Clark leaned over the chart and frowned. “They punched through here,” Rockne explained, touching two DFPs. “Whiskey Zero-Five and Zero-Six.” The radio net blared at them as the fire teams on the secondary line came under attack.
“BDOC, Whiskey Zero-Five,” Paul radioed, his voice barely audible. Rockne’s head came up. “Troops coming through the fence at my location. Battalion strength.”
Rockne looked at the chart, his mouth a grim line. “Aren’t you going to acknowledge?” Clark asked.
“No. He’s ratholed and already off the air. He doesn’t need a radio squawking at him.” He paused for a moment and then keyed his radio. “All mortar teams commence firing on Whiskey Zero-Five and Whiskey Zero-Six.” He dropped the mike and stared at the floor. “Shit-fuck-hate,” he muttered.
“There wasn’t a choice,” Clark said. “But it will slow them down.”
“Not for long,” Rockne answered. He pulled himself up. “We’re gonna have to withdraw to the runway and blow the fuel dump and weapons-storage area.”
“From Whiskey Ops,” Clark said. He nodded. “Blow it on my command. Not before.”
He nodded and hit the transmit button on his mike. “Zulu Zero-Two. Say position.”
“Zulu Zero-Two is outside Whiskey Ops,” Cindy answered.
“What’s wrong with the inside?”
“It’s occupied, and we don’t think they’re friendly.”
Clark went rigid. “You better get over there. We can handle it here.” The other two security cops manning the BDOC nodded in agreement, neither anxious to leave the security of the bunker.
“Tell Zulu Zero-Two I’m heading their way.” He slapped his flak vest closed, and grabbed his helmet and M-16 as he hurried out. Then he stopped and pointed to one of the sergeants. “You’re with me.”
The two men ran outside and jumped into Rockne’s pickup. The steady whomp of mortars from across the runway reached out and demanded their attention. “Chief, do we have to do this?” the sergeant complained.
“You bet your sweet ass.” Rockne gunned the engine and raced for the other side of the base. The speedometer touched sixty miles an hour when they crossed the runway. He slowed to make the turn onto the dirt road leading to the bunker. A long burst from a submachine gun cut into the right side of the pickup’s windshield. Glass sprayed over the two men, and a single 7.62-millimeter round hit the sergeant in the neck, killing him instantly. The impact threw his body against Rockne, which probably saved Rockne’s life. Two more slugs slammed into the sergeant’s vest. The last round hit Rockne’s helmet and ricocheted off. But the force of a round fired at short range is enormous, and it rocked Rockne’s head back and twisted his neck, momentarily knocking him out. The truck careened out of control and rolled onto its side as it skidded to a halt. Another burst of gunfire cut into the underside and punctured the gas tank.
Rockne climbed out and staggered away from the truck, keeping it between him and the gunfire. But that was all he had. He sank to his knees, too dazed to move, as another burst of gunfire ripped into the truck. He tried to stand but sank back to the ground and vomited. Jessica saw him as he collapsed. “Cindy, it’s the Rock! Go!” The two women ran toward him as the truck exploded. A soldier stepped around the burning truck and saw Rockne kneeling on the ground. He never saw the women coming his way as he walked over and held the muzzle of his submachine gun inches from Rockne’s head. Jessica skidded to a stop in the shadows, still fifty meters short. She raised her M-16, but she couldn’t take the shot. Boyca was in the way.
Boyca was a blur as she barreled toward the soldier. She let out a single bark and kept coming. The soldier looked up, not believing what he saw. He swung the muzzle of his submachine gun around just as Boyca’s powerful hind legs dug in. She leaped at him, fifty-six pounds of concentrated fury. The soldier fired a short burst. The first two rounds missed, but the third struck Boyca in the chest. She crashed into him, and her jaws clamped down on the soldier’s left arm. He screamed in pain when the small bone in his forearm shattered. He fell to the ground as Boyca jerked her head back and forth, refusing to let go. Then she released him. The soldier rolled free of Boyca’s lifeless body and reached for his weapon, only to look directly into the muzzle of Jessica’s M-16. She shoved it into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Cindy was there. “Jesus, Jess,” she breathed. Together they helped Rockne to his feet and dragged him into the tree line.
“Call BDOC,” he groaned, still too dizzy to stand unassisted.
Cindy keyed her radio. “BDOC, this is Zulu Zero-Two. We’ve got the Chief, but he’s injured.”
Clark answered. “Zulu Zero-Two, tell the Chief to blow the weapons storage area and fuel dump ASAP.”
“How do we do that?” Jessica wondered.
“Get me into the Whiskey Ops bunker,” Rockne rasped.
The two women looked at each other, not sure what to do. Suddenly Jessica ripped off her helmet and dropped her webbed harness, shedding over thirty pounds of fighting load. She grabbed a grenade and pulled the pin. “Cover me,” she said. She ran for the bunker, darting from shadow to shadow and keeping in the trees. A burst of gunfire flashed from a firing port, but she kept running. Cindy snapped off four rounds, chipping at the sandbags around the firing port. Another burst of gunfire and Jessica went down. Just as quickly she was up and running again, now less than thirty feet away. A long burst of gunfire swept the area, and two rounds cut into her. She pitched forward and threw the grenade. “You muthafuckas!” she screamed. The grenade arced true and sure into the firing port. They heard it detonate, and the gunfire stopped.
Rockne was on his feet, a little more stable. “Go!” Cindy propped him up, and they hobbled toward the bunker.
Each second was an eternity as Clark waited. She never took her eyes off the base defense chart as each firing team checked in when they reached the DFPs near the runway. A loud explosion shook the beams overhead, and she looked up. But it didn’t die away and continued to build as it rippled through the weapons storage area. Another boom, this time from the fuel dump, punctuated the rolling thunder. But there was little fire, as the tanks were dry and contained only vapor. It was enough, however, to set the trees on fire. Wave after wave of intense heat belched out of the fuel dump as the tanks exploded, adding to the conflagration. A compulsion she would never understand drove her outside. She had to see. The entire eastern horizon was on fire, explosion after explosion sending sparks and smoke into the night sky.
Rockne steadied himself against the wall of the bunker and took a shallow breath. His neck ached beyond belief, and he was certain someone had driven a spike into his skull. He connected the last two firing wires to the firing device and twisted the small handle. He braced himself as another detonation shook the bunker. “We got to go,” he told Cindy.
But she only rocked back and forth, bent over Jessica’s body, as tears streamed down her face. She looked up at him. “She was my buddy.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why we’re here.”
Slowly Cindy reached under the body and pulled Boyca’s leash out of Jessica’s rear pocket. She stood and wiped at her tear-stained face. Then she handed the leash to Rockne.
Thirty-nine
Taman Negara
Wednesday, October 13
The teams moving into position were little more than shadows in the night. Twice they had to take out sentries who posed a threat, but for the most part they bypassed the guard posts. Lieutenant Lee’s team was the last to reach its assigned position, less than three hundred meters from the tunnels. He radioed two words when his team was ready: “Tiger Red.”
Colonel Sun’s radio operator copied the transmission and relayed it to Kamigami. “Get ready,” Kamigami told his team. He raised the gold whistle to his lips. Again he checked on his men. They were alert and waiting. He blew on the whistle, faintly at first and then crescendoing to a long, hard blast. The sound carried down the low valley, echoing between t
he karst formations. The moment he stopped, the team broke cover and ran. Kamigami fell in behind, hard-pressed to keep up. Six minutes later they halted, and again Kamigami gave a long blast on the whistle. He let it dangle around his neck as they listened. They could hear shouts and movement from the main camp less than a hundred meters away.
“They got the message, sir,” a sergeant said. It was true. The legend of the vampire inhabiting the area was too strong, too vivid for many of the superstitious soldiers to ignore, and panic swept the camp. At first there was general confusion, while officers and senior NCOs tried to restore order. But the second whistle had sent a few racing for sanctuary in the tunnels. Kamigami helped it along by a third blast, and what had been a trickle turned into a torrent flowing into the tunnels.
A few officers managed to reach the entrances and were beginning to regain control when Kamigami blew the whistle for the fourth time. Then he dropped the whistle and sent his team into the camp. Fear had started the soldiers moving, and now survival drove them on, as Kamigami’s team annihilated what little opposition remained on the perimeter.
From the far side of the camp another team opened fire, catching many of the soldiers in a deadly crossfire. Now it was a general rout, as the survivors made for the tunnels. But an officer gathered three NCOs and started to regroup, blocking the fleeing soldiers. Lieutenant Lee signaled for his sniper to take the officer out. Compared to the missile, it was an easy shot.
But the three NCOs were made of stern stuff and didn’t give up. Slowly the flow into the tunnels stopped. Lee radioed for support. Farther back, Sun gave the order, and the two fire teams on the ridge saturated the area with mortar rounds. Gradually they drove the defenders away from the tunnels and back into the camp. A squad of seven soldiers emerged from the left tunnel, commanded by a gutsy NCO, and headed directly for Lee’s position. Again the sniper fired, and the NCO fell to the ground. Lee redirected the mortar fire, and the squad took a direct hit. Three survivors crawled back into the tunnel, leaving their wounded behind.
Ropes dropped from above the tunnels, and three men rappelled down the face of the ridge. The center man stopped at a big outcrop and shoved two satchel charges into the deepest cracks. He climbed back up, trailing the firing wires behind him. The man on the left had to descend almost to the entrance as gunfire splattered around him. The sniper fired at the muzzle flashes, and the gunfire tapered off as the man swung back and forth, slapping limpet charges on the brow of the tunnel. He swung farther to the left and caught a handhold, then pulled himself into a chimney and worked his way back to the top, safe from hostile fire. A burst of submachine-gun fire cut into the third man, leaving him swinging back and forth over the right entrance.
With two men safe, the team leader above the tunnels blew the charges. The big outcrop above the center entrance caved in on itself, and most of the ridge collapsed into the center. The charges on the left were less effective but still collapsed the roof of the entrance, partially sealing the tunnel. The right tunnel remained open.
A sixth sense told Kamigami that resistance in the main camp was stiffening and it was time to withdraw. He spoke into his radio, giving the order, and started to fall back. The gunfire slowly died away, as dust and smoke rolled down the valley and into the jungle. A lone mortar round crashed into the camp, followed by the sharp crack of a sniper rifle. Kamigami counted his men as an eerie silence came down.
Camp Alpha
Wednesday, October 13
Doc Ryan took one look at Rockne and went back to work on the Chinese soldier lying on the operating table. “Have a medic check you out.”
“And take two aspirin?” Rockne said. He was much better and feeling foolish for even coming to the base medical station. But Clark had been most insistent.
“In your case, four.”
Rockne grunted and did as he was told. Outside, he paused, surprised by how quiet it was. But “quiet” was all relative. Dull explosions still reverberated from across the runway and mixed with distant cannon fire. He hurried to the BDOC, steadier on his feet and thankful that his headache had subsided to manageable stabs of pain. Clark met him on her way out. “Bossman wants us in the command post. We got a white flag near the gate.”
Clark held a white flag out the window as her driver slowly maneuvered through the concrete barricades at what once was the main gate. Rockne sat behind him and guided him through the minefield. A small group of men were waiting on the far side, also holding a white flag. The driver stopped and got out, holding the white flag above his head.
“Okay,” Pontowski said, “play it cool and just stand behind me. Don’t say a word.” Rockne and Clark nodded in agreement. Rockne got out and carefully adjusted his black beret, convinced that appearances still mattered. Clark was right beside him, looking neat and trim as always. They fell in behind Pontowski and marched toward the group waiting for them. Halfway there, they stopped. For a moment nothing happened. “I guess they don’t want to talk,” Pontowski said. He turned to leave.
“They’re coming,” Clark said. Pontowski turned back around and stood at parade rest.
The three men coming toward them were tall and wore neat and well-tailored uniforms. Pontowski recognized the rank of the middle officer, a major general. As he was junior in grade, Pontowski saluted first. The general waved a salute back. “General Pontowski, I presume?” His English was impeccable and carried the trace of an English accent.
“How may I help you?” Pontowski said, dropping his salute.
“By surrendering, of course.”
“That might be a problem,” Pontowski replied. “We don’t have the facilities for processing and feeding all your men.”
The two-star general allowed a little smile. “Please, do not play games.”
“I assure you, sir, I am not playing games.”
“And neither am I. I am in direct contact with our embassy in Washington, and our special ambassador informs me that your president refuses to discuss your situation, which, to say the least, is untenable. Apparently you are expendable.”
“Ah,” Pontowski replied, taking a wild chance. “Mr. Zou no doubt. How wrong can he be?” The general caught the pun on Zou Rong’s name and frowned. A mistake. Pontowski leaned forward and lowered his voice. “How many of your men died in your last attack?” He motioned to Whiskey Sector across the runway. “Must this go on?”
The general went rigid and snapped his fingers. Behind him, there was a flurry of activity, and two soldiers dragged a tall security policeman out of a truck. They shoved him forward. “Paul Travis,” Rockne said in a low voice. In the half-light of the van’s headlights they saw he was dirty, battered, and bruised. But there was something in his stance. His right eyelid started to blink as Rockne stared at him.
“Do you wish to see this man executed as a war criminal?” the general said, his voice calm.
“He’s not a war criminal,” Pontowski said.
“I take it,” the general said, “that we have nothing else to discuss.”
“Apparently not,” Pontowski replied. The three men spun around and marched back. “General,” Pontowski called to their backs, “take good care of Sergeant Travis. I want him back.”
Clark’s driver brought up the van, and they climbed in. “Okay, Chief,” Pontowski said, “what was the message?”
Clark didn’t understand. “What message?”
“Did you see Paul’s right eye blink?” Rockne replied. “Morse code.”
“What did he say?” she asked.
“‘Jake dead. Resist. All bluff.’” Rockne let it sink in.
Artillery rumbled in the distance, but it was getting closer. “That doesn’t sound like ‘all bluff’ to me,” Clark said. Her driver floored the accelerator and sped toward the command post.
“It may be a last gasp,” Pontowski said. “Why else the white flag?”
The driver slammed the van to a halt. “Missy Colonel, you go home now?”
An artillery
round shrieked across the night sky. “Incoming!” Rockne shouted.
Taman Negara
Wednesday, October 13
The dull whomp of a mortar round echoed out of the base camp and over the valley. A few seconds later the round hit in the jungle eighty meters behind the ridge where Kamigami and Sun were hiding. “They’re wasting ammunition,” Sun said.
“They’re ranging,” Kamigami said. “Spread the word to take cover.” He focused his night-vision scope on the tunnel entrances. There was movement inside the right tunnel, ample indication that it was open. The entrance to the middle tunnel was totally collapsed and permanently sealed. He zoomed in on the left tunnel. The entrance was half filled with rubble and big boulders, but there had been no cave-in and the roof was still standing. The sound of a diesel engine resonated from the right tunnel. “Something’s coming out.” He panned to the right entrance as the engine raced and dark exhaust billowed out. Then the base camp erupted. The defenders launched a mortar barrage, sending a wave of projectiles into the surrounding ridgelines. At the same time a light tank emerged from the tunnel, its cannon firing. It laid a trail of heavy smoke as it raced for the far end of the valley where the road disappeared into the jungle. Another diesel engine labored in the smoke, totally obscured from view. Kamigami caught a glimpse of a transporter/erector carrying a missile before the smoke rolled back over it. The mortar barrage grew heavier as men poured out of the tunnel, running for the base camp. Machine-gun fire from the surrounding ridges raked the smoke. The mortar barrage from the camp stopped, and the smoke slowly dissipated. Thirty or forty bodies littered the ground, but it had been a successful breakout.
“They’re getting organized,” Kamigami told Sun. “There’s more to come.”
“What about the missile?” Sun asked.
“Send a team to track it down and kill it.”
Sun spoke into his radio to make it happen. He listened for a few moments. “Tel’s coming in.”
The Last Phoenix Page 45