Authors: Richard Herman
She turned and looked out a window. “I think that’s Missouri below us. The heartland of America. B-2 bombers from Whiteman Air Force Base are recovering from missions over Iraq. They’ll be rearmed and launched on more missions. I would much rather be sending the world grain grown in Missouri. This is not what I wanted.” She turned and walked from the cabin.
Without a word, the reporters stood. One by one they handed the sheet of paper they were each holding to Parrish as they filed out. The lone reporter who had walked out of the meeting was waiting for them. “Did I miss much?” he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
“Only the best speech Maddy Turner will ever give” came the answer.
Palau Tenang
Friday, September 24
The rain slugged down, working its way through Tel’s poncho and sending a rivulet of water down his back. He hoped it was the last rainstorm of the southwest monsoon and that they would have a break until December, with the onset of the northeast monsoon. He joined the officers and senior NCOs gathered under the tightly stretched tarp and shrugged off his poncho, glad to be out of the rain.
“The brigadier and colonel will be here in a few moments,” he announced. He stifled a grin as he listened to the Chinese equivalent of bitching and moaning. If Kamigami was correct, he was hearing exactly what they needed to hear. The First SOS had changed from a highly disciplined, regimented, spit-and-polished outfit to a totally focused collection of aggressive shooters totally committed to battle discipline. But there had been a price—the First was half its former size. Tel made a mental note to ask Kamigami what had happened.
Kamigami and Colonel Sun emerged out of the rain. They were a strange combination, Kamigami’s seemingly placid bulk dominating the diminutive but very active colonel, whose face was still pale from the helicopter flight from Central Headquarters on the main island. They shucked off their ponchos, and Sun tacked up a chart of Malaysia on the
easel. As they had agreed on the flight in, the colonel would do the talking to avoid any confusion. “CHQ offered us an assignment,” Sun explained in Chinese.
“Offered?” one of the majors asked.
“That is unusual,” Sun replied. “But it’s an unusual situation.” He pointed to an outlined area in the center of the chart. “Units of the PLA effectively control this region of Malaysia and are holding the local population hostage, forcing them to supply food and shelter for their soldiers. There are also reports of forced prostitution of younger girls. If a kampong resists, they loot and burn it, killing every able-bodied man and boy. CHQ has asked us to insert rescue teams and move the villagers to safe areas.”
“You mean we have a choice?” a captain asked.
“Yes, we do,” Kamigami said, his voice barely audible over the rain drumming on the tarp inches above his head. The men fell silent, for it was a choice that went to the heart of who and what they were. With the exception of Kamigami and Tel, the First was composed of Straits Chinese. The assignment meant they would be fighting Mainland Chinese—a break with their ethnic identity. “Think about it,” Kamigami said.
The men talked among themselves, and to the uninitiated it was a wild conversation. But it had purpose and direction. Finally they quieted, and the senior major spoke. “We do not think of this as a choice but as a challenge,” he said. “When do we leave?”
Sun was ready and passed out a schedule. “We will move in stages, starting tomorrow. Each squadron will send an advance team to be followed by the rest two days later. We will move in force and take all our equipment with us to set up a permanent base camp.”
“Have they identified the location?” a senior NCO asked.
Kamigami tapped the map with a finger. “Here. Sixty miles north of Singapore.” His finger was pointing directly at Camp Alpha.
The Pentagon
Friday, September 24
The sergeant handed Butler the message that had come in earlier that morning. “We’ve got a valid decode, sir.”
Butler leaned back in his chair and adjusted his glasses as he read. It was from the agent he had sent to New Delhi to monitor Zou Rong’s secret talks with the new Indian prime minister. Somehow the agent had contacted Piepmatz, which, all things considered, was a major feat in itself. Details of exactly how the agent had accomplished that would come later during an extensive debrief. But for now it was the message that had Butler’s undivided attention. Piepmatz had said only “When the rains end.”
The general shot to his feet, knocking his glasses askew. “Oh, shit,” he moaned. “How could I have been so fucking stupid?”
Piepmatz
was German for “dickey bird” and the code name assigned to Jin Chu. Butler dropped the message and reached for the phone.
The small conference room at the back of the battle cab had turned into a war room for the ExCom, partly because it was central to the NMCC and partly because the members of the ExCom, with one exception, were spending most of their time in the Pentagon. Only the DCI had not fully made the transition to the war room and spent half his time at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. But there was a dedicated helicopter at his disposal to whisk him back and forth.
However, the heart of this war room was not the classic wall charts with pins and magnetic icons but a bank of TV screens and computer monitors. The big table and chairs had been replaced with six small tables with comfortable chairs clustered in front of the TV bank. As a consequence the five members of the ExCom were able to quickly access the information flows flooding into the NMCC. Mazie and Sam Kennett were cycling through the most recent logistic status
reports when Butler joined them. “General Wilding,” Mazie said, “is in the Tank with the Joint Chiefs and the SecDef.” The Tank was the conference room on the second floor above the River Entrance where the JCS met. “He’ll be here as soon as we get an ETA on the DCI.”
Butler sat down next to the vice president. “When you see Shaw, tell him I’ve got what he asked for.”
“So soon?” Kennett asked. “About Leland, right?” He gave Butler his most serious look. “Shaw told us.”
Butler’s worst fears about politicians were reconfirmed. They simply couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Butler shrugged and decided to save himself the trouble of trying to be discreet. He reasoned that whatever he said would within minutes be on the jungle telegraph that linked the masters of the Imperial City. “Leland’s cut a deal with the French. The Froggies keep NATO out of the Gulf War, the war stalemates, and he delivers the election for his boy.”
“So what’s the quid pro quo?” Kennett wondered.
Butler was disgusted, and it showed. “The Frogs get to negotiate a Middle East cease-fire and in the process become the daddy rabbit of oil for Europe.”
“Son of a bitch,” Kennett muttered.
Mazie continued to stare at the screens as if she hadn’t heard. She had to talk to the secretary of state. Wilding and the DCI walked in, cutting off any further conversation about Leland. “I take it,” the DCI said, “that it’s hit the fan. Again.” His tone was a mixture of sarcasm and heavy doubt.
Butler rose. “Not quite.” He called up a map of Southeast Asia on the center screen. It was time for a geography lesson. “It rains all the time in Malaysia, and there’s no distinct dry season. But there are two monsoon periods when rainfall is much heavier. The southwest monsoon runs from June to September and is coming to an end. There will be a relative dry period until December, when the more robust northeast monsoon kicks in.” He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “We have reliable information that the Chinese are going to exploit that dry period.”
“For what?” the DCI asked.
Wilding saw it immediately. “So obvious.” He stood, almost at attention. “We can expect the PLA to open up an offensive.”
The DCI shook his head. “I’ve said it before—you’ve got to stop obsessing. I assure you my analysts are on top of this. The intentions may be there, but the means are not.”
“Remember Korea?” Butler asked. “The PLA intervened when they could cross the frozen Yalu River.” He paced the floor. “Tell me this isn’t timed to the situation in the Gulf. Our supply lines are now stretched around the tip of Africa, taxing our logistics buildup to the limit. It has effectively delayed offensive operations by two months and taking everything we got.”
Wilding gulped. “That’s exactly what we were discussing in the Tank.”
Butler continued. “Meanwhile, with the exception of the British, our allies are dragging their heels, refusing to get involved, while the French maneuver for a negotiated cease-fire before we go on the offensive.”
“Thank you very much, Senator Leland,” Kennett muttered.
“So while we’re fully occupied in the Gulf,” Butler said, “the PLA intends to capture as much territory as possible in Malaysia before the northeast monsoon sets.”
“Which will cut off military operations,” Wilding added. “That will give them three months to consolidate their gains.” He paused. “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. And we missed it.”
“All while the president,” Kennett said, “is focused entirely on the Middle East, being blamed for the heavy casualties, and fighting for her political life.”
“There’s one problem,” the DCI said. He pulled himself to his feet. “The Chinese simply can’t do it. They don’t have enough men or supplies available for the job, not with an alert and ready SEAC.”
“I hope you’re right,” Mazie said.
“If the AVG were in place,” Kennett asked, “would that discourage them?”
The DCI scoffed, dodging a direct answer. “The dreaded trip-wire force? Or should I say hostage force?”
“But it wouldn’t hurt,” Butler said. “Just to be on the safe side.”
The DCI conceded the point. “No, it wouldn’t. But do we have the airlift?”
“We can divert it,” Wilding said.
Kelly Field
Friday, September 24
The chief master sergeant waiting in his office was without doubt the biggest man Pontowski had ever seen wearing an Air Force uniform. The uniform was obviously tailored to his bulk, and his highly polished boots were at least size fourteens. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body, and the way his neck muscles strained at his collar was ample proof he spent time in a weight room. An inner alarm went off in Pontowski’s subconscious, warning him not to underestimate this man.
“Lieutenant Colonel Clark gave me your name,” Pontowski said.
“She was the commander of a weapons-storage site in the Netherlands,” Rockne replied. “I was the NCOIC for her security flight.”
Pontowski was impressed. The NCOIC, or noncommissioned officer in charge, at a weapons storage site held an awesome responsibility. “Did you like working for her?”
“Yes, sir. She was an excellent commander. No nonsense. She gets the job done.”
Everything about the man told Pontowski to be direct. “She’s the base commander at our forward operating location. She said air base defense was inadequate and to bring our own security team when we deploy. She said to contact you for support.”
“Was that her word?” Rockne asked. “Inadequate?” Pontowski answered in the affirmative. “Then you’ve got problems. Was ‘support’ her word?”
“That’s her exact word,” Pontowski told him.
“She wants me for her NCOIC of security.”
Pontowski was perplexed. “Is this some kind of special code you two use?”
Rockne shook his head. “No, sir. That’s the way she works. When she asks someone for support, she means support. Like personal and committed.”
Pontowski made a decision. “Do you want the job?”
“Where is it?”
The same warning bell went off in Pontowski’s mind. You didn’t hold back with this cop. “Malaysia, sixty miles north of Singapore. In the jungle.”
“Shit.”
“I take it that means you don’t want the job?” Before Rockne could answer, a real alarm went off down the hall. Pontowski came to his feet. “Crash alarm. I’ve got aircraft airborne.” He grabbed his handheld radio and ran out the door.
Rockne was in hot pursuit. “I’ll drive, sir. The security pickup outside.” Pontowski was fast, but nothing compared to Rockne. By the time he reached the truck, Rockne was behind the wheel, the engine started, the light bar flashing, and the passenger door open and waiting for him. “The approach end of the runway?” Rockne asked.
“Right. Follow the crash trucks.”
“I know where it is, sir.” He gunned the engine and raced for the end of the runway. “There,” he said, pointing to the southwest.
Pontowski could barely see the two small dots. He keyed his radio and called the SOF, supervisor of flying, who was in the tower. “SOF, this is Bossman. Say emergency.”
A voice he didn’t recognize answered. “Miser One experienced catastrophic gun failure on a strafing pass. Lost all hydraulics plus wrapped the gun-access door around the nose and jammed the nose-gear door. He’s in manual reversion, but since he’s got two good engines, he’s gonna land it.”
“Say pilot,” Pontowski radioed.
The SOF answered immediately. “Lieutenant Colonel Walderman.”
“Waldo,” Pontowski said, half aloud.
“Is that good or bad?” Rockne asked. He coasted the pickup to a stop halfway down the runway and well back from the taxiway. They were merely spectators.
“Both,” Pontowski replied. “Manual reversion is an emergency procedure when you’ve lost hydraulics to get you to a safe area to eject. That’s good. The book says you can attempt a landing if you’ve got two good engines, which he does. He’ll try to land. Not good. He can’t get the wheels down, but the Hog’s main gear sticks out enough to land with it up.” Again he keyed the radio. “SOF, tell Waldo to jettison that Hog. I’ve got lots of aircraft but only one him.”
“I’ve advised him of same,” the SOF said. “It’s his option.”
Another voice came over the radio. “No sweat, Bossman.” It was Waldo. “And you speak with crooked tongue, white man. We no have lots of aircraft.”
“White man?” Rockne asked Pontowski.
“A play on words. We were in the Three Oh Third at Whiteman in Missouri.”
“I was stationed at Whiteman,” Rockne told him. “During the Jefferson court-martial.”
*
Pontowski looked at him in surprise. “You were mixed up with that?”
“The whole damn Wing was mixed up.” His eyes narrowed as the two aircraft approached. “I see smoke.” A thin trail of smoke was trailing from Waldo’s aircraft.
“I got it now,” Pontowski said. “You got good eyeballs.”
They watched as the two aircraft came down final. Waldo’s wingman moved away for a go-around as Waldo crossed the approach lights. Waldo set the disabled aircraft down on the centerline just beyond the runway numbers,
leaving plenty of room to drag the jet to a stop. “Pretty as a picture,” Pontowski said. And it was. The Warthog touched down on its partially exposed main landing gear, and Waldo held the nose up as long as he could. Finally the nose came down and sent out a shower of smoke and sparks.