The Last Phoenix (26 page)

“We’re taking incoming,” Kamigami radioed. “Mortars.”

Another voice came on the radio. “Air Boss, Loco flight with four, five minutes out, sixty minutes play time.”

Now Bag had eight Hogs. He made a decision. “We’re running out of time and need to get their heads down. Gold, if you have me in sight, flash your position.” He rolled right and watched the ridgeline anxiously. Two flashes blinked at him, followed by two more flashes. “Got you,” he radioed. Now he knew Maggot and Kamigami’s location. “Gold, can you lay down smoke below you on a bearing of zero-nine-zero?”

For what seemed an eternity, there was no answer. Then a puff of smoke drifted up from the jungle canopy. “Shit hot!” Bag roared over the radio. As best he could tell, Maggot was on one side of the smoke marker and moving north while the hostiles he had seen were on the other side, to the south. It was all he needed. “Gold, keep the smoke coming. Basher Flight, you’re cleared in hot. Stay south of the smoke and one kilometer away from the LOC.”

“Smoke in sight,” Basher lead radioed.

The mortar rounds worked their way along the ridgeline, driving Kamigami and his team to cover. But his mortar team kept at it, lobbing a fresh smoke round into the jungle below and then scooting to a new location. But without a good target, Kamigami wouldn’t waste any of their limited ammunition in a vain attempt to discourage the hostile fire. Fortunately, the karst’s jagged terrain offered them good cover. But he knew that sooner or later an enemy round would find them. It was just a matter of time. He found the rhythm of the mortars and moved quickly between incoming rounds, using crevices and low points for cover, his radioman right behind him.

Kamigami finally discovered what he was looking for: a long, narrow fissure that cut across the ridge. He dropped into the gap and wiggled to the edge. He scanned the jungle with his binoculars and then reached for the headset his radioman was holding at the ready.

Bag’s voice came over the radio. “Maggot, how copy?”

“Read you five-by.”

“Rog,” Bag replied. “There’s a clearing five hundred me
ters in front of you. Head for it. Break, break. Red, how copy?”

Tel answered. “Read you loud and clear. We’re in position and holding.” Kamigami allowed a grunt of satisfaction. The boy was doing good.

“Stand by to move in when cleared,” Bag ordered.

Kamigami decided it was time to get involved. “Air Boss, this is Dragon Gold. Recommend Red drop his team of shooters here before the pickup.”

It all made sense to Bag. Why risk more lives than necessary during the extraction? “Red,” he transmitted, “can you do it?”

“Can do,” Tel replied.

Kamigami again swept the area with his binoculars. An unusual movement in a tree caught his attention, and he hit the zoom lever on his binoculars. A man was perched high in the branches holding a radio to his mouth—an artillery spotter. Without turning, he said, “I need the L42.” The L42 was a sniper rifle carried by one of his shooters, a very proficient marksman. But in this particular case it was something he wanted to do himself. To the south he saw two A-10s in a steep descent as they dropped down to the deck and turned toward him.

“Behind you,” his radioman said. He reached back and felt the barrel of the sniper rifle. He pulled the weapon forward and chambered a round. He worked himself into a shooting position and laid the crosshairs in the scope on the spotter’s head. He squeezed off a round and watched as the man’s head exploded. He didn’t fall but slumped forward, still tied to the tree, his radio dangling from a lanyard strapped to his lifeless wrist. A series of mortar rounds walked across the ridge in retaliation, falling wide. “That stirred them up,” his radioman said. Kamigami searched for another target but found nothing. Now the lead A-10 was in the pop, climbing to fifteen hundred feet while his wingman stayed low and a mile in trail. Kamigami swung the rifle back to the dead spotter still hanging in the tree. A man had climbed up the tree and was reaching for the spotter’s radio.
It was a poor shot, but Kamigami took it anyway. The slug hit the man in the right shoulder, knocking him out of the tree just as the A-10 rolled in and released two canisters of CBUs.

Kamigami passed the sniper rifle back, and the radioman handed him a headset so he could monitor the action. Below him, the jungle twinkled with flashes as the CBU bomblets exploded. The second A-10 crossed the flight path of the escaping Hog at thirty degrees, smoke rolling back from its nose. The loud, burring growl of the Hog’s cannon echoed over the jungle, punctuated by the bomblets going off.

More mortars walked across the ridge, driving Kamigami’s men down. He keyed his radio. “Keep the smoke coming,” he ordered. Without the smoke rounds from his team’s fifty-one-millimeter mortar marking the jungle, an A-10 might drop a friendly round on Maggot. Over the din he heard Bag radio Red, the second helicopter, and tell it to move farther to the west, using the ridgeline as protective cover.

For the next twelve minutes Kamigami watched the four Hogs of Basher flight work the area over. The aircraft stayed low, circling to the west, using the karst formation for masking. On each run two aircraft would pop out from behind the ridge using shooter-cover tactics. The lead jet would drop ordnance while his wingman flew cover, discouraging anyone who might want to shoot back. It was an effective tactic and suppressed the enemy mortars that were pounding the ridge. Finally the last A-10 was off and heading for home. An eerie silence descended over the carnage below him. It looked as if a giant had stomped across the jungle, crushing the foliage flat with huge boots. Here and there he saw smoke billowing up.

Kamigami crawled out of the crevice and stood up as the big Aerospatiale helicopter carrying Tel and his team of shooters popped up over the western side of the ridge and hovered over a flat, open area. Sixteen men jumped out. The four shooters left on board pushed out equipment bags before the pilot spun the aircraft around and moved away.
Kamigami saw Tel giving him a thumbs-up from the doorway just as the helicopter dropped out of sight.

Maggot lay on the ground, his arms wrapped over his head. It took a moment for the silence to register—the bombing had stopped. He rose up on his elbows and shook his head as a raging thirst coursed through his body. But his water bottle was dry. He came to his feet, still unsteady from the pounding his body had taken from the repeated concussions of exploding ordnance. He keyed his survival radio. “Bag, I’m up and moving.”

The relief in Bag’s voice was obvious. “I’m sending a Jolly Green in now.” Jolly Green was a holdover from the past, when SAR helicopters were called Jolly Green Giants.

Maggot was feeling better. “Tell the Hogs they missed. I still got my balls.”

“Will do,” Bag replied.

Maggot checked his compass and pushed ahead, moving as fast as he could. An insect worked its way up the back of his neck and burrowed under his helmet. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he ripped off the helmet and brushed the insect away. He tossed his helmet into the brush. He took a few more steps and stumbled into the clearing. For a moment he stood there, breathing deeply and savoring the rain that was starting to fall. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth. Then he mashed the button on his survival radio that keyed the beacon, still looking skyward and drinking in the rain. In the distance he heard the distinctive beat of a helicopter, and he pulled out his pen flare gun. He cocked it and, holding it at arm’s length, fired it skyward. The beating of the helicopter grew louder, and he sank to his knees, unbelievably tired.

The screech of an incoming artillery round echoed over the clearing. Automatically, he looked toward the sound. A puff of smoke and flames flashed on top of the ridgeline. Another round echoed over him. “Ah, shit,” he moaned to himself. Now he could see the Super Puma as it moved over the clearing and settled to the earth. He ran for it, and two
sets of hands pulled him into the open door. He looked up into Tel’s smiling face. “We’ve got to quit meeting like this,” he said.

Tel only grinned and strapped him into a jump seat as the pilot lifted off. Tel went forward and stood between the pilots, listening on the radio. He shot Maggot a very worried look as the pilot dropped the helicopter down to treetop level and they raced for safety around the northern end of the karst formation. Through the open door on the other side of the helicopter, Maggot saw two more flashes erupt on top of the ridgeline. Tel pointed out the copilot’s quarter panel, shouting something he couldn’t understand. Then he saw it—the smoldering wreckage of a helicopter on the edge of the ridgeline.

Camp Alpha

Sunday, October 3

This is a win?
Pontowski thought. He was sitting with Colonel Sun at the back of the small room in the hardened aircraft shelter the AVG used for its operations center as Bag went through the postmission debrief. The pilot’s flight suit was still damp with sweat and his body racked with fatigue, but he kept at it, covering everything that had gone right on the mission and ferreting out what had gone wrong. You did
good,
Pontowski told himself, giving all the pilots high marks for Maggot’s rescue. Unfortunately, the two Singapore helicopter pilots were not used to the way Americans debriefed a mission, and were very reluctant to join in. But Pontowski had to know what had happened. He waited for the right moment. It came when Bag opened a fresh water bottle and took a long swig.

“That was a fine piece of flying,” he told the two helicopter pilots. “Very aggressive, with perfect timing. And we honor your fallen comrades.” Tel was sitting behind the two and leaned forward, translating in case they missed his meaning. The two pilots nodded in acknowledgment. “But there is one thing I don’t understand,” Pontowski continued. “Why did General Kamigami insert his team on top of the ridgeline?” The two pilots shook their heads.

“Perhaps,” Tel ventured, “he wanted to draw attention away from Colonel Stuart by presenting a new threat.”

The helicopter aircraft commander said, “When we were inbound to pick up Colonel Stuart, I heard the general call for Gold to come in for a pickup. But he waved them off when the artillery barrage started.”

“So no one was picked up before the helicopter crashed?” Colonel Sun asked.

“I don’t think so,” the pilot answered. “When we flew past, I didn’t see any movement on the ground.”

“I can confirm that,” Maggot said from the doorway. Everyone turned toward the pilot. He was freshly showered and in a clean flight suit after being checked by Doc Ryan. “I think an artillery round got them.” He walked over to the helicopter pilots. “Thank you.” He extended his hand in friendship. “You saved my worthless ass.” The two men stood, shaking his hand in turn.

“Where did the artillery come from?” Colonel Sun asked.

“I saw three tanks moving down the LOC when I came on station,” Bag answered. “PT-76s.” The PT-76 was a Soviet-built light amphibious tank. “They sport a seventy-five-millimeter cannon, but I couldn’t go after them with all those refugees.”

“Old but effective,” Pontowski said in a low voice.

“I believe,” Tel said, “the PLA is equipped with the Type 63, a much improved version of the PT-76 produced in China. It has an eighty-five-millimeter cannon.” He ducked his head, embarrassed for speaking out.

Before Colonel Sun could reprimand him, Pontowski said, “We need to get that information to the pilots. They’ve got to know what they’re going against.”
Damn,
he thought.
I screwed that one up.
A hard silence came down in the room, for they all knew it was his order that had placed the LOC off-limits to the A-10s. “They figured that one out fast enough,” he said, shouldering the responsibility for the pilots’ deaths. “So where are we?”

Bag was relentless as he summarized. “One Hog shot down, one pilot rescued. One Puma downed, two pilots KIA. Thirty-seven men still on the ground.”

The burden of command bore down on Pontowski, demanding its price. “Are we out of contact, or have they been captured?” he asked.

“The team has four radios,” Sun said. “At least one should be operational.”

“So we can assume they’ve been captured or overrun,” Pontowski said.

Tel shot Sun a look, begging to speak. Sun nodded. “I don’t think so,” Tel said. “He’ll contact us when he’s ready.”

“Why the delay?” Pontowski asked.

“Because vampires are silent,” Tel replied.

“That’s all I got,” Bag said, ending the debrief.

The room quickly emptied, leaving Pontowski and Sun alone to answer the unasked question. “Do we go after them?” Pontowski said, coming to the heart of the matter.

“No,” Sun said. “Without radio contact a full-scale rescue mission is premature.”

“We can reconnoiter the area,” Pontowski replied.

“That might draw unwanted attention,” Sun said. “Maybe one flight at first light tomorrow morning. But for now I recommend we wait.” He stood up. “Is there anything else, sir?”

Pontowski shook his head. “Thank you, Colonel.” Alone, he slumped down in his chair, his chin on his chest. He couldn’t avoid the issue.
It was my ROE! Bag would have gone after those tanks in a heartbeat.
He sat there, coming to grips with the deadly cost accounting of combat. But he knew the way the balance sheet worked, and there was more to come before it got better.
Why would a rational person do this?
The answer was obvious—he wasn’t a sane man. An image of Maddy Turner demanded his attention.
It’s worse for you,
he decided. “Time to go to work,” he muttered. He stood up and walked outside.

The rain had stopped, and Clark’s driver was waiting for him. “Command post,” Pontowski said. “And take it easy.” The driver grinned at him, banged the van into gear, and hit the accelerator. They raced down the taxi path and careened around a corner onto the main taxiway. The driver
slammed on the brakes and pointed to a moving shadow in the trees, barely fifty meters away. “Good eyeballs,” Pontowski whispered. The shadow materialized into a man holding a submachine gun, and the two men bailed out of the van and ran for cover. Pontowski chanced a look back. The man was moving after them, darting from tree to tree. Pontowski put on a burst of speed. Ahead of him he saw the sandbags of a half-completed defensive fire position the security cops had been digging. He dove into it headfirst, with the driver right behind him. Pontowski came up, coughing and spitting dirt. For a moment he pressed his head against the sandbags, still clearing his mouth, as he grabbed his radio. “Chicken Coop,” he transmitted, “Bossman. I’m being chased by an unknown and am pinned down.” Clark answered, asking for his position. “Halfway down the west taxiway,” he replied. But he wasn’t sure. His head bobbed up as he chanced a look. “Fifty yards east of”—it took him a moment to remember how the hardened aircraft shelters were numbered—“West One-Two.”

“Help’s on the way,” Clark promised.

Pontowski drew his nine-millimeter Beretta and chambered a round. He held it at the ready, fully expecting an assault. Seconds passed, seeming like hours. He heard a dog bark once in the distance. A security cop leaped over the sandbags from behind and crashed down on him, his helmet banging into Pontowski’s face. “Oof,” a woman’s voice said. She rolled off him and brought her M-16 up to a firing position. She fired off a short burst. “That got his attention,” she said.

“Sergeant Maul, I presume,” Pontowski said. She nodded. “Lovely day for a stroll.” It was all he could think of to say.

“Indeed it is, General.” She squeezed off another burst, bobbed up for a look, and dropped down beside him. “The Chief’s flanking him.”

“Is there only one?”

“I hope so,” she said.

They heard a sharp “Get ’em!” off to their left, answered
by the distinctive rattle of a Kalashnikov. Silence. Then, “Out!” They waited. “General,” Rockne called, “stay where you are while we secure the area.”

Jessica breathed easier and sat against the sandbags, holding her rifle upright between her legs. “Are we having fun yet?” she asked. She handed him her canteen. He took a grateful swallow and passed it back.

Boyca limped at Rockne’s side as he marched into the command post. He dumped a Kalashnikov-type assault rifle on the table in front of Pontowski and Clark. “It’s a knockoff of the AK-47 made in China,” he told them. “A Type 56 used by PLA Special Forces.”

“Where’s the prisoner?” Clark asked.

“I turned him over to the First SOS for interrogation—”

Clark interrupted him. “Is he still alive?”

“Alive and well,” Rockne replied. “He can’t talk fast enough, and we know he’s with the PLA Ninety-second Special Regiment. We’ll have all the details before too long. At least we know who we’re up against.”

“Was he alone?” Pontowski asked.

“He is now,” Rockne replied. “We flushed out three others who came across the fence with him. But they wanted to do it the hard way. No survivors.”

Clark nodded. “How’s Boyca?”

“A bit stiff.” He stroked her head, rubbing between her ears. “She’s not up to all this activity, but she’ll be okay.”

“You sent her in against an armed intruder?” Pontowski said.

“Yes, sir. He was preoccupied with you and Sergeant Maul, so he didn’t see me. I managed to get within thirty feet, but there was an open space and Boyca was there, sorta like an old fire horse responding to an alarm. I wanted the guy alive, and it seemed like the right thing to do.” Rockne allowed a tight smile. “You should have seen his face when he saw her coming at him. He fired wild, but Boyca was on him like shit on…” He paused, embarrassed. “He wet his pants.”

“What will it take to secure the base?” Clark asked.

“I need the rest of my cops for openers,” Rockne told her.

“We’ve got an aircraft arriving from the States tomorrow morning,” she said. “They may be on board.” She turned to Pontowski. “Sorry, sir. I hadn’t told you but a GAO investigation team is due in.”

“Lovely,” Pontowski mumbled. “Just what we need.” Another thought came to him. “I owe your driver big-time.”

Washington, D.C.

Sunday, October 3

Shaw leaned against the doorjamb, watching his dinner companion from Saturday night cook breakfast. She was standing barefoot in his kitchen, wearing only the shirt he had worn the night before. She seemed so young to be a communications analyst at the National Security Agency. But she was old enough to know how to use NSA’s sophisticated equipment to monitor domestic phone calls and get away with it. For a moment he couldn’t remember what he had done with the first cassette tape she had given him that recorded Senator Leland’s conversation with the French ambassador. Then he remembered. He had destroyed the tape after turning down the offer. “You are lovely,” he said, telling her the truth.

She tossed her hair and gave him a quick smile. “And you’re wonderful,” she lied. He wanted to believe her but knew the truth. She might have shared his bed, but his performance had been strictly platonic. He had gotten a good night’s sleep, though. She concentrated on the omelet.

“How’s things at NSA these days?” he asked, finally coming to the heart of the matter.

Again the toss of the hair. “I thought you’d never ask, not after last time. You seemed so uninterested.” She gave him a concerned look. “I was afraid you’d tell the agency about…well, you know.”

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robe. “Using NSA to monitor domestic phone calls can be hazardous to your health.” Without a word she padded out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. She was back in a moment and handed him another cassette before she went back to the omelet. “How much for this one?” he asked, dropping it into a pocket. She shook her head as she studied the omelet in the pan. “Why?” he asked.

She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “Because Leland’s a bastard.” She flipped the omelet onto a dish and handed it to him.

He took a bite. “This is good.” She rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck while he tried to balance the plate in one hand behind her. He felt her tears on his cheek. “Now, what’s this, doll?”

“What’s wrong, Patrick?”

“Not to worry,” he told her. “I’ll be okay.” She held on to him, and he could feel her heartbeat through the thin shirt.

“Good morning, Mr. Shaw,” his secretary said. Shaw grunted his usual answer, not surprised to find her at work so early. The war and impending election had made Sunday just another workday for the White House staff, and the West Wing hummed with quiet but purposeful activity. “Your desk is ready.” He stopped to pour himself a cup of coffee, surprising the woman. “I would have gotten that, Mr. Shaw.” He gave her a little nod and carried the mug through to his office. “Well, I never,” she murmured to herself. Shaw was not his normal dictatorial, demanding self. She decided he must be sick.

Shaw balanced the mug while he inserted the cassette into the recorder he kept in his desk. He hit the play button and listened. The quality of the tape was outstanding, clearer than anything he had ever heard. “Must be the original clip,” he said to himself as he listened to the two very familiar voices of Senator John Leland and Robert Merritt, the secretary of defense.

The tape ended. Shaw hit the eject button and dropped the cassette back into his pocket. “Go there, Senator,” he urged. He settled back into his chair and played with ways to make that happen. The headache that would never completely go away surged back, making him sick to his stomach. He tasted the omelet he had for breakfast as he fought the nausea. He reached for the pills in his desk but stopped short. He knew the side effects. An inner clock told him it was time to step aside. “Not yet,” he whispered.