The Last Phoenix (31 page)

Turner stood up. “How soon before we can redeploy to Malaysia?”

“We have some hard fighting ahead of us in the Gulf,” Wilding said. “Without Operation Anvil, the Germans are at risk.”

“I’m not asking for you to be a miracle worker,” Turner told him.

Wilding thought for a moment. “Two weeks at the earliest.”

Bobbi Jo floated back to her office on the second floor of the West Wing.
Grau,
she thought, calling up an image of a barbecued seal,
you’re dead meat.
She sat down at her desk and kicked back as it all fell into place. “Lordy, Lord, Lord,” she sang. “Patrick, you should have been there.” She cocked her head, thinking. She rummaged in her gigantic handbag for the tape cassette he had given her at the debate. The clarity of the tape surprised her when she played it, and she instantly recognized Leland’s voice.
Is that the secretary of defense?
she wondered.
Where did Shaw get this?
She replayed it, and all the pieces fell into place. “Oh, my God!”

Shaw had trained her well.

Malaysia

Thursday, October 7

It was still dark when the pilots gathered at the back of the hardened shelter for the mass briefing. Pontowski and Maggot stood at the back while Waldo went down the lineup, detailing each pilot to an aircraft and going over the ATO Pontowski had delivered just after midnight. In principle it was simple enough. SEAC wanted them to keep two A-10s for close air support on station throughout daylight hours, with two more on five-minute alert. When the first two had expended their ordnance or had to return to base to refuel, the two alert birds would launch. Then two more Hogs would come on status, ready to launch in five minutes. But as Waldo pointed out, the simple things are always hard. Then he turned it over to an Intelligence officer to update the situation.

It was the young lieutenant’s first briefing, and his face was somber and his voice matter-of-fact as he reviewed what they were up against. “The PLA is in contact with SEAC here, sixty miles to the northwest.” He pointed to the town of Segamat. “If the PLA can capture the bridge across the river at Segamat, there’ll only be three minor river crossings, all fordable, between them and us.”

“Can we go home now?” a pilot called.

“I’m working on it,” the lieutenant replied, never missing a beat.

The weapons and tactics officer was next. He quickly outlined how the Singapore Air Force would have two F-16s on station for SEAD, or suppression of enemy air defenses. SEAD was a three-dimensional chess game in which the goal was to kill surface-to-air missiles and cheating was required. Then it was Maggot’s turn. “This is the big Kahuna,” he told them, “the reason we’re here. Let’s do it right.”

The pilot called Neck, short for Red Neck, taxied his heavily loaded Hog into position on Waldo’s left side. He gave Waldo the high sign that he was ready to go. Waldo ran his engines up and released his brakes. Neck punched at the clock on his instrument panel, starting the elapsed-time hand. Fifteen seconds later he ran his engines up and, when the second hand touched twenty, released his brakes. The Hog rolled down the runway, slowly at first, then gaining speed. He eased the stick back, and the nose gear came unstuck. He caught a glimpse of Pontowski standing beside his car at the first taxiway intersection. Just as he lifted off, Pontowski threw him a salute.

Waldo turned out to the left, giving Neck cutoff room to join up. Neck slid into an easy route formation on the left. “Fence check,” Waldo ordered. Neck’s hands flew over the switches, making sure his Hog was ready for combat. He double-checked everything, leaving only the master arm switch in the off position. Four minutes later Waldo radioed the ALO, the air-liaison officer, at Segamat. The ALO cleared them into the area and told them to contact the FAC, the forward air controller, on the ground. High above, two F-16s cut a graceful arc, trolling for action. Almost immediately Neck’s radar warning gear was screaming at him. He glanced at the scope. A monopulse radar was active, signifying a SAM launch. Above him, the two F-16s jinked hard, splitting apart. One rolled in on a target, buried its nose, and then pulled up. A missile streaked by, not able to turn with the F-16. The F-16 did a violent Split-S as a sec
ond missile flashed by. Then the second F-16 was in. An antiradiation missile leaped from under its left wing. It was Neck’s first combat mission, and he would not have believed the speed of the antiradiation missile if he hadn’t seen it. His warning gear continued to scream at him, and he turned the volume down. He saw a flash on the ground, and his RWR gear went quiet. The antiradiation missile had done its job.

Waldo contacted the FAC, who asked if he had the green smoke on the northern edge of town in sight. “Affirmative,” Waldo answered, his voice calm. The FAC cleared them to engage any target north or northwest of the green smoke. “Understand cleared in hot,” Waldo transmitted. “Take spacing,” he ordered, dropping to the deck. As they had briefed before taking off, Neck peeled off to the left and leveled off at a hundred feet above the ground to run in at a cross angle behind Waldo. He double-checked his armament-control panel: bombs ripple, stations three and nine, high drag, nose fusing, gun high rate of fire. He was ready. He breathed faster. Ahead of him, Waldo was pulling off, and he saw the silver ballutes, inflatable balloon/parachutes, deploy behind each bomb, slowing them so Waldo could scamper to safety and avoid the bombs’ blast.

“Your six is clear,” Neck radioed. “I’m in.” He headed for the road running north out of the town. Four trucks and what looked like two armored vehicles were at his ten o’clock position. People were scattering in all directions, running for cover. He pulled back on the stick and popped to fifteen hundred feet. He rolled the Hog and apexed at eighteen hundred feet, too high, as he brought the nose around, placing the lead vehicle at the top of his HUD, or head-up display. The target moved down the projected bomb-impact line and into the bomb reticle. Looking good. He depressed the pickle button so the system would automatically release the bombs when all delivery parameters were met. For a fraction of a second the pipper was on the target, centered in the bomb reticle. Six bombs should have rippled off the ejection racks, but nothing happened.

“Go through dry and check your switches,” Waldo radioed.

Neck’s eyes darted over the armament-control panel. The master arm switch was still off, and he suppressed a groan. He had made a switchology error. Furious with himself, he ruddered the Hog around, now determined to kill the trucks and armored vehicles. He moved the master arm switch to the down position. A mental Klaxon sounded, warning him not to pop to altitude. He firewalled the throttles and stayed low as he ran in. The black boxes in the A-10’s weapon-release systems did their magic, and this time six bombs separated cleanly, walking across the trucks.

He pulled off to the left. “Flares!” Waldo shouted over the radio. Neck hit the flare switch on the right throttle. Eight flares popped out behind him just as a Grail homed in. The shoulder-fired missile exploded, sending high-explosive fragmentation into the tail of Neck’s Warthog. The aircraft shuddered as he fought for control. He rolled the wings level as four high-explosive twenty-three-millimeter rounds passed overhead. A fifth round hit the left side of the fuselage, just below the canopy rail, while eight more rounds passed underneath.

Pontowski sat back in his chair, his feet up, chin on his chest, as Waldo debriefed the mission. The words came at him in packets of bad news, telling a tale he had heard many times. “Switchology error…reattacked…my fault, should have been one pass, haul ass…a Grail and ZSU-23 working together…bad juju.” Waldo stood there. “So do we keep at it?”

It was a fair question that demanded an answer. Pontowski looked at Maggot, not willing to take the decision away from him. The monkey was on Maggot’s back, and he knew it. “It’s the first goddamned ten days of combat,” Maggot said. “If we can get a jock through it, his chances of survival go sky high.” He paced the floor. “Neck made three basic mistakes. A switchology error, he hung around to reattack when he should have gotten the hell out of Dodge, and he was late hitting the flare switch.”

He stared over their heads and thought out loud. “A Grail alone can’t do it. It messes up the control surfaces something fierce, but the Hog can handle that. And the tub normally works.” The tub was the titanium armor plating that surrounded the A-10’s cockpit like a bathtub. “We know the F-16s can get their heads down.” He made the decision. “As long as we got F-16s for SEAD, we keep flying. Brief the pilots that from now on it’s one pass, haul ass, stay in the weeds, keep the flares coming, and jink like a son of a bitch.”

“Too bad it cost us a Hog to relearn what we already knew,” Waldo said.

Maggot reached for the phone, punched the button for the med clinic, and asked to speak to Ryan. “Hey, Doc, how’s Neck?” He listened for a moment. “Good enough. Give him back when you’re done.”

Central Malaysia

Thursday, October 7

It was late afternoon when Tel and his team reached the rendezvous point. It was just a spot in the jungle, totally devoid of distinctive features, and Tel checked his GPS. Certain they were at the correct coordinates, he sent his men into defensive fire positions. “Very good,” a voice said from the shadows.

Tel shook his head. “We never saw you.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Kamigami replied. “How’d it go?”

“Lost the lieutenant when we stumbled into a guard post. But we cleared the bridge as planned. The A-10s were on time, but one was shot down before it could release its bombs. We were taking counterbattery fire and had to withdraw.”

Kamigami appreciated his understatement. “And the bridge?” Kamigami asked.

“The last I saw, it was still standing. I don’t know if the AVG went back after it or not. We had other problems. I got
to admit, those bastards chasing us were good. Luckily, it was night, or we would’ve never made it.”

Kamigami asked him more questions and reconstructed the mission, approving of the way he had ambushed his pursuers. Without doubt, Tel had proven himself. “We’ve got marching orders,” he told the young man. “We’re going after the Scuds in the Taman Negara. We rendezvous with three helicopters tomorrow morning and switch out the men before insertion.”

“I want to stay,” Tel said.

Kamigami shook his head. “I need you back at Alpha for a formal debrief.” It was a weak excuse, and both men knew it. “Get some rest. We move out in an hour.” Tel turned to leave and find a tree to rig his hammock. “One thing,” Kamigami said, stopping him. “What happened to the midnight pisser the corporal took out?” One of the hard facts of special operations was that you couldn’t take prisoners in the field.

Tel hesitated. Did he want to admit that he had stripped the unconscious man, strung him up by his heels over the stream, and punched two holes in his neck? “He’s still there, hanging around.” He couldn’t help himself. “Someone will find him.”

Washington, D.C.

Thursday, October 7

The ExCom gathered in the Situation Room for the ten o’clock meeting and quietly found their places. Vice President Kennett looked across the table and nodded at Mazie and Butler. “Well done,” he said.

“The waiting was the hardest part,” Mazie said. “I wasn’t sure if von Lubeck could deliver.”

“It is a new role for the Germans,” Butler said. “Personally, I was more worried about the Turks.” He fell silent when the door opened, and came to his feet when the president entered. Everyone in the room joined him.

For a moment she stood there, her eyes bright and clear. Then she smiled. “The drummer’s gone.”

Butler hoped his face did not give him away. As acting DCI, he had a few options not available to the average human being, not to mention politician, and had simply exercised one. Madeline Turner smiled at him, and the color drained from his face. There was no doubt that she knew. “Please be seated,” she said, letting him off the hook.

“The protesters hate success, Madam President,” General Wilding said. “May I offer my congratulations for Operation Saracen?” He searched for the right words, not wanting to sound like a brown-nosing apple polisher. “Convincing our allies to open a second front was brilliant.”

“The credit belongs to Mazie and Bernie,” she said.

Wilding allowed a tight smile—he knew how it worked. “If I may,” he said, starting the briefing. For the first time in weeks the news was good, and all the tension and worry that had borne down on him with a relentless and crushing weight was finally lifting. “Operation Saracen is going well, and the Germans reached Mosul two hours ago, nine hours ahead of schedule. The Iraqis have fallen back into the city and are showing unexpected resistance. The Germans plan to leave a covering force in place, bypass the city, and drive for Baghdad. In the south, Operation Anvil is hammering hard at Saddam’s Spider.” He warmed to the subject, venting his pent-up frustration while reveling in the change of events. “We plan to open a major offensive in seventy-two hours. We’re going to hold them by the nose while kicking them in the butt.” But then reality intruded, and he clamped a tight control on his emotions. “We still have some hard fighting in front of us, Madam President. But we have the logistics and personnel in place to do the job now.”

Turner tapped her fingers together. “Malaysia?” she asked.

The screens on the TV cycled, and Wilding took a deep breath. “The situation is unclear, Madam President.” He pointed to SEAC’s defensive line centered on Segamat. “It appears that SEAC is holding. Unfortunately, the AVG lost another aircraft earlier today, but the pilot was unhurt and has returned to duty.”

“Stay on top of it,” Turner ordered, “and do what you
can.” Her voice turned to steel. “I hope you’ve started planning for redeployment to Malaysia.”

“Indeed we have, Madam President,” Wilding replied. “But the lack of airlift is the limiting factor.”

The briefing was over, and Turner came to her feet. The ExCom stood with her. “We’ll fix that problem when this is all over,” she promised. She paused for a moment. “I can’t thank you enough.” Her voice cracked with emotion, and she quickly left. Outside, in the corridor, shouting and cheering coming from the main floor echoed down the stairs. Nancy reached for her personal communicator to warn the staff that the president was returning to the Oval Office, but Turner stopped her. “Let them enjoy the moment,” she said. “They’ve earned it.”

Rather than return directly to her office, she strolled through the West Wing, keeping in the background. Everyone was clustered in front of TVs and bouncing with excitement as reporters and political pundits searched for the right words to describe the turn of events. Even the most hostile commentators were comparing Operation Saracen to General Douglas MacArthur’s Inchon landing in the Korean War.

“A brilliant maneuver…”

“Governor Grau strangely silent…”

“Syria’s ambassador to the United Nations has petitioned for an in-place cease-fire.”

A loud “No way!” chorused from her staff.