The Last Phoenix (42 page)

All that counted now was overwhelming violence. The two shooters left behind knew they were the rear guard. One fell to the ground and held his M-16 around the corner and fired blindly down the center tunnel. The other shooter stood over him and jammed his M-79 grenade launcher around the corner. He squeezed off four shots, sending forty-millimeter grenades into the densely packed men. He pulled back and waited. His partner was up and retreated down the cross gallery to the left tunnel, slapping a fresh magazine into his M-16.

At the same time Kamigami and Lee ran for the next intersection, with the shooter right behind them. Kamigami fired as he ran, cutting into the men standing there. Most of them died in the first hail of gunfire, but one crawled free. Kamigami skidded to a halt and slammed his body against the wall. He motioned the shooter forward and made a tossing motion.

Four quick concussions rocked the center tunnel as the grenades went off. The shooter held his M-79 around the corner and fired again. His partner had almost made it back to the left tunnel when a grenade rolled around the corner, coming directly at him. He kicked at it wildly. The grenade rolled off the shooter’s boot, and he kicked again, half scooping it around the corner with his boot. The grenade detonated with a sharp crack, taking the shooter’s foot with it. He fell to the ground, still alive, his body protected from the full blast by the corner.

The shooter with Kamigami tossed a grenade down their tunnel as Lee fired blindly in the other direction, out the open entrance.

The lone shooter at the center tunnel fired, sending three more grenades into the hell he was creating. The last round
ricocheted off the tunnel wall and hit the side of the missile loaded on the first transporter/erector. It exploded, cutting into the missile’s solid-fuel propellant.

The shooter with Kamigami threw another grenade down the tunnel as the first one detonated. The blast blew the second grenade back, directly at Lee. Lee fell on the hand grenade at his feet and took the blast in his stomach, saving the shooter and Kamigami.

The missile in the center tunnel started to cook off as the shooter emptied his magazine and pulled back to reload. He glanced down the gallery toward the left tunnel and saw his partner crawling toward him, leaving a trail of blood.

Kamigami fell to the ground and crawled to Lee, not to help him—it was too late for that—but to use his body as a shield. The shooter with him was out of grenades and was firing down the tunnel with his M-16.

In the center tunnel the rocket motor partially ignited, sending a plume of fire back over the missile behind it.

Two soldiers ran around the corner of the intersection at the left tunnel and fired down the cross gallery. The shooter at the center tunnel crumpled to the ground. His wounded partner stopped crawling and rolled a grenade at the two soldiers, yelling and cursing like a madman as the grenade exploded.

Kamigami reached Lee and grabbed the satchel charge he was carrying. “Cover me!” he yelled at his shooter. He crawled for the entrance, dragging Lee’s satchel charge with his own.

In the center tunnel the uneven thrust of the rocket motor pushed the transporter/erector forward, carrying the missile with it. The wheels rolled over the men trapped there as it headed out the tunnel. But the entrance was solidly blocked by the cave-in.

Kamigami crawled along the ground, almost to the open entrance, as bullets ricocheted off the walls. In the half-light coming from inside, he saw a large fissure that split the wall. He jammed the two satchel charges into the crack and pulled the tabs, igniting the fuses. He had sixty seconds. Kamigami looked back and motioned his shooter out. The shooter
started to run, but a hail of gunfire from deep in the tunnel cut him down. He screamed in pain, and Kamigami crawled back to get him.

The transporter/erector accelerated as it rolled past the cross gallery. Kamigami saw it and put on a burst of speed, finally reaching the downed shooter. But he was dead.

The transporter/erector crashed into the blocked entrance. But the high-explosive warhead did not detonate. Instead it combined with the burning propellant and the transporter’s diesel fuel to send a wall of fire back down the tunnel and out the cross gallery. The fire engulfed the second transporter and its missile, starting the process all over. Kamigami saw the wall of fire coming at him down the cross gallery and got to his feet, running for the entrance. The fiery blast washed over him, knocking him down. He rolled on the ground, desperate to extinguish his burning clothes. He shed his web harness as he rolled, taking patches of burning cloth and skin with it. He tried to come to his feet but couldn’t. He tried a second time and staggered forward, racing the burning fuses. He was almost to the entrance when a gunshot echoed from outside. The bullet ripped into his abdomen. He clutched the wound with both hands and lurched out the entrance. He fell to the ground and crawled around the corner as the satchel charges blew, mangling his legs.

The sniper squeezed off a shot, dropping the soldier who had gunned down Kamigami. Tel was up and running for all he was worth, as more gunfire kicked up the dirt around him. Before Colonel Sun could give the order, every man in the First SOS was firing. The earth rumbled as the ridge above the tunnels collapsed.

Camp Alpha

Wednesday, October 13

The concussion reverberated through the command post. “Damn,” Maggot muttered. “That fucker was close.” He
drew a diagonal line through the four marks he had made counting the cannon rounds. “Five.” Every head was raised, looking at the heavy beams in the ceiling, wondering if a direct hit could penetrate. Frustrated, Maggot punched up the line to the control tower. “Has the counterbattery radar got a fix yet?”

“He’s constantly moving,” the controller answered. “Range twelve miles.”

“And he’s big,” Maggot added. Tension boiled beneath the surface as they waited for the next round.

“They only got one,” Pontowski told them. From the looks on their faces, he had to tell them more. “My guess is that they’re stretched to the limit and it’s go-for-broke time. They know that come morning, when we can fly close air support, we’re going to hurt them. Bad. So we got to hang on till then.”

“All we got is fuel for ten sorties,” Maggot said. “The jets won’t be recovering here.”

“It may be enough,” Pontowski said. A loud boom shook the bunker, and dust drifted down from the ceiling. A second explosion rocked them, this time much harder. “That was a secondary,” he told them.

Clark monitored both the radios and the phone bank as reports trickled in. It seemed to take forever. “A shelter took a direct hit,” she finally announced.

“Did they get a Hog?” Pontowski asked.

She shook her head. “Two casualties.” She listened. “Oh, no. It was the shelter next to the med station, and the fuel holding tank ruptured. Fuel is flooding the med station, and Ryan is evacuating.” Another round slammed into the base, this time farther away. Then, “Mortars on the southern perimeter.” A slight pause. “Heavy small-arms fire at the gate.” Her eyes were wide with fear, but there was no panic in her voice. “APCs on the western perimeter with troops.” APCs were armored personnel carriers.

In his mind’s eye Pontowski could see the chaos outside. Could he sort it out in time to get his Hogs airborne? He made a decision. “Maggot, you got it here. I’m going to the
BDOC.” He slapped a fresh battery pack into his radio and dropped a second one into a pocket. He reached for his helmet and ran for the entrance. Much to his surprise, Clark’s driver was right beside him.

“I drive for you,” he said. They jumped into the van and made the short dash to the BDOC.

Rockne was waiting for him and reported his arrival to Clark. “What about those APCs?” Pontowski asked.

“I can kill fuckin’ APCs,” Rockne snarled. “But I need more fire teams. And I just ain’t got them.” Another artillery round hit the base, this time in Whiskey Sector. “And I’m gonna kill that bastard.” Like the infantry, Rockne was growing to hate artillery.

Pontowski studied the base defense chart as a sergeant marked which DFPs were engaged. They were holding, but he wasn’t sure for how much longer. “We gotta hold.” He was running again, talking on the radio to the command post. “On the way to Maintenance. Tell them I’m coming.” He piled into the van. “Maintenance Control. Go!” An artillery round landed in the trees a hundred yards to their right. Fortunately, a hardened shelter deflected most of the blast away from them. The driver clutched the wheel and gritted his teeth as they raced down the taxiway. The big blast doors of the shelter cranked back when they approached, and the van drove straight in. The doors were closing before they halted.

The chief of Maintenance, a reservist colonel who had served Pontowski so well, was waiting. “Thank God you made it,” he said.

“You got seventy-eight troops left, is that right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “How many do you need to launch the Hogs?”

“Two per jet,” came the answer. “Twenty.”

“That leaves fifty-eight. Tell them to grab their helmets and whatever weapons they got and report to the BDOC. We need them for fire teams.”

“Rockne trained some of them for guard duty when we first got here,” the colonel said. “Give me a few minutes to
switch around, and I’ll send them.” He pointed to seven men sitting against the back wall. “They can go now.”

“Load ’em in the van,” Pontowski ordered. “Where are the two pilots not assigned to a Hog?” The colonel pointed to the room at the back of the shelter. “Hey, I need some jocks out here,” Pontowski shouted. Waldo and Bag ran out and joined him. “You two think you can organize some type of close-in defense so crew chiefs from one shelter can give covering fire to another shelter when it launches a jet?”

“Can do, Boss,” Waldo answered. He snorted. “Why do we always do this the hard way?”

Pontowski ignored him and ran for the van. It started to move the moment he piled in. The shelter’s blast doors cranked open. “BDOC,” he ordered. Outside, heavy smoke rolled across the taxiway, dropping visibility to thirty feet. But the driver knew his way and had them at the BDOC in less than four minutes. “Follow me,” Pontowski told the seven mechanics. He led the way into the bunker. “Chief,” he told Rockne, “match these guys with a cop.” He had just given Rockne seven more fire teams. “You got about fifty more coming.”

He radioed the command post as he ran out. “Tell the doc I’m on my way.” The med station was less than a hundred meters from the BDOC, but still he drove, not wanting to lose track of the van. The smoke grew heavier as they approached, and he rolled up the windows. Then he saw the source. The med station was engulfed in flames, black smoke rolling out in waves. He couldn’t believe it when two medics ran out of the bunker, their arms full of supplies. “Where’s Ryan?” he yelled. The man pointed to a nearby aircraft shelter. He dumped his load on the ground and ran back inside. Clark’s driver jumped out and followed them inside. Pontowski ran for the shelter.

Doc Ryan was in the middle of the floor, bent over a wounded man in a litter. He stood up when he saw Pontowski, and shook his head. “How many?” Pontowski asked.

“Twenty-six all told,” he answered, gesturing around the shelter. “Eleven EP.” Enemy prisoners. Pontowski walked
the floor, talking to his men. Most were going to make it. He stepped across the imaginary line that separated the two groups. A soldier looked up at him, certain that Pontowski was going to execute him. “We’ll take care of you,” he promised. The soldier did not speak English, but he heard the meaning. He said the only two words of English he knew: “Thank you.”

The blast doors moved back, and the van drove in. The two medics jumped out and offloaded the medical supplies they had retrieved from the burning med station. The driver reeked of smoke. “We got two wounded at the gate,” Ryan called. “But we can’t get them here.”

“I go,” the driver said. Pontowski sent him on his way and checked in with the command post.

“We have intruders on base,” Clark told him. “We’re buttoning up, so stay where you are. The chief is sending two fire teams to your position.”

“Copy all,” Pontowski replied. He took off his helmet and rubbed his forehead. He looked at his watch. It was one hour to sunrise.

Camp Alpha

Wednesday, October 13

Waldo nervously paced the floor of Maintenance’s deserted shelter, frustration itching at him. A shell whistled overhead and hit the southern edge of the base. “Give me a Hog and I’ll mort that fucker,” he promised, his frustration turning to anger.

“Just give me a Hog,” Bag lamented. Like Waldo, he wanted to do something. “Who did we piss off?” he asked, wondering why neither of them had been assigned a jet.

“We were out of the rotation,” Waldo answered. “And you know Maggot. And then Clark couldn’t get us on a helicopter to beat feet out of here.” Another round whistled overhead, and he grunted an indecipherable obscenity. “At least the bastard hasn’t got the range.”

“Without an observer it’s just harassment fire,” Bag said.

“Well, it’s working,” Waldo muttered. More pacing. He came alert. “I think it’s stopped.” Both men listened, and the minutes dragged, each one longer than the previous. Waldo hurried to the small door at the rear of the shelter and cracked it open. “Yeah, it’s definitely stopped.” Smoke drifted in and stung their eyes. Waldo closed the door and dogged it down. “Not good.”

“What do you mean, not good?” Bag asked.

“What comes next is definitely not good,” Waldo replied. On cue, his radio came alive. “Shit! Tanks have busted through on the southern perimeter and are heading this way.”

Bag ran to the big blast door and listened. “I can hear gunfire.”

Waldo held up a hand, still listening to the radio traffic. “Three tanks with troops have broken through.”

“Son of a bitch,” Bag moaned. “Caught like fish in a barrel. I didn’t want to buy it this way.”

Waldo snorted. “I ain’t no fuckin’ fish.” His head jerked up as an image flashed in front of him. It was the hangar queen, the A-10 that couldn’t be repaired and was being salvaged for parts. He looked at the big doors in front of him, imagining them as they rolled back. “Bag, think you can play crew chief?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on.” He led the way out the small entrance at the rear and ran for the next shelter. The rear entrance was unbolted, and he ran inside. A Warthog was parked inside, the right engine missing, the canopy gone, the left rudder partially disassembled, and numerous panels removed where parts had been cannibalized.

“No way this hangar queen can fly,” Bag said.

Waldo scampered up the bordering ladder and lowered himself into the cockpit. “Who said anything about flying? Check the gun and pull the pins.” His hands flew over the panels, running the before-engine-start checklist. He hit the battery switch. Nothing. “I need power.” Bag hurried to the APU and started it. The sound was deafening in the enclosed shelter. Fortunately, the exhaust was vented outside. Bag plugged in the electrical cord on the right side of the fuselage just aft of the cockpit. The electrical busses came alive, sending power to the instruments. The rounds counter indicated that there were 734 rounds in the cannon’s ammo drum. “Shit hot!” Waldo roared. “Open the doors!” Bag ran to the control box and hit the switch. Slowly the big blast doors cranked back. Waldo started the Hog’s internal APU and lifted the left throttle over the hump. The engine spun up, and at 20 percent, fuel automatically started to flow. The
igniter worked, and the motor kicked off. Waldo gave Bag the thumbs-out signal to remove the wheel chocks. Bag disconnected the power cord and jerked the blocks free. Waldo fed power into the one engine, and the Hog taxied out of its nest.

Bag motioned Waldo forward and snapped the traditional salute a crew chief gives his departing jet. He held it while Waldo taxied past. Waldo turned onto the main taxiway and disappeared in the smoke. Bag ran for the controls to close the doors. “What the fuck for?” he wondered aloud. He stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then he ran for a shelter with a good Warthog. At least he would have company.

Waldo turned on the aircraft’s radio. Nothing. He turned up the volume on his personal radio and screwed the earpiece into his ear, holding the radio to his lips. “Chicken Coop, Waldo. I’m in the hangar queen and taxiing south.”

“Say intentions,” Maggot radioed.

“I got a gun on this puppy and figure I can taxi around and use it to kill a few tanks.”

Maggot answered with the traditional reply of all command posts when faced with something new. “Stand by one.”

“Stand by too fuckin’ long,” Waldo shouted, his adrenaline in full flow, “and you’ll get a tank up your ass!”

Maggot ignored him as he coordinated with Rockne. “Roger, Waldo, say position.”

Waldo calmed down. “On the west taxiway, headed south”—he peered into the smoke—“passing shelter West-Three.”

“Gotcha,” Maggot answered. “You’ve got a tank with troops approximately a thousand meters at your twelve o’clock heading toward you. Hold at shelter West-Two until we can get fire teams to support you.”

“Now, that’s a plan,” Waldo said. He slowed as he approached the next shelter. Three fire teams emerged out of the smoke, two men on his left and four on his right. He pushed up the throttle. “How do I make this happen?” he
said to himself. He hit the ground override switch on the back of the left console and moved the master arm switch to the up position. But the lights on the weapons-armament panel were out. He turned on the HUD to get a gun-sight display. Nothing. “Doesn’t anything work!” he shouted. “Oh, shit,” he breathed. A tank emerged out of the smoke and darkness, barely a hundred meters in front of him. He pressed the trigger, half expecting the cannon not to fire. The GAU-8 roared, and reddish brown smoke poured out the vent. The aircraft shook, pounding at his kidneys, and shot backward. The recoil of the cannon was so great that it had stopped the Hog’s forward motion and backed it up. Waldo released the trigger. The cannon on the A-10 has a slight downward tilt, and the rounds had hit the ground seventy feet in front. Not only had he missed, but the rounds had cut a trench in the concrete as he backed up. He had to get the nose up, but how?

The tank fired. Like Waldo, it missed, and the round whistled overhead. The muzzle lowered slightly as it reloaded. “Fuck me in the heart!” Waldo shouted as he firewalled the throttle. The Hog leaped forward. He was vaguely aware of his fire teams laying down a barrage. He pumped the brakes. The Hog’s nose rocked up and down as he held the engine at max throttle. Waldo mashed the trigger and held it. Again the cannon gave off its deafening roar, sending rounds into the sky and then down into the concrete, kicking up dirt and debris and blinding the tank’s gunner. Eight rounds ripped into the tank’s carapace a fraction of a second before its cannon fired. The thirty-millimeter depleted-uranium slug was designed to kill a heavily armored tank at a distance of over two thousand feet. At less than three hundred feet, the lightly armored Type 63 simply came apart. The turret blew back as the cannon fired, sending the eighty-five-millimeter round arcing high over the base. Fire belched from the hole left by the turret as an explosion literally blew the engine out the back.

Waldo coughed, gagging on the smoke from his own cannon. He retarded the throttle as he taxied past the wreckage. “Shit oh dear,” he muttered, stunned by the car
nage. Until that moment he had no idea of what the GAU-8 did to the enemy. He held his radio to his mouth. “Chicken Coop, Waldo. Scratch one tank. Say position of next target.”

“Roger Waldo,” Maggot replied. “Stand by one.”

“Absolutely fuckin’ lovely,” Waldo grumbled, his fangs now fully out.

Pontowski moved across the shelter, talking to the wounded men lying on the floor. He knelt beside the one man Doc Ryan held little hope for. The security cop opened his eyes and managed a half smile. “I’m gonna make it, sir,” he promised. Pontowski held his hand until he died. Then he slowly came to his feet and walked to the next man. A series of sharp clanging rings filled the shelter, and he dropped to the floor. He looked up and saw Ryan pointing to the blast doors. It was small-arms fire ricocheting off the outside.

Another fusillade raked the doors, and Pontowski ran for the telephone on the sidewall, his ears ringing. He punched at the button for the command post, and Clark answered immediately. “We’re under attack,” he told her.

“Help’s on the way,” she promised.

“Your driver is bringing in wounded,” he said.

“I’ll try to raise him on the radio and warn him off.” She broke the connection.

Waldo taxied south on the west taxiway. Eventually he would loop around the south end of the base, pass the exit to the main gate, and turn back north on the east taxiway, toward the command post and the base med station. He stopped when two more fire teams joined up and talked to the three teams already with him. The smoke seemed less dense, and he squinted, looking to the east. The first glow of dawn marked the horizon. A sergeant gave him the thumbs-up when the teams were in place, and he nudged the throttle forward. The Warthog moved down the taxiway with the fire teams spread out in a V behind him.

“Waldo,” Maggot radioed. “Say position.”

“Passing shelter West-One heading for the exit to the main gate.”

“A tank is reported in that area,” Maggot told him.

“Copy all,” Waldo said. He pushed the throttle up, forcing the fire teams to run to keep pace. The rattle of a heavy machine gun carried over the sound of his engine as he made the loop to the south. He was surprised when Clark’s van cut across in front of him and disappeared through the trees, heading north. “What in hell is she doing out here?” he wondered aloud to himself. The point man on his left waved furiously at him, then gestured down the side taxi path leading to the first hardened aircraft shelter on the east side, East-One. He saw the rear end of a tank stopped on the taxi path and firing point-blank into the empty shelter. “Okay by me if you want to waste your ammo,” he muttered.

He turned down the narrow taxi path as his fire teams engaged the soldiers with the tank. He lined up at the tank’s six o’clock. “It’s the guy you never see who kills you,” he said to no one, repeating one of the truisms fighter pilots live and die by. The tank’s turret started to traverse to the rear, but it was too late. Waldo pumped the brakes and squeezed off a short burst, now getting into the rhythm of it. The tank disappeared in a flash of flames and smoke. “Always check six,” he muttered. The gunfire died away as the soldiers ran for safety. He looked around and groaned. The destroyed tank was blocking his way, and the taxi path was too narrow for the Hog to turn around and return to the main taxiway. He yelled at his fire teams and pointed to his rear. “Hey, I need a push!”

The phone on the sidewall buzzed, and Pontowski picked it up. “I can’t contact my driver,” Clark said, “but he did pick up two wounded and was last reported heading toward your shelter.”

“We’re still taking small-arms fire here,” Pontowski replied.

“Rockne says he’s got two fire teams on the way.”

“We’ll get the van inside,” Pontowski promised. He hung
up and ran to the doors. “Doc!” he yelled. “The van is coming in with wounded.” Ryan ran for the peephole and unbolted the shutter to look out. Pontowski heard a horn honking furiously.

“Open the doors!” Ryan shouted. Pontowski hit the switch, and the doors moved back. The gunfire grew louder. “Oh, shit!” Ryan yelled. He ran outside. Pontowski hit the switch and stopped the doors. Another burst from a submachine gun echoed outside, and he saw the nose of the van emerge between the open doors. Ryan was pushing the bullet-riddled van into the shelter. Pontowski ran to help and pushed against the side of the van, getting it over the door tracks. He ran for the switch to close the doors. Another burst of submachine-gun fire clanged against the doors as they slowly winched closed. Ryan was leaning against the back of the van, panting hard, when a grenade rolled in. He scooped it up and threw it back out. It cleared the doors and exploded. But fragments cut into Ryan, knocking him back. The doors jarred to a halt, jammed open.

“Medic!” Pontowski shouted, but a medic was already running for Ryan. He skidded to a halt and went to work while two more medics ripped open the side door of the van.

“Wounded!” one of the medics shouted, calling for help.

Pontowski saw the driver slumped over the wheel and ran to his side of the van. He jerked the door open and pulled him out. Somehow, in spite of his massive wounds, the man was still alive. Pontowski gently laid him down. “You tell Missy Colonel go home now,” he whispered. He exhaled and lay still.

“I didn’t even know your name,” Pontowski said, his head bowed. But he knew, without doubt, that this man had been worth fighting for. His head snapped up when he heard the distinctive clank of tank tracks.

“Waldo!” Maggot shouted over the radio. “A tank’s at the med station!”

“On the way,” Waldo transmitted. He looked over his shoulder as he slowly backed up. Just a few more feet to go.
“Go! GO!” he shouted. The men responded, and the Hog rolled onto the main taxiway. He firewalled the throttle, fast-taxiing to the north and leaving his fire teams behind. The big jet touched forty miles an hour as it rumbled down the taxiway. He passed the BDOC, and two men ran after him. Ahead he saw the burned-out hulk of the med station. He never slowed as he headed for the nearby shelter. Now he could see the tank. Its muzzle flashed, sending a round into the partially open blast doors.

A heavy machine gun raked the side of the Hog as it lumbered past. But the titanium tub that shielded the pilot easily deflected the slugs. One of the cops following the Hog fired his SAW, taking out the machine gun. The tank commander saw the Hog coming at him, and the turret traversed, coming to bear on the charging A-10. Waldo firewalled the throttle and mashed the trigger, holding it down, pumping furiously on the brakes. The tank fired at the same instant. The A-10 disappeared in a thundering fireball as the tank came apart. Then it exploded, sending a column of smoke and flames skyward that joined with the rising fireball of Waldo’s Hog.

The rattle of a SAW cut into the soldiers running for cover. The gunfire stopped.