“Innocent people are dying,” Sun murmured. “My family is there.”
Waldo heard the pain behind his words and committed. “We don’t know for sure what they got for defenses. We may be able to get close enough to acquire the entrance and get a lock-on.”
“We know they got Gadflies,” Maggot reminded him. “Max range twenty-one miles, and it can come down into the weeds and get you.”
Waldo looked hopeful. “So if a monopulse radar comes up talking, we get the hell out of Dodge. It sure wouldn’t hurt to send two Hogs up to take a look.”
Maggot relented. “You and Neck got it. Launch ASAP.” His palms were flat on the chart, and he leaned forward. “But I want my jets back.” He was really saying he wanted Waldo and Neck back.
Waldo grinned. “No problemo, boss.” It was the first time anyone had called Maggot “boss.”
Taman Negara
Monday, October 11
“Target on the nose at thirty,” Waldo radioed. Neck answered with two clicks of the transmit button. Waldo glanced at his radar warning display. No threats were showing, and only an early-warning search radar at their deep six was active. He decided it was probably friendly and disregarded it. A loud chirping noise blasted his ears. He turned the volume down. “Neck,” he radioed, “I got a Firecan in search mode.” A Firecan was an old AAA radar. If the radar shifted to a higher frequency and focused its beam on one aircraft, then it was locked on and in a guidance mode and tracking.
“Got it,” Neck replied. “Maybe a fifty-seven. Looks like it’s coming from the target.” Both men were confident they were up against either an old thirty-seven-or fifty-seven-millimeter antiaircraft artillery battery with a max effective range of two and a half miles. And they knew how to kill one of those.
Waldo made a decision and mashed the transmit button. “Trick-fuck,” he said, calling for the tactic they would use. “I’m the fuck.”
“I’m the trick,” Neck replied, confirming his part so there would be no confusion. The pilots had given a crude name to a tactic that worked very well against a single defender. The plan called for one aircraft, the trick, to act as a diversion while the other aircraft hit where the defender wasn’t looking. Waldo broke out of formation and dropped his Hog down to the deck, below radar detection. He set up a tight orbit and throttled back while Neck flew a wide arc around the target. When he was well away from Waldo, Neck climbed until the radar found him, getting the gunner’s attention. Then he dropped behind a ridgeline for a little more cat and mouse. He popped up long enough to allow a radar lock-on and then back down behind the ridge, baiting the gunner. When he was on the opposite side of the circle from Waldo, he radioed, “The trick’s ready.”
“Go,” Waldo replied.
“Trick’s in,” Neck transmitted. He turned into the target, firewalled the throttles, and jinked hard. His warning gear came alive as the radar found him and locked on. “Lock-on,” he radioed. He had the gunner’s undivided attention and was still out of range.
“Fuck’s in,” Waldo radioed. He pressed from the opposite side of the circle, betting that the gunner was fully focused on Neck. If at any time the radar found Waldo, the attack was off and he would turn away. Neck darted behind a ridge and broke the lock. But the radar was waiting for him the moment he cleared the protective terrain. He reversed course, heading away, until the radar locked on. Immediately he turned behind a ridge, broke the lock, and popped up so the radar could find him again. It locked on as he streaked along the top of the ridge, away from the target. This time he made no effort to break the lock. “Six miles out,” Waldo radioed. He was rapidly closing on the target.
Now the timing was critical. Neck pulled up and reversed again, turning toward the radar. He headed for the target and dropped down to the deck, breaking the lock-on. When he was four miles out, he pulled up to fifteen hundred feet, allowing the radar to lock on. His warning gear blasted at him as he came into range. “The trick is good,” Neck radioed.
“I’m in the pop,” Waldo replied. He pulled back on the stick and climbed, going for a visual. He wasn’t disappointed. Eight rapid puffs emerged from the tree canopy as the gunner fired a short burst at Neck. “Break left!” Waldo transmitted, just in case Neck hadn’t seen the smoke. He had and was already in the break, finding safety next to the ground. Although neither pilot saw them, the eight rounds passed overhead and wide. Waldo’s left hand flew over the armament-control panel as he selected bombs ripple. Why waste a Maverick when a pair of Mark-82 AIRs would do the trick? The five-hundred-pound bombs may have been “dumb,” but the weapons delivery system in the Warthog, the low-altitude safety and targeting enhancement system, or LASTE for short, was anything but. The target marched down the projected bomb-impact line in Waldo’s HUD. When all the delivery parameters were met, the bombs pickled automatically.
Neck pulled up to get a visual on Waldo. He saw the other Warthog as the two bombs flashed. A fraction of a second later a third explosion ripped the top of the jungle canopy. Waldo had gotten a secondary, a big bonus in the world of tactical fighters. Almost simultaneously he saw the tunnel entrances. “Target in sight,” Neck radioed. He rolled in and called up a Maverick. He glanced at the TV monitor on the right side of his instrument panel and drove the crosshairs over the middle entrance.
Waldo passed underneath as he ran for safety, away from the gun he had just killed. His RWR gear came alive with a new warning—a monopulse radar. “Break it off!” he shouted over the radio. But it was too late. Two missiles were streaking at the doomed A-10. “Eject!” Waldo yelled as the jet disappeared in a blinding flash. What he didn’t see was a Maverick missile homing in on the tunnel. A deadly calm settled over him as he ruddered his Hog around and dropped below fifty feet, flying below two ridgelines and heading directly for the area where the two missiles came from. He saw what looked like a pile of brush moving down a dirt road. Again he kicked the rudders and brought his Hog’s nose around as he mashed the trigger. A long burst of cannon fire walked through the jungle and up to the camouflaged vehicle.
It disappeared in a fiery cloud.
Tel’s ears were still ringing when he reported back to Kamigami. “I saw it,” he said. “A missile flew right into the middle tunnel entrance and exploded.”
Kamigami listened without comment as Tel filled in the details and other reports came in. “So,” he finally said, doing the grim cost accounting, “one missile on target, one Triple A battery bombed, and one Gecko surface-to-air battery destroyed for the price of a Warthog.”
“No parachute was seen,” Lieutenant Lee told them.
Another report came in from the team watching the tunnels. Four camouflaged transporter/erectors, each loaded with a missile, had exited and were moving south. “They must have a blast shield inside,” Kamigami said. His chin slumped to his chest. “Not a good exchange.” He looked up. “Send a message.”
Camp Alpha
Monday, October 11
Waldo’s flight suit was still wet with sweat as he recapped the mission. There was no attempt to gloss over the simple fact that he had lost his wingman. “I called for a trick-fuck.”
“It may have worked in the Gulf or South Africa,” Maggot said, “but the PLA is a different cat. My guess is they build their defenses in layers, with one weapon system covering for another. What got Neck?”
“I got a radar warning for a monopulse radar. That’s when I called to get the hell out of Dodge.” Waldo thought for a moment, trying to recall every detail. “Wait a minute. The symbol…it was different…it may have flashed at me.” He looked at Maggot, now clearly distraught. “Oh, shit. A Land Roll.” The Land Roll radar was matched to the SAM system NATO called the Gecko, a self-contained, highly mobile system with six missiles on a six-wheeled vehicle. “When did they get those?”
Maggot shook his head. “Who knows? But it looks like the Russians are their supplier of choice. What else do they have?”
Janice Clark joined them. “You
need to see this,” she said, handing Maggot a message.
Maggot scanned it and then carefully reread every word. “It’s from Kamigami. Neck got a Maverick off. Flew right into a tunnel. A shack.” He crumpled the message into a wad. “It didn’t do any good. Twenty minutes later four tactical missiles moved out.” He stood up and took a deep breath. “No parachute was observed.” He slumped into his chair, thinking. Finally he stood up. “Any word from Rockne?” Clark shook her head. “Okay, folks,” Maggot announced. “We’re evacuating. When’s the next C-130 due in?”
“No word yet,” Clark told him. “They said they’d be back but weren’t sure when.” She was deeply worried. “They might not make it.”
“We’ll be ready if they do,” Maggot said. “Have a group standing by ready to board the moment it lands. We can pack ninety to a hundred bodies on board at a time.” He paced the floor. “We’ll shanghai that fucker if we have to.”
Clark parked her minivan under the camouflage netting behind the aircraft shelter and then walked to the rear entrance. Even though it was a short walk, she was sweating and wished her driver were back. By being available, literally at her beck and call, he had increased her efficiency, and she needed him. She banged on the small blast door until someone answered. Inside, a group of men were waiting for her. She checked her clipboard and ticked off the names. “Okay, listen up,” she called. “We’ve got a C-130 due to land in a few minutes. When I give you the high sign, I want you out of here and running for the parking ramp, which is about a hundred yards through the trees. Everyone know where that is?” Nods all around. “Great.” She paused, searching for the right words. “We tried to make a difference here. But it wasn’t in the cards. Now it’s time to go home.” One man headed for the rear door. “What’s the problem?” she called.
The man stopped and turned around. “No offense, Colonel Clark. But I was with the AVG and the general in China. We got chased out of there and, damn it, as long as we got Hogs flying, I ain’t gettin’ chased out of here.” He released the two locking levers and pushed the door open. Two men followed him out.
Clark erased the ticks by their names and looked up. “I promise you this,” she told the men, “I will get them out.” She walked over to the phone on the wall and called the command post for the status on the C-130. “Okay, it’s on short final. GO!” A crew chief hit the switch for the main blast doors, and they started to roll back. The men streamed out, running for the trees. She followed them as the doors cranked closed. She was still in the trees when the Hercules touched down and reversed its props. By the time she reached the parking ramp, it had cleared the runway and was rolling fuel bladders out the back. Then she saw it. The pilots had no intention of stopping for passengers.
She dropped her clipboard and ran for the exit leading to the runway. It was a race between her and the big plane, which was now turning toward the runway, free of its cargo. She won and stood in the middle of the exit, blocking the C-130. But the big bird kept coming, its props howling. She drew her Beretta and used a two-handed shooter’s stance as she aimed directly at the pilot sitting in the left seat.
He got the message and stopped. The crew entrance door flopped open, and the lieutenant colonel from the MAAG stood in the doorway. She could barely hear him over the roar of the engines. “NO PROBLEM…DIDN’T UNDERSTAND.”
“Yeah, right,” she grumbled as the rear cargo door raised and the ramp lowered. The waiting men rushed aboard, and she stepped aside, holstering her weapon.
“WE’LL BE BACK,” he shouted, pulling the entrance door up.
Clark threw the pilot a salute as the Hercules taxied past, and much to her surprise, he returned it. She walked across the ramp and picked up her clipboard. She pulled out her pen and changed the numbers: 104 gone, 481 to go. Then she walked briskly back to her minivan.
“Missy Colonel,” a familiar voice said. “Where you want to go?”
“You’re back!” She almost hugged him in relief. “About time.” He opened the door and she climbed in. “Command post” was all she said.
“General at doctor, not at command post.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Broken bone. But he walk back.” The driver pulled a long face. “Rockne…he very mean man. Kill a man who want to eat Boyca.”
Clark shook her head, wondering what the story was behind that. “I imagine he would.”
The driver stopped beside the med station and ran around to open her door. But Clark was already out and running down the ramp. “I go get general some clothes,” he called to her back. Inside, she found Pontowski sitting on an examination table as Doc Ryan taped his left shoulder. His boots were off, and the upper half of his flight suit was cut away and hanging around his waist. He was filthy, encrusted with dried grunge from the rice paddy, and he had a distinct aroma about him.
For a moment she said nothing as relief flooded over her. “Damn, General. You do need a shower.”
Pontowski cocked an eyebrow. Then the grin was back. “The Hilton was having a few problems with their staff.”
“You are one lucky man,” Ryan said. “Not many walk away from a crash. Other than your shoulder and a few cracked ribs, you seem okay. But God only knows what was in that rice paddy you landed in.” He prepared a syringe. “Antibiotics. Just in case.” He glanced at Clark, who turned away. “Drop your trousers and bend over, sir. This will feel a little warm.” He finished and pointed to the back. “Take a shower while we find you some clothes.”
“My driver is bringing them,” she said. She stood outside while Pontowski showered, and talked through the doorway, bringing him up to date. He was toweling off when a dull thud rocked the bunker. A little dust rained down from the ceiling. “What the hell?” she wondered aloud. Two more thuds, this time more distant, shook the walls. She ran for the entrance, where her driver was standing holding Pontowski’s fatigues and a clean pair of boots.
His eyes were wide. “Mortars. Missy Colonel, you go home now?”
“Not yet,” she told him, taking the clothes from him. The wail of warning Klaxons echoed over the bunker as another mortar round slammed into the base. She closed the blast door and dogged it down.
Washington, D.C.
Monday, October 11
Mazie leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She knew she should go home and get some rest, but an inner need held her close to the White House. A gentle snore drifted across from the couch where Bernie Butler was stretched out. Like her, he couldn’t leave. She glanced at the clock—two in the morning. Again she closed her eyes, but her restless mind drove her on. Upstairs, in the residence, the president was sleeping—why couldn’t she? “Damn,” she muttered, sitting upright. It was Operation Anvil. The Gulf offensive was in its ninth hour, and she needed an update. Maybe then she could go home. She stood and walked out, careful not to disturb the sleeping Butler.
The duty officer in the Situation Room stood when she entered. He knew why she was there, and called up the current status reports coming from the NMCC. “It’s going well,” he told her. Slowly the tension that held her tight gave way. “Casualties are much lighter than expected.” His fingers danced on the keyboard, and the three monitors changed displays. “In the north the Germans are driving hard for Baghdad.”
The door opened, and Bernie Butler entered. He glanced at the monitors and sat down. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. He focused on the center screen. “Lord love a duck. They’re collapsing.” It had taken the United States thirty-six days to halt the UIF’s incursion, build up its forces, and go on the offensive. Now, with the Germans advancing from the north, the UIF was being hammered on the anvil of combat and surrendering en masse. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “It’s all over but the shouting.” Gradually a huge smile spread across his face. “Thirty-six days! Fan…tas…tic!” He drew the word out in exultation, savoring the moment. “Should we wake the president?” he asked.
Mazie shook her head. “She needs the res
t.” The right screen scrolled, and the news got better. Pontowski was safe at Camp Alpha with only minor injuries. Mazie relaxed in her chair and dozed while Butler considered what he had to do. As the acting DCI he could start the process of reform the CIA needed so desperately. Deep in thought, he missed the message on the left screen that Changi Airport in Singapore had been struck by a tactical missile. He made notes on a legal yellow pad as he outlined the changes he had in store for the agency. He would drag the CIA kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century and break the deadly combination of Cold War and bureaucratic mentality that had led to so many failures. Another thought hit him with the force of a train wreck—he was the man to do the job.
The display on the center screen was overridden with a flash message and a loud gong for emphasis. Mazie’s eyes snapped open as Butler’s head came up. The missile that had hit Changi was armed with a nerve-gas agent. Another gong echoed in the room: two more airfields in Singapore had been hit with tactical missiles. They waited as the tension surged. A fourth message came in: Camp Alpha was under mortar attack. The hot line from the NMCC rang, and the duty officer picked it up. He listened for a moment, and his face paled. “Every airfield in Singapore,” he announced, gesturing at the three screens, “has been hit with tactical missiles carrying nerve-gas agents.”
Mazie stood up, her knees weak. “We better wake the president.”
Thirty-four
Washington, D.C.
Monday, October 11
The Army staff car bringing General Mike Wilding and Secretary of Defense Merritt from the Pentagon made record time and turned into the gate leading to the West Wing at exactly 0403 hours. The men waited impatiently while two guards and a dog inspected the car. Not willing to wait, Wilding jumped out and let a guard run a wand over him. Merritt was right behind him, and they ran for the side entrance. Again they had to endure a search before bolting down the stairs to the Situation Room. The Marine guard recognized them and held the door open.
The Last Phoenix Page 39
