The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “Time to withdraw,” Kamigami said. “Call in the team leaders.” They had violated two of the basic rules of special operations—never hold ground, and hit and run. So far they had hit. Now it was time to run and remember the first rule.

  The small group of men who gathered a few minutes later understood what had to be done, but they were reluctant to disengage. True to their culture, no one openly raised the issue as Kamigami detailed the sequence for withdrawal. Finally Tel broke the silence. “Sir, they want to try once more to close the tunnel.”

  “An attack during daylight is suicide,” Kamigami said.

  “Those missiles are killing their families,” Tel replied. The simple statement pounded at Kamigami as he remembered his own family. Tel pressed the argument. “We’ve got another hour before sunrise.”

  Lieutenant Lee stepped forward. “I can take a team from Tiger Red in.”

  “You’ll have to blow the entrance from inside,” Kamigami said. “Who knows how to clear a tunnel?” There was no reply to his question. It was just as well, for the First SOS had to withdraw while it was still dark. But the faces of his family kept coming back.

  Tel crawled into position with the sniper and gave three quick clicks on the transmission button of his radio, initiating the attack. Mortars slammed into the base camp, driving the defenders to cover. More mortars laid down a smoke screen in the open area. Ropes tumbled from the ridgeline above the left tunnel, and four men rappelled down. The first man, Lieutenant Lee, landed on the rubble piled in the entrance and released his rope while the other three men hovered above. A big shadow rappelled down Lee’s rope as the lieutenant raised his head and looked inside, his night-vision goggles making him look like a giant insect perched on a rock. He pumped his fist up and down, and the three men hanging above swung in just as the last man reached the entrance. He swung in after them. Lee scampered over the rocks and disappeared inside. Tel clicked his radio twice, ending the barrage. Kamigami and four shooters were inside.

  Kamigami motioned Lee and two men to the far side of the tunnel as he got his bearings. He inched along the wall, looking for a cross gallery connecting the three main tunnels. Voices echoed out of the dark, coming from deep inside. The tunnel curved, and he motioned Lee on. The lieutenant dropped to all fours and crept forward. Then he pulled back and motioned Kamigami forward. Kamigami chanced a look. A dim light was coming from a side tunnel. Kamigami’s internal clock was running, and it told him they had only seconds before being discovered. He lifted his night-vision goggles and darted toward the light. He looked around the corner. They had found a cross gallery, and forty meters away he could see the center tunnel that intersected the gallery at a right angle. He motioned Lee up, and the men stacked against the wall behind him. They lifted their goggles, and he gave them a few seconds for their eyes to adjust. The last man tapped the elbow of the man in front, signaling he was ready. The signal was passed up to Kamigami. He burst around the corner, and the men moved as one. Automatically, Lee took the far side of the gallery, following at an oblique angle to Kamigami.

  They reached the intersection with the center tunnel, still undiscovered. Loud voices and the sound of movement echoed around the corner. Kamigami never hesitated. He pulled off his helmet and goggles and tucked them under his arm. “Walk across,” he said. He pointed to Lee to lead the way. The lieutenant ambled across the tunnel to the other side of the cross gallery. Kamigami was next. He looked down the tunnel as he crossed. A large group of soldiers was sitting on the ground around two transporter/erectors parked in line. He stepped into the shadows next to Lee. The lieutenant pointed down the gallery to their objective. The last tunnel was forty meters away, but a group of soldiers was standing in the intersection. The next shooter made it halfway across before a sergeant saw him. He yelled at him in Cantonese, and the shooter shouted back. But it was the wrong answer. He bolted across, joining Kamigami and Lee.

  All that counted now was overwhelming violence. The two shooters left behind knew they were the rear guard. One fell to the ground and held his M-16 around the corner and fired blindly down the center tunnel. The other shooter stood over him and jammed his M-79 grenade launcher around the corner. He squeezed off four shots, sending forty-millimeter grenades into the densely packed men. He pulled back and waited. His partner was up and retreated down the cross gallery to the left tunnel, slapping a fresh magazine into his M-16.

  At the same time Kamigami and Lee ran for the next intersection, with the shooter right behind them. Kamigami fired as he ran, cutting into the men standing there. Most of them died in the first hail of gunfire, but one crawled free. Kamigami skidded to a halt and slammed his body against the wall. He motioned the shooter forward and made a tossing motion.

  Four quick concussions rocked the center tunnel as the grenades went off. The shooter held his M-79 around the corner and fired again. His partner had almost made it back to the left tunnel when a grenade rolled around the corner, coming directly at him. He kicked at it wildly. The grenade rolled off the shooter’s boot, and he kicked again, half scooping it around the corner with his boot. The grenade detonated with a sharp crack, taking the shooter’s foot with it. He fell to the ground, still alive, his body protected from the full blast by the corner.

  The shooter with Kamigami tossed a grenade down their tunnel as Lee fired blindly in the other direction, out the open entrance.

  The lone shooter at the center tunnel fired, sending three more grenades into the hell he was creating. The last round ricocheted off the tunnel wall and hit the side of the missile loaded on the first transporter/erector. It exploded, cutting into the missile’s solid-fuel propellant.

  The shooter with Kamigami threw another grenade down the tunnel as the first one detonated. The blast blew the second grenade back, directly at Lee. Lee fell on the hand grenade at his feet and took the blast in his stomach, saving the shooter and Kamigami.

  The missile in the center tunnel started to cook off as the shooter emptied his magazine and pulled back to reload. He glanced down the gallery toward the left tunnel and saw his partner crawling toward him, leaving a trail of blood.

  Kamigami fell to the ground and crawled to Lee, not to help him—it was too late for that—but to use his body as a shield. The shooter with him was out of grenades and was firing down the tunnel with his M-16.

  In the center tunnel the rocket motor partially ignited, sending a plume of fire back over the missile behind it.

  Two soldiers ran around the corner of the intersection at the left tunnel and fired down the cross gallery. The shooter at the center tunnel crumpled to the ground. His wounded partner stopped crawling and rolled a grenade at the two soldiers, yelling and cursing like a madman as the grenade exploded.

  Kamigami reached Lee and grabbed the satchel charge he was carrying. “Cover me!” he yelled at his shooter. He crawled for the entrance, dragging Lee’s satchel charge with his own.

  In the center tunnel the uneven thrust of the rocket motor pushed the transporter/erector forward, carrying the missile with it. The wheels rolled over the men trapped there as it headed out the tunnel. But the entrance was solidly blocked by the cave-in.

  Kamigami crawled along the ground, almost to the open entrance, as bullets ricocheted off the walls. In the half-light coming from inside, he saw a large fissure that split the wall. He jammed the two satchel charges into the crack and pulled the tabs, igniting the fuses. He had sixty seconds. Kamigami looked back and motioned his shooter out. The shooter started to run, but a hail of gunfire from deep in the tunnel cut him down. He screamed in pain, and Kamigami crawled back to get him.

  The transporter/erector accelerated as it rolled past the cross gallery. Kamigami saw it and put on a burst of speed, finally reaching the downed shooter. But he was dead.

  The transporter/erector crashed into the blocked entrance. But the high-explosive warhead did not detonate. Instead it combined with the burning propellant and the transporter’s diesel fuel to sen
d a wall of fire back down the tunnel and out the cross gallery. The fire engulfed the second transporter and its missile, starting the process all over. Kamigami saw the wall of fire coming at him down the cross gallery and got to his feet, running for the entrance. The fiery blast washed over him, knocking him down. He rolled on the ground, desperate to extinguish his burning clothes. He shed his web harness as he rolled, taking patches of burning cloth and skin with it. He tried to come to his feet but couldn’t. He tried a second time and staggered forward, racing the burning fuses. He was almost to the entrance when a gunshot echoed from outside. The bullet ripped into his abdomen. He clutched the wound with both hands and lurched out the entrance. He fell to the ground and crawled around the corner as the satchel charges blew, mangling his legs.

  The sniper squeezed off a shot, dropping the soldier who had gunned down Kamigami. Tel was up and running for all he was worth, as more gunfire kicked up the dirt around him. Before Colonel Sun could give the order, every man in the First SOS was firing. The earth rumbled as the ridge above the tunnels collapsed.

  Camp Alpha

  Wednesday, October 13

  The concussion reverberated through the command post. “Damn,” Maggot muttered. “That fucker was close.” He drew a diagonal line through the four marks he had made counting the cannon rounds. “Five.” Every head was raised, looking at the heavy beams in the ceiling, wondering if a direct hit could penetrate. Frustrated, Maggot punched up the line to the control tower. “Has the counterbattery radar got a fix yet?”

  “He’s constantly moving,” the controller answered. “Range twelve miles.”

  “And he’s big,” Maggot added. Tension boiled beneath the surface as they waited for the next round.

  “They only got one,” Pontowski told them. From the looks on their faces, he had to tell them more. “My guess is that they’re stretched to the limit and it’s go-for-broke time. They know that come morning, when we can fly close air support, we’re going to hurt them. Bad. So we got to hang on till then.”

  “All we got is fuel for ten sorties,” Maggot said. “The jets won’t be recovering here.”

  “It may be enough,” Pontowski said. A loud boom shook the bunker, and dust drifted down from the ceiling. A second explosion rocked them, this time much harder. “That was a secondary,” he told them.

  Clark monitored both the radios and the phone bank as reports trickled in. It seemed to take forever. “A shelter took a direct hit,” she finally announced.

  “Did they get a Hog?” Pontowski asked.

  She shook her head. “Two casualties.” She listened. “Oh, no. It was the shelter next to the med station, and the fuel holding tank ruptured. Fuel is flooding the med station, and Ryan is evacuating.” Another round slammed into the base, this time farther away. Then, “Mortars on the southern perimeter.” A slight pause. “Heavy small-arms fire at the gate.” Her eyes were wide with fear, but there was no panic in her voice. “APCs on the western perimeter with troops.” APCs were armored personnel carriers.

  In his mind’s eye Pontowski could see the chaos outside. Could he sort it out in time to get his Hogs airborne? He made a decision. “Maggot, you got it here. I’m going to the BDOC.” He slapped a fresh battery pack into his radio and dropped a second one into a pocket. He reached for his helmet and ran for the entrance. Much to his surprise, Clark’s driver was right beside him.

  “I drive for you,” he said. They jumped into the van and made the short dash to the BDOC.

  Rockne was waiting for him and reported his arrival to Clark. “What about those APCs?” Pontowski asked.

  “I can kill fuckin’ APCs,” Rockne snarled. “But I need more fire teams. And I just ain’t got them.” Another artillery round hit the base, this time in Whiskey Sector. “And I’m gonna kill that bastard.” Like the infantry, Rockne was growing to hate artillery.

  Pontowski studied the base defense chart as a sergeant marked which DFPs were engaged. They were holding, but he wasn’t sure for how much longer. “We gotta hold.” He was running again, talking on the radio to the command post. “On the way to Maintenance. Tell them I’m coming.” He piled into the van. “Maintenance Control. Go!” An artillery round landed in the trees a hundred yards to their right. Fortunately, a hardened shelter deflected most of the blast away from them. The driver clutched the wheel and gritted his teeth as they raced down the taxiway. The big blast doors of the shelter cranked back when they approached, and the van drove straight in. The doors were closing before they halted.

  The chief of Maintenance, a reservist colonel who had served Pontowski so well, was waiting. “Thank God you made it,” he said.

  “You got seventy-eight troops left, is that right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “How many do you need to launch the Hogs?”

  “Two per jet,” came the answer. “Twenty.”

  “That leaves fifty-eight. Tell them to grab their helmets and whatever weapons they got and report to the BDOC. We need them for fire teams.”

  “Rockne trained some of them for guard duty when we first got here,” the colonel said. “Give me a few minutes to switch around, and I’ll send them.” He pointed to seven men sitting against the back wall. “They can go now.”

  “Load ’em in the van,” Pontowski ordered. “Where are the two pilots not assigned to a Hog?” The colonel pointed to the room at the back of the shelter. “Hey, I need some jocks out here,” Pontowski shouted. Waldo and Bag ran out and joined him. “You two think you can organize some type of close-in defense so crew chiefs from one shelter can give covering fire to another shelter when it launches a jet?”

  “Can do, Boss,” Waldo answered. He snorted. “Why do we always do this the hard way?”

  Pontowski ignored him and ran for the van. It started to move the moment he piled in. The shelter’s blast doors cranked open. “BDOC,” he ordered. Outside, heavy smoke rolled across the taxiway, dropping visibility to thirty feet. But the driver knew his way and had them at the BDOC in less than four minutes. “Follow me,” Pontowski told the seven mechanics. He led the way into the bunker. “Chief,” he told Rockne, “match these guys with a cop.” He had just given Rockne seven more fire teams. “You got about fifty more coming.”

  He radioed the command post as he ran out. “Tell the doc I’m on my way.” The med station was less than a hundred meters from the BDOC, but still he drove, not wanting to lose track of the van. The smoke grew heavier as they approached, and he rolled up the windows. Then he saw the source. The med station was engulfed in flames, black smoke rolling out in waves. He couldn’t believe it when two medics ran out of the bunker, their arms full of supplies. “Where’s Ryan?” he yelled. The man pointed to a nearby aircraft shelter. He dumped his load on the ground and ran back inside. Clark’s driver jumped out and followed them inside. Pontowski ran for the shelter.

  Doc Ryan was in the middle of the floor, bent over a wounded man in a litter. He stood up when he saw Pontowski, and shook his head. “How many?” Pontowski asked.

  “Twenty-six all told,” he answered, gesturing around the shelter. “Eleven EP.” Enemy prisoners. Pontowski walked the floor, talking to his men. Most were going to make it. He stepped across the imaginary line that separated the two groups. A soldier looked up at him, certain that Pontowski was going to execute him. “We’ll take care of you,” he promised. The soldier did not speak English, but he heard the meaning. He said the only two words of English he knew: “Thank you.”

  The blast doors moved back, and the van drove in. The two medics jumped out and offloaded the medical supplies they had retrieved from the burning med station. The driver reeked of smoke. “We got two wounded at the gate,” Ryan called. “But we can’t get them here.”

  “I go,” the driver said. Pontowski sent him on his way and checked in with the command post.

  “We have intruders on base,” Clark told him. “We’re buttoning up, so stay where you are. The chief is sending two fire teams to your position.” />
  “Copy all,” Pontowski replied. He took off his helmet and rubbed his forehead. He looked at his watch. It was one hour to sunrise.

  Forty

  Camp Alpha

  Wednesday, October 13

  Waldo nervously paced the floor of Maintenance’s deserted shelter, frustration itching at him. A shell whistled overhead and hit the southern edge of the base. “Give me a Hog and I’ll mort that fucker,” he promised, his frustration turning to anger.

  “Just give me a Hog,” Bag lamented. Like Waldo, he wanted to do something. “Who did we piss off?” he asked, wondering why neither of them had been assigned a jet.

  “We were out of the rotation,” Waldo answered. “And you know Maggot. And then Clark couldn’t get us on a helicopter to beat feet out of here.” Another round whistled overhead, and he grunted an indecipherable obscenity. “At least the bastard hasn’t got the range.”

  “Without an observer it’s just harassment fire,” Bag said.

  “Well, it’s working,” Waldo muttered. More pacing. He came alert. “I think it’s stopped.” Both men listened, and the minutes dragged, each one longer than the previous. Waldo hurried to the small door at the rear of the shelter and cracked it open. “Yeah, it’s definitely stopped.” Smoke drifted in and stung their eyes. Waldo closed the door and dogged it down. “Not good.”

  “What do you mean, not good?” Bag asked.

  “What comes next is definitely not good,” Waldo replied. On cue, his radio came alive. “Shit! Tanks have busted through on the southern perimeter and are heading this way.”

  Bag ran to the big blast door and listened. “I can hear gunfire.”

  Waldo held up a hand, still listening to the radio traffic. “Three tanks with troops have broken through.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Bag moaned. “Caught like fish in a barrel. I didn’t want to buy it this way.”

  Waldo snorted. “I ain’t no fuckin’ fish.” His head jerked up as an image flashed in front of him. It was the hangar queen, the A-10 that couldn’t be repaired and was being salvaged for parts. He looked at the big doors in front of him, imagining them as they rolled back. “Bag, think you can play crew chief?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on.” He led the way out the small entrance at the rear and ran for the next shelter. The rear entrance was unbolted, and he ran inside. A Warthog was parked inside, the right engine missing, the canopy gone, the left rudder partially disassembled, and numerous panels removed where parts had been cannibalized.