Authors: Richard Herman
The Pentagon
Friday, October 1
Everyone but the DCI was in the battle cab overlooking the NMCC when Turner entered. Wilding escorted her to the
center captain’s chair overlooking the main floor and sat down next to her. “It’s not good,” he told her. “They’ve punched a hole in the center, right through the Saudi position, and are exploiting it in force.” He spoke in a calm voice as he detailed the situation on the ground and what they were doing in response. He took care to explain it in terms she understood, devoid of military jargon. “It’s going to be touch and go for the next few hours,” he cautioned. “But we should be able to contain it.”
When Wilding was finished, the vice president said, “Madam President, we’ve got the situation briefing you asked for ready to go in the conference room.” He motioned to the room at the back.
“Where’s the DCI?” she asked.
“I imagine he’s on his way from Langley,” Parrish said as he made a phone call. He spoke to the DCI’s assistant and then held his hand over the mouthpiece. “They haven’t seen him, and they’re checking his office…” Parrish’s voice trailed off, and his face blanched. “Oh, my God!” he looked at Turner, his eyes wide. “He’s dead. He shot himself.”
The Pentagon
Friday, October 1
Turner was sitting in the battle cab surrounded by generals when the two FBI agents arrived. Shaw hovered in the background and listened while they introduced themselves and explained how they needed access to the CIA to conduct a full investigation into the DCI’s suicide. The president promised them they would get what they needed and no doors would be barred.
The CIA will have something to say about that,
Shaw thought.
No way them boys are gonna open up to you fellas.
Suddenly it was there, all the pieces on the board. The cancer might have been eating away at his brain, but he was still in the game. He moved a few of the pieces around his mental chessboard as he refined his strategy.
Bait? What’s the bait?
He moved a pawn forward and grinned.
Holy shit!
He forced the grin away before someone saw it.
Do I have enough time?
He wasn’t sure and worked his way to the door. Unnoticed, he slipped into the corridor and forced himself to walk slowly. Fortunately, nothing was wrong with his sense of direction, and he made his way to the main concourse, looking for a bank of public telephones. Luckily, he found one that was tucked away in a corner and deserted. He quickly dialed a number. It was answered on
the first ring. He looked around to be sure no one was listening. “I need the URL of a child-pornography site,” he said, all traces of his accent gone. There was no acknowledgment or questions, only silence. He waited, counting the seconds. A voice came back with an answer. He jotted it down and broke the connection. “Trace that one,” he muttered to himself.
He hurried back to the NMCC, and another piece fell into place when he saw the two FBI agents in a corner comparing notes with two other civilians, obviously Army CID or Air Force OSI agents. He almost laughed aloud as he squeezed into the battle cab that was now overflowing with every general who could think of a reason to be there. He listened for a few moments. “We are now certain,” a one-star said, “that the embassy in Kuala Lumpur was hit by mortar rounds and not Scuds. The Scuds served as a cover for special units of the Ninety-second People’s Liberation Regiment of the PLA, who are operating in Kuala Lumpur.”
About time these boys got their act together,
Shaw decided.
It must be Bernie’s doin’, not the CIA’s.
But intelligence wasn’t his problem. He inched his way to the conference room at the back and glanced in, finding it still empty.
Luck of the Irish.
He slipped inside and studied the DCI’s chair.
Okay, there’s got to be something.
There was only a yellow legal notepad and a black pen on the side table. Shaw glanced at the still-open door but saw only the backs of two officers outside. For a moment he hesitated.
Do it!
He used a handkerchief to pick up the pen and quickly copied the URL of the Web site on a corner of the yellow pad in simple block letters. Still using the handkerchief, he carefully ripped the corner off and dropped it into a crack between the chair cushions.
He shuffled back into the battle cab, certain that he had not been seen.
Keep it simple,
he warned himself. He waited patiently until Turner was leaving and followed her out. But he peeled off from the presidential party and headed for the men’s room. Again his luck held, and he saw one of the CID
officers who had been talking to the FBI agents. He nodded at the man. “Special Agent, ah…”
“Carson,” the man replied.
Now he was at the tricky part. “CID, right?” Shaw ventured. A slight nod in answer. “You know who I am?” Again the nod. “The SecDef doesn’t need any surprises on this one. Keep him in the picture, okay?” Another slight nod. “We never had this conversation, right?”
“What conversation?” Special Agent Carson answered.
“I owe you,” Shaw said. He walked into the men’s room.
Leland, I’m gonna nail your ass!
Camp Alpha
Saturday, October 2
The driver dragged the dark green minivan to a stop in front of the concrete barricades blocking the road leading into the base. “Missy Colonel,” he said, his eyes full of worry, “this all new. No can go.”
The head of a very young security cop popped up from behind the left side of the concrete barricade, then disappeared. For a few moments nothing happened. Then he shouted, “Advance and be recognized.”
Before Clark or Pontowski could react, the driver was out of the van, his hands up. “I drive Missy Colonel! She your boss.”
Rockne emerged from a sandbagged guard post. “It’s okay,” he called as he walked up to the van. He was surprised to see that Pontowski was also with them. “General, ma’am, sorry for the confusion. We’re real short of people and still getting it all sorted out. We just got the barricades in place.” He hesitated for a moment. “I know you’re busy, but if you’ve got a moment, I’d like to do some training. Two minutes max. We’re stretched too thin, and I need every opportunity I can get.”
“You got it,” Clark told him. Rockne placed a small package in a wheel well and walked to the downwind flank of
the minivan. He slapped the leash he was holding against his thigh, and Boyca bounded out of the guard post. “Good girl,” Rockne said as he snapped the leash on. “Seek,” he commanded. He followed Boyca as she moved around the van, searching for the scent of explosives. Once he called “Hup” to get her to search high. Then, to encourage her, “Whatcha got, girl?” When they got to the wheel well, Boyca reacted. She sat with her ears up and looked expectantly at Rockne. He reached into the wheel well and pulled out the package. “You still got it.” He pulled out a rubber dog toy and tossed it to her. She jumped up, snagged it, and started to worry it with little growls of contentment. “Good girl.” Rockne smiled at Pontowski and Clark. “Thank you.” He stepped back and waved them forward. The driver jumped into the van and threaded his way through the barricades.
“The Rock’s got ’em jumping,” Pontowski said, pointing to two airmen digging a defensive fighting position. Farther down the road another two were doing the same. “Overlapping fields of fire,” Pontowski said. “Rockne is good.”
“The best,” Clark said. They drove past two aircraft bunkers, but the big blast doors were closed and all was quiet. “I can’t tell if they’re generating,” she said.
Pontowski’s eyes squinted as he took it in. The goal of an aircraft generation was to get as many of their aircraft fully serviced and uploaded with munitions as quickly as possible for a combat launch. It was a challenge under the best of circumstances but more so since they had just arrived and were still bedding down. “We’ll see,” he allowed. Their driver had to stop as more barricades blocked the road leading to the command post. But this time there were no guards.
“I guess we walk from here,” Clark said. The lone guard at the entrance to the command post cleared them inside. “All things considered,” she said, “Rockne is doing a good job with security. But he needs the rest of his people.” She made a note on her PalmPilot.
Inside, they found Maggot sitting in the center of a long console in front of a bank of telephones. He was kicked back
and sipping at a Coke. He stood up when he saw them. “I take it you’re generating,” Pontowski said.
Maggot motioned at the big Plexiglas-covered board on the front wall. The AVG’s twenty jets were listed by tail number in the far-left column, and by using a grease pencil to fill in the columns, the command post tracked each bird as it was fueled, loaded with ordnance, and assigned a pilot. “We’re six hours into it and got nine jets loaded and ready to launch. The jocks are standing by, but without tasking or an ATO, we’re pissin’ in the wind.” An ATO was an air tasking order that sent them into combat.
Pontowski shook his head. “We just came from SEAC headquarters. Total confusion. I asked for an ATO, but no luck. No one seems to know what’s going on.”
“All they have to do is listen to the radio,” Maggot said. “It’s even on TV.” He waved to a TV set in the corner. Thanks to satellite communications and miniature TV cameras, the deadly chaos sweeping Kuala Lumpur was being documented for the world to see. “Damn! We can help.” Doc Ryan walked up to the big boards and made a grease-pencil change to the status of two aircraft. Two more were fully operational and loaded with munitions. “Eleven jets ready to party,” Maggot muttered. “And no one to dance with.”
“Isn’t that Doc Ryan?” Clark asked, wondering why the flight surgeon was in the command post and not the base med station.
“The one and only,” Maggot said. “His people are ready, and he wanted something to do. Seems he learned how command posts and aircraft generations worked under Mafia Martini at Okinawa.”
“Is he any good?” Pontowski asked.
“You had to be good to survive Martini,” Clark answered.
Maggot stared at the ready board. “General, our job is killin’ tanks, and based on what I’m hearing on the radio and seeing on the TV, there just might be a few needin’ servicing around Kuala Lumpur. Why don’t we scramble four jets to go take a look?”
Pontowski shook his head. “What’s the threat? What hap
pens if one gets shot down? Besides, without an ATO from SEAC, there’s no way I’ll let them clear themselves onto a target.”
Ryan had been listening, and now he said, “General, I’m in telephone contact with SEAC’s command post in Singapore. It’s a secure line.”
Maggot’s eyes narrowed as he hunched over the ONC, or Operational Navigation Chart, in front of him. “Kuala Lumpur’s a hundred and twenty-five nautical miles away,” he said. “If one of those Hogs was at altitude, he’d be in UHF range and could talk to us. We could coordinate with SEAC and ask for special tasking. Who knows? It might work.”
“Sir,” Ryan called. He directed his laser pointer at a map of the base tacked up on the far wall and circled two aircraft bunkers. “We might be able to use the First SOS and their helicopters for search and rescue if one of our jets gets shot down. They’ve got two helicopters on base right now and two out on a mission.”
Maggot liked the idea. “Ask ’em.” Ryan nodded and reached for the phone.
“It’s worth a try,” Clark said, urging a decision.
“Better than sittin’ here with our finger up our ass,” Maggot mumbled.
“Do it,” Pontowski said.
Kuala Lumpur
Saturday, October 2
Waldo carved a racetrack pattern in the sky high above the city. Far below, clouds stretched from horizon to horizon. Five thousand feet below his altitude and to the south, he caught a glimpse of the other three Warthogs in his flight as they entered a holding orbit. It was time to call Chicken Coop, the command post at Camp Alpha. He glanced at the Have Quick UHF radio control panel on the left console to make sure he was on channel 20. Even though the
frequency-hopping radio supposedly guaranteed that an enemy couldn’t monitor their transmissions, he insisted they maintain radio silence as much as possible—just in case they might. He liked to think of it as “sticking to basics.” His left thumb nudged the mike switch on the throttle quadrant to transmit. “Ranch flight, radio check.” The radio was very clear, with a slight clicking sound in the background.
“Two.” As usual, Lurch was abrupt and nasal.
“Three.” Bag sounded bored.
A piglike grunt answered for Ranch Four. Waldo made a mental note to mention it during debrief. Probably a comment about the pilot, a slow-talking Native American from New Mexico everyone called Duke, not being able to count to four. “Chicken Coop, Ranch One. How copy?”
“Chicken Coop reads you five by,” Doc Ryan replied, his transmission loud and clear.
“Rog,” Waldo transmitted. “Solid cloud deck below us at six thou. Can’t see a thing on the ground. We’ve got about thirty minutes of light before sunset. I’d like to send Ranch Three and Four down to take a look.”
“Bossman says go for it,” Ryan radioed. “Stay above small-arms fire.”
Waldo humphed. Pontowski was getting cautious. “Copy all.” Now he could get to work. “Bag, you and Duke are cleared in for a look. Shooter-cover.” The idea was for Bag to do the looking and Duke to fly cover for Bag and discourage anyone who might think it was a good idea to shoot at him.
“We’re in,” Bag replied, his voice still bored and matter-of-fact. Waldo watched as the two aircraft broke out of orbit and descended through a small opening in the clouds. Bag was in the lead, with Duke a mile in trail and displaced to the right. Now Waldo had to wait, which he hated.
The radio crackled. “Bag! Break right.” It was Duke, now quick and decisive. “Triple A at your deep seven.” A short pause. “You’re clear.”
Waldo ground his teeth as he waited for what seemed an eternity. A Warthog popped out of the clouds. Waldo
counted the seconds. A second Hog punched into the open, and Waldo breathed easier as the two joined up and climbed back into orbit with Ranch Two. “Four tanks and troops in the open moving into town along the main road to the south,” Bag reported.
“What about the Triple A?” Waldo asked. Because of the A-10’s slow speed, antiaircraft artillery was always a big concern.
“Coming from the airport on the south side of the city,” Duke radioed. “Some CBU might discourage them.” Besides carrying six Mark-82 Airs, five-hundred-pound bombs that were retarded by an inflatable balloon/parachute, Duke was also loaded with six canisters of CBU-58, a cluster-bomb unit that contained 650 baseball-size bomblets.
“Might be friendlies at the airport,” Waldo cautioned. Waldo relayed the information to Chicken Coop and got the standard answer given by all command posts.
“Stand by one,” Ryan radioed.
“Shee-it,” Bag grumbled, dragging the obscenity out into two syllables. They orbited for twenty minutes as the sun set.
“Ranch flight, Chicken Coop.”
Waldo keyed his radio. “Go ahead, Chicken Coop.”
Ryan’s voice was almost jubilant. “You are cleared in against the tanks and the troops on the south side of the city. Simpang Airport is reported to be in friendly hands.”
“Then see if you can get them to stop shooting at us,” Waldo replied. “Got to hurry. The light’s almost gone. Okay, Bag. You got the lead. One pass, haul ass. Me and Lurch are right behind you.” Waldo rolled 135 degrees and peeled out of orbit, dropping like a rock to join up on his wingman, Ranch Two, while Bag and Duke disappeared through the clouds.