Authors: Richard Herman
Turner sat down and closed her eyes. The war in the Gulf had stopped three hours short of the thirty-eighth day, at the cost of 3,114 lives. She corrected herself—3,114 American lives. For a moment a raging doubt assailed her. Was it worth it? She put the question aside for the historians to debate
from their safe and secure towers with all the benefits of hindsight and time. Now she had to win the war in Asia. Her eyes opened. “Singapore and Malaysia?” she murmured.
Wilding spoke into his telephone, and the map on the big screen at the front of the room cycled to the Far East. It zoomed in on southern Malaysia and changed again to a computer-generated cartographic display. The map came alive with strings of lights snaking down the peninsula, crawling toward the island city. An illuminated arrow highlighted the map as Wilding spoke. “We now have a Joint Rivet aircraft in place and monitoring the ground situation. This is a real-time downlink. As you can see, the PLA has broken out here”—the pointer circled the village of Paloh—“and is advancing on the American contingent at Camp Alpha.” The pointer paused over the base. “The AVG is still launching sorties flying close air support for the Singapore Army and have been instrumental in slowing their advance. However, four aircraft have been diverted to Tengah.” The pointer moved onto Singapore. “Advanced communications and command teams have arrived at SEAC and are assessing the situation. We have parachuted decontamination teams and equipment into these air bases.” The pointer circled Changi and Tengah. “We should have them open within twenty-four hours.”
“But until that happens,” the president said, “we have no place to land.” She paused. “Have you considered paratroops?”
“Yes, ma’am, we have. We have elements of the First Airborne en route from the Gulf. Indonesia has given us permission to land and stage out of Djakarta”—the pointer circled the airport—“some five hundred nautical miles away. But I’m hesitant to commit them piecemeal.”
Turner stood and studied the flashing lights on the main map as they moved slowly southward. “How long can the AVG hold?” she asked.
“I can’t answer with certainty,” Wilding replied. “We are getting reports of small-unit action around the base.” Silence. “Madam President, we may have waited too long. I
should have recommended a withdrawal when we had time.” She looked at him, an unbelievable sadness in her eyes, and shook her head. He stared at her, at last understanding.
“You said seventy-two hours,” she reminded her general.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
Georgetown
Tuesday, October 12
It was after midnight when Mazie arrived at the opulent town house. As expected, her hostess was waiting at the side door. “What wonderful news from the Gulf,” she gushed. Mazie smiled in return but said nothing as they walked up the stairs. Instead of turning to the right and into the library, her hostess led the way to the guest suite. She knocked twice and opened the door. “Please ask if you need anything,” she cooed. Then she closed the door behind the national security adviser and sighed. “La,” she murmured to herself.
Herbert von Lubeck was sitting in an easy chair and reading. He rose to his feet in a graceful motion when he saw Mazie, and came to her. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, slacks much too casual for public wear, and hand-sewn Italian loafers. He took her hand and held it. “It was a very close thing,” he told her. “My government was under enormous pressure to halt the advance.” He didn’t release her hand.
“Please relay President Turner’s thanks,” she said. “Your armored units were magnificent.”
“I do hope you are as successful in the Far East. Unfortunately, there is little we can do to help you there.” She nodded at his concern. “Perhaps we can broker a prisoner exchange,” he added. “So unfortunate that President Turner did not withdraw your AVG in time.”
“She had no intention of withdrawing them,” Mazie told him.
Von Lubeck dropped her hand and sat down, stunned by the revelation.
“Du lieber Gott,”
he whispered. “They’re a
hostage force.” The pieces all fell into place. “She will sacrifice them.”
“If she has to,” Mazie said.
His respect for Turner went over the moon. She was, without doubt, a superb politician and strategist, able to enter the world of power politics and force her will on vain and vicious tyrants. He elevated her to his pantheon of statesmen, above FDR and nudging Bismarck for first place. “It could mean a wider war.”
“I doubt it. Sooner or later the Chinese will realize what’s happened.”
“So simple,” von Lubeck said. “American casualties guarantee American involvement when the political situation would otherwise prevent it.” He looked at her with admiration. “You were part of this?” A little nod in answer. “Was it your idea to involve my country?” Another nod of her head. His face lit up. “There is always a quid pro quo.”
“Really?” she answered, arching an eyebrow and playing the game. “Which is?”
“You.” He was deadly serious and not playing games. “We will have beautiful children.”
Mazie was shocked. “I’m married.”
“Divorce him. We will create a dynasty for the new century.”
For a moment they stood frozen in time. Then she stepped out of her shoes and led him into the bedroom.
Camp Alpha
Tuesday, October 12
“We got wounded coming across the runway,” Clark said. She paused, listening to the radio traffic on the security police net. “One litter case and two walking.”
“Got it,” Pontowski said. He glanced at the status board. They had ten A-10s good to go, but fuel was still the limiting factor. “Maggot, how many sorties we got left?”
“Twenty-six, sorta.” They both understood the “sorta” to mean that three birds were down to half fuel.
“Top ’em up,” Pontowski ordered.
Clark came to her feet. “We’re taking mortar rounds on the taxiway in Yankee Sector.” She fought the panic that ripped at her. The heart of her base—the aircraft shelters, the medical station, command post, and the BDOC—were all in Yankee Sector.
“Are the shelters buttoned down?” Pontowski asked, equally worried.
“That’s affirmative,” she answered.
“We ain’t gonna be scrambling jets if we’re taking mortar rounds,” Maggot said, telling him the obvious.
Pontowski thought for a moment. “We got four jets at Tengah. They got fuel but no munitions. How they doing on the gun?” Each Hog carried 1,170 rounds of thirty-millimeter
ammunition when fully loaded. “We might get a sortie or two out of them.”
“I’ll find out,” Maggot replied. He punched up the line to the communications cab and went to work.
Clark stood up. “The BDOC reports two DFPs are falling back.” She hurried to the base map and drew slashing red
X
’s through two defensive fighting positions on the eastern perimeter. She pressed her headset to her head, trying to understand the chatter coming in. Then she lost it and screamed, “A tank’s in Whiskey and firing!” A dull thud rocked the command post, and debris laced with dust cascaded from the ceiling.
“What was that?” someone yelled.
“We’re gonna die!”
Pontowski stood up and took command. “I hope not. I haven’t shaved today.” The remark was so totally unexpected that everyone looked at him in surprise. Then Maggot snickered. “Calm down, folks,” Pontowski said. “My guess is that we took a direct hit that dudded. So we got lucky. Now let’s kill the bastard before he does it again. Janice, call Rockne and get a fire team on that tank. Maggot, get a Hog airborne outa Tengah that’s got some thirty mike-mike left and hose the shit outa him.” He stood there, defiant. “Come on, folks. Make it happen.”
The two sergeants stared at each other. “The Rock wants us to do what?” Paul Travis asked.
“Take out that damn tank,” Jake Osburn answered, looking at his radio in disbelief. “I didn’t join up to be a fuckin’ hero.” They looked toward the clanking sound coming from the trees. “I think it’s going away,” Jake said.
Paul picked up the LAW, a light antitank weapon, leaning against the side of their dugout. “Then a HEAT round up his ass will get his attention.” He was out of their DFP and running for cover, the LAW in one hand, his M-16 in the other.
“Shit,” Jake muttered. He grabbed his M249, better known as a SAW, or squad automatic weapon, and followed
his buddy. They were a team, honed by years of training and playing weekend football, and they instinctively moved together. Paul skidded to cover behind a tree and chanced a peek. His hands flashed, motioning Jake to his far left. He waited and looked again. Now he could see the tank. It was not what he expected, but smaller, with a forward-mounted turret. The barrel was raised and firing randomly across the runway. He counted six men moving with it. He motioned to Jake and darted through the trees, trying to get closer. He needed to get within two hundred yards to get in range. But half that distance would significantly increase the probability of a kill. And he understood probability and range. On a football field a hundred yards is a far distance. In combat it qualifies as up close and personal. But thanks to countless football games, he knew exactly what a hundred yards looked like. He crouched and checked the LAW. It was ready. Jake crawled into position and set the bipod for his SAW. He signaled he was ready.
Paul lay on the ground and sighted the weapon. He depressed the trigger on top, and the sixty-six-millimeter round fired. At the same time Jake opened fire, spraying the area and cutting into the six soldiers. He emptied the magazine and pulled back while Paul rolled behind a tree. He grabbed his M-16 while Jake slapped a fresh magazine into his SAW. Again Jake signaled he was ready. Paul shoved his weapon around the trunk and squeezed off a short burst, firing blindly. A fraction of a second later Jake was moving, firing Rambo style. Paul ran for the next tree and crouched, his breath coming in ragged pants. He chanced a look. Smoke poured from the engine compartment at the rear of the tank, ample indication that the LAW had worked as advertised. A submachine gun clattered, driving him back behind the tree as splinters cut into his face and shattered his goggles. He ripped them off and could see again.
Jake fired again. Now all was silent except for a whirring sound. Paul looked and froze. The sound was coming from the tank’s turret as it traversed toward Jake. “Run!” Paul yelled. Jake started to run, but it was too late. The whirring
sound stopped as Jake dove for cover. The cannon fired, and the round passed inches above Jake’s head. A burst of submachine gun fire cut into the tree where Paul was, pinning him down. The turret whirred again, slewing toward him, and Paul knew he was dead.
But Jake had other ideas. He was up and firing. The submachine gun fell silent as the turret turned. Paul broke from the tree and ran for all he was worth, but the turret kept coming. “Buttonhook!” Jake yelled. Paul jerked to his left as the cannon fired. It missed.
The tank exploded.
The sharp crack of projectiles traveling faster than the speed of sound reached them. Then they heard the GAU-8 cannon firing, a loud buzzing sound. The last to arrive was the Warthog itself. It flew over, rocking its wings. Paul gasped for air. “Fuckin’ silent death,” he muttered. There was no other way to describe what it meant to be on the receiving end of a Warthog’s cannon.
Jake walked through the carnage, poking at the bodies and checking the tank. He kept mumbling “Son of a bitch” over and over. He stopped and threw Paul a triumphant look. “Where’s the cheerleaders when you need them?”
Maggot pressed the transmit button to acknowledge the radio call from the Warthog. “Chief, this is Gopher Hole. Good work on the tank.” He gave Pontowski a thumbs-up as he spoke. “Understand you’re Winchester ammo. Recover at Hang Nadim.” Maggot relaxed for a moment and then was back at it. “That leaves three Hogs at Tengah.”
“We’re still taking sporadic gunfire on the eastern perimeter,” Clark reported. “But it’s quiet everywhere else. Hold on.” She listened to the voice in her headset. “We have problems at the med station. Too many wounded. Doc Ryan needs to make room.”
“How many’s he got?” Pontowski asked.
“Twelve,” Clark answered. “Maybe we can bring some here.”
“Do it,” Pontowski said.
Clark hit the phone button, but the line linking her to the medical station was dead. “Line’s down,” she said. “I better go see what’s happening.”
“Be careful,” Pontowski said.
Jessica stroked Boyca’s head while she fed her the last of the Nibbles in her butt bag. “Sorry, girl,” she said. “That’s it.” She stood up and scanned the minefield with her binoculars. “I got movement on the far side.” Cindy stood beside her and squinted. She was looking almost directly into the afternoon sun and shaded her eyes. She reached for her M-16. “What are you doing?” Jessica asked.
“Gonna waste the bastard.” She laid the barrel across a sandbag.
“He’s too far. Maybe a quarter of a mile.” The M-16’s effective range for a point target was half that distance. “Why draw attention?”
Cindy sighted the weapon and waited. “It won’t matter if he’s dead.”
“Give it up,” Jessica said. She set back down and stroked the dog’s head. But Cindy didn’t move. Jessica fell asleep.
Her eyes snapped open at the sharp crack of a single shot. “What the hell?”
“Got him,” Cindy said, sinking down beside her. Jessica stood and scanned the minefield. A body lay crumpled on the far side. Sporadic gunfire echoed from the east, well over a mile away. The distinctive shriek of artillery passing overhead split the air.
Taman Negara
Tuesday, October 12
Kamigami pushed through the heavy brush in the river valley, following the grinding sounds coming from the missile transporter. Bravo Team’s sergeant was right behind him and spoke in English. “It sounds like the transmission’s going out.” Kamigami agreed and checked the time—1607 hours.
They had been tracking the missile for five hours, keeping back from the road and hiding in the jungle. Although the big transporter/erector/launcher was going only at two miles an hour as it moved down the rough track, it had been a constant slog to keep up. The sound stopped.
Kamigami called for a much-needed break while he checked his GPS. He shook his head. “It’s not the best location,” he told the sergeant. “But they could launch from here.”
“Maybe they don’t have a choice,” the sergeant said, thinking about the grinding sound. Then a different sound echoed through the brush. “Maybe we should take a look.”
“Go,” Kamigami said. “Rendezvous here.” The sergeant motioned for a corporal to follow him, and the two men disappeared into the brush. Kamigami studied his chart and spanned off distances. He thought for a moment and pointed to the team’s sniper. “What’s your max range?”
The corporal answered with the maximum effective range of his rifle. “A thousand meters.”
“To hit a moving target?” Kamigami asked.
“Seven hundred meters,” the corporal replied. Just under half a mile.
“Think you can do twelve hundred?” Kamigami asked, setting the challenge. The corporal’s eyes were wide, for his buddies had heard. “
I
can’t do it,” Kamigami said, letting him off the hook. He shrugged in resignation. “Just a thought. It’s an impossible shot.”
The corporal stiffened. “I can make it.”
It was exactly what Kamigami wanted to hear. He pointed to his chart and circled the valley’s ridgeline. “Take a backup and go here ASAP. If they launch, try for a single shot to the aft end of the missile. The rocket motor will cover the sound. Rendezvous back here. Go.” The corporal heard the urgency in his voice and quickly moved out with another corporal. Kamigami sat down to wait, honestly doubting if the sniper could make the ridgeline in time, much less make the shot. But they had to try. He went to sleep.
“Sir,” a soft voice said, waking him. It was the sergeant, back from reconnoitering the missile. “They’ve erected the missile and are preparing to launch. The crew is wearing heavy protective equipment and gas masks. They are being very careful, and it’s slowing them down. I think it’s a chemical warhead.”
“Most likely nerve gas,” Kamigami said. He reached for his radio to call the sniper who was still climbing the ridge. Then he thought better of it. The corporal would make the shot if he could. He went back to sleep.
Free of the heavy vegetation that tore at his clothes, the corporal scampered up the last fifty feet to the crest of the ridge. A loud roar echoed up from the valley as he pulled his rifle out of its protective case. He snapped on the telescopic sight, ignoring the smoke belching from the valley floor. He slapped a ten-shot magazine into the British-made weapon and charged a single round as the missile lifted out of the smoke. He rolled into a prone shooting position and pressed his cheek against the stock as he sighted. Through the scope he saw the missile as it slowly rose and accelerated. He squeezed the trigger.
Camp Alpha
Tuesday, October 12
The security cop manning the counterbattery radar in the control tower saw the missile on the radarscope the moment it came into range. He hit the warning siren and stepped on the button to transmit over the security net as a loud wail carried over the base. “Incoming missile!” He fell to the floor, his arms over his helmet.
The CSS-7 missile arcing down had been built in 1999 and originally deployed opposite Taiwan as part of the buildup to intimidate the feisty islanders. But it had not been properly sheltered, and the sea air had caused small spots of corrosion
in the aft section, near the motor mounts. Sloppy annual inspections had not caught the corrosion, as it was mostly on the small clips that held the wiring harness in place. The sniper’s single bullet had passed through the missile, causing little damage, but it did cut one of the wiring clips. Combined with the heavy vibration experienced during launch, two more of the corroded clips broke free and allowed the wire bundle to flop free. The gimbaling motor pushed the wire bundle to one side, causing a slight imbalance.
It was a very minor thing—but enough to cause an imperceptible wobble. As the missile accelerated on its downward trajectory, the wobble turned into a major vibration, overloading the guidance gyros. The missile tumbled and corkscrewed through the sky.
The security cop lifted his head and looked at the radarscope. The missile had hit harmlessly to the east. He pressed the all-clear button.
Inside the command post, Maggot had to make a decision. They had enough fuel for sixteen more sorties and four urgent requests for close air support. Since A-10s always fought in pairs, that meant launching eight aircraft, which left two on base with enough fuel for eight more sorties. But if they did it right and the Hogs recovered with fuel still on board, they might be able to squeeze out ten or twelve sorties and still have enough to fly to safety. It was worth a chance. “Boss,” he said to Pontowski, “we can scramble eight and recover here. But it’s gonna be tight.”
“Do it,” Pontowski replied. Maggot scrambled the first two jets as Clark ran into the room.
“We got two Pumas inbound,” she announced. “We can evacuate the wounded.”
Pontowski hated what he had to do. “Walking wounded only.” She stared at him, demanding an explanation. “Litters take up too much room,” he said. “We’d be lucky to get eight stretcher cases loaded. But we can get forty walk-ons out.”