Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  Zou was pleased as he flipped through the photos a spy had taken of the destruction at Pingnan. He stood and paced the deep pile carpet that covered the floor of his office in Nanning. “Here is the spirit of the nine,” Zou announced to the three Americans. “It is the spirit of the New China Guard.”

  No movement betrayed Kamigami’s reaction. To his way of thinking, the attack had been a disaster, and only the rain and Jin Chu’s bridge had saved them. He glanced over at Von Drexler, who was obviously upset. But it was the other man, a heavily built, sandy-haired U.S. Army colonel, who commanded his attention.

  “It was a fiasco,” Von Drexler growled. “It doesn’t help to put a good face on it.”

  “Ah,” Zou smiled, “we see it as a victory. Nine captains with the luck of nine good years defeated an evil force with only nine deaths. They are saying the spirit of the nine will bring good luck.”

  The Army colonel had a confused look on his face. “I don’t understand the ‘nine good years’ you mentioned,” he said.

  “The First Regiment has chosen,” Von Drexler explained, “to name its companies after the years of the Chinese calendar, not alphabetically as I recommended. Instead of having an Alpha and Bravo Company, they have a Rat and Ox Company and so on. It sounds more like a zoo than a military organization,” he groused. “The point,” he continued, “is that the First Regiment accomplished nothing.”

  “Maybe not,” the colonel replied. “General Kamigami decapitated the command structure at Pingnan and sent the PLA a message it will not forget. Kang has ordered his best troops to protect his headquarters and supply bases.”

  “And how do we know that?” Von Drexler asked.

  “The PLA hasn’t changed its codes yet,” the colonel explained. “Thanks to the code books General Kamigami captured, we are reading most of the PLA’s message traffic.”

  “We were lucky at Pingnan because of the rain,” Kamigami said. “The next time, we’ll need modern antitank weapons and close air support.”

  Zou paced back and forth. “General Von Drexler, you have promised me both. Where are they?” Von Drexler heard the anger in Zou’s voice and promptly claimed he would have to return to Washington, D.C., to arrange it. Satisfied, Zou stared at Kamigami. “I am very disturbed by the disappearance of Miss Li. Perhaps you can find her?”

  “My men tell me she crossed the bridge with them,” Kamigami said. “I’ll try to find her.” He didn’t tell Zou that Jin Chu came and went as she pleased.

  Zou motioned toward the door. “I must discuss other matters with General Von Drexler,” he said.

  The colonel and Kamigami stood and left. Outside, Colonel Robert Trimler shook his head. “Victor, what in the hell have you gotten into?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday, May 24

  Washington, D.C.

  The two Secret Service agents were jogging in place, waiting for the national security advisor to slip out the White House’s service entrance for his daily run. They recognized the look the moment he appeared and started to warm up. “Not again,” Wayne Adams moaned.

  “Again,” Chuck Stanford said, confirming the other agent’s suspicions. They had come to know Bill Carroll’s moods and dreaded moments like this. Carroll was an impatient man and when events forced him into a waiting mode, he gave vent to his frustration by running. The two agents fell in behind him as he started to loop around the Mall. “We’ll be doing five-minute miles today,” Stanford panted. Adams saved his breath.

  They felt a surge of hope when one of the agents following on a mountain bike caught up with them. “Mr. Carroll,” he called, “a message from your office. The Chinese have walked out of the United Nations.”

  Carroll’s head twisted around, a look of triumph on his face. “Yo boy,” Wayne Adams groaned. Carroll cut back toward the White House and put on a burst of speed with one loud, and very unusual, whoop. Before, he had been running to control his anxiety and nagging doubts. Now he ran from pure exaltation. Months before, he had convinced the president to chart a new Asian policy and against the headwind of cabinet and congressional opposition, had held true to the course. Ahead of him, he could see the landfall of success. He gave another shout and ran faster.

  The two agents tried to keep up with him, but were two hundred feet behind when they reached the wrought-iron fence surrounding the White House gardens. They hung on the fence, gasping for breath, as Carroll disappeared into the mansion. “I’m transferring to the FBI,” Adams announced.

  “Geez,’ Stanford moaned, “at least do something respectable—like playing piano in a whorehouse.”

  Carroll’s secretary was waiting for him in the hall with a towel and a folder. “The president is waiting for you,” she said.

  He draped the towel around his neck and headed for the Oval Office. “I’ll need to see the CAT right after I talk to the president,” he said as he went through the door.

  Carroll stifled a grin when he returned from the meeting with the president. Mazie was sitting quietly in his office while Hazelton paced the floor. Typical, he thought.

  “Congratulations,” Mazie said. “It’s happening as you predicted.”

  “Dumb luck always prevails over skill and cunning,” Carroll said, depreciating his efforts. Mazie knew that dumb luck never achieved what Carroll had brought off. He had created a multipart strategy to counter the chaos, disruption, and threat of war coming from China. Part of that strategy involved using Zou Rong’s rebels to force the PRC to focus inward. At the same time, Carroll had patched together a coalition of countries to apply external pressure. Now the two were coming together exactly as Carroll had planned. Not only had the United Nations passed a resolution condemning China’s blockade of Hong Kong, but an unusual alignment of third world nations had called for a guarantee of human rights in China and forced that resolution through.

  “China’s ambassador walked out of the United Nations in a huff,” Carroll explained.

  Mazie’s eyebrows shot up. She hadn’t heard. “That leaves a power vacuum we can maneuver in,” she said.

  “Which opens a door for action the president intends to enter,” Carroll added. “We’re turning the Hong Kong relief effort over to the United Nations. If that’s successful, we’re going to press for a UN resolution making Hong Kong a self-governing international zone under a US mandate. At the same time, the president wants to increase the flow of material and money to Zou Rong. But our main effort has to remain in the Middle East. Obviously, we can’t make it happen all by ourselves. Like I said before, you’re going to have to do some major negotiations with our allies to make it happen.”

  “I’ve been working the problem,” Mazie said, “and ran some numbers by the logisticians at the Pentagon. Because of the Middle East buildup and Hong Kong airlift, we don’t have the airlift capability to supply Zou. Finding the material Zou needs is easy compared to getting it to him.”

  Carroll sensed that Mazie was embarrassed because she didn’t have an answer to the problem. Fortunately, he did. “The Vietnamese can help us,” he explained. “They want to reestablish relations with us. So we play linkage. As a show of their good intentions, they let us use the port of Haiphong and the Hanoi-Nanning railroad. The rail line has been closed for years but the track is in good condition and all we need are engines and rolling stock.”

  “I see,” Mazie said, understanding the potential. “We transship through Haiphong and use the railroad to supply Zou from Hanoi. The Vietnamese will jump at the offer.” Her eyes fixed on Carroll as she mused aloud. “That will mean a diplomatic quid pro quo, which also offers some interesting possibilities.”

  Carroll was making notes. “I’ll see what doors I can open. In the meantime, you start organizing a logistics pipeline. The State Department has made the right contacts but it’s up to you and the CAT to make it happen.”

  “Sir,” Hazelton interrupted. “My area is the Middle East and I don’t see where I fit into all this.”

  “
The China Action Team,” Carroll said, feeling sorry for the young man, “needs a front man.” A confused look spread across Hazelton’s face. “Perhaps you had better explain it, Mazie.”

  “We work in the shadows,” Mazie said, “and cut deals. Nothing is put in writing and everything is based on ‘understandings.’ The men we will be negotiating with are mostly Asian or Middle Eastern and they won’t deal with a woman. You’ll be the front man, I’ll be your interpreter.”

  “I see,” Hazelton mumbled. “You call the shots and if I overstep my bounds, you do a ‘What Mr. Hazelton really means is’ routine.”

  “If it comes to that, yes,” Carroll said. “But you are part of the team and won’t be operating in the dark. Do you want out?”

  Hazelton ran the pros and cons through his mental calculator. Here was a rare opportunity to move on the world stage. It was the way reputations were made. But did he want to play second fiddle to Mazie Kamigami? What would his mother say? Suddenly, he didn’t care what his mother would say or think. He had seen Mazie work and trusted her. “No, sir,” Hazelton said, “I want the job.”

  “You won’t regret it,” Carroll reassured him. His tone never changed when he dropped the bombshell. “Zou Kong has formally asked the Military Assistance Advisory Group for pilots and aircraft. The president wants to honor that request but needs to line up congressional support. When that is accomplished, he’ll sign an executive order creating the American Volunteer Group.”

  “We’ll have to act fast,” Mazie said, “before the Chinese realize what’s happening and return to the UN and turn on the pressure against our coalition. Voting on resolutions condemning China is one thing, condoning military intervention is another. It’s not a big window of opportunity.”

  “It’s big enough,” Carroll replied. “And the 303rd is ready.”

  Mazie almost asked if he had considered ways to disengage the 303rd should the need arise. But she decided not to raise the question since she didn’t have an answer.

  Saturday, May 25

  Nanning, China

  Kamigami’s huge shoulders slumped as he listened to Colonel Robert Trimler recap the attack on Pingnan from his perspective. “Victor, you were lucky at Pingnan. It was a small, tight operation that you could control at the critical moment when it was all turning to shit. And the opposition was inept. Make that fucking inept. You won’t be so lucky next time.”

  The sandy-haired colonel was a big man and moved with an easy grace. Corded muscles ran down his neck and many people assumed he was all hard lines and no brains. Under the wrong circumstances, that could be a fatal mistake. Trimler was an expert in logistics, special operations, a former commanding officer of Delta Force, and Kamigami’s last CO.

  Kamigami was up against the hard reality of modern warfare and he knew his limitations. It took years to train officers who could command and supply division-level units in the field. His expertise ended at the battalion level. “I know,” Kamigami conceded. “I need help.”

  “First, don’t trust Von Drexler,” Trimler said. “He’s got a reputation for pure slash and burn. He’s only concerned with one thing—the promotion and advancement of Mark Von Drexler.” He thought for a few moments. “Let me put together a staff for you. Half American advisors and half Chinese.”

  “I don’t see that working,” Kamigami said. “You don’t know the Chinese. Things happen here I can’t explain. Can you believe they made me a general because of my face?”

  “That’s quite a promotion system,” Trimler dryly observed. “Look, you can give them the leadership they need and make a joint staff work. For some reason, the Chinese hold you in awe. You can lead them, I can’t.”

  “Can you handle working for an NCO who used to work for you?” Kamigami asked.

  “Hell,” Trimler grinned, “I’ve worked for incompetent, goose-stepping assholes. You were never incompetent. Look, you call me Bob and I’ll call you sir. So let’s go kick some ass.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “You execute a series of small raids to keep the PLA holed up and off balance while we build an army for Zou,” Trimler replied. “One thing, who is this Jin Chu everybody keeps talking about?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Kamigami answered. “You’ll meet her when she wants to meet you.”

  Sunday, May 26

  Whiteman AFB, Missouri

  The usual pile of paperwork was waiting for Pontowski when he arrived at work. Sara Waters and Lori Williams were still sorting it out and he could smell coffee brewing. Lori looked up from her desk and gave him a beautiful smile. “Coffee’s on, sir,” she chirped. It aggravated him that anyone could be so cheerful so early in the morning. He drew a large mug of coffee and disappeared into his office.

  “He’ll be better after he gets a jump start,” Waters said. She waited twenty minutes for the caffeine to work before she buzzed him on the intercom. “I’ve got the day’s schedule ready,” she told him. “Number one on the agenda: a decision on the air show.” He grumped an answer and told her to get Frank Hester and John Leonard. Waters disconnected. “Lori, is that decaf?”

  “No way,” Lori answered. “Strictly leaded.”

  “We need to make the first pot stronger,” Waters told her. The two women had learned how to handle their boss.

  Pontowski had settled into the day’s routine when Waters escorted Hester and Leonard into his office. Leonard had the operations plan STAND DOWN tucked under his arm and an expectant look on his face. “I’ve got two questions,” Pontowski said. “How’s the deployment coming and is the air show interfering?”

  “This is turning into a goat rope,” Hester told him. “We’ve got twenty-four Warthogs and thirty-six pilots ready to go. Eight of those jocks are here on their own: no official status, no pay, no nothing. They’re paying their own way and hope we get the word to form up before they go broke. I’ve got ‘em flying for currency, but the shit will hit the fan if anyone finds out. We got the core of a wing here, but we need more aircraft and pilots. And it ain’t gonna happen until someone upstairs gets their head out’a their collective rectum and makes a decision.”

  Leonard said, “Sir, we can’t do both. The air show is getting in the way. It’s one or the other.”

  Pontowski thought for a moment. Then he made his decision. “I’m betting we’ll get the go-ahead to form up a wing of volunteers and deploy. Cancel the air show. But we need to get our act together and quit flailing around in the dark on this. John, you did good work on the planning for the air show. I want you and Ripper to build an activation plan. Call it OPPLAN DARK WING.”

  “You got it, Boss,” Leonard said. “We’ll have something on your desk this week.”

  Leonard followed Waters out of the office and threw the operations plan for the air show into a wastebasket. She pulled it out. “That’s a lot of work to be throwing away,” she told him.

  “Screw it,” he said. “Dropping bombs and killing tanks beats looking good any day of the week. Let the Thunderbirds do the glamour. We’ll do the fightin’.”

  Waters gave him a studied look. “I’ll get the Junkyard Dogs to help,” she said.

  “Can they write an activation plan?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered. “But they can steal one.”

  Leonard smiled. “Ripper, I got to tell you, I haven’t been this alive in years.” He followed Hester out of the office.

  “Men!” Waters fumed to herself. “Someone needs to jump start their brains.”

  Wednesday, May 29

  Washington, D.C.

  “Always have a folder in front of you,” Carroll said as they sat down at the witness table in the Senate committee hearing room. “Make a show of referring to it before you answer a question. Use the time to think.”

  Mazie did as she was told and pulled a folder out of her briefcase. She glanced at it—copies of airline schedules in the Far East. She watched the dozen or so senators and representatives a
s they came into the room and took their places at the committee table. It was the first time she had been invited to a closed session of the joint Senate-House Select Committee on Intelligence.

  A slight commotion at the rear of the room caught her attention as the doors were being closed and locked. Major General Mark Von Drexler had just arrived from China. The dapper and aging senator who chaired the joint committee gaveled the session to order as Von Drexler took his place at the other end of the witness table. Like her, he made a show of spreading folders out in front of him.

  “General Von Drexler,” the chairman began, “thank you for coming so far to help us.” Jet lag was written plainly on Von Drexier’s face as he responded. Mazie listened as Von Drexler recapped the situation in China and the functions of the Military Assistance Advisory Group.

  Between questions, Carroll scribbled a note and shoved it to her. “This is all BS,” it said. She agreed. Even in the closed-door session, the senators and representatives were posturing and searching for a way to boost their political reputation. Mazie had never seen so many power-driven egos on parade.

  Carroll made another note. “Watch VD perform.” She did. His responses to the committee’s questions indicated he considered himself a cut above the men and women in front of him. He’s lusting for power, Mazie thought.

  “Let me speak bluntly,” Von Drexler told the committee. “To develop and conduct an effective policy in southern China, all, I repeat all, U.S. resources and forces must be under the control of the Military Assistance Advisory Group.”

  Another note from Carroll. “Read: under his control. VD’s going for the whole enchilada.” Mazie wondered if he was going to get it.

  “For example,” Von Drexler said, “the airborne warning and control aircraft operating out of Hong Kong in support of the British should be under my control.” Various murmurs and growlings from the committee answered him.

  “Let me draw your attention to another potential problem area,” Von Drexler said. “The American Volunteer Group being formed is not suitable for the mission it will be tasked to perform. My request for a composite force of F-15s for air defense, F-117 Stealth fighter-bombers, and B-ls has been denied. Instead, it is proposed that a wing of obsolete A-10s be made available. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a built-in formula for failure.”