“Make sure everyone is suited out,” Pontowski said.
“I got patrols out right now checking on everyone.” He paused. “You know what I think, sir? That missile that missed was carrying nerve gas and hit right in the middle of their main force. They assholed their own troops.”
“Gas cuts both ways,” Pontowski said. “We learned that lesson ninety years ago in World War Once.”
“According to what SEAC is saying,” Rockne continued, “it takes about eight to twelve hours for the shit to dissipate. That might explain why it’s so damn quiet right now.”
Pontowski nodded slowly. “That’s part of it. But we know they regroup at night, and we’re forty minutes from sunset.” The two men fell silent for a moment. “Chief, level with me. Can we evacuate out of here over land?”
“There’s a lot of small units floating around out there. We might be able to get some of our people through. How many, I don’t know.” He considered the odds. “Sir, if we go, we got to go as soon as it’s dark. It’s going to get very interesting in a few hours.”
“When the nerve gas dissipates,” Pontowski added.
Rockne didn’t answer. The last two jets took off.
The White House
Tuesday, October 12
Maddy stared into the cold fireplace as the elegant grandmother clock in the corner of the family room chimed six o’clock. She cupped the mug in her hands and took another sip. Maura came through the door and joined her. “Did you get any sleep?” There was no reproach in Maura’s voice, only a deep concern for her daughter.
“A few hours.” She took another sip. She picked up the remote control to the TV. “This should be interesting.”
The screen filled with the words CNC-TV SPECIAL REPORT, the words then displaced by the channel’s star reporter, Liz Gordon. “A bombshell exploded in the nation’s capital last night with the latest revelation growing out of the investigation into the suicide of the director of Central Intelligence.”
“I’m sick of this,” Maura murmured.
“Wait,” Maddy said.
The commentator’s face turned even more serious. “A tape monitoring a telephone conversation between Senator John Leland and Secretary of Defense Robert Merritt revealed that Leland knew beforehand there was no connection between the existence of an alleged child-pornography ring and the late DCI.”
The screen faded to an interview with Leland. “This is a blatant attempt by the Turner administration to discredit my investigation,” Leland blustered.
A voice off camera said, “Secretary Merritt has confirmed the authenticity of the phone call.”
“Merritt is a lying turncoat,” Leland fumed. “That is not my voice on the tape.”
The voice was relentless. “Three experts have analyzed the tape and compared it with your speeches. They all say it is you.”
Leland drew himself up, filling the screen with righteousness. “Let me make this perfectly clear: the person who recorded this tape committed a crime that will not go unpunished. It is a violation of federal law.”
Again the voice was there. “An unidentified source claims that Patrick Flannery Shaw was the source of the tape.”
Leland was shouting. “Do you know who Shaw is?”
“Was, Mr. Senator. Patrick Shaw died early this morning.”
Maddy clicked off the TV. “Oh,” Maura said. “I didn’t know.”
“He passed away two hours ago.”
“You were there?” Maura asked. A gentle nod answered her. “I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t unexpected,” Maddy said. She rose and walked to the mantel over the fireplace. She reached out and touched the small hand bell resting in the place of honor. “Do you remember when he gave it to me?” She held the bell as tears coursed down her cheeks.
Thirty-eight
Taman Negara
Tuesday, October 12
Twilight in the tropics is very brief, and it was dark when Colonel Sun and the rest of the First SOS made the rendezvous shortly after 1900 hours, a good eight hours ahead of schedule. The men dropped their heavy loads and sank to the ground, too weary to appreciate what they had done. “How many?” Kamigami asked.
“Fifty-four,” Sun replied. With Kamigami’s forty-two men, they had ninety-six shooters.
“Where’s Tel?” Kamigami asked.
“Tel was on the point when we ran into a patrol,” Sun explained. “He saw them first, but before we could retrograde, they saw two men. Tel took a four-man team to lead them away. With luck, they may think they’re chasing a long-range patrol.”
Kamigami’s eyes narrowed as he fought the urge to reprimand the colonel. He should have waited and covered the last ten miles at night. But Sun was no fool and understood how critical the element of surprise was to special operations. “Why the hurry?”
“Singapore is under incredible pressure from missile attacks. We’ve been ordered to take them out as soon as possible—before morning.”
Kamigami had experienced it before where the priorities of a higher headquarters overrode tactical considerations, often at the risk of the mission itself. It was also a measure of SEAC’s desperation. “I understand,” Kamigami conceded. Sun swayed from fatigue, and Kamigami gave in to the inevitable. “Get some rest.” He checked his watch. “I’ll lay out the attack at 2300 hours, and we’ll go in before first light.” Four hours of rest was all they were going to get.
Rest was the one luxury Tel did not have. He kept his small team moving, urging them on with hand signals, barely ahead of the men in hot pursuit. It was a calculated gamble to lead the patrol they had inadvertently stumbled across away from the Taman Negara. So far it had worked. But he wasn’t certain for how much longer. He kept thinking “ambush,” but he needed time to set it up. He also needed to know how many men were chasing them. Given the way the PLA did business and judging by the noise they were making, he suspected it was a rather large number.
Finally it was dark enough to do something. He ordered his team to drop their heavy bergens and strip down to fighting loads. Then they were up and moving, now much faster. Eventually he found an open area where the trees thinned out but the underbrush was still thin and undeveloped. He sent his four men into hiding, all within ten meters of the trail. He quickly checked to make sure they were not visible to night-vision goggles before spreading ground pepper on the trail where it entered the clearing. He took cover.
He didn’t have to wait long. Two men came into sight, moving cautiously down the trail. He evaluated their movements with a practiced eye and decided they weren’t very good. Then he saw the dog. He forced his breathing to slow as the dog sniffed at the trail. The dog sneezed four times, and the two men halted. They took their time studying the clearing. The dog sneezed again, and one spoke into his radio, ample proof they were in contact with a larger group. They stood beside the trail and smoked cigarettes while they waited for the main body to come up. Tel didn’t move as the dog started to range, only to start sneezing again.
The patrol came up the trail, and the two men kept smoking, waving them through the clearing. Tel counted fifty-three soldiers as they passed. An officer brought up the rear with a radio operator. He paused while he spoke into his handset, reporting his platoon’s location and what they had seen. Tel caught enough of the report to worry him. The officer moved on, and a second platoon came down the trail. This time Tel counted fifty-eight men. He was dealing with a company-strength patrol. Finally the two men were alone, and they fell in behind, now the rear guard.
Tel waited until they were out of earshot and spoke into his whisper mike. “Take them out,” he ordered. He waited.
A voice spoke in his earpiece. “We got them.”
Tel stepped onto the trail and moved forward. The two soldiers were lying beside the trail, their throats cut. “Where’s the dog?” he asked. But no one had seen it. Tel made a decision. “Pick them up and head for the rendezvous. We’ll dispose of them when we can.” Two of his tea
m shouldered the bodies in a fireman’s carry and headed back in the direction they had come from. Tel scoured the area, removing any traces of the fight or their presence. He took one last look around and followed.
Camp Alpha
Tuesday, October 12
Clark counted the twenty men piling onto the first helicopter while Doc Ryan and two medics pulled the last stretcher patient out of the crash wagon. Willing hands helped pull the wounded man onto the laps of the six men crammed onto the rear bench of the second Puma. Clark took one last count—four litter patients and fifteen men—and gave the pilots a thumbs-up. The two helicopters lifted off and disappeared over the treetops. She ran for the crash wagon and jumped into the back with the doctor. They raced for the med station as an artillery shell exploded on a nearby empty aircraft shelter. “How many left?” she asked.
“Two,” Ryan answered.
“I wanted to get them all out,” she said.
The doctor shook his head. “Better this way. They’re not in pain.” It was triage in the raw. The two men not evacuated were going to die no matter what miracles modern medicine might perform. Their places on the helicopter had been given to patients who could be treated—and to men who could still fight. The crash wagon’s radio crackled. Two more wounded were coming across the runway, both the enemy.
The truck parked in the hardened shelter nearest the med station, and Clark ran for the command post. Pontowski was waiting for her. “How many left?”
She ran the numbers from memory. “We got two hundred thirty-seven to go. Twelve pilots, seventy-eight maintenance, a hundred and twenty-two cops, nine medics, and seventeen support—that includes the two controllers in the tower, two in the command post, and two in intelligence. The rest are augmenting the cops.”
“We got ten Hogs good to go for one more sortie, so that leaves two extra pilots.”
“When are you going to launch them?” she asked.
“At first light.” Pontowski glanced at the master clock. It was 2206 hours. “In about eight hours, if SEAC has still got any kind of defensive line left.”
Clark pulled on her headset to listen to the security police net. “All quadrants except the north are taking sporadic small-arms fire,” she reported. “Rockne is reinforcing the perimeter.” She moved to the base defense map and circled each defensive fighting position as it reported in. “The minefield is keeping the north clear, and he’s only manning two DFPs on the northern side.” She circled the two defensive fire positions, one on each side of the runway. When the last team checked in, she counted each position and wrote a big “56” on the board.
“Jess,” Cindy whispered. “Someone’s out there.”
Jessica stood up and looked through the night-vision sight fitted to Cindy’s M-16. “I don’t see anything.” She turned the objective-focus ring, sharpening up the image. Still nothing. Then she turned off the reticule brightness. The sight was good out to four hundred meters, and still nothing appeared. She sensed movement at the extreme edge of the sight’s amplification. “I got it,” she said. The image became more distinct. “Someone’s moving along the ground.” She watched for a moment. “He’s clearing mines.”
“Can we get a flare?” Cindy asked.
Jessica handed the M-16 back and called the BDOC. Rockne answered. “You still got my dog?” he asked, fully aware everyone on the net was listening.
“That’s affirmative,” Jessica replied.
“Good. Feed her Cindy if she gets hungry.”
Jessica snorted, but it did help break the building tension. “Very funny. Any chance of getting a flare over the minefield?”
Paul answered. “We got a tube. A sixty-millimeter, courtesy of the long-departed MA.” An enterprising security cop with a touch of larceny had found sixteen mortars abandoned by the Malaysian Army and had distributed them over the base.
“I hope you clowns know how to use it,” Rockne said.
“On the way,” Paul said. A dull whomp echoed out of the trees, and a single round arced over the base. It popped over the minefield, and a bright flare drifted down.
“Look at that,” Cindy whispered. At least twenty men were on the far side of the minefield working their way across. She squeezed off a shot. “Keep the flares coming,” she said. Jessica asked for another flare as Cindy fired again. “I got one.” She fired again. Jessica stood up and fired with her. Across the minefield a soldier stood up and ran for cover.
“Let him go,” Jessica ordered. They watched as the rest of the men followed his example and bolted for safety. A cloud of dirt and smoke mushroomed up, catching the red glow of the flares. The dull report of a mine exploding rumbled across their DFP. “Well,” Jessica said, her voice shaking, “that’s one way to clear a minefield.”
The radio net came alive. “Tanks!”
Taman Negara
Tuesday, October 12
It was drizzling when the team leaders joined Kamigami and Sun under the camouflaged shelter. Four hours of rest had performed a minor miracle for most, but Sun was still showing the effects of the forced march. As always, Kamigami carefully evaluated each man, looking for any telltale sign that could turn into a major problem once the action started. After talking to Sun for a few moments, he was certain the colonel could hack it. He turned over a chart to reveal a sketch of the area. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to their position. He ticked the base camp four miles away. “Approximately two to three hundred enemy are between us and our objective.” He circled the three tunnel entrances near the base camp. “We know the PLA has dug a major complex under the ridgeline. Exactly how big, we don’t know. How many missiles are left, we don’t know.” He looked around the small group. “So what does all this tell you?”
“We don’t know very much about our objective,” Lieutenant Lee answered, “which is a recipe for disaster.”
“Exactly,” Kamigami said. “So we’re not going to destroy the tunnels.” Stunned looks answered him. “We’re going to close them up and turn them into tombs.”
“What about the troops in the base camp?” Sun asked.
“First we have to convince them they want to be in the tunnels,” Kamigami answered. He fingered the gold whistle around his neck. “Once that happens, we blow the entrances.” His face hardened. “Once we’ve secured the area, we’ll find the ventilation shafts and seal them.”
Camp Alpha
Tuesday, October 12
Rockne keyed his radio and tried for the third time to raise Whiskey Sector’s command post on the opposite side of the runway. “Whiskey Ops, this is BDOC. How copy?” Again there was no answer. “Damn,” he muttered. More reports streamed in as he tried to make sense out of what was happening. Since each team manning a defensive fire position had a unique call sign based on its sector and number in line, a definite pattern started to emerge. At least three tanks supported by troops were maneuvering on the eastern perimeter. But where were they going? “Whiskey Zero-Five,” he radioed, “do you have tanks in sight?”
Paul answered. “Whiskey Zero-Five has three tanks with troops at four hundred meters.”
“Are they moving?” Rockne asked.
“Negative,” Paul replied.
Rockne radioed the next DFP in line. “Whiskey Zero-Six, do you have tanks in sight?”
“That’s affirm,” a shaky voice answered. “No movement.”
Back to the problem of Whiskey’s command post. “Whiskey Ops, how copy?” No answer. Rockne thought for a moment. Who could check it out the quickest with the least risk? He hit the transmit button. “Zulu Zero-Two, proceed to Whiskey Ops bunker and find out what the hell is going on.”
Jessica answered. “Zulu Zero-Two is on the way.”
Paul was back on the radio, his voice urgent. “Those fuckers are coming straight at us!” Rockne heard the rattle of a SAW over the open frequency.
“Paul!” Rockne shouted, ignoring all radio discipline. “Get the hell outa there!” But there was no answer. “Whiskey
Zero-Six,” Rockne said, radioing the DFP next to Paul and Jake. “Are you engaged?” Again there was no answer. More reports flooded in as the entire eastern perimeter was taking fire. He made a decision. “Whiskey Sector,” he radioed, “DFPs Whiskey Zero-One through Whiskey One-Five fall back to secondary positions. Acknowledge.” He checked off the DFPs as they checked in. All but Zero-Five and Zero-Six were accounted for. If he read the situation right, the enemy was coming through a very narrow funnel directly into the weapons storage area. A very bad mistake. He called the command post. “Colonel Clark, we got a major attack forming on the eastern perimeter. Three tanks with troops. We’re falling back.”
“I’m coming to you,” Clark answered.
The two women hugged the tree line that paralleled the runway as they ran. Boyca loped along beside Jessica, apparently enjoying the exercise after the long confinement in the DFP. Off to their left the rattle of a heavy machine gun momentarily drove them to cover. Then they were up and running again. The sharp retort of cannon fire split the air, followed by a loud bang. The cannon stopped firing. Encouraged, they ran faster. When they reached the runway intersection at midfield, they slowed and turned down the dirt road that led toward the weapons storage area. Ahead of them, they saw the outline of the bunker. As expected, it was dark. “What do you think?” Cindy asked.
“Where’s the sentry?” Jessica replied. She motioned for Cindy to spread out, and they slowly approached. Boyca sank to the ground, her head up, ears back. She let out a low growl.
The Last Phoenix Page 44