Broken collarbone,” he muttered.

  The wind veered and sent a puff of black smoke over him. He pulled himself up the dike until he could see over the top. The smoking Puma was upside down two or three rice paddies away. He studied it, looking for fire. But there wasn’t any. Did they make it? he thought. His question was answered when he looked toward the nearby kampong. A group of soldiers was clustered around two inert bodies lying on the ground. He saw the flash of a machete blade as the men yelled and screamed obscenities. He stopped counting the hacks when he reached twenty. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the grisly scene.

  Two A-10s roared overhead, driving the soldiers to cover. The lead Hog pulled up and ruddered over to swoop down on the grim tableau like an avenging bird of prey. Waldo, he thought, recognizing the style. The A-10 pulled off and circled the kampong at two hundred feet, baiting the defenders to shoot at him. They did. The A-10 jinked hard, pulling away as the second A-10 rolled in, its cannon firing. Reddish brown smoke rolled back from under the nose as the rounds walked up to the kampong. “Buns,” he muttered. “You always did bunt.” Waldo was in a sharp climb, popping to fifteen hundred feet for a low-angle bomb run. The maneuver was a study in perfection as he rolled and brought the Hog’s nose to the target. Two bombs separated cleanly, and their ballutes deployed, slowing the bombs while Waldo escaped, crossing at ninety degrees to Buns’s strafing attack.

  Pontowski slipped down the dike for protection from the blast as the kampong disappeared in a series of deafening explosions. The two A-10s orbited the area on opposite sides of the circle. He was certain they were looking for him, and he crawled onto the dike to be seen. But two teenage boys were running toward him, crouched low, anxious to escape the wrath of the two raptors circling overhead. They saw him and shouted. But his ears were still ringing, and he couldn’t hear a word. He glanced up as the two Hogs joined together and climbed into the sky.

  One of the boys raised the M-16 rifle he was carrying. His right hand moved as he charged a round.

  Camp Alpha

  Sunday, October 10

  Waldo sat in the command post and took a long pull at a water bottle. “All I saw were two bodies lying on the ground outside the kampong.”

  “Were they wearing uniforms?” Maggot asked.

  “Flight suits, maybe,” Waldo muttered. “They were pretty well hacked up.”

  “The general was wearing a flight suit,” Clark whispered.

  Waldo looked at them in agony. “It could have been him.”

  “We were taking ground fire from the kampong,” Buns added.

  Waldo gave them a hard look. “So we morted the muthafuckers.”

  Taman Negara

  Sunday, October 10

  The sun had set when the big diesel fired to life in the underground warren deep in the ridgeline. Smoke belched from the center tunnel as the transporter/erector/launcher moved out of hiding, its huge twelve wheels slowly turning. The missile it carried was heavily camouflaged and resembled a long, bushy caterpillar moving slowly down the rough trail. The sergeant hiding on the ridgeline noted the time and motioned for his runner. The lance corporal listened to his instructions and pulled back from the observation post, little more than a shadow moving silently in the night. Once clear of the ridge, he moved fast and reached Kamigami in less than twenty minutes.

  “That’s two,” Kamigami told Lieutenant Lee, his team leader.

  “Do we take them out?” Lee asked.

  Tel knew the answer before Kamigami replied. The Taman Negara was essentially a staging area for the PLA, and all around them supplies were dispersed in the jungle waiting for transport south. However, side by side were large numbers of soldiers being fed into the maw of combat, and for Kamigami that was the real threat. It was only a matter of time before one of his four teams was discovered. Tel calculated they had two or three more days at best before they had to withdraw.

  “For now our mission is to observe and report,” Kamigami told the lieutenant. “Get a message out.” But even that was not easy. Although their PRC319 radio was capable of sending an encr
ypted, short-burst transmission that defied decoding, simple triangulation would warn the PLA that intruders were in the Taman Negara. A runner would have to take the message miles away for transmission. However, nothing could be written down in case the runner was captured, so the message had to be committed to memory.

  “Sir,” Tel said, “should we include the coordinates of the tunnel?” Kamigami didn’t answer. “I mean the exact GPS coordinates of the entrance,” Tel explained.

  “How do you propose we get those?”

  Tel never hesitated. “We send someone down there with a GPS. All he has to do is press the fix button.”

  “And if he gets caught?”

  “We shoot him,” Tel replied.

  “I’ll do it,” the lance corporal volunteered. “Those missiles are targeted at my family in Singapore.”

  Kamigami agreed and huddled with the team, telling them exactly what he wanted. The lance corporal changed into a worker’s dungarees and pocketed a small GPS before he moved out. After he had left, Kamigami handed Tel an M-16 with a night-vision sight. “This was your idea,” he said.

  Tel’s face blanched. “What if I miss?”

  “Don’t,” Kamigami warned.

  Tel lay beside the sergeant in the observation post overlooking the tunnels and sighted the scope. The greenish image was unbelievably clear as he zeroed in on the entrance. It was all familiar from the time when he and Kamigami had first discovered the base camp. But now it was swarming with people. He estimated the range at five hundred meters and dialed it in. “Five-fifty,” the sergeant said. Tel changed the setting. The sergeant pointed to the shadows to the left of the tunnel entrance, and Tel glued his right eye to the eyepiece.

  A figure shambled out of the shadows and crossed in front of the center tunnel. It was the lance corporal. In the direct center he stopped and fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. A guard stepped out of the tunnel and challenged him. The corporal said something, and the guard laughed. The corporal tapped two cigarettes from the pack and offered one to the guard. He shouldered his submachine gun and took one of the cigarettes. The corporal struck a match and lit the cigarettes. Even at that distance it was a flare, washing out a small part of the scope. Tel moved the crosshairs slightly to the side so he could see. The corporal shoved the pack of cigarettes into his pocket and hesitated for a moment as he keyed his GPS. Then he withdrew his hand and walked on across as the guard stepped back into the shadows.

  Tel exhaled in relief.

  Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, October 10

  The ExCom was waiting in the president’s private study off the Oval Office early Sunday morning. They talked quietly until she arrived. Kennett automatically did a quick appraisal of his president, deeply worried that she wasn’t getting enough rest. “Good morning,” she said, her voice calm and not showing the fatigue that was drawing her down. “First, the UN is going to consider a cease-fire resolution this afternoon.”

  “H-hour for Operation Anvil is 0100 hours Gulf time tomorrow morning,” General Wilding said. “Our forces are in place, and the UIF knows it’s coming. This is nothing but an attempt to stop it.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Turner assured him. “I’ll have our ambassador delay any vote in the UN as long as possible. But if it comes too early, I fully intend to ignore it until the UIF surrenders. Period.”

  Wilding carefully considered his next words. “Madam President, this is going to be a max effort. That means heavy casualties.”

  “I understand,” Turner said. “What else?”

  “I talked to Herbert last night,” Mazie said. “The EU is demanding that the Germans halt their drive on Baghdad. The French are really putting the pressure on, and Herbert isn’t sure how long they can ignore it.”

  Turner caught Mazie’s use of von Lubeck’s first name and arched an eyebrow. “Tell von Lubeck to delay as long as possible. What else?”

  It was Butler’s turn. “The situation in Malaysia is critical. The PLA has broken out and is driving hard toward Singapore.”

  “We may be able to do something on the political front,” Turner told them. “The Chinese special envoy, Zou Rong, arrived yesterday. Stephan is meeting with him at noon and thinks he may have an offer.”

  Butler frowned. “I wouldn’t count on that, Mrs. President.”

  Turner glanced at the TV. “I think there’s something you’d like to see.” She hit the remote control, and the logo for Meet the Press appeared.

  “Madam President,” Kennett said, “why do you torture yourself this way?” The commentator’s face, which reminded the vice president of the “muffin boy,” filled the screen as he introduced his guest, Senator John Leland. Kennett’s missing left arm started to itch, which was always a bad sign. “This is bad. He likes Leland.”

  “Because the good senator feeds him inside information,” Butler observed.

  “Leland’s desperate,” Mazie said worriedly. “There’s a rumor he’s got an ‘October Surprise’ in store for us.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Turner said. “Not with a little over three weeks before the election.” They fell silent as the interview began. Leland’s face was a mask while the commentator summarized the latest poll results that linked what was happening in the Gulf to Turner’s sudden surge in popularity. There was no doubt that if the election were held tomorrow, Turner would sweep David Grau under the political carpet. But Leland didn’t take the bait and started to talk in his rolling tones, pontificating on the state of Turner’s administration. “Here it comes,” the president warned.

  On cue, Leland turned to the camera, his face solemn. “This has gone far beyond politics. Increasingly, we’re dealing with a state of moral degeneration in this administration that transcends anything we’ve ever seen.”

  Nancy Bender knocked on the door and entered. Without a word, she handed a note to the vice president, glanced at the TV, and left. Kennett read the note, and his face paled. “That’s a very serious charge,” the TV commentator said, playing the straight man.

  “And I don’t make it lightly,” Leland said with pain in his voice. “During the investigation into the suicide of the late DCI, it was discovered that he was involved in a child-pornography ring on the Internet. But this line of inquiry was dropped.”

  The commentator was outraged. “Are you suggesting it was covered up?”

  “It appears so.” Leland folded his hands in front of him, the stern judge. “It’s entirely possible that the DCI was about to be outed and was driven to suicide by forces within the Turner administration.”

  Turner laughed, and everyone looked at her in shock. “First Grau shoots his foot off,” she said, owing them an explanation, “and now Leland.” She was obviously enjoying the moment. “For the time being, we have no comment. Talk to Bobbi Jo. She knows what to do.”

  It was a rare moment, and Kennett hated that he had to spoil it. He handed her the note. “Madam President.” He waited.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. She came to her feet, wadding up the note in her hand. “It’s Matt,” she said. “The helicopter he was on was shot down. About twelve hours ago.” She fought back the tears, refusing to give in. She turned to Wilding, an unspoken plea on her face.

  “I need to return to the NMCC,” the general said. “Unfortunately, we’re fully engaged in Operation Anvil. We don’t have much in the area. Maybe Okinawa.”

  “I know that,” she admitted.

  Thirty-two

  Camp Alpha

  Monday, October 11

  Smoke from the still-smoldering fire in the fuel dump drifted over Alpha, holding the base in an eerie silence. To the north the constant rumble of artillery was a grim reminder that the fighting was coming their way. Occasionally a train of weapons trailers emerged out of the smoke and crossed the runway to deliver its deadly load. The big blast doors at a shelter would crank open far enough to move one or two trailers inside. Then the tug would move on to the next shelter. In
side, Maintenance worked hard to ready the Warthogs for combat while the pilots tried to catch some rest in one of the rooms at the back.

  A lone pickup drove around the perimeter road as Rockne checked on each fire team he had posted in a defensive fire position. Although he could not see their faces in the dark, he could sense their worry. One young airman summed it up best. “Damn, Chief. I’d feel a hell of a lot better if the general was here or we were outa here.” Rockne agreed with him and moved on to the next position.

  A C-130 Hercules with Singapore roundels on the fuselage touched down at 0108 hours and taxied into parking. The pilots kept the engines running as the ramp came down at the rear of the big cargo plane. Six big fuel bladders that resembled black sausages rolled out the back while an ambulance waited with the two litter patients and three walking wounded from the missile attack. The Air Force lieutenant colonel from the MAAG hurried down the ramp and ran over to the van where Janice Clark was waiting. “I’ve got the plane for at least one more shuttle,” he told her. “We can start evacuating nonessential personnel.”

  “What the hell is going on?” she yelled over the roar of the engines.

  He gestured to the north. “The front is collapsing. Singapore is a mess. I’m screaming for help, but no one seems to be listening. I was lucky to pry the Hercules loose.” He glanced at the C-130, where two litters were being carried on and Doc Ryan was giving instructions to the crew chiefs. “I should be back in an hour or two.”

  Clark watched as the lieutenant colonel ran for the Hercules. He climbed on board, and it fast-taxied for the runway. Satisfied that the fuel bladders were taken care of, she told her driver to take her to the command post. He drove in silence, obviously worried. He dropped her at the entry control point and said, “Missy Colonel, I need to see family.” She told him to go, fully aware that she would never see him again.