Authors: Richard Herman
“I wish I knew,” he told them. Even in the dark they could see he was fatigued to the point of collapse. “As best I can tell, SEAC is in a tactical retreat and giving ground slowly. Tactical missiles carrying nerve gas have hit every airfield and closed ’em down. We’re landing on highways.” He fished a message out of his pocket and handed it to them. “I received this about two hours ago.” He snorted. “I don’t think it’s gonna happen.” He looked at the C-130. “Got to go. I’ll be back.” He ran for the aircraft, which was
starting to move. He jumped on the ramp and disappeared inside.
Pontowski watched the big cargo plane taxi out of the parking ramp. His head snapped up as the shrill shriek of an incoming artillery round split the air. “Incoming!” he shouted, dropping to the ground and dragging Clark with him. The C-130 disappeared in a blinding explosion. Pontowski rose up on all fours, shaken but unhurt. The Hercules was nothing but a mound of fire and smoke on the taxiway.
Clark staggered to her feet, raging in the night. “Goddamn you to hell!”
The command post was silent as a tomb, every eye on Pontowski as he sat, his chin on his chest. Finally he stood up. “Don’t forget them,” he said. His back straightened, and he studied the aircraft boards. “We got enough fuel now to fly thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight sorties. When we run out of gas, we can suit the pilots out in APE and recover at Tengah.” APE was aircrew protective equipment that protected the wearer from chemical and nerve-gas agents.
“Got it,” Maggot said, determined to make it happen.
How much more can I ask of them?
Pontowski thought. He collapsed into a chair and ran through his options.
None good.
He pulled out the message Maggot had given him, and reread it for the third time. He knew what he had to do. “Colonel Clark,” he said, “we need to talk. In private.” She followed him into a back office and he handed her the message without a word.
She read it twice. “So the vanguard from the Third Marine Division is due to arrive no later than midnight Wednesday.” She returned the message. “Remember what the lieutenant colonel said? He didn’t think it was going to happen.” She stared at him. “Because that requires airlift, and there’s no place to land.”
“Yes there is,” Pontowski told her. “Here. I don’t know why we haven’t been hit with chemical or nerve gas, but I suspect it’s because they haven’t got the resources to do it, or they want to capture the base intact so they can use it.”
She saw it immediately. “Which explains why they haven’t cratered the runway. Or maybe they’ve got too many of their own people in the area.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re going to hold as long as we can.” He hesitated, hating what he had to say. “Janice, it could get very ugly here. For you…all the women…personally. I want you out at the first opportunity.”
She stood up to leave. “General, there’s two other women on base besides myself. I’ll make them the same offer, and they can decide for themselves. But as for me, I’ll leave when you leave.” She changed the subject. “By the way, Rockne wants to talk to us.”
They found him sitting on the floor in the hall sound asleep. Boyca was curled up beside him, her head on his lap. She came alert when Pontowski and Clark approached. It was enough to wake Rockne, and he stood up. “I think we got an intruder on base,” he told them. “A good one who is acting like a spotter for artillery. Think about it. For most of the time the mortar fire was purely harassment. Twice, when it really mattered, it got accurate as all hell. Once when the Hogs launched. If they hadn’t’ve done a tactical split like they did, that mortar round would have nailed them. They were waiting for us to take off.”
Clark’s eyes narrowed. “And the second time was the C-130.”
“Exactly,” Rockne said. “I’m gonna find the little bastard.”
Pontowski checked his watch. “You’ve got nine hours. I want to launch at first light.”
“Got it.” He spun around and left.
How much more can I ask?
Pontowski wondered.
Washington, D.C.
Monday, October 11
Stephan Serick stumped down the hall, his usual grumpy self. But not even he could put a damper on the euphoria pervading the West Wing. The news from the Gulf was sim
ply too good, too positive to let the secretary of state ruin the best Monday morning they had experienced in over a month. The president’s secretary was waiting and immediately ushered him into the Oval Office for the 8:00
A.M.
meeting. He was ninety seconds late. Turner was sitting in her rocker, surrounded by her key policy advisers. She patted the arm of the couch next to her, where she wanted him to sit. He dropped his bulk onto the couch, his cane upright between his knees. “My apologies, Madam President, but I was on the phone to the Chinese embassy.”
Turner made a mental note. Serick had mentioned the phone call only because it warranted her attention. They would discuss it later. “First,” Turner began, “I fully expect the honorable senator to continue with his October Surprise today.” They all knew she was talking about Leland and his allegations about the late DCI. She looked directly at the secretary of defense, Robert Merritt. “That would be a mistake on his part, and I urge him not to go there.”
“Madam President,” Merritt replied, “I’ll be glad to relay the message.” It was the reason she had told him to be there. Bobbi Jo Reynolds, the head of the reelection campaign, smiled at him, reminding him of a shark—or Patrick Shaw.
“Well, Stephan,” Turner said, turning back to the secretary of state, “do the Chinese have a message for us?”
Serick’s hands had a death grip on his cane as he tried to strangle it. “Not a message, Madam President, a demand. The ambassador told me to be at their embassy at ten o’clock this morning to meet with Zou Rong.”
The shock that went around the room was palpable, intense, and immediate. The Chinese demand was shattering, totally beyond the carefully scripted world of diplomacy. An ambassador simply did not give orders to high-ranking officials in the government he was accredited to. The president came to her feet and crossed her arms. She stood in front of them. “Oh, my. Did the ambassador indicate what the meeting was about?” Her voice was soft and reasonable.
“No, ma’am, he did not. But I suspect it involves Singapore and Malaysia.”
“I see,” she murmured, a concerned look on her face. “Well, I suppose we must respond.”
“We can return the ambassador’s letter,” Serick ventured. The return of his formal letter of accreditation from the Chinese government was tantamount to declaring him persona non grata and breaking off relations with China.
“No, not yet. I want to appear reasonable—for now.” She thought for a moment. “Is there a word in Chinese for ‘piss off’?”
Taman Negara
Monday, October 11
A gentle rain misted down from the trees as the two men ghosted out of the dark. For a moment the incessant buzz of insects halted while they paused to make sure the way was clear. One spoke into the whisper mike pinned to his shoulder, and they moved on, bent under the weight of their heavy bergens. A voice spoke in the night. “Sergeant Hu, over here.” The two men halted and spun around, weary and fatigued. A dark shadow materialized into human form as Tel moved away from a tree. Like them, he was wearing night-vision goggles and resembled some strange nocturnal creature.
Again the sergeant spoke into his whisper mike. A few moments later Colonel Sun led the rest of the team into the rendezvous. He gave an order, and the fifty-four men disappeared into the dark. “You made good time,” Tel said. “I just arrived.” He appreciated the distance they had traveled from their insertion point, the closest helicopters could get without drawing attention.
Sun slowly lowered his bergen. He was tired to the point of collapse, and his face was streaked with sweat. He pulled off his goggles. “How much farther?”
“Thirty miles” came the answer.
“How soon can we get there?” He swayed with exhaustion.
Tel worked the problem, balancing the distance with the
threat. “Tomorrow night, if we’re lucky. Probably sometime early Wednesday morning. We have to do the last ten miles at night to avoid patrols.”
Sun cursed under his breath. “Not in time. F-16s are going to bomb the tunnels tomorrow, and we’re supposed to mop up.”
“I hope they’ve got something better than the A-10s,” Tel said. “They put a missile into the entrance. Twenty minutes later missiles moved out.”
“Then we’ll do it alone,” Sun said. “Those missiles have to be destroyed.” There was steel in his voice. “As soon as possible.”
Even in the dark Sun saw the surprise on Tel’s face as the pieces came together—the heavy combat loads they were carrying, the urgency. “A daylight attack is suicide.”
The colonel didn’t answer.
Camp Alpha
Tuesday, October 12
The six team leaders who trooped down the ramp and into the BDOC at two o’clock in the morning were soaking wet. Jessica watched from the back wall as they removed their helmets and gathered around Rockne to report in. Rockne listened impassively as each leader confirmed that his team had not found a single intruder, much less one with a radio, GPS, and laser range finder. “Did you check every tree?” he asked.
The answer was unanimous. If they couldn’t visually scan the branches, they sent someone up.
“Okay,” Rockne said. “Good work. We had to check it out.” He studied the map of the base as they left. “He’s here. I can feel it in my bones.”
Jessica joined him. “He’s in the northern end of Whiskey Sector,” she said. “Probably outside the fuel dump. That’s where the trees are the heaviest and he can see the northern end of the runway, where the mortar shell landed and they got the C-130.”
He agreed. “It makes sense. But you heard. It was a good sweep.”
“Let me and Cindy take Boyca and have a look.” Rockne didn’t answer. “Wouldn’t hurt anything,” she cajoled.
“Do it. But I want my dog back.”
The pickup crossed the runway at midfield and stopped at the intersection of the roads leading to the fuel dump to the north and the weapons storage area to the south. Jessica and Cindy hopped out of the back and adjusted their fighting loads. Cindy moved the ammunition cases so she could lie comfortably in the prone position if she had to, while Jessica got Boyca out of the passenger seat. They buckled their helmets and adjusted their night-vision goggles as Boyca strained at her leash, sensing action. Without a word, they moved into the night, Boyca ranging ahead of them.
It was slow going as they crossed back and forth through the trees, always careful to report their position so the teams manning the defensive fire positions wouldn’t fire at them. At one DFP they found the two men asleep. “Do you have any idea what the Rock would do to you?” Jessica asked.
Cindy answered the question. “He’d rip your balls off and feed them to you for breakfast.” One of the cops snorted in disbelief. “Believe it,” Cindy warned. They continued the search, constantly moving northward, toward the minefield that formed a giant cap on the base. Finally they reached the edge of the minefield and sat down to rest. Cindy squatted against a tree, her M-16 lying across her lap. “Nothing,” she said, resignation in her voice.
“It’s the rain,” Jessica said. “It washed away the scent.” She radioed the BDOC and reported in. They sat in silence, totally defeated. Above them, the clouds scudded across the sky, breaking up in a gentle breeze and allowing moonlight to shine through. To the east the first glow of sunrise marked the horizon. Jessica removed her helmet and pulled off her heavy goggles. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I hate these damn things.” Boyca came alert and growled, straining at her leash. Jessica looked in the same direction. “She’s onto something.”
A short burst of gunfire shattered the dark. “Oh, shit,” Jessica said, jamming her helmet back on. She came to her feet
and pressed her back against a tree, shielded from the gunfire. Another burst raked their position. Silence. Jessica counted to ten. Nothing. She counted to ten again. She keyed her radio to call the BDOC. “Rat Hole, this is Lima One.” Her voice squeaked as adrenaline pumped through her. She forced herself to calm down and tried again. “Rat Hole, this is Lima One. We’re taking fire.”
Rockne answered. “Roger, Lima One. Are you in the same place?”
“That’s affirmative,” Jessica replied.
“Lima One,” Rockne radioed, “help’s on the way. If possible, proceed to the empty defensive fire position a hundred yards to the west, next to the runway, and occupy.”
“Copy all,” Jessica replied. She broke the connection as more gunfire erupted. Then it was quiet. “Go,” Jessica ordered. They bolted for the DFP, but Boyca was moving in the opposite direction.
“Follow her,” Cindy said.
“Oh, shit,” Jessica whispered. She fell in behind Cindy as the dog moved through the trees. Boyca lay down on her stomach, her head up as she looked directly at a tree. A shot rang out, and the dirt kicked up inches in front of her nose. Jessica reacted automatically. She brought her M-16 up as she stepped from behind a tree and fired in the direction of the muzzle flash.
“You muthafucker!” Cindy yelled. “Leave the dog alone!” She fired Rambo style as she darted from tree to tree, closing on the shooter.
“Cindy! No! Take cover!”
The airman skidded behind a tree and stopped firing, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Cindy hit the eject button on her rifle and slapped in a fresh magazine. “He’s running!” she shouted.
Jessica’s head darted out from behind her tree and back, chancing a look. She caught a glimpse of a shadow moving in the rapidly improving light. “Got him!” She fired blindly. A short burst of gunfire in reply chewed at her tree. A coppery taste flooded Jessica’s mouth as fear coursed through
her. Cindy fired from a different spot, and Jessica realized that Cindy had moved, using her fire for cover. Now it was Jessica’s turn to advance as Cindy fired. She darted to the next tree. Safe, she fired a short burst.
Boyca moved off to the left. “Stay!” Jessica commanded. The dog stopped, frozen in motion, a stationary target. A mistake. “Come!” Jessica shouted. The dog came to her as three slugs ripped into the ground where she had been a second before. Cindy fired a short burst from yet another position. A woman screamed in a language they didn’t understand. Silence. Another shout, the same words. “Hands up!” Jessica shouted. A shadow moved, and the woman stood in the open, hands in the air. “Cover me,” Jessica said. She moved toward the woman. Up close, she was staring into the face of a frightened young girl, no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. She was wearing black tennis shoes and pants with a military green tunic. A web belt hung around her waist with a canteen, a radio, and an empty ammunition pouch. A small GPS hung on a lanyard around her neck. Jessica spun her around, frisked her, and pushed her to a spread-eagle position. “It’s okay,” she told Cindy.
With Cindy guarding the girl, Jessica searched until she found her weapon. “She was out of ammo.” She keyed her radio. “Rat Hole, we’ve got the spotter.” Before Rockne could answer, a single shot rang out. Jessica froze, stunned by the scene in front of her. Cindy had shot the girl in the head.
“Say status of prisoner,” Rockne radioed.
Jessica paused, the coppery taste back. “Prisoner is dead.”
“Search the body and proceed to the DFP as assigned,” Rockne ordered. “We’ll pick up the body later.”
The two women stared at each other in silence as the sun cracked the horizon. The sound of a jet engine cranking to life rolled across the runway as another burst of gunfire from the eastern perimeter split the air. “Why?” Jessica whispered.
“I had buddies on the C-130.”
Washington, D.C.
Monday, October 11
Marine One lifted off from the south lawn at exactly 6:18
P.M.
for the forty-two-minute flight to Norfolk, Virginia. Turner settled into her chair and for a moment gazed out the window. Floodlights bathed the base of the Washington Monument, but the tip was caught in the fading evening twilight.
It’s Tuesday morning in Malaysia,
she thought. The lights of Alexandria winked at her as they headed south. Across the narrow aisle Bobbi Jo ran through the campaign speech one last time before handing it to her.
“Patrick always called Norfolk ‘Leland Loony Land,’” Bobbi Jo said, having second thoughts about the wisdom of delivering a critical campaign speech in the heart of the Confederacy.
“A lot of nice people live there,” Turner said.
“I wonder how many of those ‘nice people’ are listening to him right now?” Bobbi Jo said. “He’s on the local TV.” Turner punched a button on the arm of her chair, and the small TV screen in front of her came to life with Leland’s face. They listened for a moment, and Bobbi Jo snorted. “This is a preemptive strike if I ever heard one.”
It was true. Leland was hitting hard, determined to undermine any positive effect the president’s speech might have. “…involved the country in an unwise war, sacrificing our boys and girls on the altar of big oil.”
Turner scanned her speech, committing key phrases to memory.
The defense of freedom is not optional.
Leland continued to rant in the background. “…a morally degenerate administration unable to cleanse itself.”
Another line from the speech burned with emotion.
So many have answered the call for service, and they should be honored for their sacrifices.
Leland built to a climax. “This note in my hand”—the camera zoomed in to read the printing—“was deliberately buried by the administration to cover up the suicide of the
director of Central Intelligence!” The camera panned to Leland’s face and caught the iron set of his jaw.
The two women exchanged glances, and Bobbi Jo let out a war whoop that filled the passenger compartment. “There is a God!”
Turner handed the speech back to her and looked out the window as the Sikorsky S-61V settled to earth on the helipad near the convention center while a high school band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” The entrance door lowered, and two Marine guards came to attention. As if to prove the impossible, their salutes were sharper than usual as the president descended the steps. She nodded, her way of acknowledging the salute. “Thank you, Madam President,” one said, breaking all protocols. But there would be no reprimand. She stepped onto the red carpet, and the two Marines turned to face her back, ready to be of instant service—and to protect her at all costs.
A reporter yelled, “What about Malaysia?”
A second joined in. “Can you answer Leland’s charges?”
But the crowd chanting “Maddy, Maddy!” drowned him out. “MADDY!” It grew to a roar as she entered the building.
Bobbi Jo joined the press pool and stood by Liz Gordon, CNC-TV’s star political reporter. Neither could speak over the commotion. Finally the noise died away. “Who would’ve believed a reception like this?” Gordon said. “Right in the heart of Leland land. But I don’t think it’s going to last. Enjoy it while you can.” Bobbi Jo didn’t respond. “Leland is going to be on the front page tomorrow,” Gordon said, egging her on. Still no answer. “You can’t ignore him.”
Bobbi Jo handed her a tape cassette. “You need to listen to this, in private. And I assure you, it is authentic.” She turned to follow the president inside.
Camp Alpha
Tuesday, October 12
The sergeant popped out of the command post’s communications cab. “General, a C-130 is inbound, due to land in twenty minutes.”
Pontowski glanced at the master clock on the wall: 0809 hours. He looked around for Clark but couldn’t see her. “Relay that inbound to Colonel Clark,” he said, heading for the entrance. Outside, the thunder of artillery rolled over him. “Damn,” he muttered. It was too close for comfort and getting louder. He jumped into his pickup and raced for the hardened aircraft shelter where Clark was marshaling the evacuation. He drove around to the backside and stopped. A guard saw him and banged on the small entrance door to let him in. “How’s it going?” Pontowski asked.
The young security cop tried to make a show of it but failed miserably. “Sir, I’m scared as all hell.” He made a vague motion in the direction of the thunder.
“It’s okay to be scared,” Pontowski told him. “Just don’t freeze.” The sound of two Hogs taking off demanded their attention. In his mind’s eye Pontowski saw their gear come up as they turned out of the pattern. They’d be back on the ground about the time the C-130 landed.
The door swung open. “Sir,” the cop said, “there’s a rumor going around that we’ve been hung out to dry and ain’t getting out of here.”
“We’re getting out of here,” Pontowski promised. He stepped inside the shelter, where Clark was waiting.
“I got the message, sir. I’ve almost got everybody here. My driver’s out collecting a few more.”
Pontowski nodded. That explained why he didn’t see her van and driver. “How many you got going out?”
She checked her clipboard. “So far, a hundred and nine.” She handed him the clipboard as the entrance door opened and six pilots walked in. “Make that one-fifteen,” Clark said, correcting the total.
He studied the numbers, worried about who was left:
184 maintenance troops, 55 support personnel, 9 medics, 133 cops, and 22 pilots. He changed the total remaining to 403 and returned the clipboard. The number beat at him—403. Could he get them all out? For the first time he wasn’t sure.
Taman Negara
Tuesday, October 12
Kamigami lay motionless as insects buzzed around him. One landed on his forehead and crawled along his brow, finally moving onto the binoculars jammed against his eyes as he swept the area below him, watching for movement in the tunnel entrances. Nothing. In the distance he heard the sound of jets, and he checked his watch. The F-16s were late. The sharp double-barreled crack of two SAMs launching drifted down the shallow valley. He made a mental note that they were employed in pairs. Then he heard a distant, very faint explosion. He scanned the sky and saw a tumbling fireball. At the same time a shadow flashed across his line of sight as a rapid-fire antiaircraft artillery battery opened up.
He dropped the binoculars in time to see a dark object streaking toward the tunnel entrances. Experience told him it was a smart bomb, either laser or infrared guided. It flew right into the center entrance and exploded as the antiaircraft battery continued to sweep the sky. Now he could hear a single jet receding into the distance. Again he swept the skies, looking for a parachute. There wasn’t one. He made another mental note—one aircraft and one pilot exchanged for one tunnel.
The antiaircraft battery ceased firing, and he waited. The cough of a diesel engine starting echoed out of a tunnel. Soon he heard the unmistakable sound of clanking treads as a bulldozer went to work. The sound of the laboring diesel grew louder, and a mound of dirt and debris was pushed out of the central tunnel. Dark smoke from the exhaust mushroomed out as the bulldozer emerged. The driver, wearing a
respirator, continued to clear the entrance. Finally he was finished and pulled off the mask. Behind him, a transporter/erector with a missile emerged into the morning sunlight.