Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  They fell silent as Kamigami made his decision. “Well,” he finally said, “Zou did ask me to relay a message to the president. I think I had better write a letter. But I’m not very good at putting words on paper.”

  “There is an old English woman who lives here,” Jin Chu told him. “Years ago she taught the children English. She will help you.” Kamigami remembered the bent old woman with the floppy straw hat he had seen in the marketplace. She had struck him as a true English eccentric. Jin Chu stood. “Come,” she said, beaming at him. “We will find the English woman together.”

  Kamigami walked beside Jin Chu into the small town, willing to risk the depths of hell to be with her.

  Tuesday, March 26

  The Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.

  Mazie sat in her office oblivious to the commotion in the hall. Her intercom buzzed like an angry hornet demanding her attention. She ignored it. Nothing could penetrate her preoccupation with the letter tucked away in a pocket. Like every article of clothing she owned, her suit coat possessed large pockets that served as part of her filing system. The bulging pockets made her look even shorter and dumpier, but she didn’t care.

  “Why now, Dad?” she mumbled to herself, recalling every word of the typed letter.

  Dear Mazie,

  Please forgive your old dad for not writing sooner but until two months ago, I was a prisoner in Hanoi. This is the first chance I’ve had to write. I am well and in Hong Kong. By the time you get this letter I will be back in China helping some friends of mine. That is the reason I’m writing to you.

  I was freed from prison in Hanoi by Zou Rong. You probably know who he is. I have decided to help him fight for his people’s freedom and he has asked me to send a message to our president. Will you please do it for me? Zou wants the president to know that the old cycle of protest and repression has started again in the land of the Pearl River. He says, “We are spilling our blood to escape our history of helplessness and I want to give my people their voices.” He says the president will understand.

  I have been traveling along the Pearl River and around Canton. He has the support of many people and has created an army. I will understand if you decide not to do it. I promise to write more often.

  Your loving father

  It was the longest letter she had ever received from her father.

  Hazelton appeared at her door. “You had best move it, my dear,” he said. “All hell is breaking loose and the old man is calling for your body.”

  Mazie forced herself to focus. “Tell Mr. Finlay I’ll be right there.”

  Hazelton frowned. “Mr. Finlay is clearing his desk as we speak.” He wanted to laugh at Mazie’s confused look. “Where have you been this morning? Carroll fired Finny right after they came back from meeting with the president. Come on, snap out of it. Carroll wants to see you now.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” Mazie stammered.

  Hazelton was more than willing to relay the latest hot item sweeping through the NSC. “The president had asked for options in the Far East when Finny suffered a massive attack of terminal bad judgment. He interrupted Carroll and said that some character named Zou Rong who is causing problems there isn’t even worth a statement to the press.

  “There’s more,” Hazelton continued. “Islamic fundamentalists have taken over Saudi Arabia. The Saud royal family is out and Mr. Carroll is predicting trouble, big trouble, if they can consolidate their political base. He mentioned an oil embargo, nationalization of foreign assets, renewed support of terrorists, and a huge increase of financial aid to the Palestinians. But we’ve got some time before that happens. So Carroll wants to stabilize the situation in China now, before all that happens. We can’t handle two MRCs at one time.”

  Mazie caught her breath. A single MRC meant big trouble. Two MRCs meant political disaster. “Does Mr. Carroll have something in mind?” she asked. They entered the tunnel that led to the White House from the Executive Office Building and she had to hurry to keep up with Hazelton’s quick pace.

  “He’s creating a China Action Team. Obviously, it will fall to the Far East Division.” He glanced down at her. The confused look on her face surprised him. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You seem very distracted.”

  “Earlier today … Carroll asked me to head the China Action Team. I accepted. But … I … I …” Mazie hesitated, and for reasons she did not understand, confided in him. “I received a letter from my father.” She fished the letter out of a pocket and let him read it.

  Hazelton nodded, understanding. “We best hurry.”

  Carroll was pacing the floor of his office talking to an Air Force major general when they were shown in. The two very bright, very new stars on the general’s epaulets announced his recent promotion. “General Von Drexler, I believe you know Went.” The general nodded. “I’d like you to meet Mazie Kamigami,” Carroll said. “She’s the chief of my China Action Team, CAT for short.”

  Mazie was struck by the general’s good looks. He could be a movie star, she thought, or in a recruiting video. I hope he’s just not another pretty face. Von Drexler stood up and shook her hand, his blue eyes and wide smile captivating her.

  “Mazie,” Carroll said, waving her and Hazelton to seats, “what’s the latest on the situation in southern China?”

  She snapped out of the mental fog that had been swirling around her. “The rebels are gaining momentum in Guangxi Province and have taken over Nanning, the provincial capital. Zou Rong is very clever and has created a government and army of sorts by simply taking over what’s already there. He kicks out the old leaders and replaces them with his followers.” She considered showing Carroll her father’s letter but decided against it. “Fighting has been reported around Canton but it appears that Kang Xun is in firm control of the city and Guangdong Province.

  “It’s mostly quiet in Hong Kong,” she continued, “with sporadic outbreaks of gang violence. The embargo has stopped the movement of people and goods but not the electronic transfer of money. The Hong Kongers have managed to secure most of their liquid assets in foreign banks. But the PRC is forcing Hong Kong to buy water, food, and electricity from the mainland to survive.”

  “So,” Von Drexler said, “in the long run, the PRC will get its hands on those assets anyway.”

  “No, sir,” Mazie said. “The Chinese don’t work that way. The people who control that wealth will find a way to get out of Hong Kong with their money intact. Sooner or later, Hong Kong will run out of money and goods to sell for food and water. Then food riots and violence will break out. The PRC will use that as an excuse to move in and restore peace and order. That way, they take Hong Kong over on their own terms and can disregard any prior agreements with the British.”

  “The president,” Carroll said, “and key members of Congress want to avoid an MRC in the Far East and at the same time reestablish the status quo on Hong Kong. The betting is that the PRC will back off with a show of resolve. So we are going to up the ante in this poker game by relieving Hong Kong. The president envisions an operation along the lines of the Berlin Airlift, the main difference being that it will be civilian.

  “If they don’t get the message, the president wants to hit them with a series of quick responses. He has told the State Department to approach every major power and arrange for worldwide diplomatic recognition of the rebels as a legitimate government. The boys and girls at Foggy Bottom are working on it.

  “If that doesn’t convince the PRC to become more reasonable, we will recognize the rebels as the legitimate government and support them with enough aid to seriously challenge the PRC’s control of all of southern China. General Von Drexler has been ordered to set up a MAAG mission, a Military Assistance Advisory Group, to funnel military aid to Zou’s fledgling government.

  “But Zou will need more than material and advisors to survive. The president is considering sending an American Volunteer Group to form the core of an air force.”

  “A new American
Volunteer Group,” Mazie mused. “An AVG just like Claire Chennault’s Flying Tigers.”

  “Actually,” Von Drexler explained, “it will be much different because the American Volunteer Group will remain under my control as the commander of the MAAG mission. In effect, I will wear two hats, one as the commander of the MAAG and one as commander of the American Volunteer Group. That will put me in a position to implement our policy in southern China.”

  He sounds like General Douglas MacArthur, Mazie thought. She dismissed the idea. The world had changed since World War II.

  Carroll studied his two young staffers before he dropped his bombshell. “The president wants the logistical support behind the rebels to be international. The congressional oversight committees have bought into it. We will handle the political end, make the initial contact with the appropriate governments, open the right doors, that type of thing, while the China Action Team”—he pointed at both Mazie and Hazelton—”works out the logistical and financial details. You’ve got to twist the arms of our erstwhile Asian allies for covert support. Make them understand they’ve got more to lose than we do from an aggressive and expansionist China.”

  The look on Hazelton’s face made Mazie smile. “But, sir,” he protested. “My area is the Middle East and if—”

  “You’ll like working for Mazie,” Carroll said, cutting off any further discussion.

  Tuesday, March 26

  Whiteman AFB, Missouri

  Two quick knocks at the open door of Matt Pontowski’s office caught his attention and he looked up from the pile of paperwork that greeted him every morning. His executive officer, Sara Waters, was standing there, trying to look cool and composed. He had sensed something was bothering her for days and wasn’t surprised to see her. Sooner or later, he reasoned, she will want to talk about the brutal attempted rape that had shattered her peaceful existence. He motioned for her to enter. She closed the door and sat down.

  “I take it,” he said, “that the closed door means this is personal and has nothing to do with the air show.”

  She took a deep breath and he knew the time for talking had come. “Yes, sir, it does.” All of the doubts she had about him were gone except one. Now it was time to settle that last, nagging issue. Trusting him, she took another deep breath and plunged ahead. “Something has been bothering me for a long time, sir. You knew Jack Locke …” Her voice trailed off when she saw the look on his face. She had struck a deep hurt.

  “Jack Locke is a very painful memory,” Pontowski said. It was the one subject he hadn’t expected.

  She felt her face redden. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that my husband and Jack were very important in my life. I apologize. I was out of line.” She rose to leave.

  “No, it’s okay,” he reassured her. “Please sit down. I’ve heard the stories about Jack and Muddy.” She nodded, now sorry she had broached the subject. “I’ve been living with the rumors about the midair collision where Locke was killed for a long time.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out the old accident report. It was dog-eared and worn from use. “Read.” He threw the report across his desk. “Make up your own mind.”

  Waters picked up the report and left. Outside, she leaned against the wall, holding the report to her chest. Her own memories were back, demanding a price. Why am I torturing myself with the past? she thought. She sat down and read the accident report.

  It took Waters over two hours to wade through the report and she had to reread a few parts three or four times to fully understand what had happened. But the findings were clear and laid the blame squarely on pilot error when the pilot flying in the backseat of Locke’s aircraft had taken unauthorized control of the aircraft and crashed into the aircraft flown by one Lieutenant Matthew Pontowski. She carefully closed the report and stared at it. A demon had been spiked in the heart and laid to rest.

  The report was lying on her desk that afternoon when Frank Hester walked in with Skeeter Ashton in tow. “Can we see the Bossman?” he asked. “Skeeter here has come up with a great idea.” Waters hit the intercom as Pontowski walked out of his office.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  “Colonel,” Hester said, “Skeeter has got an idea for painting the noses of the Warthogs.”

  Pontowski couldn’t help himself. “This from the man who told Maintenance that nose art was against all regulations?”

  Hester blushed. “Well, I’ve been thinking about it and told Skeeter, since she’s studying graphic design and, well, I thought you should see what she’s come up with.”

  “What have you got, Lieutenant?” Pontowski asked.

  “It’s in a hangar, sir, if you’d care to see it.”

  “Why do I get a funny feeling about this?” Pontowski replied. He pulled his hat out of the leg pocket of his flying suit and headed for the door. “Ripper, you want to join us?” Waters grabbed her hat and followed them out.

  Two grinning NCOs from corrosion control were waiting for them outside the hangar. One hit the door switch and the massive doors started to roll back, warning bells clanging. A large group of officers and pilots were inside, all clustered around a single A-10 sitting in the middle of the hangar. Pontowski hesitated, not sure what he was seeing.

  The A-10 is a big jet and only in a hangar does its size become apparent. The Warthog stands almost fifteen feet tall and it is a scramble to climb the boarding ladder into the cockpit. But no one was sitting in the cockpit. The crowd parted and made a path to the Warthog. Then he saw it. “Well, I’ll be …” he muttered. He walked up to the nose and stroked it. Skeeter Ashton had given this Warthog a face.

  On the nose of the gray Warthog, Skeeter and the NCOs from corrosion control had painted a vicious set of snarling teeth complete with tusks pointing upward toward mean-looking eyes. Instead of the traditional red, black, and white of the famed Flying Tigers, these teeth and eyes were yellow against a black background, befitting the beast the jet was named after. The round, seven-barreled muzzle of the GAU-8, thirty-millimeter “Avenger” cannon formed a pig’s snout with the eyes and teeth.

  “Perfect,” Pontowski muttered, “absolutely perfect. A thing of beauty.” He looked around at the sea of beaming faces. A hand motioned toward the cockpit. Underneath the canopy rail was stenciled “LtCol M. Pontowski.” Directly below his name was painted the single word “Bossman.”

  “I hope we can get away with this,” he said to no one in particular.

  “Who’s going to tell us no?” Hester deadpanned.

  Shoshana recognized the symptoms the moment Pontowski came home. She had lived through it all before. He had to make a decision and would be gruff and cranky until his stubborn disposition accepted what his common sense demanded. Even Little Matt sensed the tension building in his father and played in his room after dinner. An unusual quiet descended over the house after Shoshana put him to bed and Pontowski settled into his favorite chair to read. But it was all a sham and he threw the book on the floor.

  Finally, she decided to force the issue and took a shower while he channel-surfed through cable TV. She padded out of the bathroom, her nude body still glowing from the shower, and dropped a bottle of baby oil in his lap. He looked at her in surprise when she knelt in front of him and pulled his shirt off. Her fingers unbuckled his belt. “What’s got into you?” he asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Shoshana answered. She went to work, determined to break his mental stalemate.

  Shoshana was straddling him, gasping for air, when his body went limp. She collapsed against his chest until her breathing had slowed. Then she sat up, made a fist, and hit him on the shoulder. “You are a sexual pervert,” she announced.

  “Me!” Pontowski protested. “Who started this?”

  Shoshana cuddled against him and waited. Nothing. “Talk,” she finally said, tired of waiting.

  “The squadron is too damn good,” he told her. “They shouldn’t be getting the ax.”

  “I imagine a lot of squadron commanders feel the
same way,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know. But you don’t go throwing quality away.”

  “And you want to save them,” she said. He nodded a yes. “There is a way, you know. But you won’t like it.” They had come to the heart of the problem.

  He shot her a look. “Political influence? Pull strings? I can’t do that.”

  “You can be as stubborn as a camel,” she said. Her Middle Eastern heritage was showing. “Sometimes I think you confuse being stubborn with being righteous.” She wiggled around and sat in his lap. “Political influence comes with your name and you can’t change that. Pulling strings, as you call it, has gone on ever since mankind crawled out from under a rock and started living together. Political influence can be either good or bad. It depends on how you use it. There are times when you must do things because they are right, no matter what the cost.”

  A gentle smile spread across Pontowski’s face. “How come you can be so smart?”

  “How come your grandfather didn’t explain it to you?” she retorted.

  “He probably did. I just wasn’t listening at the time.”

  “Come to bed,” she said. “My feet are cold and I need your warm body.” He followed her to bed, dreading the next few minutes.

  The next morning, Pontowski had Sara Waters cut a set of travel orders. He turned the squadron over to Frank Hester and caught the next scheduled flight out of Kansas City for Washington, D.C. Waters suffered no doubts or second thoughts about pulling strings. She picked up the phone and dialed an old friend, Bill Carroll.

  CHAPTER 6

  Monday, April 1

  Washington, D.C.

  “Both sides of Asia are coming unhinged,” National Security Advisor Carroll said, pacing the length of his office in the White House. He paused long enough to look at his staff. All except Mazie Kamigami were poised with pens hovering over notebooks. Mazie didn’t need to take notes. Her memory was better than a tape recorder and she registered subtleties and nuances beyond the range of electronic devices.