The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “No way this hangar queen can fly,” Bag said.

  Waldo scampered up the bordering ladder and lowered himself into the cockpit. “Who said anything about flying? Check the gun and pull the pins.” His hands flew over the panels, running the before-engine-start checklist. He hit the battery switch. Nothing. “I need power.” Bag hurried to the APU and started it. The sound was deafening in the enclosed shelter. Fortunately, the exhaust was vented outside. Bag plugged in the electrical cord on the right side of the fuselage just aft of the cockpit. The electrical busses came alive, sending power to the instruments. The rounds counter indicated that there were 734 rounds in the cannon’s ammo drum. “Shit hot!” Waldo roared. “Open the doors!” Bag ran to the control box and hit the switch. Slowly the big blast doors cranked back. Waldo started the Hog’s internal APU and lifted the left throttle over the hump. The engine spun up, and at 20 percent, fuel automatically started to flow. The igniter worked, and the motor kicked off. Waldo gave Bag the thumbs-out signal to remove the wheel chocks. Bag disconnected the power cord and jerked the blocks free. Waldo fed power into the one engine, and the Hog taxied out of its nest.

  Bag motioned Waldo forward and snapped the traditional salute a crew chief gives his departing jet. He held it while Waldo taxied past. Waldo turned onto the main taxiway and disappeared in the smoke. Bag ran for the controls to close the doors. “What the fuck for?” he wondered aloud. He stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then he ran for a shelter with a good Warthog. At least he would have company.

  Waldo turned on the aircraft’s radio. Nothing. He turned up the volume on his personal radio and screwed the earpiece into his ear, holding the radio to his lips. “Chicken Coop, Waldo. I’m in the hangar queen and taxiing south.”

  “Say intentions,” Maggot radioed.

  “I got a gun on this puppy and figure I can taxi around and use it to kill a few tanks.”

  Maggot answered with the traditional reply of all command posts when faced with something new. “Stand by one.”

  “Stand by too fuckin’ long,” Waldo shouted, his adrenaline in full flow, “and you’ll get a tank up your ass!”

  Maggot ignored him as he coordinated with Rockne. “Roger, Waldo, say position.”

  Waldo calmed down. “On the west taxiway, headed south”—he peered into the smoke—“passing shelter West-Three.”

  “Gotcha,” Maggot answered. “You’ve got a tank with troops approximately a thousand meters at your twelve o’clock heading toward you. Hold at shelter West-Two until we can get fire teams to support you.”

  “Now, that’s a plan,” Waldo said. He slowed as he approached the next shelter. Three fire teams emerged out of the smoke, two men on his left and four on his right. He pushed up the throttle. “How do I make this happen?” he said to himself. He hit the ground override switch on the back of the left console and moved the master arm switch to the up position. But the lights on the weapons-armament panel were out. He turned on the HUD to get a gun-sight display. Nothing. “Doesn’t anything work!” he shouted. “Oh, shit,” he breathed. A tank emerged out of the smoke and darkness, barely a hundred meters in front of him. He pressed the trigger, half expecting the cannon not to fire. The GAU-8 roared, and reddish brown smoke poured out the vent. The aircraft shook, pounding at his kidneys, and shot backward. The recoil of the cannon was so great that it had stopped the Hog’s forward motion and backed it up. Waldo released the trigger. The cannon on the A-10 has a slight downward tilt, and the rounds had hit the ground seventy feet in front. Not only had he missed, but the rounds had cut a trench in the concrete as he backed up. He had to get the nose up, but how?

  The tank fired. Like Waldo, it missed, and the round whistled overhead. The muzzle lowered slightly as it reloaded. “Fuck me in the heart!” Waldo shouted as he firewalled the throttle. The Hog leaped forward. He was vaguely aware of his fire teams laying down a barrage. He pumped the brakes. The Hog’s nose rocked up and down as he held the engine at max throttle. Waldo mashed the trigger and held it. Again the cannon gave off its deafening roar, sending rounds into the sky and then down into the concrete, kicking up dirt and debris and blinding the tank’s gunner. Eight rounds ripped into the tank’s carapace a fraction of a second before its cannon fired. The thirty-millimeter depleted-uranium slug was designed to kill a heavily armored tank at a distance of over two thousand feet. At less than three hundred feet, the lightly armored Type 63 simply came apart. The turret blew back as the cannon fired, sending the eighty-five-millimeter round arcing high over the base. Fire belched from the hole left by the turret as an explosion literally blew the engine out the back.

  Waldo coughed, gagging on the smoke from his own cannon. He retarded the throttle as he taxied past the wreckage. “Shit oh dear,” he muttered, stunned by the carnage. Until that moment he had no idea of what the GAU-8 did to the enemy. He held his radio to his mouth. “Chicken Coop, Waldo. Scratch one tank. Say position of next target.”

  “Roger Waldo,” Maggot replied. “Stand by one.”

  “Absolutely fuckin’ lovely,” Waldo grumbled, his fangs now fully out.

  Pontowski moved across the shelter, talking to the wounded men lying on the floor. He knelt beside the one man Doc Ryan held little hope for. The security cop opened his eyes and managed a half smile. “I’m gonna make it, sir,” he promised. Pontowski held his hand until he died. Then he slowly came to his feet and walked to the next man. A series of sharp clanging rings filled the shelter, and he dropped to the floor. He looked up and saw Ryan pointing to the blast doors. It was small-arms fire ricocheting off the outside.

  Another fusillade raked the doors, and Pontowski ran for the telephone on the sidewall, his ears ringing. He punched at the button for the command post, and Clark answered immediately. “We’re under attack,” he told her.

  “Help’s on the way,” she promised.

  “Your driver is bringing in wounded,” he said.

  “I’ll try to raise him on the radio and warn him off.” She broke the connection.

  Waldo taxied south on the west taxiway. Eventually he would loop around the south end of the base, pass the exit to the main gate, and turn back north on the east taxiway, toward the command post and the base med station. He stopped when two more fire teams joined up and talked to the three teams already with him. The smoke seemed less dense, and he squinted, looking to the east. The first glow of dawn marked the horizon. A sergeant gave him the thumbs-up when the teams were in place, and he nudged the throttle forward. The Warthog moved down the taxiway with the fire teams spread out in a V behind him.

  “Waldo,” Maggot radioed. “Say position.”

  “Passing shelter West-One heading for the exit to the main gate.”

  “A tank is reported in that area,” Maggot told him.

  “Copy all,” Waldo said. He pushed the throttle up, forcing the fire teams to run to keep pace. The rattle of a heavy machine gun carried over the sound of his engine as he made the loop to the south. He was surprised when Clark’s van cut across in front of him and disappeared through the trees, heading north. “What in hell is she doing out here?” he wondered aloud to himself. The point man on his left waved furiously at him, then gestured down the side taxi path leading to the first hardened aircraft shelter on the east side, East-One. He saw the rear end of a tank stopped on the taxi path and firing point-blank into the empty shelter. “Okay by me if you want to waste your ammo,” he muttered.

  He turned down the narrow taxi path as his fire teams engaged the soldiers with the tank. He lined up at the tank’s six o’clock. “It’s the guy you never see who kills you,” he said to no one, repeating one of the truisms fighter pilots live and die by. The tank’s turret started to traverse to the rear, but it was too late. Waldo pumped the brakes and squeezed off a short burst, now getting into the rhythm of it. The tank disappeared in a flash of flames and smoke. “Always check six,” he muttered. The gunfire died away as the soldiers ran for safety. He look
ed around and groaned. The destroyed tank was blocking his way, and the taxi path was too narrow for the Hog to turn around and return to the main taxiway. He yelled at his fire teams and pointed to his rear. “Hey, I need a push!”

  The phone on the sidewall buzzed, and Pontowski picked it up. “I can’t contact my driver,” Clark said, “but he did pick up two wounded and was last reported heading toward your shelter.”

  “We’re still taking small-arms fire here,” Pontowski replied.

  “Rockne says he’s got two fire teams on the way.”

  “We’ll get the van inside,” Pontowski promised. He hung up and ran to the doors. “Doc!” he yelled. “The van is coming in with wounded.” Ryan ran for the peephole and unbolted the shutter to look out. Pontowski heard a horn honking furiously.

  “Open the doors!” Ryan shouted. Pontowski hit the switch, and the doors moved back. The gunfire grew louder. “Oh, shit!” Ryan yelled. He ran outside. Pontowski hit the switch and stopped the doors. Another burst from a submachine gun echoed outside, and he saw the nose of the van emerge between the open doors. Ryan was pushing the bullet-riddled van into the shelter. Pontowski ran to help and pushed against the side of the van, getting it over the door tracks. He ran for the switch to close the doors. Another burst of submachine-gun fire clanged against the doors as they slowly winched closed. Ryan was leaning against the back of the van, panting hard, when a grenade rolled in. He scooped it up and threw it back out. It cleared the doors and exploded. But fragments cut into Ryan, knocking him back. The doors jarred to a halt, jammed open.

  “Medic!” Pontowski shouted, but a medic was already running for Ryan. He skidded to a halt and went to work while two more medics ripped open the side door of the van.

  “Wounded!” one of the medics shouted, calling for help.

  Pontowski saw the driver slumped over the wheel and ran to his side of the van. He jerked the door open and pulled him out. Somehow, in spite of his massive wounds, the man was still alive. Pontowski gently laid him down. “You tell Missy Colonel go home now,” he whispered. He exhaled and lay still.

  “I didn’t even know your name,” Pontowski said, his head bowed. But he knew, without doubt, that this man had been worth fighting for. His head snapped up when he heard the distinctive clank of tank tracks.

  “Waldo!” Maggot shouted over the radio. “A tank’s at the med station!”

  “On the way,” Waldo transmitted. He looked over his shoulder as he slowly backed up. Just a few more feet to go. “Go! GO!” he shouted. The men responded, and the Hog rolled onto the main taxiway. He firewalled the throttle, fast-taxiing to the north and leaving his fire teams behind. The big jet touched forty miles an hour as it rumbled down the taxiway. He passed the BDOC, and two men ran after him. Ahead he saw the burned-out hulk of the med station. He never slowed as he headed for the nearby shelter. Now he could see the tank. Its muzzle flashed, sending a round into the partially open blast doors.

  A heavy machine gun raked the side of the Hog as it lumbered past. But the titanium tub that shielded the pilot easily deflected the slugs. One of the cops following the Hog fired his SAW, taking out the machine gun. The tank commander saw the Hog coming at him, and the turret traversed, coming to bear on the charging A-10. Waldo firewalled the throttle and mashed the trigger, holding it down, pumping furiously on the brakes. The tank fired at the same instant. The A-10 disappeared in a thundering fireball as the tank came apart. Then it exploded, sending a column of smoke and flames skyward that joined with the rising fireball of Waldo’s Hog.

  The rattle of a SAW cut into the soldiers running for cover. The gunfire stopped.

  “Oh, my God,” Pontowski breathed. “How’s the doc?” he shouted.

  “He’s pretty bad,” the medic tending Ryan said.

  Pontowski chanced a look out the door. Rockne was striding down the taxiway, a SAW at the ready. The big man stopped and looked skyward. Pontowski followed his gaze and heard it—the distinctive sound of a C-130. He ran outside in time to see a Hercules fly down the runway at five hundred feet. Paratroops poured out the jump doors, their chutes snapping open in quick succession, catching the first light of the rising sun. He sank to one knee.

  Another sound came to him. Shelter doors were cranking open, and the shrill whine of starting engines filled the air. A Hog taxied out as another C-130 flew past. More parachutes lined the sky, and in the distance he heard the sound of a third Hercules. Pontowski came to his feet and walked back into the shelter to check on Ryan. He was a bloody mess, but alive and conscious. “That was a pretty gutsy thing, Doc.” Ryan tried to muster a smile, but it wasn’t there. “You made a difference when it counted,” Pontowski told him.

  Pontowski slowly walked toward the burning hulk of the A-10. A tower of black smoke rose skyward, a beacon marking Waldo’s funeral pyre. Tears streaked Pontowski’s cheeks. Was it the smoke? He didn’t care. “Damn, Waldo. You did good.” He blinked away the tears, then turned and headed for the command post.

  Taman Negara

  Wednesday, October 13

  The rain misted down through the jungle canopy, filtering the early-morning light into a gentle haze over the makeshift canvas shelter. Tel stood with Colonel Sun beside the shelter as water dripped from their helmets. Under the canvas a medic worked on Kamigami. He tightened the tourniquets on what was left of his legs and tried to bandage the gaping wound in his abdomen. But there was nothing he could do for the burns. Finally he administered a shot of morphine and stepped back. He had done all he could. “He’s in terrible pain,” he said.

  “Can you make him comfortable?” Tel asked.

  The medic shook his head. “That was the last of the morphine. Nothing else I’ve got will work.”

  Kamigami’s lips moved, forming one word. “Tel.”

  Tel ducked under the shelter and knelt beside him. “I’m here.”

  Kamigami tried to focus his eyes but gave up. His right hand came up and touched the whistle around his neck. The effort exhausted him, and his hand fell to the ground. “Take it,” he whispered, every word an effort. His body shook with pain as Tel gently lifted the chain over his head.

  “End it. Now.”

  Tel shook his head. “Hold on, you’ll make it.”

  “It’s over.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s over?”

  A long silence. “They killed my family. I killed them.” At last Tel fully understood. Kamigami had not sought this fight, it had come to him, and he had responded in the only way he knew. He was a warrior, a samurai bound by his own code of conduct. Kamigami’s words from an earlier time came back, now clear and full of meaning: “This is what I am.”

  Kamigami gathered his strength and fumbled for the sidearm still at his side. He managed to half extract the Beretta before his hand fell away. Tel pulled the weapon free. The grips were worn with use, and he wondered how many men it had killed. “It’s okay,” Kamigami whispered, his words racked with pain.

  Tel looked at Sun, not knowing what to do. “There’s no helicopter,” the colonel said. Tel touched the slide on the Beretta, mustering his courage. He chambered a round.

  A single shot rang out, carrying through the jungle, only to fade away in the mist.

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, October 12

  General Wilding’s staff car arrived at the entrance to the West Wing at exactly 7:00 P.M. He jumped out of the backseat and returned the Marine’s salute as he hurried down the steps to the basement. Mazie and Parrish were waiting for him in the corridor outside the Situation Room. “How long has she been waiting?” Wilding asked, concerned that he should have arrived much sooner.

  “She’s been here all day,” Parrish said.

  “Why didn’t someone tell me? I’d have come…”

  Mazie’s gentle look stopped him in midsentence. “There was nothing you could have told her. She was just waiting.”

  Wilding took a deep breath and pushed inside. “Madam President,”
he began. He stopped. She was alone, sitting in her chair, and sound asleep. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. He turned to leave.

  “General Wilding,” Maddy said, her eyes still closed. “You promised seventy-two hours. You did it in fifty-one.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was a very near thing.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Epilogue

  Travis Air Force Base, California

  Tuesday, October 19

  Air Force One was parked at the western end of the huge ramp, next to a brace of war-weary C-5s. On board, Madeline Turner was in her office, working at her desk as she waited for the arrival of the C-17 Globemaster carrying the last of the AVG. Richard Parrish handed her a schedule of events. “As you requested,” he said, “the base is keeping it low-key. They’ll get off the plane and go through a short reception line. Their families will be right there to meet them. Then you’ll say a few words and, if you want, informally greet them.”

  “I want,” Maddy said.

  He frowned. Unable to contain himself, he blurted, “Madam President, it’s a missed opportunity. It’s a slow news day, the media can’t get enough.”

  She held up a hand, stopping him in midflow. “This is their day, not mine.” She looked up at the knock at the door. Mazie entered, a strange look on her face. She handed Maddy a hard copy of a message received only moments before. “It’s from Bernie,” she said in a low voice. “Zou Rong. He’s been murdered.”