He dropped the binoculars in time to see a dark object streaking toward the tunnel entrances. Experience told him it was a smart bomb, either laser or infrared guided. It flew right into the center entrance and exploded as the antiaircraft battery continued to sweep the sky. Now he could hear a single jet receding into the distance. Again he swept the skies, looking for a parachute. There wasn’t one. He made another mental note—one aircraft and one pilot exchanged for one tunnel.
The antiaircraft battery ceased firing, and he waited. The cough of a diesel engine starting echoed out of a tunnel. Soon he heard the unmistakable sound of clanking treads as a bulldozer went to work. The sound of the laboring diesel grew louder, and a mound of dirt and debris was pushed out of the central tunnel. Dark smoke from the exhaust mushroomed out as the bulldozer emerged. The driver, wearing a respirator, continued to clear the entrance. Finally he was finished and pulled off the mask. Behind him, a transporter/erector with a missile emerged into the morning sunlight.
Kamigami made another mental note: there had been no exchange. The missile disappeared into the jungle, reminding him of a giant slug he’d once stepped on by accident. He decided to do it again, this time intentionally.
Thirty-six
Camp Alpha
Tuesday, October 12
Janice Clark felt her heart pound as the C-130 taxied for the runway. The image of the last one burning on the runway was seared into her mind, and fear held her tight. But she couldn’t look away. “Come on, come on,” she whispered. The big bird turned onto the active runway, pointing to the south. The pilot paused and ran the engines up, a heavy drone against the erratic beat of artillery fire. “GO!” she shouted, unable to contain her worry. The pilot released the brakes, and the cargo plane moved forward, accelerating quickly to takeoff speed. The pilot honked back on the yoke and lifted off. Immediately the gear came up as he leveled off thirty feet above the runway and accelerated. Barely able to breathe, Clark watched as the Hercules pulled up and turned sharply to the west, its right wingtip a few feet above the treetops. Then it was out of sight.
She ran for her van. But her driver was already coming her way, and he slammed the vehicle to a halt, pausing only long enough for her to pile in. He raced for the command post. Her radio came alive as the tower announced that an A-10 was inbound with battle damage and a wounded pilot. They passed a crash truck headed for the runway. The ambulance was right behind it. “Follow them,” she commanded. Her driver spun the van around and hit the throttle.
Doc Ryan was standing beside the ambulance when the van pulled up at the midfield intersection. Clark got out and joined him. “There,” he said, pointing to the west. She saw the Hog and held her breath. It seemed to hang in the sky as smoke and flames trailed out behind. A pickup truck drove up, and Waldo got out. “Why doesn’t he eject?” Ryan asked.
“It’s Goat,” Waldo answered. “He’s wounded pretty bad. Probably can’t survive an ejection. The jet’s in manual reversion, but he’s gonna try to land it.”
“Where’s he wounded?” Ryan asked.
“A round shattered the canopy,” Waldo replied. “Tore up his right shoulder, split his helmet. He’s flying with his left hand.” They stood there, all hoping or praying in their own way. Waldo’s left hand moved, trying to control the throttles. “Push it up!” he shouted as the Warthog turned final. But he knew what was coming, and his hand fell helplessly to his side. “Oh, no,” he moaned. The jet never rolled out of the turn. Instead it fell away to the left, arcing toward the ground. The canopy flew off, and the rocket pack kicked the Aces II ejection seat out of the doomed bird with an eleven-G kick. The seat cleared the bird, and the drogue chute streamed out behind. The Hog crashed into the trees and fireballed as the pilot separated from the seat and the main chute deployed. Waldo looked away.
“He made it,” Clark said. Waldo didn’t answer and only stared at the ground.
“Oh, Lord,” Ryan moaned as the fireball sucked in the descending parachute.
The thunder was growing closer when Clark reached the command post. For a moment she stood and looked at the column of smoke rising out of the trees where Goat had died. A loud explosion rolled over her, and she felt the ground shudder. A cannon round had hit the base. One of the cops in the DFP outside the command post waved her on, and she ran for the entrance, holding her holster to keep it from bouncing. She skidded through the door, and it banged closed behind her. She hurried into the main room and sat down at her console. An orchid was lying on her desk. She looked at Maggot and Pontowski. “Where did that come from?” There was a catch in her voice.
“Your driver,” Pontowski answered. He handed her a bottle of water. “We’re talking to Chief Rockne on line one.” She punched at the button and listened.
“There’s only one battery in range doing the shelling,” Rockne explained.
“Do you know the location?” Maggot asked.
“According to the counterbattery radar, they’re shooting and scooting. We should get another round or two in twenty or thirty minutes.”
Pontowski studied the grim story on the aircraft status board. The AVG had arrived with twenty A-10s but was now down to fifteen. Four Hogs were still trapped on the ground at Tengah Air Base, and they had eleven on base. However, only ten were good to go, and one was a hangar queen. But the real problem was fuel. “How many sorties we got left?”
“Twenty-eight,” Maggot replied. “Unless more fuel came in on that C-130.”
Clark shook her head in answer. “No fuel. We got a hundred and nine out.” She subtracted Goat’s name from her count. “Two hundred ninety-three to go.”
Pontowski’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s only one battery, we can kill it.”
The two artillery rounds came in quick succession, falling well short of the DFP on the northern side of the base, where Jessica and Cindy had taken refuge with Boyca. Cindy checked in with the BDOC, confirming that the rounds had fallen outside the base. Across the runway the big doors of a shelter cranked back, and a Hog fast-taxied for the runway. The pilot, a young captain called Stormy, never slowed as he took the active runway at midfield. A green light blinked at him from the control tower hidden in the trees. On top of the tower the small antenna of the recently installed counterbattery radar spun at a high rate, searching for more incoming artillery fire. Stormy firewalled the throttles, taking off to the south. The Hog came unglued with two thousand feet of runway remaining, and Stormy snatched the gear up. Immediately he turned hard to the left before turning back to the south. He disappeared over the treetops with a single radio transmission: “Stormy’s clear.”
The command post monitored the radio call, and a sergeant marked the boards. “I hope this works,” Clark said.
Pontowski’s voice was flat, without emotion. “They may be able to shoot, but they can’t scoot fast enough.” Now they had to wait for the next salvo. It came twenty-one minutes later. The controller in the tower instantly transmitted a set of coordinates. “The radar got him,” Pontowski said.
Stormy did not acknowledge the radio transmission from the tower as his fingers punched the coordinates into his GPS. The number one bearing pointer and range indicator in his horizontal-situation indicator cycled to the target along with the display in his HUD. He turned toward the target-designation box in the HUD. When the box was on his nose, he flicked the radio button on the throttle quadrant. “Stormy’s in.” He flew across the base at fifty feet. Below him, Jessica and Cindy covered their ears, rocked by the noise that pounded at them. Cindy poked her head up in time to see the Hog clear the minefield as it headed to the north. Stormy jinked hard, never holding the same heading for more than two seconds. He was vaguely aware of a rocket plume flashing behind him, a Grail launched way too late. His left forefinger pushed the flare-dispensing button on the throttle quadrant, and six flares popped out behind in time to decoy a second missile that he never saw.
The range indicator on his horizontal-situation display indicat
ed seven miles to go. The target box started to move down his HUD. He climbed a few feet, trying for a visual sighting. Nothing. He climbed a few feet more and saw a muzzle flash at his ten o’clock position. He jinked hard and descended. Without consciously thinking about it, he marked the location. He might have a chance to settle that score later.
“Tallyho the fox!” he radioed. The target was at his two o’clock at two miles, exactly where it was supposed to be. Figures were scrambling furiously around an artillery tube, hooking it up for transport while others threw equipment into the back of a truck. He popped to twelve hundred feet and rolled in as he hit the flare button again, sending more flares out in his wake. He hit the pickle button and waited. Six Mark-82 Airs rippled off, walking across the gun emplacement below him. The truck was racing for safety, shedding its camouflage as it accelerated.
He pulled back on the stick and kept his Hog low to the ground as he escaped to the north. Once clear of the blast, he ruddered the jet back around and looked for the truck. It was still racing down the dirt road, its back end on fire and streaming smoke. He arced in on a perfect strafing run and mashed the trigger. The big cannon gave off a burring sound as he fired forty-eight rounds, literally cutting the truck in half. He pulled off and came around, selecting CBUs. He walked them across the area, ensuring that the message was received.
“Scratch one artillery tube,” he radioed.
“Rog,” Maggot answered. “RTB. Save the gas.”
Disappointed that he couldn’t go after the muzzle flash, Stormy turned south. He landed four minutes later and taxied into his shelter with over half his fuel remaining.
“General Pontowski,” the controller in the communications cab called. “A U.S. communications advance team has arrived in Singapore, and we’re back in contact.” He handed Pontowski a stack of four messages. “More’s coming.”
Pontowski settled down to read them, only to jump to his feet. “The dumb—” He cut off the obscenity that was on the tip of his tongue. “They want us to increase our sortie rate and hold at all costs.” He stormed back and forth.
“Who ordered the hold?” Maggot asked.
Pontowski checked the message. “The national command authority.”
“Does that mean the president?”
“What it means is that someone in Washington hasn’t got a fuckin’ clue. Screw that noise. We’re getting out of here.”
“General,” Clark said from her console, “the BDOC is reporting heavy small-arms fire on the eastern perimeter.” She stepped to the base map on the wall and circled in red the DFPs that were taking fire on the far side of the base. “Any chance we might get a Hog to return the favor?” she asked, thinking of the artillery battery they had silenced.
The sergeant waved another message at Pontowski. “Sir, Tengah was just hit by another missile with nerve gas. And we got a request for immediate close air support.” His eyes widened when he realized where the request came from. He handed the message over and retreated into the communications cab.
Pontowski read it and passed it on to Maggot. “We got to do it.”
Maggot never hesitated. He punched at his console. “Basher One, scramble. Basher Two, scramble. After takeoff contact FAC, call sign Bravo Zero One, on one-two-four-point-oh. If unable to recover at home plate, your alternate is Hang Nadim Air Base, heading one forty-five degrees at seventy.”
“Basher One scrambling now,” Waldo replied, his voice sounding bored and matter-of-fact.
“Stalwart fellow,” Maggot said sotto voce. But no one laughed.
Four minutes later Waldo radioed, “Basher One and Two rolling.”
Maggot dialed in the forward air controller’s radio frequency to listen. “I’d rather be up there than here,” he muttered to himself.
“Roger that,” Pontowski said, totally agreeing with him.
They listened as Waldo checked in with the FAC. Both men came to their feet when they heard Bravo Zero One say, “Tanks have broken through south of Paloh.”
“Son of a bitch,” Maggot said. “That’s fifteen miles from here.”
“Jammer,” Waldo radioed to his wingman, “ingress line abreast. You work west of the railroad tracks, I’ll take the east side. One pass, egress to the west. I’ll fall in behind and cover your six.”
“Copy all,” Jammer replied.
Pontowski recognized the tactics Waldo was employing. “They’re going in with Mavericks,” he said to no one.
“Beats getting up close and personal with the gun,” Maggot told him.
“Waldo, rifle,” Waldo transmitted as he launched his first Maverick. His voice was higher-pitched, and the words were coming fast. “Waldo, rifle.” His second Maverick was on the way.
“Jammer, rifle,” Jammer radioed as he launched a Maverick.
“Shack!” Waldo called as his first missile hit home.
Jammer was back. “Jammer, rifle.” His second Maverick was on the way.
“Jammer! Break left! Trip A at your six!”
Jammer’s voice was labored as he pulled four G’s to avoid the stream of high-explosive shells. “Coming from the flatbed on the tracks.” Then, “I’m clear.”
Pontowski and Maggot visibly relaxed. “I got the fucker in sight,” Waldo said. “I’m in.”
The tension was back, and in his mind’s eye Pontowski could see Waldo’s Hog as it rolled in on an antiaircraft battery firing at Jammer’s escaping A-10. The wait seemed to take forever. “Scratch one Trip A,” Waldo said. “Winchester Mavericks.” He had expended all his antitank missiles.
“Same-oh,” Jammer replied.
“RTB home plate,” Waldo ordered.
Four minutes later the two jets taxied clear of the active and raced for their shelters. The mission had taken less than twelve minutes, they had expended four Mavericks and two Mark-82 Airs, killed four tanks, obliterated an antiaircraft artillery battery, and cut the railroad tracks in the process. Pontowski and Maggot exchanged glances in relief, a visual high-five. But Clark was on the phone to the BDOC and brought them back to reality. “The cops are bringing in two casualties from across the runway.” She listened for a moment. “Whiskey Sector’s perimeter is heating up. It looks like they’re coming from the east.”
The Pentagon
Monday, October 11
Marine One approached from the south as it returned from Richmond, and touched down on the helipad outside the River Entrance. General Wilding was waiting and saluted when the president climbed down. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. President.” She nodded, and he dropped the salute. “I understand the folks in Richmond gave you a warm welcome.”
She smiled graciously. “Southern hospitality at its best.” It was classic understatement, for the campaign speech had been an unqualified success. “But they did seem receptive.”
Wilding couldn’t contain himself. “I’m quite sure you’ll find an equally receptive audience here.” They walked in silence to the NMCC, each deep in thought. Inside, she stepped into the battle cab overlooking the main floor. Below her, the floor was crowded with people, all looking up and awaiting her arrival. Applause swept the room and rattled the glass in front of her, drowning out any conversation. Finally she had to lean over and speak into the boom mike in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice echoed from the loudspeakers. She waited for the clamor to subside. “I hope this applause is for yourselves and your comrades. You deserve it, not me.” She stood as the big room thundered an ovation. The UIF had unconditionally surrendered, and the fighting had stopped.
Turner sat down and closed her eyes. The war in the Gulf had stopped three hours short of the thirty-eighth day, at the cost of 3,114 lives. She corrected herself—3,114 American lives. For a moment a raging doubt assailed her. Was it worth it? She put the question aside for the historians to debate from their safe and secure towers with all the benefits of hindsight and time. Now she had to win the war in Asia. Her eyes opened. “Singapore and Malaysia?” she mur
mured.
Wilding spoke into his telephone, and the map on the big screen at the front of the room cycled to the Far East. It zoomed in on southern Malaysia and changed again to a computer-generated cartographic display. The map came alive with strings of lights snaking down the peninsula, crawling toward the island city. An illuminated arrow highlighted the map as Wilding spoke. “We now have a Joint Rivet aircraft in place and monitoring the ground situation. This is a real-time downlink. As you can see, the PLA has broken out here”—the pointer circled the village of Paloh—“and is advancing on the American contingent at Camp Alpha.” The pointer paused over the base. “The AVG is still launching sorties flying close air support for the Singapore Army and have been instrumental in slowing their advance. However, four aircraft have been diverted to Tengah.” The pointer moved onto Singapore. “Advanced communications and command teams have arrived at SEAC and are assessing the situation. We have parachuted decontamination teams and equipment into these air bases.” The pointer circled Changi and Tengah. “We should have them open within twenty-four hours.”
“But until that happens,” the president said, “we have no place to land.” She paused. “Have you considered paratroops?”
“Yes, ma’am, we have. We have elements of the First Airborne en route from the Gulf. Indonesia has given us permission to land and stage out of Djakarta”—the pointer circled the airport—“some five hundred nautical miles away. But I’m hesitant to commit them piecemeal.”
Turner stood and studied the flashing lights on the main map as they moved slowly southward. “How long can the AVG hold?” she asked.
“I can’t answer with certainty,” Wilding replied. “We are getting reports of small-unit action around the base.” Silence. “Madam President, we may have waited too long. I should have recommended a withdrawal when we had time.” She looked at him, an unbelievable sadness in her eyes, and shook her head. He stared at her, at last understanding.
The Last Phoenix Page 42