The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  Mazie decided to lay her cards on the table. “We need your help. I shudder to think what would happen under an administration controlled by Leland.” She stood and walked to the fireplace. “We also believe that it’s time Germany takes its proper place on the world stage.”

  Von Lubeck stood beside her. “What is our place in the new world order—or should I say the new world disorder? My country is searching for an answer to that question, but we seem to have lost our identity in a sea of modernity.”

  “Perhaps,” Mazie said, “you need to return to the old virtues, but without the madness of the last century.”

  Von Lubeck gazed into the fire and committed. “It will take some convincing on my part.” He paused, marshaling his thoughts. “There also remains the problem of Turkey. We cannot act without their agreement, which I don’t believe they’ll give.”

  “I can solve that problem,” Butler promised.

  The meeting was over, and von Lubeck was the gracious host as he escorted them to their car. They were silent until they were clear of the garage and in traffic. Mazie reached out and touched Butler’s hand. The warmth of her hand surprised him. “I was blindsided in there,” she said. “Secretary Serick and I fully discussed this with the DCI after speaking to the president. Why didn’t he tell us about the German buildup in Turkey?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know,” Butler replied. “It won’t happen again.” It was a promise he meant to keep.

  Mazie thought for a moment. “Von Lubeck wants something. What is it?”

  “Who knows?” Butler replied. “He’s probably thinking he can play Bismarck.”

  Camp Alpha

  Thursday, September 30

  Clark’s office was austere in the extreme. A gray metal desk occupied one end, and plastic file boxes lined two walls. Three folding chairs completed the furniture. The only spot of color was a small vase on her desk holding a beautiful orchid. “Very pretty,” Pontowski said, sniffing at the orchid.

  “My driver,” Clark said. “He says they grow wild and brings me one every day.” She closed the door and sat down behind her desk. The gentle whir of the air conditioner seemed to fill the room. “I’ve a problem we need to discuss,” she announced. “I believe you know Victor Kamigami.”

  Pontowski sat in one of the folding chairs and tried to get comfortable. “We have a history,” he admitted. “In China.”

  She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “He may have committed a crime on my base. Specifically, he murdered a prisoner in his custody.”

  “I didn’t know he was here,” Pontowski said, hedging an answer. He had been busy the last eighteen hours bedding down the AVG and needed sleep.

  “SEAC deployed the First SOS to Alpha as its base camp,” she explained. “Their mission is to extract villagers out of areas controlled by the PLA. I assigned them an empty barracks on the perimeter and a bunker for their helicopters. We haven’t seen much of them since. I assume he’s still on base.” She folded her hands and related the incident with the snipers. “They hadn’t been here two hours when it happened.” Her voice hardened. “No one—I don’t care who it is—commits murder on my base.”

  “You didn’t actually see it?” Pontowski asked.

  She shook her head. “I only know what one of his men told me. But I was there, just around the corner. In fact, I was escorted there so I wouldn’t see it.”

  Pontowski tried to adjust his body to the chair but failed. In exasperation he turned it around and straddled it, his arms resting on the back. “Let’s ask him. He won’t lie. Unfortunately, under the right circumstances, I can see him doing it.”

  “And what exactly are the right circumstances?” she asked, her words laced with sarcasm. “What kind of man would do that?”

  Pontowski searched for the words to explain. “First, Victor is the national security adviser’s father—”

  “So he has political protection?” Clark snapped.

  “No. Not at all. But he operates from a different set of rules. It’s hard to explain. It’s like he’s the ancient warrior.”

  “Which means what?” Clark shot at him.

  “That’s all he is—a warrior. It’s almost like war seeks him out and draws him in to correct some horrible wrong. Do you know what happened to his family?” She shook her head. As best he could, Pontowski filled in the details. When he was finished, he said, “I would not want to be one of the soldiers who murdered his family.”

  Clark mulled it over. “Let’s ask him.” Then, “Breakfast?” Pontowski readily agreed. They walked outside and headed for the mess hall. But before they were halfway there, her handheld radio beeped at her. A C-17 was inbound with eighty passengers and cargo. She gave Pontowski a sideways glance and said, “Shall we go ‘howdy’ the folks?” She turned and motioned at her driver, who was following them in the minivan. “My shadow,” she said. They drove to the parking ramp and arrived in time to see the big C-17 land. Rockne joined them as the high-winged cargo plane taxied slowly off the runway and onto the confined parking ramp. “It might be your cops,” Clark told him.

  Together they watched the cargo ramp come down and people stream off the back. A loadmaster handed Clark a passenger list and cargo manifest. “A flight surgeon with eight medics,” she announced. “And seventy-two cops.” She handed Rockne the manifest. “And one K9.”

  Rockne came alert, and his eyes narrowed as he searched the people milling around in confusion. The flight surgeon and eight medics gathered around three pallets with their baggage and equipment. Then someone issued an order, and a young airman, who looked suspiciously like Cindy Cloggins, lifted a fanion, a small unit flag on a six-foot staff. What had been a shapeless amoeba flowing around the plane formed on the fanion in ranks of eight, nine deep. Jessica Maul marched to the front with a dog at her side. But the dog’s leash was not attached, and she held it in her left hand, folded in fourths. She came to attention and slapped the leash sharply against her thigh. “Squadron,” she called, her voice full of command. “A-ten-hut!” As one, the formation responded. Her commands were crisp as she formed them up. Then, “Squadron! For-ward harch!” They marched across the ramp directly toward Pontowski, Clark, and Rockne. Twenty feet short, Jessica halted the squadron and saluted. “Sir, ma’am, Three Forty-third Training Squadron reporting for duty.”

  Pontowski returned her salute. “Welcome to the American Volunteer Group,” he said.

  Clark was shocked. Without exception, they were all young—too young. “A training squadron?” she said in a low voice.

  Jessica heard it and dropped her salute. “Actually, ma’am, this is last Friday’s graduating class from basic security police training.” She looked at Rockne. “Your dog, Chief.” She whispered a command and sent Boyca on her way.

  Rockne stroked Boyca as he looked them over. He had a new challenge. “Glad to see you could make this deployment,” he told her.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she told him.

  Nineteen

  The White House

  Thursday, September 30

  The silver-haired senator followed the president through the door of the Situation Room and sat down next to her. I’ll be damned, Shaw thought. Savane’s one of the good guys. In Shaw’s political order of battle, Senator Philip Savane was truly a member of the loyal opposition and not to be confused with the likes of his fellow party member John Leland. She’s reaching out, Shaw decided. To his way of thinking, she couldn’t find a better ally in the Senate.

  “I wish Mazie and Bernie were here to see this,” Vice President Kennett said, also impressed with the turn of events.

  “Mazie’s due back this afternoon,” Shaw said.

  “And Butler?”

  “No idea,” Shaw replied. He fell silent as Colonel Scovill took the podium and waited for the signal from Wilding to start the morning’s briefing for the ExCom.

  “President Turner, Senator Savane, gentlemen,” Scovill said, “I’d like to begin
with a recap of last night’s B-2 missions.” He allowed a tight smile. “I can reconfirm that all ten aircraft returned undamaged to Whiteman Air Force Base.” A map of Iraq appeared on the big screen on the left. Arrows pointed to 160 targets. “These are the targets we hit last night. Preliminary bomb-damage assessment indicates that a hundred fifteen, or seventy-two percent, were destroyed; twenty-three, or fourteen percent, heavily damaged; and nine, or six percent, were lightly damaged.”

  “And the other thirteen?” Savane asked.

  “We missed,” the Marine answered.

  “Been there, done that,” the senator replied, recalling his missions as a fighter pilot in Vietnam.

  “Whiteman is launching twelve sorties tonight,” the Marine continued. “All thirteen of those targets will be revisited.” The screen on the right scrolled to a new map of Iraq with arrows pointed at the new targets. The screen zoomed in on Baghdad. “Of particular concern tonight is this target. We hit it three nights ago, but it was not totally destroyed.”

  “Downtown Baghdad,” Savane said in a low voice. He was back in time, caught up in his memories. “I was flying over another downtown when I was shot down. Is it worth the risk?”

  “We believe it is,” Scovill replied, his voice icy calm. His thumb danced on the hand controller in his right hand. “Specifically, this is target I36-8481, an underground command bunker built under the basement of the Al-Rashid Hotel.” The screen enlarged to an oblique aerial photo of the hotel.

  “My God,” Shaw blurted, momentarily losing control. His doctor had warned him about that, and he clamped an iron-hard control on his surging emotions. But an explanation was in order. “That’s where the press is staying,” he muttered.

  Scovill’s tight smile was back. “Exactly. On the left screen is the video taken from the attacking B-2’s targeting system. The pilot’s voice you hear is the mission commander on board the B-2. On the right screen is the simultaneous coverage supplied by a CNC-TV reporter as he reported the attack from the roof of the hotel.”

  The left screen shimmered with a greenish image of the target as the pilot’s voice described the bomb run. “There’s the Al-Rashid Hotel.” The crosshairs on the screen moved over the hotel. “There’s offset one, there’s offset two.” Again the crosshairs on the screen followed his voice from the hotel to the offsets, each one a distinct target but progressively smaller in size. “Target acquisition now.” The crosshairs jumped from the last offset to the middle of a big parking lot. The crosshairs stabilized, and a few seconds later a finger of light flashed at the bottom of the screen. “Bomb gone.” A countdown timer in the lower left-hand side of the screen started to unwind to zero.

  “The mission commander,” the colonel explained, “activated the release system when he went to target acquisition. The computer moved the crosshairs to the no-show target and automatically pickled the bomb when all release parameters were met. When the countdown timer reaches zero, the bomb will impact on the crosshairs. Meanwhile, from the rooftop of the Al-Rashid…”

  The right screen cycled to the CNC-TV reporter. The skyline of Baghdad was in the background. A series of flashes jumped around the city as tracers lit the sky. “Each flash,” the reporter said, “is a precision-guided bomb going off. Radio Baghdad reports three B-2 stealth bombers have been shot down so far.”

  “As all our aircraft returned,” Scovill interjected, “we have reason to believe that this claim is vastly overinflated or that they shot down someone else’s B-2s.” Savane laughed. “Now,” the colonel continued, “direct your attention to the left screen.” The crosshairs on the greenish screen disappeared in a little puff of smoke. “Now back to the Al-Rashid.”

  The reporter on the right screen pointed to the parking lot. “It looks like a bomb hit in the middle of the parking lot but didn’t go off. There’s been no explosion.” A slight pause. “I can see a hole in the pavement now.” The camera zoomed in on the hole, a circular black void. “The bomb was a dud.” Suddenly a pillar of flame shot out of the hole, followed by billowing smoke. “Oh, my God!” the reporter screamed. “The building is shaking, and I can hear muffled explosions! Oh, no!”—this slightly more composed—“the entire parking lot appears to be caving in.” The camera recorded the parking lot collapsing into a big hole.

  “The Iraqis,” Scovill explained, “had calculated that we would not strike the command post for fear of killing foreign reporters. We want to disabuse them of that thinking. To the best of our knowledge, the only casualties from the first strike were in the command post. Bomb-damage assessment indicates we destroyed the power room to the command bunker and at least two escape tunnels.”

  “Then why are you ‘revisiting’ it tonight?” Kennett asked.

  “Because,” the DCI answered, “we have monitored people still entering and leaving.”

  “Thanks to TV coverage yesterday,” Scovill said, “we were able to identify the main entrance to the command post, which is located here, behind the Al-Rashid.” The screen on the left cycled to a photo of what looked like the service entrance to a bakery. “We intend to send a GBU-31 down the main entry—all courtesy of CNC-TV.”

  Savane tried to look serious, but he was clearly enjoying the briefing. “I do believe that’s a gross violation of the freedom of the press.”

  The Marine couldn’t help himself. “I do hope so, Senator. I wanted to send a thank-you note to CNC-TV, but my boss wouldn’t let me.”

  The senator suppressed his laughter. “I can’t say I blame him.”

  “On a more serious note,” Scovill said, “the Navy reports contact with three submarines operating in the approaches to the Straits of Hormuz.”

  Savane caught it immediately. “Hostile signatures?”

  “That’s affirmative,” the colonel replied. “Unfortunately, we can’t identify the nationality. One is probably Iranian, the other two may be Chinese.”

  “But not Russian?” Savane asked.

  “Definitely not,” General Wilding said. “We’re in close communications with our counterparts in Moscow to prevent that from happening.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Savane replied. “I assume this has logistical implications.”

  Wilding stood and walked to the center display screen. He clicked at the handheld controller. A map of the approaches to the Persian Gulf came on the screen. “Yes it does, Senator. We are diverting all our supply ships to Diego Garcia until we can neutralize the threat.”

  The senator took a deep breath. He fully understood what that would do to the buildup in Saudi Arabia and how it would delay any planned offensive. “Convoy operations?” he asked.

  “We are considering it,” Wilding replied.

  Savane turned to the president. “This is what you wanted me to see, correct?” Turner nodded. The senator’s lips compressed so tightly they almost disappeared. “I appreciate your confidence and trust.” He thought for a few moments. “During World War Two, General Marshall once said that if you get the objectives right, a lieutenant can write the strategy.”

  Shaw’s anger boiled up. Another fuckin’ strategist! Just as quickly he squelched it, remembering the warnings. Damn quack, he told himself, transferring his anger to his doctor. Then reason took control. The cancer’s not his fault.

  “Mrs. President,” Savane said, “I’m not a strategist, but I hope you’ve considered opening a second front. May I suggest you approach the Germans and try to get them to work independently of NATO and our…” He paused, searching for the appropriate, tactful, words. “Shall we say our erstwhile French allies?”

  For Shaw it was the equivalent of a revelation. Savane knows about Leland! His mental computer shifted into turbo mode as he recalculated the power shift that was taking place. Maddy might salvage the election yet.

  Savane folded his hands and looked at Turner. “Mrs. President, let me speak bluntly. There is an undercurrent of public opinion against this war, which some of my colleagues want to ride to a victory in Novembe
r. I totally disagree with that. But at best I can only delay—until you give me something new to work with.”

  Shaw couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Savane wasn’t willing to lose a war in exchange for winning an election. I owe you, Senator. An image of Senator Leland flashed in his mind. But not you, you worthless piece of shit. Secretary of Defense Merritt’s image joined Leland’s. Too bad you chose the wrong side, he thought, thankful that neither man was in the room. That might be enough to send him over the edge. Another thought came to him, and he smiled.

  Ankara, Turkey

  Thursday, September 30

  The ride in from the airport took longer than usual because of the heavy traffic. But Butler didn’t mind and napped most of the way. It had not been an easy trip to arrange, but Mazie had told him to make the rendezvous as quickly as possible. Her instructions had been very explicit: “Make them believe.” Fortunately, he still had many contacts in the Turkish capital, which was exactly why Mazie had sent him on this mission to begin with.

  The cab stopped in front of the Grand Hotel Ankara on Atatürk Bulvari, across from the Grand National Assembly building. The Grand had lost its former splendor and was no longer the preeminent hotel in Ankara. That honor went to the much newer Hilton or Sheraton. But Butler liked the Grand because of its Turkish flavor. He paid off the cab and walked inside. The woman was waiting for him in the bar.

  “My old friend,” she said, coming out of her seat, presenting a cheek to be kissed.

  “It has been a long time,” Butler said as they sat down. He looked around the room to see who was watching them. He was surprised to spot Uri, the old Soviet KGB chief of station who had retired in Ankara after the collapse of the Soviet Union. “I see Uri is still here.”