The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  The guard bent over to stub out his cigarette butt. Kamigami, still speaking in Cantonese, called him a fool. The guard looked up to see Kamigami’s hands flashing down on him in a clapping motion. Kamigami’s palms slapped the man’s temples—hard—stunning him. He easily shouldered the unconscious body.

  Tel followed and watched in fascination as Kamigami carried the guard into the jungle, hung him by the heels from a tree, tied his hands, and stuffed part of his shirt into his mouth. Satisfied that the guard was immobilized if he regained consciousness, Kamigami searched the foliage until he found a certain thornbush. He cut off a slender shoot and carefully extracted the core, leaving a hollow tube. He cut the tube in half to make two before retracing his steps to the tree where the guard was hanging.

  The man was now fully awake, his eyes wide with fear as Kamigami scooped out a hole in the ground directly underneath him. Kamigami sharpened an end of each of the tubes and jammed them into the guard’s neck, side by side, about an inch apart. Blood spurted from the tubes and dribbled into the hole as the man twisted and turned, trying to shake the tubes out. He slowly weakened as his life drained away. “Why are you doing this?” Tel asked.

  Kamigami gave him a cold look. “These are the men who butchered our families.” He paused to let the lesson sink in. “Follow me,” he said.

  They had barely regained the path when a smoky smell drifted over them. “I can’t believe it,” Kamigami said. “Cooking fires. They’re not really serious about this.” Tel didn’t know what “this” was, but he was afraid to ask, especially after witnessing the guard’s execution. They moved off the path and came to a ridge overlooking a shallow valley. The smoke of numerous cooking fires floated over the treetops, and off to the far side, men were exercising in an open area. Beyond the open area, and dug into the high limestone ridge at the northern end of the valley, were three tunnels.

  “What is it?” Tel whispered.

  “Don’t whisper like that,” Kamigami said. “It travels too far. Just speak in a low voice.” He paused to let that lesson register. “It’s a military base camp. A big one.” He sat down and made himself comfortable. “We’ll move out when it’s dark. Now we get some rest. Wake me in an hour, and don’t let me snore.”

  Tel came awake with a jolt. Kamigami’s hand was over his mouth. “It’s time,” Kamigami said. He handed Tel a pair of night-vision goggles and helped him adjust the straps. “You lose a lot of depth perception, so go slowly at first or you’ll get a stick in your face.” Kamigami moved slowly until Tel was comfortable with the goggles. Then he moved quickly, heading down the path and away from the base camp. He relied on his GPS to guide them to the body that was still swinging from the tree.

  Kamigami covered the hole where the blood had pooled and cut the body down. He carried it back to the path and again strung it up by its ankles. “It’s blocking the path,” Tel said.

  “That’s the idea,” Kamigami murmured. He took a few sips of water and told Tel to do the same. “Rest. We’re going to be moving very fast the next few hours. You up to it?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Kamigami shook his head as they sat down. When he judged that Tel was ready, he stood up and tightened the straps on his rucksack. Then he unsnapped the side pocket, and the MP5 fell into his hand. He slipped in a clip and charged a round. “Make sure your shoelaces are tight,” he said. He carefully inspected the boy. “Ready?” Tel nodded, and Kamigami put the gold whistle to his lips.

  “What are you doing?” Tel asked.

  “Sending a message,” Kamigami replied.

  “Which is?”

  “Vampire.” Kamigami gave a long blast on the whistle and moved out, setting a blistering pace.

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday, July 30

  The spook sitting in the national security adviser’s office was a nondescript man, five feet ten inches tall, in his late forties, hunch-shouldered, and slightly balding. He was a man people passed every day and never saw. Franklin Bernard Butler was also a lieutenant general in the Air Force, the chief of a shadowy organization quartered on the mezzanine of the Pentagon’s basement, and an operational genius in the netherworld of covert intelligence. Mazie looked up from the thin folder she was reading, a very worried expression on her face. “Bernie, how in the world did you get this?”

  “The old-fashioned way.”

  Mazie arched an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “Spying.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say ‘work,’ which is something the Boys never do.” The “Boys” was shorthand for Butler’s group, known only as the Boys in the Basement. She gave a very audible sigh. Levity was not going to lessen the reality of what she was looking at. “How good is this?”

  “It doesn’t get any better,” Butler told her. Although he trusted the national security adviser, he wasn’t about to reveal how the Boys had recruited three moles in Iraq during the Persian Gulf War in 1991. The moles had been left behind to burrow into Saddam Hussein’s infrastructure, and now all three were talking. “The president needs to know,” Butler said, telling her the obvious.

  Mazie looked at the elegant carriage clock on her desk. Again she sighed, giving in to the inevitable. “Why does it always hit the fan on a Friday afternoon?”

  “It’s an immutable law of nature,” Butler replied.

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Mike Wilding, United States Army, was the last to enter the White House Situation Room. Wilding nodded at the three people sitting at the table—Mazie, Vice President Sam Kennett, and the director of Central Intelligence, or DCI. The four of them were the heart of the National Security Council and among the president’s most trusted advisers. As expected, Wilding’s boss, the secretary of defense, was not there, as he was reluctant to attend any meeting that included the vice president. Wilding stared at the outsider who was sitting against the back wall. “Bernie Butler,” he muttered. “I should have guessed.”

  The door opened, and Patrick Shaw came into the room. “Mizz Hazelton, gentlemen, the President.” Madeline Turner entered the room and sat down.

  “Patrick,” Mazie said, “I’m afraid this one is above your pay grade.” Shaw was dumbfounded. It was the first time Mazie had ever asked Shaw to leave a meeting. Normally Shaw would have treated it as a power play and responded accordingly. But Mazie never played silly Washington games. He nodded and closed the door as he left.

  “This must be serious,” Turner said.

  “I believe it is,” Mazie replied. She looked at Butler, her eyes full of concern.

  Butler stood and keyed his remote control. The large computer monitor mounted in the wall opposite the president came to life, and a map of the Middle East flashed on the screen. “My sources claim that the radical Islamic states”—the map flashed, and Iraq, Iran, and Syria were highlighted in red—“have joined in a secret alliance. They’re calling themselves the United Islamic Front—the UIF for short.”

  The DCI raised his hand slightly to interrupt, a condescending look on his face. “Syria has been on board in the war against terrorism, Iran is cooperating under the table, and we’ve effectively isolated Iraq. So, why in the name of Allah would they form such an alliance at this time?”

  “Oil,” Butler said. “They are going to attack Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates.” Again the map changed, and the target states changed to blue.

  The DCI shook his head. “Not hardly,” he announced.

  Vice President Kennett scratched his empty left coat sleeve. His missing arm always itched when he was worried. “How good is your source?” he asked.

  “Extremely reliable,” Butler answered.

  “Confirmation?” General Wilding asked.

  “We have two other independent sources saying the same thing,” Butler told him.

  “And why haven’t I heard about this?” the DCI barked, his anger showing.

  “We forwarded it to Langley yesterday,” Butler e
xplained, his voice a monotone. “When it didn’t show up in the PDB this morning, I took it to Mrs. Hazelton.” The PDB was the President’s Daily Brief, a slick summary of the best intelligence the United States had. It was compiled by a committee at the CIA and seen by only twelve people.

  The DCI was outraged. “You’re not on distribution! How did you see it?”

  Mazie caught the crinkle in Butler’s lips, the closest he could come to a smile. “Don’t ask the question,” she said, “if you can’t stand the answer.”

  “It’s my business to know,” Butler replied. In five simple words he had summed up what intelligence was all about.

  The hard professional in Wilding came out. “When? Do you have an order of battle?”

  “Not order of battle, sir,” Butler answered. “We’re working on it.” He paused. “But my sense of the matter tells me before the first of the year.”

  “What’s the NRO and NSA saying?” This from Vice President Kennett. Like the others, he was at home dealing with the alphabet soup that made up the intelligence community. The NRO was the National Reconnaissance Office, which controlled the Keyhole series of spy satellites, and NSA was the National Security Agency, which monitored communications.

  “I’ll have to check,” the DCI said. He hit a button on the small control panel in front of him and spoke into the microphone. “We need the latest satellite imagery for the Persian Gulf and the latest CIS for the same area.” A CIS was a communications intelligence summary produced by the NSA. The DCI looked at Turner. “We should have something in a few minutes.”

  “I hate surprises,” Turner told the DCI.

  A woman’s voice from the control room said, “NRO coming on the number-two screen now. And a courier has a message for General Butler.”

  Butler walked to the door as the second screen came to life. He stepped outside. His second in command was waiting in the hall and handed him a sealed envelope. “The shit is hittin’ the fan over there,” he told Butler.

  Butler carried the envelope back into the Situation Room and glanced at the monitor displaying the latest satellite coverage from the Persian Gulf. The DCI was talking. “We’re seeing nothing unusual.” The screen scrolled, and the NSA summary appeared. Listening posts had detected no change in the normal traffic for the region. Butler glanced at the screen and shook his head as he opened the envelope. He read the message twice and cleared his throat. Everyone turned toward him. “Iraq, Syria, and Iran are planning a joint training exercise. No announced time frame.”

  General Wilding snorted. “Joint exercise, my—” He caught himself, remembering whom he was talking to.

  Turner came to her feet. “The word you’re looking for, General, is ‘ass.’ Which is what they’re making of us and which I’m ending right now. No more surprises. We will stay ahead of this.”

  “Level of response?” Mazie asked.

  “I want everyone awake and looking at this, but I don’t see any reason for moving up the DEFCON in the Middle East—not yet.” They all agreed with her, fully aware of the political ramifications of such an action during an election year. “Mazie, start talking to your counterparts in NATO.” She pointed a finger at the DCI. “And find out why the CIA missed this. It won’t happen again. Okay, that’s it for now. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning and see where we are.”

  Three

  The White House

  Saturday, July 31

  Butler leaned against the wall in the corridor outside the Situation Room in the White House basement and yawned. It was early Saturday morning, and he needed a cup of coffee to jump-start his heart. Patrick Shaw emerged from the kitchen across the hall with two cups of steaming coffee and handed one to Butler. “I hear you’re a patient man,” Shaw said.

  Butler took a sip before answering. What does he want? He allowed a cautious “It goes with the territory.”

  “What do you think they’re talking about in there?” Shaw asked.

  He doesn’t know? Butler thought. Fat chance. Shaw knows everything that goes on around here. Before he could answer, the door to the control room opened, and one of the duty controllers told Butler he was wanted inside. Butler gave Shaw a shrug as if to say he was sorry as the Marine guard opened the door to the Situation Room. One glance around the room as he entered told Butler all he needed to know. Every major policy player in the Turner administration was there, including the irascible secretary of state, Stephan Serick, and Robert Merritt, the secretary of defense.

  “Well, Bernie,” the president said, “you certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest on this one.”

  “I take it you have verification,” Butler said.

  Serick coughed for attention. “My people tell me it’s all a false alarm. There is no secret alliance between Iraq, Iran, and Syria. There is no joint exercise. We’ve all lost too much sleep over this.”

  “I’m not ready to totally discount it,” the DCI said, surprising Butler. The DCI had just admitted to a major intelligence failure.

  Serick turned on him. “So what do you know now that you didn’t know twelve hours ago?” His voice filled with sarcasm. “No doubt you’ve unearthed the real expert on the Middle East—the little old lady who wears purple dresses and sleeps under her desk in the CIA’s basement?”

  Secretary of Defense Merritt chuckled at the DCI’s embarrassment. “Not exactly,” the DCI replied, glaring at Merritt. “What I did discover was a power struggle going on between my China and Middle Eastern division chiefs.” He spoke without emotion. “Both those gentlemen were fired, and their replacements are taking a fresh look at the situation. So far the assessment isn’t good.” Madeline Turner’s warning about its not happening again had not gone unheeded.

  Serick snorted. “Are you saying the Boys in the Basement made you look like fools?”

  The DCI took a deep breath to control his anger. “What I’m saying is that we have a new development in the Middle East that needs close monitoring.”

  Serick was shouting. “My people would know if—”

  The DCI interrupted him. “Your people don’t know diddly—”

  “Gentlemen,” the president said, her voice full of authority. “Enough.” A heavy silence ruled the room. Then, “Bernie, what is your sense of the situation?”

  Butler thought for a moment. “The Islamic radicals have sensed a weakness and are moving in a new direction. It has the potential for serious trouble.”

  “Don’t you think,” Serick said, “that our allies in the Gulf would be shouting for help if what you say is true? Besides, who exactly are these sources that are revealing all of this? Some janitor in an embassy? Pickpocket? Pimp? A whore?”

  Butler almost laughed, but it wasn’t in his nature. Serick would never know how close he came to the truth. “Some things in my business,” Butler murmured, “never change.” He let that sink in. “Unfortunately, our erstwhile allies in the Gulf tend to rely on us for their intelligence. They know what we tell them.”

  “If I may,” the DCI said, trying to speak with authority in his domain, “let me summarize. One: Iran, Iraq, and Syria have joined together in an alliance, calling themselves the United Islamic Front, or UIF. Two: We have an unconfirmed report from General Butler that the UIF intends to attack and capture the Kuwaiti and Saudi oil fields.”

  Merritt finally spoke. “Which will never happen.”

  “So you keep reassuring us,” Vice President Kennett said. There was no reply as Merritt slipped into one of his characteristic funks. He hated the vice president.

  The DCI took the silence as consent to continue. “Three: The UIF has announced a joint training exercise to be held sometime in the future. We’ve seen this before. They flex their muscles, we cry wolf and react, they do nothing, and we end up with egg on our face. For now it’s fair to ask how much coincidence or speculation are we dealing with?”

  The president sank back into her chair. “Patrick is fond of saying that ‘once is chance, twice is coincidence, three time
s is enemy action.’” She leaned forward, her face frozen. “Every instinct tells me this is enemy action.” Again a silence came down in the small room.

  “Madam President,” the DCI finally said, “we must not overreact. No one starts a war with the United States in an election year. Even the Arabs know that.”

  “Assuming they’re rational actors,” Butler said quietly. The number of heads nodding around the room was ample indication that he was not alone in his doubt.

  The president thought for a moment. “No more surprises. So what can we expect, and what options are available to us? I want to stay ahead of this, and they do not drive events in my country. Further, I will not be held hostage in the White House monitoring the Middle East. Mazie, I want you and Sam”—she nodded at her vice president—“along with the secretary of defense and the DCI to form a working group to spearhead our response. Call it the Executive Committee. ExCom for short. Mazie, you have direct access to me, anytime, anyplace. Anyone you need, you have. All doors are opened to the ExCom.” She looked around the room. “I hope everyone understands what I’m saying.” She rose to leave. “Stephan, please join me.” Everyone stood as the president left the room with the secretary of state in tow.

  Butler allowed an inward smile. By taking the cranky Serick with her, the president had removed a major obstacle to progress.

  “Well,” Mazie said, “I think the president was quite clear in what she wants. Sam, who do we need working with us?”

  The vice president didn’t hesitate. “Bernie Butler.”

  Mazie glanced at the DCI. “Anyone else?” He shook his head.

  She turned to the secretary of defense. “I’d prefer General Wilding to stand in for me,” Merritt answered, refusing to work with the vice president.