The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  The president was waiting with Mazie, Butler, Parrish, and the vice president. “Thank you for coming so promptly,” Turner said, fully aware that they were held captive in the NMCC, catching a few hours of sleep when they could. “How bad is it?”

  Wilding checked the monitors to see if there had been a change since he had left the Pentagon. Nothing significant was on the screens, and he visibly relaxed. “We have a problem, Madam President. Seven short-range tactical missiles have hit our arrival airfields in Singapore and southern Malaysia and effectively closed them, denying us entry. The Third Marine Division on Okinawa is mobilized and ready to go. As of thirty minutes ago nine C-17s and three C-5s were on the ground at Kadena Air Base and loading. Another hundred and seventy-eight aircraft inbound for Okinawa are being diverted until we can open the pipeline.”

  “They did that with seven missiles?”

  “All were armed with nerve gas, Madam President. Apparently it’s a new agent that disperses over a wide area and is very persistent. It may be days before we can get started landing aircraft. Given enough time, we can do it.”

  “Time is the one commodity not available,” Turner snapped. Only the low hum of a computer filled the silence.

  Butler spoke in a low voice, confident and with authority. “My analysts”—he really meant informants and spies—“tell me the PLA has no more than six CSS-7 missiles left in country. Further, the PLA is stretched to the breaking point.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Kennett asked.

  “It’s the missiles,” Butler replied. “It’s all or nothing—go for broke.”

  Mazie was on the same wavelength. “As long as it’s quick. The world has a very short memory. They know there’s a political price, but they’re willing to pay it.”

  “If the geopolitical payoff is right,” Butler added.

  “Which it will be if they capture Singapore and the Strait of Malacca,” Turner said. She looked at them. “My God! What are we dealing with here?”

  Mazie answered. “Power politics redefined for the twenty-first century, with asymmetric warfare the final determinant.”

  “Not on my watch,” Turner said. It was a simple statement of fact with little emotion. “General Wilding, we need a breakthrough force. Make it happen.”

  “Yes, ma’am. There is another matter. We’re in direct contact with the command elements of the UIF. They’re begging for a cease-fire.”

  “Not without an unconditional surrender,” Turner said, her voice deadly calm.

  “They’re aware of that,” Wilding replied. “However, they said it was an unacceptable demand.”

  Turner’s face was a perfect reflection of her resolve. “Apparently they do not have a full appreciation of the situation, which needs to be made clear to them. There will be no premature cease-fire.”

  “Ma’am,” Wilding said, “if there’s nothing else, I do need to return to the NMCC.”

  “Fifty-seven hours,” Turner said, a firm reminder of the promise he had made fifteen hours earlier to reinforce SEAC within seventy-two hours. Merritt rose to leave with him. “Robert, I’m meeting with my election committee at eight this morning. Can you be there?”

  Everyone in the room knew it was not a request. “Certainly, Mrs. President.”

  The president stopped her general before he could leave. “General Wilding, thirty-six days. Well done.”

  “Thank you, Madam President.”

  Camp Alpha

  Monday, October 11

  Pontowski sat on the floor of the base med station and leaned against the wall. He studied his watch and did a mental countdown. At the count of “two,” a dull whump echoed through the thick walls. “Two seconds early,” he announced. The constant mortar bombardment was taking its toll, and he could sense the fear and anxiety that filled the bunker like a fog, at times wispy and ephemeral, then dense and oppressive. It was time to do something about it. “Six rounds an hour,” he announced. “Just enough to keep our heads down while conserving ammo.”

  “It’s working,” Clark groused. “We’re buttoned down, and no one is moving.”

  “Five rounds spaced twelve to thirteen minutes apart,” he said, “followed by a sixth round one minute later. Then the sequence repeats.” He checked the wall clock. “The next round is due in thirty seconds.” On cue, a mortar round exploded. But this time it was farther away. “Next round due at 1706,” he declared. “Spread the word.” He forced a casual, laid-back nonchalance he didn’t feel. He waited while the tension ratcheted up. Every eye was on the clock as the minute hand touched the six. Nothing. Pontowski grinned, maintaining the image. “Wait for it. The sons of bitches may not be able to tell time.” A dull thud echoed in the distance. He stood up. “Next round at 1717. I’m going to the command post.” He walked to the blast door and threw it open. “Coming?” he said to Clark.

  She was right behind him. Outside, Pontowski made himself walk, making light conversation over the distant thunder of artillery. “Sounds like it’s getting closer,” he told her. Ahead of them, a security policeman peeked at them from his defensive fire position outside the command post. “Next mortar round at 1717,” Pontowski told him. He ambled by as the airman spoke into his radio, spreading the word and adding to the Pontowski legend. “How ’bout that?” Pontowski said to himself as Rockne emerged from the heavily sandbagged Base Defense Operations Center.

  “Got your message, sir,” Rockne said.

  “What message?” Pontowski asked.

  “About the mortars. Time to do something about it.”

  They walked inside, where Maggot was waiting. He quickly recapped the situation. “We’ve got four Hogs on the ground at Tengah Air Base. They’re safe enough in shelters but can’t move because of nerve gas. Here we got twelve Hogs, nine good to go and three down for maintenance. Maintenance should have two fixed and ready to go in the morning.”

  “And the last jet?” Pontowski asked.

  Maggot shook his head. “Waldo’s old bird. The one he crunched at Kelly Field and barely got here. Needs an engine change. Which we ain’t got. Gonna cannibalize it for parts.”

  “Fuel?”

  “Right now,” Maggot replied, “we have enough in the lines and holding tanks for twenty-nine more sorties.” He thought for a moment. “Tengah’s got lots of fuel but no munitions.”

  “And lots of nerve gas,” Clark added.

  “True,” Maggot replied. “But if Tengah opens up, we get our birds back. If that happens, we can launch out of here, fly a mission, recover and refuel at Tengah, and then fly here to upload. We can top the tanks off or just fly a shorter mission.”

  “If the artillery I heard outside is any indication,” Pontowski said, “the action’s coming to us and we’re not going to be flying long sorties.”

  “Those fuckin’ mortars aren’t doing much damage,” Maggot grumbled. “Just bounce off the shelters, but they’re keeping us from moving.”

  Now it was Rockne’s turn. “We pinpointed their firebase.” He unfolded the 1:50,000-scale chart he was carrying. “Two of my cops found a counterbattery radar the MA left behind. Maintenance got it working and installed it on top of the control tower.” He circled an area to the east of the base, on the far side of the weapons storage area. “As best we can tell, they got two tubes in this area and they ain’t movin’.”

  “Movement is life,” Pontowski intoned.

  “Exactly,” Rockne said.

  “Time to return the favor,” Maggot said.

  Waldo sat at the mission director’s console and waited. Like everyone’s in the command post, his eyes were fixed on the master clock. At exactly 1732 hours they heard a dull thump as a mortar round hit on an aircraft shelter. The radios came alive as Maintenance reported no damage. Now they had to wait for the security police. The phone from the BDOC buzzed, and Rockne picked it up. “The counterbattery radar reports no change on the mortars’ location,” he told them.

  Waldo’s fingers flew over the com
munications board. “Thresher One and Two, scramble.” He kicked back from the console and, like the rest, waited.

  Like clockwork, the big doors on two shelters rolled back as the pilots, Bull Allison and Goat Gross, brought their A-10s to life. The engines had barely come on line when the crew chiefs pulled the wheel chocks and motioned them forward. Bull’s crew chief stepped back and came to attention, throwing him a salute as he cleared the shelter. Goat fell in behind Bull as they fast-taxied for the runway. There was no end-of-runway check, where crew chiefs gave each bird a final inspection and pulled the safety pins from the munitions hanging under the wings. All that had been done before engine start. Instead they turned onto the runway, paused briefly to run up, and rolled down the runway in a formation takeoff.

  Immediately the pilots snatched the gear up and at fifty feet did a tactical split, each turning away twenty degrees for five seconds before returning to the runway heading. A mortar round flashed in the open area where they would have been had they not split, ample proof the base was closely watched. “Missed,” Bull radioed. “Arm ’em up.” He reached out and hit the master arm switch. They turned into the setting sun, never climbing above two hundred feet, and headed to the west. Below them, the main road was packed with refugees, still fleeing south. A convoy of military trucks heading north was stalled, unable to push through the desperate people. Farther to the west, people were flooding down the railway tracks.

  Well clear of the base, the two Hogs cut a big arc to the north, turning back to the east. The sun was almost to the horizon, and they had only a few minutes of light left. “Split now,” Bull ordered. Goat peeled off to the right and took spacing as Bull headed back for the base. He checked his GPS and followed the bearing pointer to the spot in the jungle east of the base, a no-show target pinpointed by the counterbattery radar. He double-checked his switches and centered up on the target-designation box in his HUD. One last glance at the master arm to ensure that it was in the up position. He jinked and mashed the flare button on the throttle quadrant, sending a stream of flares out behind him. Then he mashed the pickle button on the stick, giving his consent to release when all delivery parameters were met. He climbed to four hundred feet, stabilized for a fraction of a second, and felt the six canisters of CBU-58s ripple off. Again he jinked hard as he dropped down to the deck.

  “Your six is clear,” Goat radioed. “I’m in.”

  “Reversing to the north,” Bull radioed.

  “Got you in sight,” Goat replied. “I’m at your nine o’clock.”

  Bull’s eyes darted to the left, and he saw Goat inbound to the target, crossing at a ninety-degree angle to his bomb run. Like Bull, he laid a string of flares out to decoy any SAM that might be coming his way. Under the jungle canopy, bright flashes popped like flashbulbs as the last of Bull’s bomblets exploded. Goat’s deadly load separated cleanly, and he pulled off to the north, falling in behind Bull. A dazzling light bloomed behind them—a big secondary. “What the hell was that?” Bull radioed.

  “Beats the shit out of me,” Goat replied. “I didn’t see a thing.” The CBU-58 dispersed its bomblets over a wide area and was very effective against soft targets like unarmored vehicles—and people. But they didn’t make for good secondaries. “Must’ve been big.”

  “Shooter-cover,” Bull said. “I’m gonna take a look.” He turned back to the target as Goat moved out to the left to cross behind him. Numerous fires and a column of smoke belched skyward, a beacon in the rapidly darkening sky. But there was enough light to see by. “Nothing but dog meat down there,” Bull pronounced, pulling off.

  “Roger on the puppy chow,” Goat said.

  Janice Clark studied the big situation chart, trying to make sense of it. She tuned out the voices behind her as Maggot and Waldo used the landlines connecting them to the shelters to debrief Bull and Goat. Since the mortar shelling had stopped, there was no doubt as to the effectiveness of the mission. But the dull thunder reaching into the command post spoke for itself. The fighting was coming closer. “Frustrating,” she murmured to herself.

  “Indeed it is,” Pontowski said from behind her. “Supposedly we have the best communications system in the world, and here we sit, thirty miles from the front, without a clue what’s happening.”

  She corrected him. “We know it’s coming our way. Damn. I feel like we’re stranded on a rock in the middle of a raging stream that’s rushing past us.” She turned to face him. “We could sure use a lifeline to get us off it.”

  “We’ll get out of here,” he assured her. “The shelling’s stopped, runway’s open, and we’re ready to launch sorties at first light.”

  “General Pontowski, Colonel Clark,” the controller called from the communications cab. “The tower reports a C-130 is inbound.”

  “How many you got ready to go?” Pontowski asked.

  “Ninety-eight,” she replied. “That leaves three hundred eighty-three.”

  “Let’s go see them off,” he said. They hurried out the door to where her driver was waiting. A light rain was falling as they sped toward the parking ramp. “I’m not going to miss this place at all,” he told her.

  “Did we make a difference?”

  “We slowed them down a bit.” They rode in silence, each deep in thought. The van skidded to a halt. “Let’s do it,” he said. Together they walked toward the C-130 that was taxiing in. A group of men emerged from the trees, running toward them as fuel bladders rolled out the back of the Hercules. It stopped, and the men charged up the cargo ramp. The lieutenant colonel hopped off the ramp and hurried over.

  “I need empty bladders,” he told them.

  “What’s going on?” Pontowski asked.

  “I wish I knew,” he told them. Even in the dark they could see he was fatigued to the point of collapse. “As best I can tell, SEAC is in a tactical retreat and giving ground slowly. Tactical missiles carrying nerve gas have hit every airfield and closed ’em down. We’re landing on highways.” He fished a message out of his pocket and handed it to them. “I received this about two hours ago.” He snorted. “I don’t think it’s gonna happen.” He looked at the C-130. “Got to go. I’ll be back.” He ran for the aircraft, which was starting to move. He jumped on the ramp and disappeared inside.

  Pontowski watched the big cargo plane taxi out of the parking ramp. His head snapped up as the shrill shriek of an incoming artillery round split the air. “Incoming!” he shouted, dropping to the ground and dragging Clark with him. The C-130 disappeared in a blinding explosion. Pontowski rose up on all fours, shaken but unhurt. The Hercules was nothing but a mound of fire and smoke on the taxiway.

  Clark staggered to her feet, raging in the night. “Goddamn you to hell!”

  The command post was silent as a tomb, every eye on Pontowski as he sat, his chin on his chest. Finally he stood up. “Don’t forget them,” he said. His back straightened, and he studied the aircraft boards. “We got enough fuel now to fly thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight sorties. When we run out of gas, we can suit the pilots out in APE and recover at Tengah.” APE was aircrew protective equipment that protected the wearer from chemical and nerve-gas agents.

  “Got it,” Maggot said, determined to make it happen.

  How much more can I ask of them? Pontowski thought. He collapsed into a chair and ran through his options. None good. He pulled out the message Maggot had given him, and reread it for the third time. He knew what he had to do. “Colonel Clark,” he said, “we need to talk. In private.” She followed him into a back office and he handed her the message without a word.

  She read it twice. “So the vanguard from the Third Marine Division is due to arrive no later than midnight Wednesday.” She returned the message. “Remember what the lieutenant colonel said? He didn’t think it was going to happen.” She stared at him. “Because that requires airlift, and there’s no place to land.”

  “Yes there is,” Pontowski told her. “Here. I don’t know why we haven’t been hit with chemical or nerve
gas, but I suspect it’s because they haven’t got the resources to do it, or they want to capture the base intact so they can use it.”

  She saw it immediately. “Which explains why they haven’t cratered the runway. Or maybe they’ve got too many of their own people in the area.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re going to hold as long as we can.” He hesitated, hating what he had to say. “Janice, it could get very ugly here. For you…all the women…personally. I want you out at the first opportunity.”

  She stood up to leave. “General, there’s two other women on base besides myself. I’ll make them the same offer, and they can decide for themselves. But as for me, I’ll leave when you leave.” She changed the subject. “By the way, Rockne wants to talk to us.”

  They found him sitting on the floor in the hall sound asleep. Boyca was curled up beside him, her head on his lap. She came alert when Pontowski and Clark approached. It was enough to wake Rockne, and he stood up. “I think we got an intruder on base,” he told them. “A good one who is acting like a spotter for artillery. Think about it. For most of the time the mortar fire was purely harassment. Twice, when it really mattered, it got accurate as all hell. Once when the Hogs launched. If they hadn’t’ve done a tactical split like they did, that mortar round would have nailed them. They were waiting for us to take off.”

  Clark’s eyes narrowed. “And the second time was the C-130.”

  “Exactly,” Rockne said. “I’m gonna find the little bastard.”

  Pontowski checked his watch. “You’ve got nine hours. I want to launch at first light.”

  “Got it.” He spun around and left.

  How much more can I ask? Pontowski wondered.

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday, October 11

  Stephan Serick stumped down the hall, his usual grumpy self. But not even he could put a damper on the euphoria pervading the West Wing. The news from the Gulf was simply too good, too positive to let the secretary of state ruin the best Monday morning they had experienced in over a month. The president’s secretary was waiting and immediately ushered him into the Oval Office for the 8:00 A.M. meeting. He was ninety seconds late. Turner was sitting in her rocker, surrounded by her key policy advisers. She patted the arm of the couch next to her, where she wanted him to sit. He dropped his bulk onto the couch, his cane upright between his knees. “My apologies, Madam President, but I was on the phone to the Chinese embassy.”