Von Drexler considered his next move. Originally, he had intended to capitalize, as he had at the Pentagon, on having the grandson of a former president of the United States work for him. Since Pontowski had never played politics at the Pentagon, he considered it a safe move. Apparently, Pontowski had changed. The last thing he wanted on his staff was an ambitious subordinate officer who had the inclination, and the connections, to play politics.
So much for the stick, Pontowski thought. Now it’s carrot time. “As you know, sir, Captain Leonard was recently promoted to major. I’ve selected him to be the detachment commander at Guilin and he’s there now doing a site survey. He reports that base defense is nonexistent. I don’t see how we can provide proper security for ten Warthogs, much less thirty-six.” He didn’t complete the thought. Someone would have to take the heat if an infiltrator destroyed any parked A-10s.
Von Drexler had a nominee for that someone. “I need you on the combined staff,” he said. His voice was smooth and reasonable. “But I also have an obligation to protect my resources at Guilin. Given your experience, it would be best if you bedded down the wing at Guilin. We can reconsider your assignment to my staff later, once the operation at Guilin is up and running.”
Pontowski made sure his voice carried the right amount of disappointment when he acknowledged his new orders. Twenty minutes later, he walked into the squadron, twirling his flight cap on a finger. “We’re moving to Guilin,” he told Hester and Waters.
“We?” Waters asked.
“All of us,” he replied. “I just had to explain it to the general in terms he understood.”
Friday, July 12
Guilin, China
The two Warthogs approached from the south, flying a relaxed route formation above a carpet of white puffy clouds that reached to the far horizon. Patches of vibrant green broke through an occasional gap in the clouds below them and set a contrast to the brilliant blue of the sky.
Inside the cockpit of the lead jet, Pontowski relaxed into the seat and scanned the sky, taking in the panorama. The grinding burden of command slipped away and a rare feeling of contentment claimed him. I haven’t smelled the roses in a long time, he thought. His mind roamed and a memory of Shoshana running down a golden beach on their honeymoon teased him for a moment, only to be replaced by an aching feeling. He missed his wife.
“Guilin on the nose,” Maggot radioed. “Twenty miles.” The forty-minute flight from Nanning was coming to an end and reality with all its harsh demands was back. He and Maggot were the first of the Warthogs flying in from Nanning and he had to get the wing bedded down and operational as soon as possible. Pontowski rocked his wings and Maggot collapsed into a tight formation as they descended through a break in the clouds. “Storybook time,” Maggot said.
It was true. Below them, green rice paddies and five-hundred-foot-high, steep-sided karst mountains wove a spectacular mosaic with the Lijiang River. It was a landscape that existed only in fantasies and Guilin. Pontowski led Maggot up the Lijiang and circled the town, prolonging the flight. Finally, he contacted the tower and the two Warthogs circled to land at the only airport, located six kilometers south of town.
A crowd of Chinese waved at the two Warthogs as they taxied past the passenger terminal to the ramp where a large collection of green tents and vehicles indicated the Americans had set up base. The area was alive with activity as they taxied into the chocks. Two crew chiefs unfurled a large, freshly painted banner: WELCOME TO NEVER NEVER LAND. “Oh, I hope so,” Maggot radioed just before he shut engines down.
Tango Leonard was waiting with a staff car and a broad smile. “Welcome to Guilin,” he said. “When do the rest of the Hogs get here?”
“They’ll be coming in later today,” Pontowski told him. “Has the main convoy arrived?” He was worried about the trucks and buses that had taken the overland route.
“They pulled in an hour ago. No problems.”
Pontowski decided to let him off the hook. “Sara is flying in tomorrow on a C-130 with the stragglers.”
Leonard beamed. “Boss, this may be the fastest and best unit move in the history of the Air Force. Wait till you see our quarters. We’ve got the Holiday Inn downtown. It’s fantastic.”
“How did you manage that?”
“The Junkyard Dogs bought it.” Leonard managed not to laugh at the shocked look on Pontowski’s face. “They said it was a fire sale,” Leonard told him.
The wing had been at Guilin two weeks when Sara Waters decided it was time to do something. She had sent out all the right signals, said the right words, and certainly let John Leonard know she was available. Now she had to get him out of neutral and moving in the right direction. There was no doubt that he was attracted to her and equally, she was sure of her feelings about him. Maybe, she thought, it’s because I’m older than him. Maybe seven years does make a difference. “What the hell,” she mumbled, “do something, even if it’s wrong.”
Working and living with fighter pilots had given her a new approach to problem solving. She plotted her tactics, chose her weapons, and went on the attack. First, Pontowski. She cornered him in his office and fired her opening salvo. “Sir, the men are getting bored. We’re not flying that much and the war seems to have died down. They’re calling it a ‘phony war’ and need something to occupy their attention.”
Pontowski had heard the same grumblings. “We’re not flying as much as I’d like because of a fuel shortage,” he explained. “We need to hold a reserve for combat. And this isn’t a phony war, it’s just the way it’s being fought. It will heat up again.” He grinned at her. “You have ‘something’ in mind about the boredom?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to scout around the countryside and find a school or orphanage we can adopt. I’d be gone a day or two.” She smiled sweetly when he said it sounded like a good idea. “I can’t go alone”—she hoped she wasn’t blushing—”and we’ll need a project officer.” He asked if she had a name. “Tango Leonard,” she answered. “Well,” she hastened to add, “we’ve worked together before and he was a schoolteacher.”
“See if he’ll volunteer,” Pontowski said, certain that he would.
Now it was Leonard’s turn. Waters drove back to the hotel and checked the pool. Leonard was stretched out on a sun lounge reading. You are looking better, she thought. He had lost his pudgy, potato shape and looked lean and hungry. She went to her room and changed into a swimsuit, a conservative one-piece. She appraised herself in the mirror. Not bad, she thought. Then she stripped it off and changed into plan B. My God! she thought, I feel naked. The flimsy string bikini was shocking. “Perfect,” she announced to the image in the mirror. She picked up a towel, suntan lotion, and a book and went down to the pool. Twenty minutes later, she had her volunteer.
A morning mist drifted over the river, shrouding the bases of the mountains and the far shore. Leonard opened the window of the room he had found at the best hotel in Yangshuo, a small town thirty-five miles south of Guilin. He sat on the sill and took the morning in. A fisherman poled his long raft of five bamboo logs out of the mist. Below him, the first of the farmers bringing their produce to market made their way down the narrow street.
Sara Waters padded across the room and sat on his lap. She was wearing his shirt and leaned back into his arms. “I love this place,” she said. He held her and said nothing. “Do we have to go back?” For the first time in years, she felt content. Too often in the past, she had found herself looking for a substitute for Muddy, and she knew that was wrong. Now that was behind her. They sat in the window, saying nothing as the town came to life.
“We do have to go back,” Leonard finally said. “But we had better find a school or orphanage first.”
“I’ve already found a school,” she said. “Orphanages are harder to come by.”
“Sara!” he was shocked. “Did you plan this?” Now it was time to play coy and she didn’t answer. “One thing,” he said. “Please don’t ever wear that bikini in publ
ic again.”
He kissed her neck, sending shivers down her back. She felt like a schoolgirl again. “I did have to get your attention.” She understood fighter pilots only too well. They liked to chase wild, flashy women. But once caught, they wanted respectability. Only Leonard would see that swimsuit again, in or outside the bedroom. She laughed to herself at how easy it was.
The squadron building was quiet when Pontowski arrived. He checked his watch: 0715. He wandered through the offices. Only Frank Hester was at work. We’re too kicked back, too relaxed, he thought. We need some tension, an edge, or it won’t be long before boredom will cause problems. It’s this place, he decided.
“Ripper called in,” Hester told him. “She’ll be back later this afternoon. She says they found a school.” A crooked grin crossed his face. “I’ll bet that’s not all they found.”
Pontowski walked outside, thinking. He was responsible for fifty pilots, counting himself and Hester, thirty-six Warthogs, 625 maintenance troops, 174 support personnel, and four Junkyard Dogs. They were isolated in a beautiful resort town in southern China on the end of a tenuous supply line, living a pampered life in a luxury hotel, and all bored silly because the war they had come to fight had suddenly evaporated. Or had it?
Time to start doing walkabouts, he decided. It was a trick he had learned from his grandfather. Nothing, the late president had often claimed, shakes the tree more than the boss dropping in for a friendly chat from time to time. Strictly unannounced, of course.
He headed for the flight line two kilometers away. Rather than drive, he decided to walk, since he felt the need for exercise. The road looped around a fruit orchard and did not run directly to the flight line. He followed the road until it reached a well-worn path that cut through the trees. Without thinking, he turned down the shortcut. It was a mistake.
At first, he didn’t see the two men and only a darting movement at his deep left caught his attention. A warning sensation rocked him with an intensity that sent his adrenaline racing. He keyed the hand-held radio that had become a permanent part of his existence and tied him to the squadron. “Groundhog,” he transmitted. “How read?” No answer. The schedulers and SOF hadn’t reported for work yet.
He chanced a quick look, checking his back. Now he could see two men coming toward him, moving from tree to tree. With a force he could not credit, Jin Chu’s words came back. “You have many enemies and Kang will send men to kill you,” she had said. He cursed himself for not believing her. He started to run. Again, he keyed his radio. “Mayday! Mayday! Bossman transmitting in the blind. I’m being chased by two men through the orchard west of the flight line.” Again, no answer.
Another backward glance. The men were running, silently and with purpose. A bitter taste flooded his mouth and he ran harder. Ahead of him he could see the hangars and safety. His body responded as he put on a burst of speed and jinked to his left.
A third man was angling in from that side, carrying an automatic pistol with a distinctive silencer. Pontowski cut back to the right, away from the hangars. He heard a soft pop—the man was firing—and bark flew off a tree to his immediate left. Three more pops. He was outdistancing the two men behind him but the lone man on his left was forcing him to cut back farther and farther to the right.
Pontowski was no hero and had no self-delusions. He was bigger than the Chinese pursuing him and for the moment, faster. But he had experienced enough combat to know the odds. He had to escape or be killed. Then he realized the two men behind him were deliberately lagging as his pursuer on the left herded him away from safety and back into the trees.
It was a well-executed, fast-developing cutoff tactic. His internal clock, the sense of elapsed time that is the key to situational awareness, clicked to ten. He had been running approximately ten seconds. It was going down fast and he would be dead within seconds. More pops.
There was only one choice open to him and he didn’t like it. Pontowski buttonhooked to his left and ran straight at the single man who had been running the cutoff. Less than twenty feet separated them. Pontowski snarled as the man skidded to a halt and leveled his pistol straight at Pontowski’s chest. Pontowski faked a move to his right and cut back to his left. Two rapid pops. He was still moving.
Pontowski yelled as he hurled his small radio at his assailant. Just before they collided, his right hand swept across and knocked the pistol out of his opponent’s hand. It flew into the trees as he threw a massive body block into the smaller man. He never lost his balance and kept on running.
And he knew he was dead.
Ahead of him, a boy was aiming an automatic at him. An ugly sneer split his face as he fired. “Colonel!” the boy yelled. “Drop!” The boy was aiming behind him and he was in the way. He rolled to the ground as the boy fired again. Silence. The boy darted past him and examined the bodies of the three men lying on the ground.
Pontowski pushed himself to his knees and took deep breaths. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. The boy came back, a disappointed look on his face. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “they are dead. We can’t question them now. You are very lucky, Colonel Pontowski.”
“I owe you,” Pontowski said. Then he placed the boy. He was one of the numerous Chinese civilians the wing hired to do odd jobs and build revetments for sheltering the A-10s. “Who do you work for?” Pontowski asked. Coherent thought was starting to return. There were many questions he wanted to ask.
“General Kamigami sent us because Miss Li said you were in danger.” The boy looked around, now nervous and wanting to leave.
“How did you know I was in trouble?”
The boy reached behind his back and unsnapped a radio from his belt. It was a duplicate of Pontowski’s. “I heard you call for help.”
“Who sent them?” Pontowski gestured at the three bodies.
The boy shrugged. “Kang, perhaps.” Then he was gone, running through the trees.
Pontowski looked around. He was very much alone. Slowly, he retraced his steps and examined the bodies. The boy was an excellent shot. He found his radio, knocked the dirt off and hit the transmit button. This time Hester answered. “Where are you, Boss?”
“In the orchard,” he answered. “I was bushwhacked. Send security.” Supposedly, the base was guarded by a unit from the New China Guard. A lot of good they did, he thought. But he was grateful for his unknown protectors. He made a mental promise to thank Kamigami and return the favor.
He headed back for the squadron, reconstructing the incident in his mind. He calculated less than three minutes had elapsed since he entered the orchard. “You die quick in China,” he muttered to himself.
CHAPTER 12
Saturday, July 27
Hanoi, Vietnam
It escaped the maitre d’ of Hanoi’s newest tourist hotel why four of his country’s most influential government bureaucrats wanted to discuss business in the lounge. It was hurting business but, until they left, he had to give them the privacy they demanded. He glanced at the growing line—no one of importance. He would keep the lounge closed until the bureaucrats finished their business. But his curiosity was piqued. Who were the two Americans they were talking to?
He breathed a sigh of relief when the four officials stood and the men shook hands. He dropped the rope when the four marched out, obviously uncomfortable in their new western-style suits and doing business in an informal setting. After years of stagnation, Vietnam was rapidly changing.
Ray Byers sank back into the low overstuffed chair and signaled a waiter for two more beers. Little Juan Alvarez eyed the crowd that was now flooding into the lounge. He was hoping to see the pretty staff assistant who was part of the U.S. congressional delegation that was also in Hanoi. She had been a welcome distraction during the boring evenings. “Whatcha think?” he asked.
“We got a deal,” Byers said. It had been easier than he had expected and the Junkyard Dogs had reserved the tonnage needed to move freight on the Hanoi to Nanning railroad.
&
nbsp; The lounge was full when Hazelton appeared at the rope. Byers waved at him and the maitre d’ allowed him to enter. “Damn,” Hazelton swore as he settled into a chair, “we’re getting nowhere with the Vietnamese. Are you doing any better?”
“No problem,” Byers replied. “Drink?”
“A Dubonnet would be fine,” Hazelton said. Byers made a face and ordered the drink.
“What’s the hangup?” Alvarez asked, still scanning the crowd. If the staffer didn’t show, he would find another target of opportunity.
“They want truck parts,” Hazelton explained. “Now where is the U.S. government going to find parts for Russian trucks?”
Byers shot Alvarez a quick look. “Zils or Urals?” he asked. Both Soviet-designed trucks were outstanding workhorses and did yeoman duty in Vietnam.
“Zil 157s,” Hazelton replied.
“We can do that,” Byers told him. “But we’ll need TVs to trade.”
“Nice,” Alvarez said, looking at the crowd. Hazelton looked up, wondering what female had caught his attention. Alvarez did have a way of attracting beautiful and interesting women. Hazelton only saw Mazie, the Frump, who was his boss, walking toward their table. Well, he thought, she has lost weight. Then he noticed the approving looks from two men at a nearby table. It’s her eyes, he decided. Having them fixed like Miho Toragawa’s gave her an exotic, innocent look.
“Any progress on the truck parts?” Mazie asked as she sat down.
“Not until now,” Hazelton replied.
“Two years ago,” Byers explained, “the Chinese bought truck factories lock, stock, and barrel from the Russians. We can tap them for parts—for the right price.” Mazie raised an eyebrow, her way of asking what the price was. “TV sets,” Byers answered.
“No doubt tuned to Chinese frequencies,” Mazie added. “That’s the way we do business,” Byers said.
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