The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “Nine hundred and eighty,” Tel answered.

  “Close enough,” Kamigami said. He had counted 983. “I make it a battalion.”

  “That’s a big battalion,” Tel replied, comparing it to what he had been taught.

  “God favors big battalions,” Kamigami told him. They heard movement and fell silent as another man came down the trail. Again they counted as a long line of men tramped past. As before, the officers brought up the rear. But this time there was no break before a third battalion plodded past. When the last group of officers passed, an eerie silence descended over the jungle. “Make that big regiments,” Kamigami said. “They’re traveling at night and bivouacking during the day.” He thought for a moment. “Think you can play FAC?”

  “I can try.”

  “Good. Take a radioman and follow them. I’m guessing they’ll make camp before morning. I’ll radio SEAC, and with a little luck we can have a few Hogs on station first thing in the morning. Your job is to get them on target.”

  “Is this what I get for not obeying orders?”

  Kamigami ignored his question. “Your call sign is Gopher Hole.”

  Central Malaysia

  Saturday, October 9

  Tel wiggled onto the rock outcropping near the crest of the ridgeline and scanned the top of the jungle canopy with his binoculars. As Kamigami had predicted, the regiment had marched all night and made camp while it was still dark. Below him, the smell of campfires being lit drifted up. He tried to find the smoke, but since he was looking directly into the sun as it broke the eastern horizon, he couldn’t see a thing. His radio crackled to life. “Gopher Hole, this is Mudfighter with two. How copy this frequency?”

  Tel took a deep breath and squeezed the transmit button. “Gopher Hole copies you five-by. Your target is troops bivouacked under trees.” He quickly read off the coordinates.

  “Gopher Hole,” Mudfighter replied, “I see smoke coming through the canopy in maybe fifty different places.”

  “Those are cooking fires,” Tel answered. “Hit the smoke.”

  “Rog,” Mudfighter replied. “Do you have safe area coordinates?”

  This was new for Tel. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Where do I punch out if I have to eject?” the pilot replied.

  Tel gave him the coordinates where he had left Kamigami. “You’re cleared in hot,” he said.

  “One’s in,” Mudfighter radioed. “Jaws, go tactical. Ninety cross, separate to the south, one pass, no reattack.” The flight lead was using verbal shorthand to set up the attack.

  “Copy all,” Jaws replied. “Your six is clear.”

  Tel scanned the area with his binoculars but couldn’t find the Warthogs. Where were they? For a moment he was certain they were bombing some other place and that he had screwed up. Suddenly a loud noise beat at him, and he looked up, directly into the cockpit of a Warthog less than fifty feet above him. The pilot had used the ridge Tel was hiding on for terrain masking and had run in from the backside. He popped to eight hundred feet to clear the crest, rolled 135 degrees, and pulled the Hog’s nose down to the valley. Tel watched as six canisters rippled from under the Hog’s wings, walking along the line of campfires. The canisters opened like clamshells and sent their lethal load of bomblets into the trees. The pilot honked back on the stick and pulled off to the right as flares streamed out the back to defeat any surface-to-air missile.

  “I’m in,” Jaws radioed. Again Tel could hear but not see the aircraft. Below him, he saw flashes in the trees as the bomblets cut a swath through the jungle. The second Warthog arced around the southern end of Tel’s ridge, barely a hundred feet off the deck. Suddenly it was climbing and rolling as it gained altitude. Its nose came down like a bow in a deadly minuet as it crossed ninety degrees to the first aircraft’s heading. Six Mark-82 Airs rippled off. “Off to the south,” Jaws radioed calmly. Six explosions erupted, blowing huge gaps in the jungle canopy. Now Tel could see the ground below the trees.

  “You’re clear,” Mudfighter radioed. “Join up on my left. We go home.”

  Tel’s ears were still ringing, and he didn’t know what to say. Belatedly he keyed his radio. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Anytime,” Mudfighter replied.

  Tel waited for over an hour as bomblets with delayed-action fusing exploded. He constantly scanned the area, looking for movement or signs of life. But there wasn’t any. Finally he motioned to his radioman, and they worked their way down the ridge and onto the valley floor. He wished he hadn’t, and knew he had crossed the border into hell when he heard cries for help mingled with groans of pain. He took a few more steps and found himself on the edge of the blast effects of the five-hundred-pound pounds. But even two hundred meters from the point of impact, the carnage was horrendous. Wounded men were everywhere, parts of bodies were blown into the trees and scattered over the ground, and a sweet, sickly smell assaulted his nostrils. The buzz of insects homing on the blood grew louder as he moved toward the epicenter of the attack. He stopped when his radioman started to retch. All this in less than four minutes, Tel thought as nausea and guilt swept over him. Then he remembered his village.

  A soldier stumbled toward him, dazed but unhurt. For a moment they stared at each other. The man begged for mercy in Cantonese. “This is the vampire’s land,” Tel replied in the same language. He turned and headed for the rendezvous with Kamigami.

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday, October 8

  The hostess was beside herself when she saw Secretary of Defense Robert Merritt standing in the vestibule of her lavish Georgetown home. There was no doubt the party would now be an outstanding success. “Mr. Secretary,” she gushed, taking his arm. “I’m so pleased you could come.” She escorted him into the big lounge, ensuring that everyone was aware of her triumph. “I know it must be so hectic,” she soothed, “but the news is so wonderful. Such a change in the landscape.” They both knew she meant the political landscape. “The president must be pleased.” A scattered round of spontaneous applause broke out.

  “It was a gamble,” Merritt said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s far from over, but we are confident of success.” Knowing heads nodded in agreement, for this was the power elite of Washington, the inner circle of men and women who could, and did, make things happen. They were all experts at reading political tea leaves and sensed that the totally unexpected turnaround of the Gulf War had changed the political landscape. What had been a millstone dragging Maddy Turner to defeat in the election was now the springboard for victory. And common sense, not to mention political survival, demanded they shift positions accordingly.

  The hostess led Merritt into the library. “Senator Leland is hoping to speak to you,” she confided. She glanced up the stairs.

  “I can’t imagine why,” Merritt said dryly as he turned to shake more hands and bask in the praise the media were heaping on the administration. A short, very dapper man came up. “Well, Robert, are you going to accept Syria’s offer of an in-place cease-fire?”

  Merritt smiled. “CENTCOM is of the opinion they should surrender first.”

  The man was aghast. “Do you always listen to your generals?”

  “Only when we want to win a war.” Merritt moved on, enjoying the moment. Finally he climbed the stairs to the elegant study on the second floor, where he suspected Senator John Leland was waiting. He wasn’t disappointed.

  Leland didn’t waste time and came directly to the reason for the meeting. “Have you seen the polls?”

  Merritt shrugged. “That happens when you get caught on the wrong side of a war. Your boy’s looking like an unpatriotic idiot.”

  “We were set up. Fuckin’ Shaw. He was behind this, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t think so. Maddy did this one all on her own. Brilliant, wouldn’t you say?”

  Leland was as close to losing control as he had ever come in his political career. He paced the floor, then spun around to face Merritt and jammed a rigid
forefinger into his chest. “That child-pornography ring, the one the DCI was involved in.”

  “Like I said before, there’s nothing there. One slip of paper with the address of a Web site does not—”

  Leland interrupted him. “Then how did it get in his chair in the first place? Tell me that!” More pacing. “I’ll tell you how. It fell out of his pocket or briefcase, that’s how.”

  “Don’t go there,” Merritt pleaded. “My investigators have totally discounted it. There’s that phone call I told you about and—”

  “I want it,” Leland said, his voice firm. Merritt gave in to the inevitable and recited it from memory. “Damn it. Are you hard of hearing or just stupid? I want the actual note. The gloves are off, and I’m going to render that bitch.”

  “You’ll have it first thing tomorrow morning,” Merritt promised. Leland shot him a look of triumph as he turned and left. Merritt walked to the sideboy and poured himself a drink. It was ginger ale, for no sane politician drank at a time like this. He considered his options and, like everyone at the party, knew it was time to shift positions. But how? He sank into a deep leather chair and wished that Shaw were not in the hospital. He made a mental note to call Parrish the moment he got home. But he didn’t like that option. Then the image of Bobbi Jo Reynolds flashed in front of him, and he changed his mind.

  Thirty-one

  Camp Alpha

  Sunday, October 10

  The first explosion shattered the two windows on the end wall. Luckily, the heavy duct tape that crisscrossed the windowpanes held, and most of the glass shards were embedded in the blackout curtains. Instinctively, Pontowski rolled out of his bunk, hit the floor, and rolled under the bed. For a moment he breathed hard, getting his bearings. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled. He checked the time. It was 0528, a half hour before sunrise. The second explosion rocked the building off its foundations and cracked the ceiling, sending a cloud of dust and debris onto the bed. He coughed twice and waited. Nothing. He heard running feet in the hall, followed by a banging on his door. “General! Are you okay?” It was Janice Clark.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “We’re on fire. Get out!”

  Pontowski rolled out from under the bed and pulled on his boots. He didn’t stop to tie them and grabbed a flight suit as he bolted out the door. Clark was ahead of him, running down the hall, banging on doors to make sure the building was clear. Smoke chased them both out of the building. They ran for the bomb shelter and crashed through the narrow entrance. In the half-light of early morning, he could see about a dozen people crowded inside. He leaned against the sandbags and pulled off his boots so he could don his flight suit. “Ah, Colonel,” he began, “I think you need to…”

  The base commander was only wearing a T-shirt that showed a generous amount of leg. “Tough shit!” she barked. She paused as a heavy silence came down. “Sorry, sir. That wasn’t called for.” Someone handed her a radio, and she called the command post for a status report. They all heard the on-duty controller detail what looked like two missile strikes. Outside, they could hear a siren wail the all-clear. “Better late than never,” she grumbled. “Sir, can I meet you in the command post in a few minutes?” Without waiting for an answer, she darted out the door.

  Pontowski had to stifle a grin when he heard her driver’s voice. “Missy Colonel! Where you clothes?” Little snickers and guffaws moved around the bunker as the tension shredded.

  “What does that guy do?” someone asked. “Sleep in his van?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Pontowski replied, “he does.” He finished tying his boots. “Okay, let’s go. We got work to do.” The bunker rapidly emptied. The officers’ quarters were half consumed in flames and sending billows of smoke over the base. In the distance he heard two Warthogs lift off for the first go of the morning. He ran for the command post.

  Maggot looked up from his console in the command post when he saw Pontowski. The wing commander had been up most of the night, and his eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn. “It was definitely two missiles. One hit the fuel dump, the other here.” He pointed to the main dormitory where half of the AVG was billeted. “Thank God almost everyone was at work. Doc Ryan is there now with the rescue crews.”

  Janice Clark joined them, now dressed in a fresh set of fatigues. She didn’t bother to explain how her driver had rushed inside the burning officers’ quarters and found her clothes and a brush and comb. She studied the base map. “They went after the two biggest high-value targets that weren’t revetted,” she told them. “Damn good intelligence, if you ask me.”

  “With that accuracy,” Maggot said, “it means they weren’t Scuds.”

  “Colonel Clark,” the controller called from the communications cab. “All land lines are down, but we’re still in radio contact with SEAC.”

  “Get with the Malaysian Army,” Clark told him, “and see what they can do. This is their base.”

  “The MA’s not answering the phone or radio,” the controller said.

  “General Pontowski,” the liaison officer from the First SOS called, “Colonel Sun will be here in a few moments. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Any reports from the fuel dump?” Clark asked.

  “Negative,” the controller told her. “The crash wagon and fire truck are at the dorm. The security police report the fuel dump is burning like hell…hold on.” He called Maintenance Control and asked for the fuel status. He listened for a moment. “Maintenance says the only fuel they got is in the lines and the holding tanks. Maybe enough for twenty-four hours. That’s all.”

  Colonel Sun walked in just ahead of Rockne. “Two missiles hit Singapore this morning,” Sun announced. “One hit the main petroleum terminal, the other destroyed the largest refinery on the main island. Many fires. Many riots, and the people want peace.”

  “First they cut the city’s water supply,” Pontowski said. “Now they’re going after POL. Sounds like a blockade strategy.”

  “Mr. Deng,” Sun continued, “has ordered an all-out search for the missile launch sites. He wants them destroyed.” He paused, searching for the right words in English to convey the urgency of the situation. “This is most critical.”

  “We got other problems,” Rockne said. “The MA is gone.”

  Clark was on her feet, almost shouting. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

  Nothing betrayed Rockne’s anger, and he could have been discussing a training exercise. “The Malaysian Army battalion assigned to defend the base has deserted en masse. We’re uncovered.”

  “We’re not going to be hung out to dry,” Pontowski promised. “Colonel Sun, can one of your helicopters fly me to Singapore? ASAP.” The wiry colonel jerked his head yes and reached for a phone to alert a crew. Pontowski came to his feet in one easy motion and paced the floor. He jabbed a finger at the situation chart tracking the fighting fifty miles to the north of them. “We’ve got to slow the bastards down, so fly as much close air support as you can. I’m going to beat the bushes and get the airlift we need to get the hell out of Dodge. Meanwhile, keep launching sorties.”

  “The helicopter will be ready when you arrive,” Colonel Sun told him.

  “I’m on my way,” Pontowski replied. “Colonel Clark, Chief, ride with me so we can talk.” He turned to Maggot. “Dwight, you’ve got the stick here. My gut tells me all hell is about to break loose.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Maggot said straight-faced. For a moment they stood there, looking at each other. “Hell, General, you never promised me a rose garden.” They shook hands. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir. I’ve got a war to fight here.” He turned around and picked up the phone to Operations. “Waldo, brief the jocks for a surge.”

  Pontowski nodded in agreement and walked out with Clark and Rockne in close trail. He used the short ride to the First SOS and the waiting helicopter to go over the details of base defense. “Sir,” Clark said, “regardless of what happens, we’re going to need jet fuel to keep on flying.” Her
driver halted the van by the helicopter. This time Clark was out before he could run around to open her door. She walked with Pontowski to the helicopter, still going over last-minute details. The four-bladed rotor started to turn as the turboshaft engines wound up. She stepped back and threw a crisp salute. Pontowski wanted to hug her, but that was out of the question. He returned her salute and climbed on the helicopter while she ran for the minivan.

  Her driver was holding the door. “You go home now, Missy Colonel. Please. Before too late.”

  The Puma lifted off as Pontowski strapped in next to the right-door window and donned a headset. He pressed the mike switch. “Any chance of checking out the roads?” he ventured. The pilot was agreeable, and they headed south, paralleling the main road. As Pontowski suspected, the road was clogged with refugees and nothing was moving north. They had been airborne less than six minutes when a loud bang and sharp jolt buffeted the helicopter. It tilted wildly to the left as Pontowski held on. Over his headset he heard the pilots yelling at each other in Chinese as they feathered the two engines. Smoke poured into the cabin, and he searched for an oxygen mask. But he couldn’t find one. Desperate, he reached for the door handle to roll the sliding door back. He cracked it an inch before it jammed. He stuck his face against the crack and took a deep breath. Then he hit the quick release to his lap belt and grabbed on to the seat frame. He half swung and half fell across the cabin, only to bounce off the crew chief and slam against the left door. The door handle jammed into his back. He fumbled in the heavy smoke until he felt the top seat tube. Holding on, he released the door handle and slid the door back.