Leonard was acutely aware that this was his second day wearing the silver leaves of a lieutenant colonel. “That’s all,” he answered. She threw him a smart salute and stomped out of the office. He breathed a sigh of relief, wondering what had happened to his well-intentioned counseling session. It was one more dent in a hectic morning.
Morale in the wing had skyrocketed as the word spread that Pontowski was taking over command of the AVG, and within hours, they received an air tasking order that made sense. Leonard had cheered when he read that most of the wing’s aircraft were tasked to provide close air support and the wing was to coordinate directly with the First Regiment’s ASOC. Then he read the next paragraph: Six of his Warthogs were tasked for BAI, battlefield interdiction. It was a new type of mission for his pilots and he was worried.
As ordered, the six Warthogs had launched at first light on the new mission and were due back. Leonard tried to hide his concern and told himself yet again that BAI was very similar to close air support. His Warthogs were not supporting troops in contact but going after the supply lines feeding the enemy troops at the front.
Like Pontowski, he hated being on the ground and waiting for his aircraft to recover. Now they’re my aircraft, he thought, not ours. He tried to act unconcerned when he entered the operations center. But his relief was obvious when Goat Gross told him the Warthogs were five minutes out. Leonard fought the urge to hop in “his” pickup, drive out to the runway, and watch them land. “Bring them in for the debrief,” he told Gross. .
The six pilots burst into operations and told a story of success. They had flown down the Pearl River and along the roads at first light looking for barges and trucks that had been moving during the night. “They’re camouflaged,” one pilot said, “and pulled over to hide during the day. But the IR seeker head on the Maverick picks up the heat signature from their engines. Like shootin’ fish in a barrel.” The other pilots agreed with him.
“How can you be sure they’re not friendlies?” Skeeter asked.
“How come they’re camouflaged and moving at night?” Maggot replied. Skeeter didn’t answer.
Leonard made his next decision. “Let’s keep ‘em from moving. Skeeter, take a flight of four and work this area.” He drew a long rectangular box that ran north and south and centered on the Pearl River. The box cut the Pearl, the railroad, and every main road that led toward Nanning, eighty miles to the west. “We’ve got ourselves an interdiction box,” he said. “Don’t let anything through.”
This time, Leonard could not stay in the operations center and followed the four pilots out to the flight line to watch them launch. How long will this work before we have to change our tactics? he thought. The first mission had been too easy.
The flight to the interdiction box was uneventful, and Skeeter broke her flight into two elements. She sent two Hogs to recce the Pearl River while she and Mako Luce patrolled to the north. On their first sweep, they saw the distinctive smoke of a steam-driven locomotive. “Mako,” she radioed, “cover-shooter. ‘I’ll lead.” She planned to approach the target first and suppress any hostile fire while Mako attacked the train. “I’ll ID the train,” she continued. “If it’s civilian, I’ll call you off.” Before Mako could protest, she added, “We’ll stop it by taking out a bridge.”
“We oughta do both,” Mako answered. Thanks to Charlie Marchioni, their LASTE systems were peaked and tweaked and they could easily take out a bridge. While that would stop any rail traffic, it wouldn’t destroy any material headed for the front.
Skeeter answered by two clicks of her transmit button. She dropped down to the deck, firewalled the throttles, and headed for the smoke. At a mile from the target, she pulled into a pop maneuver, rolled 135 degrees, and apexed at twelve hundred feet as she pulled her Hog’s nose onto the train. It was clearly a passenger train, with only a single flatbed car attached to the rear. Canvas covered what looked like two trucks.
She banked away instead of flying directly at it. “It’s civilian,” she radioed. Her radar warning system exploded with sound. She glanced at the radar warning azimuth indicator in the cockpit. The symbol for a monopulse targeting radar flashed at her. A hostile radar had locked on and was tracking. “Break Left!” Mako shouted over the radio at the same instant.
Mako swore as Skeeter turned into the threat. The canvas had dropped away from the trucks on the flatbed car and two missiles were streaking toward her. The nose of her Warthog came up as chaff and flares streamed out behind. The first missile committed to an upward vector, matching her maneuver. Then she wrenched the big fighter into a tight turn, pulling six gs. The missile couldn’t follow her and went ballistic.
The nose of Skeeter’s jet turned into the second missile as she tried to defeat it. But her airspeed had bled off in the hard turn and she had lost maneuverability. The missile struck her aircraft forward of the right engine and she disappeared in a fireball. Only the nose of the A-10 was visible as a large burning flare shot out of the fireball. It was the ejection seat. The human flare arced skyward and then curved downward, still burning.
Deep inside Mako, a white-hot emotion erupted, as bright and consuming as the fireball that had killed Skeeter Ashton. It was primal, born in a distant past when instinct governed survival. But the basic urge to protect had not changed over the centuries. Civilization had only masked it, turning it down acceptable paths and now, a cold, driven fury captured the pilot. He wanted to kill.
Unbidden, Mako’s left hand twisted the wafer switch on the HUD control panel to WD-1. The symbols in his HUD flashed, giving him a gunsight for his cannon as he dropped his Warthog down to the deck and circled out in front of the train. He jammed the throttles forward, not worrying about airspeed as he turned into the train. Bitching Betty, the computer-activated woman’s voice in the ground collision avoidance system, filled his headset with “Pull up! Pull up!” when he went below ninety feet. He ignored it and dropped even lower, barely twenty-five feet off the ground. Ahead of him, he could only see the nose of the train coming at him. The engine shielded him from the surface-to-air missile battery and radar at the rear of the train.
Again, his left hand flicked forward as he selected high rate of fire, forty-two hundred rounds per minute, for the GAU-8 “Avenger” cannon. The snout of the steam engine surged into the gun pipper reticle. He mashed the trigger and held it. The Avenger growled as he flew down the length of the train.
Mako pulled off to the left and positioned for a second run. This time he drove the crosshairs on his TV monitor over the flatbed car. When he had a lock on, he pickled off a Maverick antitank missile. The screen went blank as the Maverick launched. The system stepped to the second missile and the screen came alive. He locked on a second time and sent another Maverick at the train. Satisfied that both missiles were tracking, he pulled away.
His left hand moved the wafer switch on the HUD control panel to WD-2. Bombs. Then he selected bombs ripple on the armament control panel. His radar warning gear was quiet and the train was stopped.
He dived on the train. It was a perfect low-angle bomb pass, exactly like he had practiced many times on Cannon Range in Missouri. The pipper dot was on target as his altimeter touched seven hundred feet. He mashed the pickle button and walked a stick of six five-hundred-pound bombs down the length of the train.
Mako circled the train, the dark shadow of his Warthog a gray cross of death in the sky. A lone survivor was running from the wreckage of the train. He called up the gunsight on the HUD and rolled in. It took him two passes.
Four times he circled the area at low level. But he couldn’t find the ejection seat.
He climbed into the sky and headed for Guilin.
The pilots were all standing in front of the VCR in the operations center watching the replay of Mako’s videotape from the mission. The room was silent and only the regular, rhythmic beat of Mako’s breathing could be heard coming over the TV’s loudspeaker. The screen went blank and Leonard knew he had to say something. But he could
n’t find the words.
“That was overkill,” Maggot finally said, breaking the silence.
“You weren’t there,” Mako said.
Thursday, September 5
Nanning, China
Pontowski was oblivious to the activity swirling around him in the command post. He stood at the map table and for the first time appreciated what Von Drexler had accomplished. The general had built a textbook example of a command and control structure and assembled a well-trained staff. That was the tragedy of Von Drexler. He was an organizational and logistical genius destroyed by his uncontrolled ego and lust for power. Are we all like that? Pontowski wondered. Fatally flawed?
Trimler joined him and leaned against the table. “We’re getting this sorted out,” he said. “We’ve got the beginnings of a logistics center up and running and we’re in contact with Zou Rong.”
“Where is he?” Pontowski asked.
“He’s with the NCG’s Tenth Division,” Trimler replied. “I talked to him on the phone. He wants to reestablish a combined headquarters. He sounds shaky.”
“You’re going to have to hold his hand,” Pontowski said, “and prop him up.”
Trimler considered the idea. “I’ll do what I can, but he’s got to be able to take the heat. I’ll go see him tomorrow, but I don’t want the MAAG combined with his headquarters.”
Charlie Parker, Pontowski’s vice commander, agreed with Trimler. “Have you seen the results from today’s missions?” he asked. He handed him a summary of the mission reports taken from the A-10 pilots. “They reported one loss.”
Pontowski’s head snapped around and he drilled Parker with a hard look. It was nearing midnight, he was tired, and he had to control his temper. “Next time,” he said, “please tell me immediately.”
Parker pointed at the lower left corner of the big status boards on the front wall. “It was posted there, Boss. I thought you saw it.”
The name Ashton was written clearly on the board with the time of the loss. He bent over the map table and leaned on his arms. His head was bent. They told me, he thought, and I didn’t listen. The searing brand of guilt burned and pulled away, leaving a scar he would carry for the rest of his life.
The AVG’s intelligence officer approached the small group and misread the silence surrounding his new commander. “Sir,” he blurted, “the latest sitreps.” He laid the situation reports on the map table and, reacting to the scowl from Parker, retreated.
Pontowski scanned the reports. “The First Regiment reports the PLA has broken off contact.”
“Probably regrouping,” Trimler said. “This may give us a chance to stabilize the front. And if Zou can get the Tenth Division to move into a flanking position to the north …” He stopped in midsentence. “I’m doing a Von Drexler,” he grumbled, “trying to control the Chinese when my job is to help them.”
“Still,” Pontowski said, “it’s a good idea.”
“I’ll talk to Zou,” Trimler said. He made a mental promise that he would act like an advisor as he left the room.
Pontowski watched him go, deciding that Trimler was all that a general should be. He turned to Colonel Parker. “I need to speak to my exec.”
“Which one?” Parker asked. “You’ve got two.”
“Captain Waters,” Pontowski answered. She joined him within seconds. “How’s it going?” he asked her.
“You inherited one great exec from Von Drexler,” she told him. “There’s nothing for me to do here.”
“You heard about Skeeter?”
“I heard.” There was pain in her voice.
“Maybe,” he ventured, “it would be best if you returned to the wing.”
She nodded in agreement. “Tango is going to need some help.”
Parker said, “You can catch a hop on the helicopter taking tomorrow’s air tasking order to Guilin. It takes off in an hour.”
Pontowski studied her for a moment. “Be on it,” he said. “Tell Tango we need a current operational status report. I’m worried about fuel and munitions …” He hesitated. He was still thinking like a wing commander. “We need to know what he’s got and what he needs.”
Waters rushed from the command post.
“You should have kept her here, Boss,” Parker muttered. Pontowski agreed with him but said nothing.
Pontowski paced the floor. “Charlie, the AVG consists of this command post and a wing of A-10s that is little more than a glorified squadron. Our job is to give the Republic of Southern China the core of an air force and keep the PLA’s air force off their backs. How can we best do that?”
Parker had the answer. “Simple, Boss. We need to consolidate what is in theater under your command. The AWACS is still flying out of Hong Kong, the squadron of F-15s never rotated out after the PLA tried to jump the AWACS, and we got two KC-10s flying in supplies out of Cam Ranh Bay.”
“All of those are high-value assets,” Pontowski said. “No way the U.S. Air Force will ever release those to the AVG.”
“We don’t give a damn who owns them,” Parker grumped. “We just want to task them.” He stressed the word “we.”
“But that’s the same thing,” Pontowski protested.
A sly grin split Parker’s face. “True. But never tell the politicians that.”
“Can we make that happen?”
“Not we, Boss, you. You need to talk to the right people.”
Pontowski recalled Shoshana’s advice about using political influence. How long ago was that? he thought. A heavy fatigue weighed down and he closed his eyes for a moment. Unbidden, a strong memory of Shoshana flashed in his mind. She had been cuddled in his arms and her words were still crystal clear: “Political influence comes with your name and you can’t change that.”
He drove the sharp ache of longing away and forced himself back to the moment. He needed rest. “Charlie,” he said, “you are one hell of a guy.”
Thursday, September 5
The Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.
The packed elevator stopped at the third floor of the Executive Office Building and Mazie braced herself as the doors opened onto the black and white marble-floored corridor. Instead of the usual pushing and shoving the bureaucrats indulged in as they rushed to work, two men held back and smiled at her, letting her get off first.
She stepped into the wide corridor and ran into Ashley Sinclair, the blonde goddess who ran the South American Division of the NSC. “Mazie,” she chimed, her voice full of charm and friendliness. “I hardly recognized you. You look wonderful. Whatever did you do to your eyes? We must have lunch so you can tell me all about it.” Ashley flashed her magnificent teeth without breaking her makeup and disappeared into the crowd.
Mazie was surprised. Ashley had barely spoken to her in the past. The two fashionable secretaries everyone called Heckle and Jeckle commented on her new outfit and wouldn’t let her escape until they had all the details. Men smiled at her, wishing her a good morning. One tripped over himself to open a door for her.
What’s going on? Mazie thought. She had no illusions about who or what she was. Her own secretary, a matronly African-American woman in her fifties, supplied the clue. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said. She smiled at the confused look on Mazie’s face. “The attention.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mazie said, walking into her office. But it was true. Because she had lost some weight, had her eyes fixed, and bought new clothes, she had become one of the beautiful people. She bridled at the injustice of it. She was still the same person.
Her secretary buzzed. “Ms. Sinclair’s secretary is on the line to arrange lunch.”
“I’ve got too much to do,” she snapped. “Send my apologies.”
Moments later, her secretary appeared in the doorway. “Mazie, we have to talk. Take a good look at yourself.”
“I’m still the same person,” she protested.
“Child, you are not listening. What people see has changed. Thank the Lord you are smart enough t
o not let it go to your head. Use it while you got it.”
“That’s … that’s—” Mazie searched for the right words, “that’s a form of sexism!”
“Damn right,” the secretary said. “In your case, it’s also justice.” She turned to leave. “By the way, you’re having lunch at twelve-thirty with La Belle Sinclair and others at La Maison.”
“I can’t afford La Maison,” Mazie protested. The menus were printed without prices and it was said that if you needed to ask, you couldn’t afford to eat there.
“You will never see the check,” her secretary assured her.
Mazie ignored her and went to work. She fell back into her old routine and within minutes was engrossed in sorting through the wealth of reports and intelligence summaries that had piled up in her absence. The first flicker of a new pattern came at 9:15. By 10:00, the flicker had turned into a flame and she hurried down to the CIA liaison office in the basement. She was back at 10:45. She sat down at her computer and called up the National Security Agency. By 11:22 the National Security Agency had searched its bank of intercepted messages and phone calls and confirmed her suspicions. She was now dealing with a raging bonfire. At 11:35 she canceled her luncheon engagement and made an appointment to see the national security advisor as soon as he came back from his morning run.
“Margaret tells me you’re onto something hot,” Carroll said as he entered his office. His hair was still wet from the shower and his skin glowed with health. But his eyes were tired.
Fortunately, the short break waiting for Carroll had given her time to compose her thoughts. “The situation in southern China will go critical in two or three weeks and it looks bad for our side.”
“Have you seen Hazelton’s latest report?” Carroll asked. Mazie shook her head and he handed it to her. “It came in about two hours ago,” he explained. She scanned the report. Haze1ton claimed the situation had stabilized. The PLA had broken off contact and the A- l Os had cut the flow of supplies and reinforcements to the front lines. Kang’s troops were reported to be withdrawing. She paused and reread the last line: First Lieutenant Denise Ashton had been killed in action. She recalled the woman who went with the name.
Dark Wing Page 34