The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  Inside the command post she radioed for the chief of Maintenance, Doc Ryan, and Rockne to join her. While she waited, she went down the AVG’s personnel roster: 30 pilots including Maggot, 304 maintenance troops, 134 cops including Rockne, 108 support personnel, and 9 medics including Doc Ryan. Five hundred and eighty-five, she thought. Can I get them out? The simple question beat at her like a sledgehammer. She answered her own question out loud: “Every damn one.” Again she scanned the list, checking off those who would go first. But reality could not be denied—the cops would be the last to go. If they went. Once again she scanned the list, forgetting three names: Clark, Pontowski, and Boyca.

  Rockne was the first to arrive. “Your driver is outside,” he told her. “He wants to speak to you.” Clark quickly explained how they were going to start an evacuation before she walked outside to see what her driver wanted. She found him squatting on his haunches outside the entry control point. Much to her surprise, she was glad to see him.

  “I know where general is,” he told her.

  Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, October 10

  The hostess swept through the downstairs of her elegant Georgetown home, ensuring that all was ready for the arrival of her last guest. A quick glance at the clock in the vestibule: two minutes before noon. She took a deep breath. It had been a wonderful weekend, first with the party on Friday night and the meeting between Secretary of Defense Merritt and Senator Leland, and now this. Her star was certainly rising, and she could see a future. The clock struck twelve, and she opened the door. On cue, a black sedan drove under the portico and stopped. An aide emerged from the front passenger seat, looked around to confirm they were not observed, and opened the rear door.

  She smiled graciously as Zou Rong emerged and hurried up the steps. Nothing betrayed her inner anxiety when Jin Chu stepped out of the car and followed Zou inside. The hostess was neither slow nor stupid and recognized her immediately. But she was not prepared for the sheer beauty and natural grace of the woman. For a moment she considered asking to have her fortune told, but she quickly discarded the notion. But why was Jin Chu there? The hostess’s contact at the State Department who had arranged the clandestine meeting had not mentioned it.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” the hostess said, escorting Zou upstairs, “this is indeed an honor.” Zou ignored her. She opened the door to the study where Merritt and Leland had met. This time, the secretary of state was waiting inside. She closed the door and descended the stairs. Should she offer Jin Chu tea?

  The two men exchanged the formal courtesies dictated by the circumstances. As he represented the host country, Serick was the first to broach the reason for the meeting. But it was done in the time-honored way of his profession, carefully nonconfrontational and with tact, leaving room to maneuver without committing his side to a course of action or policy. “My government is worried about the situation in Malaysia.”

  What he got in return was a full artillery barrage. “Your government is worried about Singapore,” Zou corrected. “Fortunately for the peace-loving peoples of Asia, it is beyond your control.”

  Serick was stunned. Belligerents talked this way to the press and on TV, and then it was for home consumption. He pulled off one diplomatic glove. “Mr. Ambassador, you have traveled too far to recite propaganda. I was hoping for a more productive conversation.”

  “Please tell your president that we will have many things of mutual interest to discuss in a few days. That is why I’m here.”

  Serick pulled off the other glove. “You’re wagering you can capture Singapore before we can respond.”

  Zou was a gambler at heart and liked the analogy. “Our friends in the Middle East have given us the race.” He smiled contentedly.

  “When you back the wrong horse,” Serick replied, “don’t blame the horse.”

  “It won’t even be a photo finish,” Zou told him. “As your president will shortly learn.”

  Serick tried a different tack, determined to at least send a message. He did it in terms even an adolescent could understand. “There will be a price to be paid.”

  “There is a new economic order emerging. I suggest you seek ways to make an accommodation before it is too late.” Zou stood, bringing the meeting to an end. “Please tell your president there is always a price to be paid for being in the wrong place. Which we are explaining to her General Pontowski.” He gave a little bow and left.

  Serick was in a state of shock and didn’t move. His eyes narrowed as he considered what he should do next. But all his options were gone. There was nothing left except fighting, death, and destruction. “Well, so be it,” he murmured, accepting failure. He reached for his cane and stood up. Suddenly he felt very old. His hostess was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. She keyed off Zou’s abrupt departure and looked very concerned. “Thank you so much,” he told her.

  “It was my pleasure, Mr. Secretary. I’ll always remember meeting Miss Jin. What an adorable lady. And her English is exquisite.”

  “Jin Chu was here? The fortune-teller?”

  “Why, yes. I thought you knew.”

  “What did she say?”

  “We talked about the weather, of course.” She thought for a moment. “The conversation took a most unusual turn. She mentioned the Chinese love of gambling.” Serick’s shaggy eyebrows shot up, an unspoken command to repeat exactly what was said. The hostess caught it. “She said, ‘Not even the gods wager on horse races.’”

  Serick kissed her hand, still the gracious Old World courtier. “Madam, you have done your country a rare service.” He hobbled down the steps, surprising her with his speed.

  Turner tapped her fingers together as a heavy silence ruled the Oval Office. “That was a diplomatic slap in the face,” she finally said.

  “Actually,” Serick allowed, “it was a bludgeoning.”

  She made no effort to hide her anger. “If he thinks he’s here to dictate surrender terms, he’s going to die an old man waiting.” She stood up and looked out the windows, her back to her advisers. “They’re deluding themselves if they think they can blackmail me into an agreement.”

  Mazie and Butler exchanged glances, both certain she was talking about Matt Pontowski. “Madam President,” Butler said, “regardless of what Zou said, we can’t be sure they have captured the general. I keep asking myself why he brought the woman with him. Very bizarre, to say the least.”

  “Madam President,” Mazie said, “we’re on a Chinese roundabout. I think we’re getting two messages here.”

  Turner turned and faced them, deadly calm. “Then it’s time to send them a message they’ll have no trouble understanding. General Wilding, how long before we can reinforce SEAC?”

  Wilding thought out loud. “The problem is airlift. Everything we’ve got has been dedicated to the Gulf and the buildup for Operation Anvil—which commences in five hours. With sealift finally open, I can start redirecting aircraft on return flights out of the Gulf.”

  “Redirect,” the president ordered.

  “I’m hesitant to commit forces piecemeal, Madam President. I want to go in with at least a division. I’m thinking the Third Marine Division in Okinawa. We can deploy it at less than full strength and have it in place in…” He hesitated, not sure of the numbers. It was a complicated calculation dependent on so many factors. He committed. “We can have a vanguard regiment in place, ready to fight, in seventy-two hours.” Every instinct warned him to hedge for time, but the look on Turner’s face was ample warning not to do it.

  “Seventy-two hours,” Turner repeated. She crossed her arms in defiance, her eyes hard. “I will not allow Singapore to fall. Tell SEAC to hold. Help is on the way.”

  Camp Alpha

  Monday, October 11

  Jessica felt like a dwarf as she stood behind Paul Travis and Jake Osburn in the Base Defense Operations Center. She shouldered her way through and moved to the front of the chart table. She wasn’t about to be left out because of Travis and Jake.
“It’s 0215 in five seconds,” Rockne said. “Three, two, one, hack.” The nine security cops set their watches. Rockne studied his team, taking their measure. Satisfied that he had the right people, he circled a railroad junction eleven miles south of Alpha. “Our source claims that General Pontowski is being held in this area by no more than three or four soldiers. We know the PLA has long-range patrols operating in the area. If they are PLA, and if the general is wounded, they’re probably waiting for a pickup. Our mission is to rescue him before that happens, while we’ve still got surprise on our side. The bad news is that the roads are flooded with refugees and we can’t move by vehicle.”

  “What about the First SOS?” Jessica asked. “They’ve got helicopters.”

  Rockne’s face matched his name. “We called, but all their choppers are on other missions and only the command element is here. So we’re going in by foot. The good news is that we’ve got a guide who knows a back way.”

  “How reliable is this guy?” Paul Travis asked.

  “He’s Colonel Clark’s driver and seems pretty loyal to her,” Rockne replied. “I want to be in and out before sunrise. That means an eleven-mile slog in three hours. I’m betting there’s so much confusion out there that no one will want to mess with us and we can blow right by them. With a little luck, we can do it. Regardless of what happens, we got to try. Any questions?”

  “This is not a hell of a lot to go on,” Jake Osburn said. “Where do we rendezvous if this turns to shit?” Rockne pointed out their rendezvous, and they punched the coordinates into their GPSs.

  “Chief,” Jessica said, “Boyca’s real good at picking up a scent.”

  “That’s why she’s coming,” Rockne replied. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  Southern Malaysia

  Monday, October 11

  Jake Osburn set the pace for the team as they moved silently along the path that led between two kampongs. Clark’s driver was carrying only two canteens and had no trouble keeping up, but the others were struggling under their combat loads. Rockne checked his watch. They were making good time, and he called a break. “Five minutes,” he told them. Jessica collapsed to the ground and pulled out a canteen. She sloshed some water into a small plastic pan for Boyca before drinking any herself. Then they were up and moving as Jake lived up to his reputation as an animal.

  Their pace slowed as they neared the railroad junction and ran into refugees. Rather than take a chance, they went to cover while the driver went ahead to clear their way. Then they were moving again, reaching the railroad junction while it was still dark. Clark’s driver pointed to the compound. “There” was all he said.

  Rockne swept the area with his night-vision goggles. He could make out two railroad-maintenance sheds, at least five shacks, and two more substantial cement-block buildings. “Which one?” he muttered. The driver gave an expressive shrug. “Fuckin’ lovely.”

  “Okay,” he told his team, “me and Boyca will lead the way in and try to pick up the general’s scent. If we can identify the building, Jess, you take a four-man team inside.” Paul and Jake stiffened but said nothing. “Go in on my command,” Rockne said, “and do it by the book.” He pulled Pontowski’s flight cap out of his rucksack and held it for Boyca to sniff. He unsnapped her leash. “Seek.”

  Boyca ranged back and forth as she moved into the compound. Behind her, Rockne moved from shadow to shadow, staying out of sight. He was about to give up and return to the team when Boyca started to move back and forth as if moving toward the apex of a cone. She had picked up the scent, and Rockne followed her, moving in the deep shadow of one of the maintenance sheds.

  A man stepped out of a doorway and called to Boyca, the Malay equivalent of “Come here, doggie.” He squatted on the ground and called again, beckoning to her. But Boyca refused to move and stood still. The man pulled out a knife and inched toward her. Boyca sensed the danger and darted away, directly toward Rockne. Rockne laid his M-16 on the ground and carefully removed his goggles. Boyca came up to him, panting. Without a word, he stroked her ears and drew his knife. The man was almost to the shadows, totally unaware of what was there. Again he spoke in Malay, cajoling Boyca to come to him. His right hand dangled at his side, still holding the knife.

  Rockne went into a linesman’s stance, as if he were playing football. The man took another step toward him, paused, raised his knife, and then took another step. Rockne exploded out of the shadows, his left hand sweeping the man’s knife aside as his own knife flashed in an upward motion. He drove it into the man’s sternum, lifting him off the ground. The man hacked up a cough, but it died with him. Rockne pulled him back into the shadows and rolled the body under the shed. He quickly donned his gear, but Boyca was already moving. She stopped and lay on her stomach, paws outstretched, her head up, looking directly at the door of a cinder-block building.

  Thirty-three

  Southern Malaysia

  Monday, October 11

  Paul, a young airman called Spike, and Jake lined up behind Jessica in the shadows as they waited for the command to move on the building. But Boyca was still lying in front of the door, an obstacle in their way. The first half-light of the approaching sunrise cut at the shadows, and Jessica’s night-vision goggles began to wash out. She ripped them off and jammed her helmet back on. The men did the same as her eyes adjusted to the ambient light. Now she could see Rockne’s dark mass against the wall of the shack, gesturing at Boyca, trying to get her to move out of the way. Finally he gave a low whistle, and Boyca scampered to him, clearing the path.

  “Go,” Jessica said in a low voice. As one, her team moved out, trying to stay in the rapidly dissipating shadows. They made it to the door as the upper limb of the sun cracked the horizon. Automatically, they stacked against the wall, boots touching. Jake, the last man, squeezed Spike’s arm, signaling that he was ready. Spike relayed the signal to Paul, who passed it to Jessica. She reached for the doorknob and tested it. The door swung open, and she moved quickly, bursting through the “fatal funnel.” She buttonhooked to the right and into the corner, never stopping as she moved down the sidewall. Paul was right behind her, moving to the left wall, clearing his side of the room.

  Before Spike could move through the door, a burst of gunfire raked the doorway, knocking him backward. Jessica fired a short burst into the muzzle flash and was rewarded with a scream of pain. A weapon clattered to the ground as Jake came through the door.

  “Don’t shoot!” Pontowski shouted. A flashlight snapped on and swept the room. Pontowski was on the floor, a dead body lying across him. “One more in the next room,” he said.

  Paul never stopped moving and went through the next door as Jake fell in behind him. They were a team and moved as one with blinding speed. Another short burst of gunfire. Silence. “All clear,” Paul said.

  Jessica stepped around him and took a deep breath. A man was down on the floor, crunched over his weapon, an M-16. “What the hell?” Jessica muttered to herself. She examined the body. It was a teenage boy wearing a Malaysian Army uniform. She kicked the M-16 aside and picked it up. “Jammed,” she said. “You are one lucky dude,” she told Paul. She hurried back into the first room to check on Pontowski. He was still under the body.

  “Mind untying me?” Pontowski muttered. “Damn, that was fast.”

  “That’s the idea, sir,” Jessica said, relief in her voice. “Who else is in the building?” she asked.

  “That’s it.” He rolled clear of the body. “They were deserters. Malaysian Army. Kids scared silly.”

  “Check on Spike,” she told Paul and Jake.

  “He’s dead,” Rockne said from the doorway. He knelt beside Pontowski. “You okay, sir?”

  “Just my shoulder. Broken collarbone, I think.”

  “Can you travel?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Rockne stood and walked to the doorway. He spoke into his whisper mike, asking for a status report from the men posted outside. “We’ve got lots of movement out here
,” a staff sergeant told him. “The gunfire must’ve stirred ’em up. It’s hard to tell in this light, but I think they’re all civilians.”

  “Find a wheelbarrow or a cart and get ready to move out.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Pontowski told him. “I can walk.”

  “It’s for Spike, sir. No way am I gonna leave him here.”

  Camp Alpha

  Monday, October 11

  The three men clustered around the chart table in the back of Alpha’s command post. “SEAC is pressing us hard to take this one,” Maggot said. “Singapore can’t take many more missile strikes and think this will stop it. But if this is what they say it is, it’s got to be heavily defended.”

  Waldo carefully plotted the GPS coordinates in the tasking message and spanned off the distance. “One hundred and sixty nautical miles. Thirty minutes’ flying time.” He visualized the terrain and different attack headings. “All we need are a couple of F-16s to discourage any SAMs.”

  “I already asked,” Maggot told him. “None available.”

  “This is very important,” Colonel Sun said. He searched for the words to make the two Americans understand. “In Singapore the people are so packed in, a single missile kills many. They are so helpless.”

  Maggot shook his head. “If we had something cosmic like an AGM-154, that would give us enough standoff distance and we could send one right down the entrance.” An AGM-154 was a fifteen-hundred-pound standoff glide bomb with an inertial or GPS guidance system that under the right delivery conditions could fly up to forty miles.

  Waldo thought for a few moments. “We got some AGM-65Gs.” He looked at Colonel Sun. “That’s a Maverick with a double IR seeker head and a three-hundred-pound blast-fragmentation warhead. It’s good for taking out tanks and hardened targets. Pretty accurate with the right jock.”

  Maggot shook his head. “The Maverick has a standoff distance of fourteen miles max. But you’re going to have to get a lot closer than that.”