The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  Tel moved fast and cut the men free. One of the sergeants started to say something, but Tel cut him off, issuing orders and taking command. Within minutes they had hidden the three bodies and repacked their equipment. Tel scoured the ground until he found the two spent shells and all other traces of their presence were erased. Then he led the team back to the abandoned kampong to join up with the corporal he had left behind. One of the sergeants wanted to abort the mission and leave immediately while they could still move under cover of darkness. “Do you need a lieutenant to fire a mortar?” Tel asked, ending the debate. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Again he issued orders, sighting the two mortar tubes and camouflaging their position. Then he selected a tree and climbed into its branches with a radio. It was a good choice. He could see the river and both spans of the bridge. He settled in to wait as the first glow of light split the eastern horizon. He checked his watch—exactly twelve hours to go. He fell asleep.

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, October 5

  Shaw was waiting in the wings with Bobbi Jo when the president arrived at the auditorium of Georgetown University. She was exactly five minutes early for the debate, which was scheduled to start at 9:00 P.M. He studied Turner, looking for any telltale signs that she wasn’t ready. He relaxed and smiled at Bobbi Jo Reynolds, absolutely certain that she also was ready. Turner walked toward him. “Any last words?” she asked.

  “Knock ’em dead, Madam President.” He stepped back as she moved past. A searing pain shot through his head, making him sick to his stomach. Not yet! he commanded, willing the cancer to obey. Slowly it yielded a notch. He looked across the stage and saw Leland with his man, the honorable David Grau, former boy wonder of the House of Representatives, governor of Leland’s home state, and now candidate for the presidency of the United States. Grau’s stage makeup was perfect, and his salt-and-pepper hair immaculately coiffed to create an older image. But to Shaw he resembled a slicked-down seal.

  Leland leaned into the boy wonder, his hands moving, as he gave him last-minute instructions. An image of a football coach sending in his quarterback for the critical play in the closing moments of the last quarter flickered in Shaw’s mind. A well-known political commentator took his place at a podium downstage left and made a brief introduction. “As agreed,” he said, “Governor Grau will make the opening statement, and the debate will run for ninety minutes. There are no other rules or conditions.” On cue, Turner and Grau walked onstage from opposite sides, shook hands, and stood behind their respective podiums. With that the battle was joined.

  Grau fixed the audience with a somber look. “This is the thirtieth day of a terrible war,” he began. “A war that has been characterized by poor leadership, missed opportunity, massive intelligence failures, and a total breakdown in diplomacy.”

  Shaw felt like cheering. “Missed opportunities.” I left out that one. But three for four in this business ain’t bad. He watched Turner’s face as she listened to Grau’s charges. Give him all the rope he needs.

  Finally it was her turn. “The governor is correct,” she began, “when he speaks of intelligence shortfalls. We’re working hard to correct the neglect of the intelligence community of the last ten years. I would like to remind the governor that when he served in the House of Representatives, he voted against every attempt to increase our intelligence posture—”

  “Which is a total misrepresentation of the facts,” Grau said.

  Turner was condescending. “Please, I didn’t interrupt you while you were speaking.”

  Easy, easy, Shaw thought. The pain was back, and he sat down. But it was different this time. “Water,” he said, half aloud. Bobbi Jo rushed for the water fountain while he fished the small bottle of pills out of his coat pocket. His hands fumbled with the childproof cap. Somehow he managed to get two pills to his mouth. Bobbi Jo was back with a cup of water. He gulped it down, fully realizing what the pills would do to him. He breathed deeply while the pills worked their magic. The pain faded into the fog. He reached into his pocket and felt the cassette. Shaking, he handed it to Bobbi Jo. He fought for the right words, but all he could manage was “Listen alone.” The pain came roaring back, consuming him in agony. “Hospital,” he whispered.

  Bobbi Jo punched at her cell phone while Grau went on the attack. “Failures on the diplomatic front have led to disaster on the Malaysian peninsula. Your win-hold-win strategy will not work, and the American Volunteer Group is little more than a blood offering, sacrificed on the altar of a failed strategy.” An audible gasp escaped from the audience at the blunt severity of his accusation.

  Shaw raged to himself. I didn’t see that one coming! He struggled with the words, but nothing came out.

  “It’s okay,” Bobbi Jo said. “The ambulance is on the way.”

  Shaw turned his head to the stage. He could see Maddy talking, but he didn’t hear her words as the fog and pain claimed him.

  The doors to the waiting room at Bethesda Naval Hospital swung open as four Secret Service agents led the way for the presidential party. The two doctors standing by the counter had been warned and were nervously waiting as the president rushed in. “How is he?” she asked.

  “Stable,” the lead doctor said. “He’s heavily sedated.”

  “How bad is it?”

  The doctor shook his head. “We took a CAT scan. I don’t know how he hung on this long.”

  “How long?”

  “Days, maybe a week.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Certainly. But I doubt if he’ll recognize you.” He held the door for her and led the way to Shaw’s room. “Other than make him comfortable, there’s not much we can do.”

  “I know,” she said. She stood by the bed and gazed at him, her eyes moist. “Please,” she said, wanting to be alone. The doctor nodded and closed the door. For a moment she didn’t move. Then she held his hand. “Oh, Patrick. I didn’t want it to end like this.” An eyelid moved as if it were trying to blink. “We’ve come a long way. I couldn’t have done this without you.” She felt a little squeeze, and her spirits soared. He was still with her! Of all the people she knew, Patrick Flannery Shaw was the least sentimental and given to self-pity. He was first, last, and always a political animal. That’s all he was. She started to talk, telling him what he wanted to hear.

  “You should have been there for the end. I gave him the last word, and he walked right into it. Would you believe I’ve lost the war and there’s nothing but defeat left?” Again she felt a little pressure in her hand. Or was it a nervous reaction? “Oh, Patrick. You’re trying to tell me something. What is it?”

  But there was no reaction, and he lay there, barely breathing.

  Central Malaysia

  Wednesday, October 6

  The readout on his watch flicked to 1750. Tel held the radio to his lips. “Radio check.” A quick “One” and “Two” answered. “One, fire.” The dull whomp of a mortar shell reached him high in the tree as he trained his binoculars on the two bridges in the distance. He saw a flash and puff of smoke. “Long,” he radioed. “Decrease thirty.” A second whomp echoed over him. This time it hit the road.

  “Two, fire.” He watched as the third round hit the road, less than ten meters from the second. Now he could see people scattering, running away from the bridges. “One and Two, fire for effect. Right traverse.” The air filled with thunder as the two mortar teams walked round after round down the road, toward the northern approaches to the two bridges. He focused on a truck as it accelerated onto the bridge and rammed its way into the people trying to make their way across. More rounds slammed onto the approaches. “One, left traverse,” he ordered. Now half the rounds worked their way back to the north while the other half pounded at the bridge. In the distance he heard the A-10s.

  The refugees on the bridge flowed off the southern end, leaving it clear. “Cease fire!” Tel commanded as a counterbattery round screamed overhead. “GO!” It was shoot and scoot, and they had
to run for their lives. He dropped the line he had tied to the tree and rappelled down, hitting the ground running. Another round passed overhead and hit nearby. They were getting the range. He ran for the abandoned kampong. An A-10 passed overhead on its attack run, barely clearing the treetops.

  A second A-10 crossed behind the first, only to disappear in a blinding flash of light. Tel never slowed as he ran.

  Camp Alpha

  Wednesday, October 6

  Maggot was waiting when Bag taxied to a halt outside the shelter. The ground crew swarmed over the jet, inserting safety pins and hooking up a tow bar. In less than two minutes the A-10 was backed into the shelter and the big doors were cranking shut. A boarding ladder was placed against the right side of the cockpit, and the pilot climbed down. Halfway down the ladder he paused and looked at Maggot. He shook his head and dropped to the ground. A crew chief handed him his helmet. “She okay, sir?” he asked, wondering about the status of his jet. Bag gave a little nod in answer and headed toward Maggot. Together they walked into one of the rooms built into the shelter’s sidewall.

  “What happened to Lurch?” Maggot asked.

  “I don’t know. We turned inbound, he was a mile in trail. I could see the bridge. It was clear. I saw a flash at my deep six, and Skid called me off. I broke right and saw where he went in. Smoking hole in the ground. No chute. All things considered, it seemed like a good idea to abort the mission.”

  They fell silent, waiting for the two pilots from the second flight, Skid and Waldo, to join them. Skid was the first to arrive. “I never saw what hit him,” he said.

  Maggot tried to focus on what Bag and Skid said while a sergeant from Intelligence debriefed them on the mission. But he couldn’t get past two burning facts—he had lost a pilot and two aircraft under his command. He wanted to rationalize it, telling himself that it went with the territory, which all combat commanders had to deal with. But there was no escape. Finally the sergeant was finished. “Where’s Waldo?” he asked.

  “Right here,” Waldo answered. He had walked over from the shelter where his Hog was parked, and his flight suit was streaked with sweat. “A SAM” was all he said, telling them that a surface-to-air missile had destroyed the Warthog and killed the pilot.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Bag shouted. “Lurch was in the weeds. What kinda SAM can do that?”

  “I saw a rocket plume,” Waldo told him.

  “Maybe one of the newer SA series,” Maggot said. The latest generation of Russian-built SAMs was reported to be good down to thirty feet. “If Russia sold the Chinese any.” He steeled himself for the coming messages. “We need to get an Op Rep out.” An Op Rep was an operations report detailing the results of a mission.

  “Are we going back after the bridge?” Waldo asked.

  Maggot hesitated. Then he shook his head.

  Twenty-eight

  Singapore

  Wednesday, October 6

  The airliners formed an unbroken procession in the night as they took off from Changi Airport and headed straight ahead for Pulau Tekong, the large island four and a half miles away. The pilots were careful to maintain runway heading and not climb above two thousand feet until they were abeam of the island’s reservoir. Then it was a hard-right climbing turn to the south and, for the relieved passengers on board, the promise of safety. But in SEAC’s makeshift command center in Singapore’s basic military training camp, which was located on the island, it was a constant roar that made face-to-face conversations difficult and turned telephone conversations into screaming matches.

  The Air Force major who escorted Pontowski and Gus into the command center was typical of SEAC’s Young Turks: educated, well trained, and smart. He shouted his apologies above the din. “The operations planning staff is with the general,” he said. “They should be free in a few moments to meet with you about the ATO.” He hurried off to make it happen.

  Gus played with his right earplug in a futile attempt to make it fit. A plane rumbled overhead, lower than usual. “They need to move,” he shouted.

  Pontowski looked around, and wasn’t sure. The truck bomb that had leveled SEAC’s headquarters in the city had also flushed the old leadership, leaving the Young Turks in command. Everywhere he looked, there was a crispness and focus that announced SEAC was a military organization and not a collection of generals playing at politics. “Or have Changi change their departure procedures,” he replied. Gus sat down to wait while Pontowski studied a wall map. After a few minutes he wandered outside for a breath of fresh air. A string of aircraft anticollision lights winked in the night as the airliners turned almost directly over his head.

  Gus joined him, massaging new wax earplugs. “Changi should be taking off to the south,” Pontowski told him. “If they’ve got to take off our way, then the pilots should make an immediate climbing turn as soon as they get the gear up.” Gus agreed with him, and they stood there watching the string of departing aircraft. “Oh, no,” Pontowski said, pointing to the sky. A short plume of flame reached up from the narrow Johore Strait that separated Singapore from the Malaysian mainland and headed for the string of anticollision lights. Then it went out. Pontowski had time to say “Rocket motor burnout” before a bright flash consumed an anticollision light.

  Gus’s voice was icy calm. “What type of surface-to-air missile was that?”

  “Probably a Grail,” Pontowski answered, his eyes padlocked on the stricken airliner. “Or some similar type of shoulder-held missile.” Now they could see flames trailing from the right side of the airliner. “He’s turning back for Changi.” The big Airbus flew directly overhead, its one good engine bellowing at full power.

  “Will he make it?”

  Years of flying experience could not be denied. “No. He’s turning into the dead engine. He’d be better off ditching straight ahead.” But the Airbus pilot kept the turn coming. “Ah, shit,” Pontowski moaned as the aircraft approached a stall. The Airbus seemed to shudder as it fell off on its right wing and tumbled into the water, less than a half mile from them. Almost immediately the water turned into a sheet of flame. There would be no rescue attempts.

  “I’ll relay your suggestion about the departure pattern,” Gus promised. A siren started to wail in the main camp. “That’s an air-raid warning,” he said. “Perhaps we should go inside.”

  Pontowski followed Gus into the relative safety of the sandbagged walls of the command center. He sat down, chin on his chest, while Gus worked the phones. Now he had to wait. Will Changi change the departure pattern? he thought. Do they even have a choice? It was the age-old dilemma of all commanders—making decisions when there were no good alternatives. It helped not knowing who went down on the Airbus. They were just faceless numbers, just so many casualties. Outside, he heard the siren sound an all-clear. The major escorting them came back. “Any damage reports?” Pontowski asked.

  The major checked the clipboard he was carrying. “One missile hit the causeway.” The causeway spanned the Johore Strait, linking Singapore with Malaysia.

  “That’s one lucky hit for a Scud,” Pontowski said, thinking of the missile’s notorious inaccuracy.

  “We don’t think it was a Scud,” the major replied. He stepped up to the wall map and pointed to the Taman Negara in Malaysia. “Our early-warning radar tracked it from here. Given the range and accuracy, perhaps it was a CSS-7?” The CSS-7 was a Chinese-built tactical missile with a range of 530 kilometers. “Unfortunately, the aqueduct under the causeway was cut.”

  “How serious is that?”

  Gus overheard the conversation and joined them. “Very,” he said. “Because of our small size and dense population, water is always a problem. We treat over one million cubic feet a day and have many reservoirs, but without the aqueduct…” He shook his head, not able to estimate how long before the reservoirs ran dry.

  A sergeant hurried over to the major and handed him a message. He read it as he added it to the pile on his clipboard. Then he stopped and handed it to Pontows
ki. “It’s an Op Rep from Alpha, sir. The attack on the bridge.”

  Pontowski read the operations report without a word and handed it to Gus. The bridge was still standing, and the AVG had lost an aircraft and, more important, the pilot. The number three beat at Pontowski—he had lost three people under his command. But this time there was no body to send home. You’ve lost people before, he told himself. He tried to rationalize. It’s a risk that goes with the business. But nothing helped, for each number had a face. “A SAM got him. It had to be more sophisticated than a Grail. Maybe one of the new Strelas.” He thought for a moment. “I hope it’s not a Gadfly.” The Gadfly was a Russian-built missile guided by monopulse radar that could engage high-performance aircraft down to fifty feet off the deck.

  “Is that a problem?” Gus said.

  “I went against those puppies in the Middle East. I was flying a Strike Eagle and almost didn’t make it. A Hog’s a sitting duck.”

  The major coughed for their attention. “We have four F-16s that are configured for air-defense suppression. So far we haven’t used them.”

  “It’s getting tough out there,” Pontowski said. “We’re going to need them.” As if to punctuate his statement, the siren started to wail again. “I’d guess that’s another missile.”