“Can you make all that happen?” Carroll asked.
“Of course not,” Piccard humphed. “Only Congress can do this to itself.” He paused, thinking. “Tuesday I would say. Yes, you definitely have until Tuesday.” He rose to leave. “May I have the tape, please?” Carroll handed it to him. “By the way, I mentioned wagers being made. Mrs. Nevers will be successful, you know. Do not bet against her.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Ultimately, she will have her pound of flesh.” It was a warning. He smiled graciously and walked slowly out of the office.
Beneath Piccard’s courtly southern manner beat the heart of a shark—a very polite, civilized, man-eating shark.
Saturday, October 19
Bose Airfield, China
The first C-130 entered the safe passage corridor leading to the airfield shortly after midnight. It slowed to 130 knots, turned on all its lights, and tried to look very friendly. The pilot didn’t want a Stinger coming his way. The cargo plane was one mile out when the runway lights flicked on. The pilot slammed the Hercules down, reversed the props, and turned off at the first taxiway. The runway and taxipath lights snapped off, forcing him to stop. The field was totally blacked out. A Follow Me truck blinked its lights at the cockpit and the pilot taxied after the truck, trusting the driver to keep him on the taxiway.
The only spot of light on the parking apron was the C-130 as it prepared to off-load. The pilot kept the engines running while the cargo door at the rear swung up and the loading ramp lowered. A forklift rolled down the ramp, turned around and off-loaded the four remaining pallets of cargo. It wasn’t much.
Pontowski’s transportation officer spoke to the pilot while the first seventy passengers evacuating the air base climbed on board. The pilot told him that two more C-130s were right behind him and that one KC-10 was scheduled in with a load of fuel and twenty pallets of cargo before morning. The transportation officer gave him a thumbs-up and hopped off the plane. The taxi and takeoff drill went smoothly and the C-130 was airborne six minutes later, heading for Cam Ranh Bay.
The American Volunteer Group was pulling out of China.
“Gear down,” Captain Rodrigo Murphy called as he angled his KC-10 into the safe passage corridor. “Where the hell is the field?” he asked. The copilot looked straight ahead, straining to see in the night. Nothing. “Flaps, slats,” Murphy said, continuing with the before-landing checklist. Finally, he couldn’t wait any longer. “Bose Tower, Prima. I need runway lights if you want me to land.” Flying an aircraft weighing over 190 tons on a short approach into an eight-thousand-foot strip was not what the engineers at McDonnell Douglas had in mind when they designed the wide-bodied jet. But this particular twenty-seven-year-old captain was going to do it.
The runway lights came on and the flight engineer sitting behind the copilot gasped. They were high and fast on the glide slope. He solved the problem by concentrating on his panel. Murphy slowed the plane to 150 knots and touched down at 140. He slammed the throttles full aft, deploying the thrust reversers on the outboard engines. He came down heavy on the brakes as the heavy jet ate up the runway, slowly dragging the jet to a halt in six thousand feet.
“One-eighty, two hundred, two-twenty,” the flight engineer called, reading the brake temperature gauge. Outside, an acrid-smelling smoke billowed off the main trucks. “Three hundred,” the flight engineer said. “Damn, it’s still going up.” He was worried about a fire and blown tires. Finally, the needle stopped moving at 320 degrees centigrade. “Brake temp stabilized,” he told the crew.
“Bose tower,” Murphy transmitted over the UHF radio. “Where do you want me to park this puppy?”
“Do a one-eighty on the runway and taxi back to the first turnoff.”
“I need 147 feet to turn around,” Murphy answered. “The runway is 150 feet wide,” the tower replied.
“Get the Follow Me,” Murphy said. “This is gonna be tight.”
The Follow Me truck came out of the dark and a man jumped out with a pair of lighted wands to guide the pilot through the turn. He motioned the giant aircraft forward and to the side of the runway. When the right main tire was on the very edge, he motioned Murphy to start a hard left turn. Murphy cracked the throttles and the KC-10 swung around. The nose gear on the KC-10 is seventy-five feet behind the cockpit and the nose of the aircraft was well out over the dirt on the opposite side of the runway as they came through the turn. “Lookin’ good,” the copilot said.
The nose gear was two feet from the edge when the runway collapsed under the weight. Over the years, the concrete and substrata had decayed and the heavy footprint of the KC-10’s nose gear buried the two tires in six feet of cement and gravel. The KC-10 nosed over and stopped, its tail in the air.
The flight engineer muttered, “Ah shit. There go all the atta boys.” True to Air Force tradition, this one “Ah shit” incident was going to cancel out a lifetime’s worth of “Atta boys,” the pats on the back that meant promotion and a career. But promotion was the last thing on Murphy’s mind. His jet had blocked the runway.
Pontowski walked around the nose gear of the KC-10, examining the damage. “Any ideas?” he asked Murphy.
The crew of the KC-10 gathered around Pontowski and they worked the problem. Ray Byers joined them and listened as they talked. This is turning into a dick dance, he thought. Somebody needs to take charge. He did. “Look, we got lots of labor here. I’ll get all the bodies you need to dig a ramp in front of the nose gear while you offload as much cargo as you can. Then you can taxi it out of its hole.”
The staff sergeant in charge of the load team that had flown in on the KC-10 explained how they had to erect the on board loader below the cargo hatch before they could offload the twenty pallets of cargo still on board. If they busted their butts, it would take about five hours. The KC-10’s boom operator, who did double duty as a loadmaster, said, “Once we’re offloaded, we can transfer fuel to the aft fuselage fuel tanks and make the Gucci Bird tail heavy. That will lighten the load on the nose gear.”
Byers examined the concrete around the nose gear. “It’s gonna take some time to break through all this shit and dig a ramp. Let’s get to it.”
Pontowski pulled Murphy and Byers aside. “Don’t kill anybody but make it happen—quick.”
Saturday, October 19
The bridge, near Bose, China
It was dawn when Kamigami climbed out of his Humvee and stood on the eastern approach to the bridge. A mass of refugees were pushing across the single-lane structure, trying to find safety on the other side. He watched impassively as a group of soldiers halted the civilians and cleared a path for his First Battalion. He hated to make the choice between civilians and his soldiers, but there was no alternative.
The PLA had thrown soldiers and then tanks at him, slowly wearing his regiment down. Only the heavy rains and mud had saved them. Thanks to the weather, the tanks had separated from their supporting infantry and had pressed ahead alone. Without enemy soldiers to contend with, his TOW missile teams had picked off the tanks one by one. But they hadn’t been able to stop the slow, relentless advance of Kang’s forces.
Why, Kamigami thought, am I best at retreating? He pulled into himself, thinking. When should he pull his rear guard across and blow the bridge? What about the refugees still streaming across, running from Kang? Could he condemn them to a certain death? He knew the answer. He gave orders to dig in on the eastern approaches and to rig the bridge with demolitions.
He looked up at the sky. The clouds were still dark and threatening but he could see breaks in the lower deck. He took his poncho off and carefully folded it before he handed it to his driver. The weather had again become neutral and the A-10s could start to fly.
Kamigami tried to gauge the condition of his men as they straggled by. Many were wounded and all were exhausted and dirty. He recognized the sergeant from Horse Company he had spoken to one night on the bank of the Pearl River. “Sergeant Wan,” he called, motioning him over.
Wan Yan Fu pulled himself erect and saluted his general. There was a defiant pride in every gesture. “I see you are still looking after your men,” Kamigami said.
“I’ve lost many of them, General,” Wan replied. “But we are still fighting.”
“What do your men say?” Kamigami asked.
“They talk about being safe on the other side of the bridge. It is rumored that Miss Li said the dragons will protect us if we destroy the bridge.”
“Tell your men that is my intention.”
“Thank you, sir.” Wan saluted again and hurried to catch up with his men.
His small staff was clustered around the communications Humvee, shifting nervously as they waited for him. “Sir,” his operations officer said, “the runway at Bose is closed. The A- l Os cannot take off.”
They had lost the close air support Kamigami had been counting on with the improvement in the weather. He grabbed the situation chart and jabbed a finger at the symbol for enemy tanks advancing toward them. “How current is this position?” he asked.
His intelligence officer answered. “It was reported ten minutes ago.”
He turned to his logistics officer. “Do we have any more TOW missiles?”
“Fifteen arrived by airlift last night. I sent two trucks to pick them up. But the refugees …” he pointed to the clogged road.
“Get the TOWs here as quick as you can,” Kamigami said. “I want all units but Ox Company across the bridge.”
“Their captain is seriously wounded,” his operations officer said.
“Is he still in command?” Kamigami asked. It was a pointless question. Ox Company was one of the original nine companies of the First Regiment and one of the best. The captain would only give up his command if he were totally incapacitated or dead. “I’m going to Ox Company,” he told his staff. He climbed into his Humvee and ordered the driver back up the road. The refugees scattered like leaves in a wind as the Humvee plowed against the flow. He was going to command the rear guard and bring it across the bridge.
Ox Company was withdrawing in order and a mile short of reaching the bridge when three tanks burst out of a hiding place on their right, leveling shanties and a barn. The tanks paused as soldiers surged out of their hiding places and moved into the protective shadow of the tanks. Kamigami saw the developing threat on his flank and ordered a TOW team with their last missile into position while the rest of the company deployed into defensive positions. The wounded captain riding in his Humvee made a soft sound and Kamigami bent over him. “Use the Dragons,” the captain whispered. The Dragon was a shoulder-fired, medium-range antitank missile, but it was only marginally effective against a main battle tank like the T-59s coming at them.
“They will have to get very close,” Kamigami said. It was tantamount to a suicide mission.
“They will do it,” the captain said. Kamigami gave the order to a runner and turned back to the captain. He was dead.
“Take the captain across the bridge,” he told his driver. He scanned the advancing tanks and infantry with his binoculars. One of the tanks stopped and its turret traversed in his direction. A smoke trail streaked toward the tank. A Dragon. Before the tank could fire, the Dragon exploded. The smoke cleared and the tank fired as another Dragon homed on the tank. The round whistled harmlessly over Kamigami’s head as the tank fireballed.
A mortar barrage rained down on the two remaining tanks, driving the soldiers to cover. Kamigami spoke into his radio and ordered Ox Company to pull back to the bridge in a series of leapfrog maneuvers. When he saw that most of the company was across, he ran for the bridge.
Most of the refugees still on the eastern side of the bridge had found cover when the tanks started shooting and the bridge was clear of traffic when Kamigami sprinted across. He was closely followed by a few soldiers. In the distance, a battered jeep and small truck raced for the bridge. The TOW team was in the jeep and the last of Ox Company was in the truck. Mortars laid a smoke barrage behind them, giving them a little cover as they dashed for the bridge.
Refugees surged across the bridge, desperate to reach safety. The driver of the jeep slowed but kept coming, pushing through the mass of humanity. A rage boiled in Kamigami. He couldn’t blow the bridge with all these people still on it. But how could he stop them from pushing onto the bridge? “Lay smoke on the eastern approach,” he ordered. Immediately, the mortar teams raised the elevation of their tubes and laid a barrage of smoke on the eastern approach. But it didn’t work, and the refugees kept rushing forward, through the smoke, and jamming onto the bridge. The smoke blew away. The lead tank was a kilometer from the bridge.
His face hardened. “Fire one round of canister,” he ordered. His stomach twisted into a knot as a single antipersonnel round was lobbed into the mass of refugees still pouring onto the bridge. It worked and the crowd on the eastern approach retreated while the people still on the bridge surged ahead, slowly clearing the bridge.
Kamigami forced himself to raise his binoculars and see the carnage he had ordered. It sickened him. I’m no better than Kang, he thought. These are the people I want to help. Now I’m killing them.
The bridge was almost clear of people as the lead tank clanked up the approach, running over anyone in its path, alive or dead. It advanced onto the bridge, its machine gun firing. “Now!” Kamigami shouted, ordering the bridge to be blown. The sergeant holding the detonator twisted the dial. Nothing. The man looked up in desperation and reset the detonator. Again he twisted and still no explosion. The tank was halfway across the bridge.
Kamigami pointed at the jeep-mounted TOW to take out the tank. The jeep maneuvered into position behind an abutment and the missile flashed out of its launcher, flying straight down the lane, directly at the tank, hitting the turret. The explosion blew the turret askew. Then an internal explosion sent the turret arcing over the side of the bridge into the gorge below. A hail of machine gun fire from both sides raked the bridge.
Again, the sergeant tried to detonate the explosives he had placed. No response. Four of Kang’s soldiers raced onto the bridge and crawled over the railing, looking for the detonator leads. Kamigami borrowed an M-16 and picked one off, dropping him into the gorge. Then one of the soldiers hanging on the side of the bridge raised his fist, holding a severed wire. Kamigami shot him.
But it was too late. The bridge was still standing.
CHAPTER 23
Saturday, October 19
Bose Airfield, China
Pontowski and Leonard stood well back from the KC-10. The huge plane looked even bigger in daylight and Pontowski seriously doubted if they could free the nose gear from the hole it had punched in the concrete. Slowly, he walked toward the load crew, who were still assembling the on board loader. “It does look like a huge erector set,” he told Leonard.
The load crew had their shirts off and looked exhausted. “We should be finished in maybe another hour,” the staff sergeant in charge of the crew told them.
“What happened to him?” Leonard asked, pointing to one member of the team who was hobbling around, bent over, but still working.
“He tried to do a Rambo and lift too heavy a beam by himself,” the sergeant said. “Probably got a hernia.”
“We’ll take care of him,” Pontowski said. He keyed his small radio and called for the flight surgeon. We owe these kids big time, he thought, and all I can do is watch. The oldest was twenty-three, two of them couldn’t legally drink, and one was a woman. The irony of it struck home. Everything came down to them.
The pilot of the KC-10, Captain Rodrigo Murphy, joined them. “They’re busting their butts, sir,” he said. “And the Chinese, can you believe it?” He gestured in the direction of Marchioni’s villagers. Marchioni was with them as they chipped at the concrete with picks and hammers and chisels. They were carving out a long, sloping ramp down to the nose gear. It looked like an impossible task, but they were doing it.
“Are we blowing smoke here?” Leonard asked.
&nb
sp; It was a fair question and Pontowski didn’t answer at first. He measured the pace of the work going on around him. Should he evacuate by land and try to launch his Warthogs from the dirt? That wasn’t an option. The roads were crowded with refugees and the dirt was too soft after all the rain. “Tango,” he finally said, “we don’t have a choice.”
Maggot’s voice crackled at him over his personal radio. “Bossman, we need you in the Gopher Hole big time.” There was an unusual urgency in Maggot’s voice. And Maggot would rather die than sound bad on a radio.
“Be right there,” he answered. He turned to Murphy. “Captain, how many bodies can you shove on board the Ten?”
“Pack ‘em in like sardines? Maybe five hundred,” the pilot answered.
Pontowski called Marchioni over to him. “Charlie, we’re taking your village with us. Every man, woman, and child.”
“I can’t take them back to Vietnam,” Murphy protested.
“Fly them to Kunming,” Pontowski said. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave them here for Kang.” He jumped into his truck and raced for the Gopher Hole. The bunker was just as he had left it—a madhouse of activity. Maggot pointed to Trimler, who was standing in the communications section, talking on a radio. “The PLA is on the bridge,” the general said.
“I thought Kamigami was going to blow it,” Pontowski replied. “If the PLA takes the bridge intact, there’s nothing to stop them from reaching the airfield.” Panic brushed against his skin. It surprised him how real it felt. Stop that, he chided himself. You’re getting tired.
Trimler shook his head. “He tried and failed. There’s a destroyed tank on the center span and one hell of a firefight going on. Kamigami’s not sure how long he can hold before they push across. Can you bomb the bridge?”
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