Authors: Richard Herman
One of the boys raised the M-16 rifle he was carrying. His right hand moved as he charged a round.
Camp Alpha
Sunday, October 10
Waldo sat in the command post and took a long pull at a water bottle. “All I saw were two bodies lying on the ground outside the kampong.”
“Were they wearing uniforms?” Maggot asked.
“Flight suits, maybe,” Waldo muttered. “They were pretty well hacked up.”
“The general was wearing a flight suit,” Clark whispered.
Waldo looked at them in agony. “It could have been him.”
“We were taking ground fire from the kampong,” Buns added.
Waldo gave them a hard look. “So we morted the muthafuckers.”
Taman Negara
Sunday, October 10
The sun had set when the big diesel fired to life in the underground warren deep in the ridgeline. Smoke belched from the center tunnel as the transporter/erector/launcher moved out of hiding, its huge twelve wheels slowly turning. The missile it carried was heavily camouflaged and resembled a long, bushy caterpillar moving slowly down the rough trail. The sergeant hiding on the ridgeline noted the time and motioned for his runner. The lance corporal listened to his instructions and pulled back from the observation post, little more than a shadow moving silently in the night. Once clear of the ridge, he moved fast and reached Kamigami in less than twenty minutes.
“That’s two,” Kamigami told Lieutenant Lee, his team leader.
“Do we take them out?” Lee asked.
Tel knew the answer before Kamigami replied. The Taman Negara was essentially a staging area for the PLA, and all around them supplies were dispersed in the jungle
waiting for transport south. However, side by side were large numbers of soldiers being fed into the maw of combat, and for Kamigami that was the real threat. It was only a matter of time before one of his four teams was discovered. Tel calculated they had two or three more days at best before they had to withdraw.
“For now our mission is to observe and report,” Kamigami told the lieutenant. “Get a message out.” But even that was not easy. Although their PRC319 radio was capable of sending an encrypted, short-burst transmission that defied decoding, simple triangulation would warn the PLA that intruders were in the Taman Negara. A runner would have to take the message miles away for transmission. However, nothing could be written down in case the runner was captured, so the message had to be committed to memory.
“Sir,” Tel said, “should we include the coordinates of the tunnel?” Kamigami didn’t answer. “I mean the exact GPS coordinates of the entrance,” Tel explained.
“How do you propose we get those?”
Tel never hesitated. “We send someone down there with a GPS. All he has to do is press the fix button.”
“And if he gets caught?”
“We shoot him,” Tel replied.
“I’ll do it,” the lance corporal volunteered. “Those missiles are targeted at my family in Singapore.”
Kamigami agreed and huddled with the team, telling them exactly what he wanted. The lance corporal changed into a worker’s dungarees and pocketed a small GPS before he moved out. After he had left, Kamigami handed Tel an M-16 with a night-vision sight. “This was your idea,” he said.
Tel’s face blanched. “What if I miss?”
“Don’t,” Kamigami warned.
Tel lay beside the sergeant in the observation post overlooking the tunnels and sighted the scope. The greenish image was unbelievably clear as he zeroed in on the entrance. It
was all familiar from the time when he and Kamigami had first discovered the base camp. But now it was swarming with people. He estimated the range at five hundred meters and dialed it in. “Five-fifty,” the sergeant said. Tel changed the setting. The sergeant pointed to the shadows to the left of the tunnel entrance, and Tel glued his right eye to the eyepiece.
A figure shambled out of the shadows and crossed in front of the center tunnel. It was the lance corporal. In the direct center he stopped and fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. A guard stepped out of the tunnel and challenged him. The corporal said something, and the guard laughed. The corporal tapped two cigarettes from the pack and offered one to the guard. He shouldered his submachine gun and took one of the cigarettes. The corporal struck a match and lit the cigarettes. Even at that distance it was a flare, washing out a small part of the scope. Tel moved the crosshairs slightly to the side so he could see. The corporal shoved the pack of cigarettes into his pocket and hesitated for a moment as he keyed his GPS. Then he withdrew his hand and walked on across as the guard stepped back into the shadows.
Tel exhaled in relief.
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, October 10
The ExCom was waiting in the president’s private study off the Oval Office early Sunday morning. They talked quietly until she arrived. Kennett automatically did a quick appraisal of his president, deeply worried that she wasn’t getting enough rest. “Good morning,” she said, her voice calm and not showing the fatigue that was drawing her down. “First, the UN is going to consider a cease-fire resolution this afternoon.”
“H-hour for Operation Anvil is 0100 hours Gulf time tomorrow morning,” General Wilding said. “Our forces are in
place, and the UIF knows it’s coming. This is nothing but an attempt to stop it.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Turner assured him. “I’ll have our ambassador delay any vote in the UN as long as possible. But if it comes too early, I fully intend to ignore it until the UIF surrenders. Period.”
Wilding carefully considered his next words. “Madam President, this is going to be a max effort. That means heavy casualties.”
“I understand,” Turner said. “What else?”
“I talked to Herbert last night,” Mazie said. “The EU is demanding that the Germans halt their drive on Baghdad. The French are really putting the pressure on, and Herbert isn’t sure how long they can ignore it.”
Turner caught Mazie’s use of von Lubeck’s first name and arched an eyebrow. “Tell von Lubeck to delay as long as possible. What else?”
It was Butler’s turn. “The situation in Malaysia is critical. The PLA has broken out and is driving hard toward Singapore.”
“We may be able to do something on the political front,” Turner told them. “The Chinese special envoy, Zou Rong, arrived yesterday. Stephan is meeting with him at noon and thinks he may have an offer.”
Butler frowned. “I wouldn’t count on that, Mrs. President.”
Turner glanced at the TV. “I think there’s something you’d like to see.” She hit the remote control, and the logo for
Meet the Press
appeared.
“Madam President,” Kennett said, “why do you torture yourself this way?” The commentator’s face, which reminded the vice president of the “muffin boy,” filled the screen as he introduced his guest, Senator John Leland. Kennett’s missing left arm started to itch, which was always a bad sign. “This is bad. He likes Leland.”
“Because the good senator feeds him inside information,” Butler observed.
“Leland’s desperate,” Mazie said worriedly. “There’s a rumor he’s got an ‘October Surprise’ in store for us.”
“I’m
not
surprised,” Turner said. “Not with a little over three weeks before the election.” They fell silent as the interview began. Leland’s face was a mask while the commentator summarized the latest poll results that linked what was happening in the Gulf to Turner’s sudden surge in popularity. There was no doubt that if the election were held tomorrow, Turner would sweep David Grau under the political carpet. But Leland didn’t take the bait and started to talk in his rolling tones, pontificating on the state of Turner’s administration. “Here it comes,” the president warned.
On cue, Leland turned to the camera, his face solemn. “This has gone far beyond politics. Increasingly, we’re dealing with a state of moral degeneration in this administration that transcends anything we’ve ever seen.”
Nancy Bender knocked on the door and entered. Without a word, she handed a note to the vice president, glanced at the TV, and left. Kennett read the note, and his face paled. “That’s a very serious charge,” the TV commentator said, playing the straight man.
“And I don’t make it lightly,” Leland said with pain in his voice. “During the investigation into the suicide of the late DCI, it was discovered that he was involved in a child-pornography ring on the Internet. But this line of inquiry was dropped.”
The commentator was outraged. “Are you suggesting it was covered up?”
“It appears so.” Leland folded his hands in front of him, the stern judge. “It’s entirely possible that the DCI was about to be outed and was driven to suicide by forces within the Turner administration.”
Turner laughed, and everyone looked at her in shock. “First Grau shoots his foot off,” she said, owing them an explanation, “and now Leland.” She was obviously enjoying the moment. “For the time being, we have no comment. Talk to Bobbi Jo. She knows what to do.”
It was a rare moment, and Kennett hated that he had to spoil it. He handed her the note. “Madam President.” He waited.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. She came to her feet, wadding up the note in her hand. “It’s Matt,” she said. “The helicopter he was on was shot down. About twelve hours ago.” She fought back the tears, refusing to give in. She turned to Wilding, an unspoken plea on her face.
“I need to return to the NMCC,” the general said. “Unfortunately, we’re fully engaged in Operation Anvil. We don’t have much in the area. Maybe Okinawa.”
“I know that,” she admitted.
Camp Alpha
Monday, October 11
Smoke from the still-smoldering fire in the fuel dump drifted over Alpha, holding the base in an eerie silence. To the north the constant rumble of artillery was a grim reminder that the fighting was coming their way. Occasionally a train of weapons trailers emerged out of the smoke and crossed the runway to deliver its deadly load. The big blast doors at a shelter would crank open far enough to move one or two trailers inside. Then the tug would move on to the next shelter. Inside, Maintenance worked hard to ready the Warthogs for combat while the pilots tried to catch some rest in one of the rooms at the back.
A lone pickup drove around the perimeter road as Rockne checked on each fire team he had posted in a defensive fire position. Although he could not see their faces in the dark, he could sense their worry. One young airman summed it up best. “Damn, Chief. I’d feel a hell of a lot better if the general was here or we were outa here.” Rockne agreed with him and moved on to the next position.
A C-130 Hercules with Singapore roundels on the fuselage touched down at 0108 hours and taxied into parking. The pilots kept the engines running as the ramp came down at the rear of the big cargo plane. Six big fuel bladders that
resembled black sausages rolled out the back while an ambulance waited with the two litter patients and three walking wounded from the missile attack. The Air Force lieutenant colonel from the MAAG hurried down the ramp and ran over to the van where Janice Clark was waiting. “I’ve got the plane for at least one more shuttle,” he told her. “We can start evacuating nonessential personnel.”
“What the hell is going on?” she yelled over the roar of the engines.
He gestured to the north. “The front is collapsing. Singapore is a mess. I’m screaming for help, but no one seems to be listening. I was lucky to pry the Hercules loose.” He glanced at the C-130, where two litters were being carried on and Doc Ryan was giving instructions to the crew chiefs. “I should be back in an hour or two.”
Clark watched as the lieutenant colonel ran for the Hercules. He climbed on board, and it fast-taxied for the runway. Satisfied that the fuel bladders were taken care of, she told her driver to take her to the command post. He drove in silence, obviously worried. He dropped her at the entry control point and said, “Missy Colonel, I need to see family.” She told him to go, fully aware that she would never see him again.
Inside the command post she radioed for the chief of Maintenance, Doc Ryan, and Rockne to join her. While she waited, she went down the AVG’s personnel roster: 30 pilots including Maggot, 304 maintenance troops, 134 cops including Rockne, 108 support personnel, and 9 medics including Doc Ryan.
Five hundred and eighty-five,
she thought.
Can I get them out?
The simple question beat at her like a sledgehammer. She answered her own question out loud: “Every damn one.” Again she scanned the list, checking off those who would go first. But reality could not be denied—the cops would be the last to go. If they went. Once again she scanned the list, forgetting three names: Clark, Pontowski, and Boyca.
Rockne was the first to arrive. “Your driver is outside,” he told her. “He wants to speak to you.” Clark quickly ex
plained how they were going to start an evacuation before she walked outside to see what her driver wanted. She found him squatting on his haunches outside the entry control point. Much to her surprise, she was glad to see him.
“I know where general is,” he told her.
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, October 10
The hostess swept through the downstairs of her elegant Georgetown home, ensuring that all was ready for the arrival of her last guest. A quick glance at the clock in the vestibule: two minutes before noon. She took a deep breath. It had been a wonderful weekend, first with the party on Friday night and the meeting between Secretary of Defense Merritt and Senator Leland, and now this. Her star was certainly rising, and she could see a future. The clock struck twelve, and she opened the door. On cue, a black sedan drove under the portico and stopped. An aide emerged from the front passenger seat, looked around to confirm they were not observed, and opened the rear door.
She smiled graciously as Zou Rong emerged and hurried up the steps. Nothing betrayed her inner anxiety when Jin Chu stepped out of the car and followed Zou inside. The hostess was neither slow nor stupid and recognized her immediately. But she was not prepared for the sheer beauty and natural grace of the woman. For a moment she considered asking to have her fortune told, but she quickly discarded the notion. But why was Jin Chu there? The hostess’s contact at the State Department who had arranged the clandestine meeting had not mentioned it.
“Mr. Ambassador,” the hostess said, escorting Zou upstairs, “this is indeed an honor.” Zou ignored her. She opened the door to the study where Merritt and Leland had met. This time, the secretary of state was waiting inside. She closed the door and descended the stairs. Should she offer Jin Chu tea?
The two men exchanged the formal courtesies dictated by the circumstances. As he represented the host country, Serick was the first to broach the reason for the meeting. But it was done in the time-honored way of his profession, carefully nonconfrontational and with tact, leaving room to maneuver without committing his side to a course of action or policy. “My government is worried about the situation in Malaysia.”
What he got in return was a full artillery barrage. “Your government is worried about Singapore,” Zou corrected. “Fortunately for the peace-loving peoples of Asia, it is beyond your control.”
Serick was stunned. Belligerents talked this way to the press and on TV, and then it was for home consumption. He pulled off one diplomatic glove. “Mr. Ambassador, you have traveled too far to recite propaganda. I was hoping for a more productive conversation.”
“Please tell your president that we will have many things of mutual interest to discuss in a few days. That is why I’m here.”
Serick pulled off the other glove. “You’re wagering you can capture Singapore before we can respond.”
Zou was a gambler at heart and liked the analogy. “Our friends in the Middle East have given us the race.” He smiled contentedly.
“When you back the wrong horse,” Serick replied, “don’t blame the horse.”
“It won’t even be a photo finish,” Zou told him. “As your president will shortly learn.”
Serick tried a different tack, determined to at least send a message. He did it in terms even an adolescent could understand. “There will be a price to be paid.”
“There is a new economic order emerging. I suggest you seek ways to make an accommodation before it is too late.” Zou stood, bringing the meeting to an end. “Please tell your president there is always a price to be paid for being in the wrong place. Which we are explaining to her General Pontowski.” He gave a little bow and left.
Serick was in a state of shock and didn’t move. His eyes narrowed as he considered what he should do next. But all his options were gone. There was nothing left except fighting, death, and destruction. “Well, so be it,” he murmured, accepting failure. He reached for his cane and stood up. Suddenly he felt very old. His hostess was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. She keyed off Zou’s abrupt departure and looked very concerned. “Thank you so much,” he told her.
“It was my pleasure, Mr. Secretary. I’ll always remember meeting Miss Jin. What an adorable lady. And her English is exquisite.”
“Jin Chu was here? The fortune-teller?”
“Why, yes. I thought you knew.”
“What did she say?”
“We talked about the weather, of course.” She thought for a moment. “The conversation took a most unusual turn. She mentioned the Chinese love of gambling.” Serick’s shaggy eyebrows shot up, an unspoken command to repeat exactly what was said. The hostess caught it. “She said, ‘Not even the gods wager on horse races.’”
Serick kissed her hand, still the gracious Old World courtier. “Madam, you have done your country a rare service.” He hobbled down the steps, surprising her with his speed.
Turner tapped her fingers together as a heavy silence ruled the Oval Office. “That was a diplomatic slap in the face,” she finally said.
“Actually,” Serick allowed, “it was a bludgeoning.”
She made no effort to hide her anger. “If he thinks he’s here to dictate surrender terms, he’s going to die an old man waiting.” She stood up and looked out the windows, her back to her advisers. “They’re deluding themselves if they think they can blackmail me into an agreement.”
Mazie and Butler exchanged glances, both certain she was talking about Matt Pontowski. “Madam President,” Butler said, “regardless of what Zou said, we can’t be sure they
have captured the general. I keep asking myself why he brought the woman with him. Very bizarre, to say the least.”
“Madam President,” Mazie said, “we’re on a Chinese roundabout. I think we’re getting two messages here.”
Turner turned and faced them, deadly calm. “Then it’s time to send them a message they’ll have no trouble understanding. General Wilding, how long before we can reinforce SEAC?”
Wilding thought out loud. “The problem is airlift. Everything we’ve got has been dedicated to the Gulf and the buildup for Operation Anvil—which commences in five hours. With sealift finally open, I can start redirecting aircraft on return flights out of the Gulf.”
“Redirect,” the president ordered.
“I’m hesitant to commit forces piecemeal, Madam President. I want to go in with at least a division. I’m thinking the Third Marine Division in Okinawa. We can deploy it at less than full strength and have it in place in…” He hesitated, not sure of the numbers. It was a complicated calculation dependent on so many factors. He committed. “We can have a vanguard regiment in place, ready to fight, in seventy-two hours.” Every instinct warned him to hedge for time, but the look on Turner’s face was ample warning not to do it.
“Seventy-two hours,” Turner repeated. She crossed her arms in defiance, her eyes hard. “I will not allow Singapore to fall. Tell SEAC to hold. Help is on the way.”
Camp Alpha
Monday, October 11
Jessica felt like a dwarf as she stood behind Paul Travis and Jake Osburn in the Base Defense Operations Center. She shouldered her way through and moved to the front of the chart table. She wasn’t about to be left out because of Travis and Jake. “It’s 0215 in five seconds,” Rockne said. “Three, two, one, hack.” The nine security cops set their watches. Rockne studied his team, taking their measure. Satisfied that
he had the right people, he circled a railroad junction eleven miles south of Alpha. “Our source claims that General Pontowski is being held in this area by no more than three or four soldiers. We know the PLA has long-range patrols operating in the area. If they are PLA, and if the general is wounded, they’re probably waiting for a pickup. Our mission is to rescue him before that happens, while we’ve still got surprise on our side. The bad news is that the roads are flooded with refugees and we can’t move by vehicle.”
“What about the First SOS?” Jessica asked. “They’ve got helicopters.”
Rockne’s face matched his name. “We called, but all their choppers are on other missions and only the command element is here. So we’re going in by foot. The good news is that we’ve got a guide who knows a back way.”
“How reliable is this guy?” Paul Travis asked.
“He’s Colonel Clark’s driver and seems pretty loyal to her,” Rockne replied. “I want to be in and out before sunrise. That means an eleven-mile slog in three hours. I’m betting there’s so much confusion out there that no one will want to mess with us and we can blow right by them. With a little luck, we can do it. Regardless of what happens, we got to try. Any questions?”
“This is not a hell of a lot to go on,” Jake Osburn said. “Where do we rendezvous if this turns to shit?” Rockne pointed out their rendezvous, and they punched the coordinates into their GPSs.
“Chief,” Jessica said, “Boyca’s real good at picking up a scent.”
“That’s why she’s coming,” Rockne replied. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Southern Malaysia
Monday, October 11
Jake Osburn set the pace for the team as they moved silently along the path that led between two kampongs. Clark’s
driver was carrying only two canteens and had no trouble keeping up, but the others were struggling under their combat loads. Rockne checked his watch. They were making good time, and he called a break. “Five minutes,” he told them. Jessica collapsed to the ground and pulled out a canteen. She sloshed some water into a small plastic pan for Boyca before drinking any herself. Then they were up and moving as Jake lived up to his reputation as an animal.
Their pace slowed as they neared the railroad junction and ran into refugees. Rather than take a chance, they went to cover while the driver went ahead to clear their way. Then they were moving again, reaching the railroad junction while it was still dark. Clark’s driver pointed to the compound. “There” was all he said.
Rockne swept the area with his night-vision goggles. He could make out two railroad-maintenance sheds, at least five shacks, and two more substantial cement-block buildings. “Which one?” he muttered. The driver gave an expressive shrug. “Fuckin’ lovely.”
“Okay,” he told his team, “me and Boyca will lead the way in and try to pick up the general’s scent. If we can identify the building, Jess, you take a four-man team inside.” Paul and Jake stiffened but said nothing. “Go in on my command,” Rockne said, “and do it by the book.” He pulled Pontowski’s flight cap out of his rucksack and held it for Boyca to sniff. He unsnapped her leash. “Seek.”
Boyca ranged back and forth as she moved into the compound. Behind her, Rockne moved from shadow to shadow, staying out of sight. He was about to give up and return to the team when Boyca started to move back and forth as if moving toward the apex of a cone. She had picked up the scent, and Rockne followed her, moving in the deep shadow of one of the maintenance sheds.