The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  Turner sat down and stared at him. He’s been up all night, she thought. “My primary concern,” she said, “is to stop this aggression and defend our allies.”

  “Madam President, just tell me what you want to do. Set the general guidelines, but, please, let your commanders in the field handle operations.” He bowed his head, fully ready to resign if she didn’t understand.

  Her reply surprised everyone in the room. “How do I know if you’re doing it right?”

  Wilding’s face turned to granite. “When they’re bleeding so hard they have to stop advancing and we can stabilize the situation and go on the offensive.”

  “What will that take?”

  “A lot of hard fighting and sacrifice.”

  “Is that a euphemism for heavy casualties?” she asked.

  “We are going to take casualties,” Wilding said. “But so will they. If we do it right, it will be forty to one in our favor.”

  “I hope I’ve made this clear: I am not going to sacrifice our men and women. Nor, for that matter, am I going to kill innocent civilians.”

  “Neither am I.” How could he make her understand? “Madam President, my oldest son is at King Khalid leading a tank battalion.”

  His son is in harm’s way, she thought. The reality of modern warfare beat at her, threatening her humanity and all that she believed in. She looked at her advisers, carefully shielding her own doubts and fears.

  “Madam President,” the DCI said, “a more complete brief is ready in the Situation Room.”

  Turner nodded. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.” The meeting was over, and all but the vice president filed out of the Oval Office.

  “General Wilding’s a good man,” Kennett said.

  “Is he going to resign?” Turner asked.

  “Only if you don’t let him do his job,” he replied.

  Chief of Staff Parrish and the president’s personal assistant were standing in the door waiting to escort her to the Situation Room. “Nancy,” Maddy said, “please call Brian.”

  Nancy understood. “He should be up by now.” She hurried out to make the call.

  Warrensburg, Missouri

  Tuesday, September 7

  Maggot was waiting when Pontowski taxied his T-34 Mentor up to the fuel pumps at Skyhaven Airport. As usual, he was wearing a flight suit, but this time brand-new eagles were sewn on its shoulders. He waved a salute at Pontowski, not expecting one in return, and set the wheel chocks. Physically, it was impossible to distinguish Dwight “Maggot” Stuart from the average middle-aged male citizen of Missouri. He stood five feet ten inches tall and had close-set gray-green eyes and graying red hair. He was on the lanky side and hadn’t put on a pound of weight in ten years. There was nothing in his friendly manner or easy way of speaking to indicate that he was, without doubt, the best A-10 Warthog pilot in the United States Air Force.

  The Mentor’s canopy slid back, and Pontowski stood up. “Maggot, good to see you. Congrats on the eagles. Much deserved.” He climbed onto the wing and stretched before removing his earplugs. He loved the old Mentor, but it was a noisy bird. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Nothing else to do,” Maggot groused. He studied the pristine aircraft for a moment, appreciating what he was seeing. “She is a pretty thing,” he said. Pontowski climbed down, and they shook hands.

  “What are you up to these days?” Pontowski asked.

  “Nothing since I pinned on eagles,” Maggot answered. He had been the commander of an Air Force Reserve squadron of A-10 Warthogs at the nearby Air Force base but had been promoted out of a job when he assumed his new rank. “I’ve been cooling my heels waiting for an assignment to come down. I was hoping to get the Wing, but everything is on hold now.”

  “Shooting matches do that,” Pontowski said. He told the ramp rat to top up the Mentor’s fuel tanks and check the oil as they walked into the fixed base operations building. “What’s happening at the squadron?” he asked.

  “We’re getting ready to deploy,” Maggot replied. He shook his head. “Problems.”

  “Such as?”

  Maggot frowned. “We’re undermanned, especially in maintenance, and half the women are bailing out. Also very short on spare parts. Forty percent of our aircraft are down.”

  “Ouch,” Pontowski said. “Pilots?”

  “Young. All the old heads have left for the airlines. We’re basically okay but low on experience.”

  “The first ten days are going to be hell,” Pontowski said ruefully. Combat had taught both men a hard lesson: the highest attrition rates occurred in the first ten days, and the lower the experience levels, the higher the attrition. “I remember when I had the squadron,” Pontowski said. “Just hint at a shooting match and the old heads couldn’t get here fast enough.”

  “Things change,” Maggot said. “The damnedest thing, Waldo showed up.”

  Pontowski laughed. “George Walderman? The last I heard he was flying C-130s for the CIA out of South Africa.”

  “He was, but he quit. Claims it was too boring. For a while I thought he wanted back in. But he took a look around, talked to the training folks, and voted with his feet. We could use a stick like him.” Maggot thought for a moment. “I’ve got the feeling we’re going to need every pilot we can get.”

  “Is the squadron in bad shape?” Pontowski asked.

  Maggot thought for a moment. “Just low on experience. Compared to the rest of the Reserves, the squadron’s in great shape. But the tactical air force is living with the sins of the past ten years and rebuilding. We needed another two or three years to rebuild. Given enough flying time…” He shook his head in resignation. “This hit us too damn soon.”

  “I take it you’re not deploying to the Middle East.”

  A pained look crossed Maggot’s face. “I’m not on the roster.” Pontowski felt sorry for Maggot, but there wasn’t a place for an extra full colonel when a squadron went to war. That was when lieutenants and captains counted. Inside the building they walked up to the counter. Maggot glanced at the TV mounted in the corner. “There’s your old friend.” Elizabeth Gordon, CNC-TV’s star reporter, was on the screen, her mouth moving in silence. “Nice teeth,” Maggot said. “I bet she gives one hell of a blow job with that overbite.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Pontowski replied. Maggot gave him a look that said “Really.” A map of the Middle East flashed on the screen with the words SPECIAL REPORT FROM BAGHDAD in prominent letters. Pontowski turned up the volume.

  “The following scenes,” Gordon was saying, “document graphic brutality and definitely should not be seen by children or those upset by violence.”

  “Which guarantees everyone will watch,” Pontowski muttered.

  Maggot couldn’t resist the chance to rag his old commander. “But I thought you really liked her.”

  “Yeah, right,” Pontowski said.

  Gordon’s voice was louder. “Again, I must warn you not to watch if children are present or if you are upset by violence. The videotape you are about to see was recorded from Baghdad TV earlier this morning. We have superimposed an English translation over the narrator’s voice.”

  The scene in the news studio dissolved to one of tanks driving across an open desert, their cannons firing on the move. The excited narrator’s voice speaking in Arabic faded out and was replaced by a matter-of-fact voice speaking English. “This is not the mother of all battles but the mother of all victories. Our forces are sweeping with deadly force through the ranks of the demoralized and worthless American soldiers.”

  “Now, that’s impressive,” Maggot said. “T-72s shooting on the move. Never saw that before.” He had killed fourteen tanks in the 1991 Persian Gulf War, and it was common knowledge that the Russian-built T-72 had to stop in order to fire its cannon with any degree of accuracy.

  “Publicity,” Pontowski replied. “Stock footage.”

  The scene changed to one of soldiers charging fearlessly across the desert and jumping into trenches. �
��Our brave soldiers quickly overran the cowardly Americans, who could not surrender fast enough.”

  “Looks like training trenches to me,” Maggot said.

  The scene changed to real footage from the field, and Maggot fell silent. An armored personnel carrier was churning across the desert floor dragging a long rope with a bundle at the far end kicking up a cloud of dust. The APC slammed to a stop, and the camera zoomed in on the bundle as the dust settled. It was an American soldier. An Iraqi soldier ran up, cut the rope, and kicked the lifeless body. But the American was not dead and raised a hand in supplication. The soldier kicked him in the head and motioned at the APC. The driver gunned the engine and spun the APC around, pivoting the vehicle over the American and grinding him into the gravel before stopping. The camera panned to laughing soldiers dragging two more American soldiers out of the APC. They held one upright and propped him against the side of the APC. A man ran at the prisoner with a fixed bayonet. The American grabbed the bayonet with his bare hands but couldn’t stop the soldier from driving it into his abdomen. The soldier twisted the rifle until the man fell to the ground. The Iraqi leaned on the rifle butt, driving the bayonet completely through the American’s body.

  The camera focused on the last soldier, a woman. Rough hands tore away the top of her fatigues, exposing her bra. A knife flashed, and her bra was cut away. Two soldiers grabbed her arms and twisted them out, behind her back, as they forced her to a kneeling position. Another soldier grabbed her hair and pulled her head straight forward as a man advanced holding a ceremonial sword. The scene suddenly went blank as he raised the sword above her neck. The waving flag of the UIF filled the screen. “Thus Americans receive justice,” the translator said, his voice flat and unemotional.

  Pontowski’s hand was a blur as he hit the power button to the TV. “Son of a bitch,” he growled.

  “Why did they show that?” Maggot asked, his voice shaking.

  “In a word,” Pontowski said, “ratings.”

  “I mean the Iraqis,” Maggot said.

  Pontowski shook his head and reached for the direct line to the Flight Service Center. “Cancel the flight plan for Mentor 4315. I’m refiling for Washington, D.C.”

  He was airborne and over St. Louis when the call from Patrick Flannery Shaw was patched through.

  Palau Tenang

  Wednesday, September 8

  Sweat streaked the faces and fatigues of the officers waiting in the hardened bunker that served as the 1st SOS’s command post. A lone fan in the doorway stirred the air and moved it toward the opened emergency escape hatch in the rear wall. Kamigami entered and spoke in Chinese: “Please be seated.” Although it was early in the morning, he estimated the temperature at ninety degrees and rising. “I know this is uncomfortable. Bunkers in the field are. They also make good targets. From now on, everything we do, all our training, is based on the assumption we are in the field on operations. We will train as we plan to fight. Our motto is ‘Mobility is life.’ For you who don’t understand that, remember three words”—he switched to English—“shoot and scoot.”

  Kamigami waited while his staff talked among themselves, deciding what “shoot and scoot” meant. He knew how the Chinese mind worked, and it would take some reinforcing on his part. But he accepted that. “Our first exercise is to create a mobile command post in the field and establish contact with Headquarters Central in Singapore. You have four hours, gentlemen. At that time I expect the new command post to be up and operating.” He spun around and walked out. “I’ll be with Tiger Red,” he called over his shoulder.

  Tel followed him outside. “What now?”

  “We’re leading Tiger Red on the morning run,” Kamigami said.

  “Oh, no,” Tel said, mostly to himself.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Those guys are charged up after yesterday.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Two hours later Kamigami led Tiger Red back into the camp. The men were all bunched together and jogging in lockstep, more than willing to run over Kamigami should he stumble and fall. First, Second, and Fourth Squadrons were right behind them, threatening to do the same. “How many have dropped out?” Kamigami asked Tel.

  “Three,” came the answer. “I think.”

  “Find out,” Kamigami ordered. “I want them all off the island by sundown.” He turned to the four squadron commanders. “Dismiss your men for breakfast.”

  Colonel Sun Dan was waiting and escorted him into the brush, leading him to their new command post. They trudged along the base of one of the low ridges that radiated out from the center of the island. Sun pushed aside some heavy foliage and motioned Kamigami toward a group of canvas-covered shelters hidden below the crest of the ridge. “We established contact with Headquarters Central an hour ago,” Sun announced, “and received our first message.” Sun checked his watch. “Mr. Deng Shikai is arriving by helicopter in twenty-four minutes.”

  “Gus coming back so soon?” Kamigami mused. “I must have pissed someone off.”

  “Two of the men who fell out yesterday and who you ordered to leave are from very prominent families. Very well connected politically.”

  Kamigami shrugged. “Too bad they couldn’t hack it. Well, let’s go meet the gentleman.” They walked in silence back to the helipad. Kamigami understood too well how the Chinese did business and fully expected to be on the helicopter when it left. He waited patiently until he heard the familiar beat of rotors. Then he snapped to attention as the aircraft came into view and landed.

  Gus was off the helicopter before the blades had stopped turning. “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Alone?” Kamigami asked.

  “It would be better if Colonel Sun and your staff were there.”

  So it’s going to be a public humiliation, Kamigami thought. He led the way into the brush and to the new command post. It started to rain, and they took shelter under the canvas of the largest shelter. Colonel Sun called for the staff to squeeze in around them.

  Gus came right to the point. “I have just received word of unusual activity around the Chinese base camp in Malaysia’s National Park.”

  Kamigami caught the surprised look on Sun’s face. The colonel obviously had not been told about the Chinese presence in the Taman Negara. Kamigami fingered the gold whistle hanging from his neck as he related what he and Tel had discovered after their kampong was destroyed. His soft voice hardened into granite as he spoke, and Tel recoiled at the rage he sensed was lurking below the surface. He gave a silent prayer of thanks that he would never have to face Kamigami in combat.

  Sun didn’t hear the fury in Kamigami’s voice, but he understood the implications for Singapore. “So we have a real threat on our doorstep,” he said when Kamigami finished. “We could have been training for this.” Gus didn’t answer. “I assume you are here for a reason,” Sun said.

  “I want you to find out what they’re doing,” Gus said.

  Sun stared at him in disbelief. “We’ll need time to prepare.” Like most commanders, Sun was hesitant to commit his men to a new operation on short notice. “Don’t the Americans have satellite coverage?”

  “I have asked the Americans, but all their so-called resources are committed to the Middle East. They aren’t willing to reposition a satellite at this time. Time is the one thing we don’t have right now.” His voice was as cold and flat as the look in his eyes. “I take it your men are not ready?”

  Before Sun could answer, Kamigami coughed for their attention. “If this is reconnaissance only, I’ll take four teams in. Colonel Sun, you know the men better than I do, so please select the teams, eight men each.” He couldn’t read Sun’s reaction.

  The officers and senior NCOs were busily making notes as Kamigami stood over a chart table and recapped what he wanted done in his absence. “Drive everyone hard.” He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned on his arms, his head bowed. “The First is too large. We need to weed out the weak links. You must be merci
less. Better now, in training, than in the real event. In your training stress small-unit mobility with mutual support. When I return, I want to see a live-fire exercise attacking and destroying a hardened target.”

  “We’ll need to build the target first,” Sun said.

  “I was thinking of your old command bunker,” Kamigami said. He rolled up his chart. “I should be back in two weeks. I want to see progress.”

  Sun’s wicked grin was back. “Indeed you will, sir.”

  Nine

  Washington, D.C.

  Wednesday, September 8

  It was after midnight when the taxi stopped at the intersection of Connecticut Avenue and K Street, two blocks short of the Old Executive Office Building. “Sorry, General,” the driver told Pontowski. “This is as close as I can get.” Like many denizens of the Imperial City, he recognized Pontowski. He flicked on the dome light to calculate the fare. “I voted for your grandfather,” he said. “Best president we ever had. He’d know what to do with those fuckin’ Aye-rabs messin’ with us.”

  “I imagine President Turner has a good idea what to do,” Pontowski replied. He handed over the fare and included a two-dollar tip. “We’ve got a lot of friends and allies in the Middle East who are depending on us,” he added.

  The driver relented a little. “Yeah, I know. But we only hear from them when they raise oil prices or someone is kickin’ their asses.”

  Pontowski got out of the cab and headed for the first security checkpoint, located a good block from Pennsylvania Avenue. Ahead of him, and despite the late hour, the old office building was lit up like a gingerbread monstrosity. Across the street he could see the White House, also fully lit. He stopped at the checkpoint to identify himself. The police officer recognized him but still checked his ID before calling for an escort. “Be careful, General,” the officer warned. “We stopped a car bomber just after dark near the airport…an illegal immigrant who’s lived here since 1980.”