The Last Phoenix (30 page)

Singapore

Wednesday, October 6

The airliners formed an unbroken procession in the night as they took off from Changi Airport and headed straight ahead for Pulau Tekong, the large island four and a half miles away. The pilots were careful to maintain runway heading and not climb above two thousand feet until they were abeam of the island’s reservoir. Then it was a hard-right climbing turn to the south and, for the relieved passengers on board, the promise of safety. But in SEAC’s makeshift command center in Singapore’s basic military training camp, which was located on the island, it was a constant roar that made face-to-face conversations difficult and turned telephone conversations into screaming matches.

The Air Force major who escorted Pontowski and Gus into the command center was typical of SEAC’s Young Turks: educated, well trained, and smart. He shouted his apologies above the din. “The operations planning staff is with the general,” he said. “They should be free in a few moments to meet with you about the ATO.” He hurried off to make it happen.

Gus played with his right earplug in a futile attempt to make it fit. A plane rumbled overhead, lower than usual. “They need to move,” he shouted.

Pontowski looked around, and wasn’t sure. The truck bomb that had leveled SEAC’s headquarters in the city had also flushed the old leadership, leaving the Young Turks in command. Everywhere he looked, there was a crispness and focus that announced SEAC was a military organization and not a collection of generals playing at politics. “Or have Changi change their departure procedures,” he replied. Gus sat down to wait while Pontowski studied a wall map. After a few minutes he wandered outside for a breath of fresh air. A string of aircraft anticollision lights winked in the night as the airliners turned almost directly over his head.

Gus joined him, massaging new wax earplugs. “Changi should be taking off to the south,” Pontowski told him. “If they’ve got to take off our way, then the pilots should make an immediate climbing turn as soon as they get the gear up.” Gus agreed with him, and they stood there watching the string of departing aircraft. “Oh, no,” Pontowski said, pointing to the sky. A short plume of flame reached up from the narrow Johore Strait that separated Singapore from the Malaysian mainland and headed for the string of anticollision lights. Then it went out. Pontowski had time to say “Rocket motor burnout” before a bright flash consumed an anticollision light.

Gus’s voice was icy calm. “What type of surface-to-air missile was that?”

“Probably a Grail,” Pontowski answered, his eyes padlocked on the stricken airliner. “Or some similar type of shoulder-held missile.” Now they could see flames trailing from the right side of the airliner. “He’s turning back for Changi.” The big Airbus flew directly overhead, its one good engine bellowing at full power.

“Will he make it?”

Years of flying experience could not be denied. “No. He’s turning into the dead engine. He’d be better off ditching straight ahead.” But the Airbus pilot kept the turn coming. “Ah, shit,” Pontowski moaned as the aircraft approached a stall. The Airbus seemed to shudder as it fell off on its right wing and tumbled into the water, less than a half mile from
them. Almost immediately the water turned into a sheet of flame. There would be no rescue attempts.

“I’ll relay your suggestion about the departure pattern,” Gus promised. A siren started to wail in the main camp. “That’s an air-raid warning,” he said. “Perhaps we should go inside.”

Pontowski followed Gus into the relative safety of the sandbagged walls of the command center. He sat down, chin on his chest, while Gus worked the phones. Now he had to wait.
Will Changi change the departure pattern?
he thought.
Do they even have a choice?
It was the age-old dilemma of all commanders—making decisions when there were no good alternatives. It helped not knowing who went down on the Airbus. They were just faceless numbers, just so many casualties. Outside, he heard the siren sound an all-clear. The major escorting them came back. “Any damage reports?” Pontowski asked.

The major checked the clipboard he was carrying. “One missile hit the causeway.” The causeway spanned the Johore Strait, linking Singapore with Malaysia.

“That’s one lucky hit for a Scud,” Pontowski said, thinking of the missile’s notorious inaccuracy.

“We don’t think it was a Scud,” the major replied. He stepped up to the wall map and pointed to the Taman Negara in Malaysia. “Our early-warning radar tracked it from here. Given the range and accuracy, perhaps it was a CSS-7?” The CSS-7 was a Chinese-built tactical missile with a range of 530 kilometers. “Unfortunately, the aqueduct under the causeway was cut.”

“How serious is that?”

Gus overheard the conversation and joined them. “Very,” he said. “Because of our small size and dense population, water is always a problem. We treat over one million cubic feet a day and have many reservoirs, but without the aqueduct…” He shook his head, not able to estimate how long before the reservoirs ran dry.

A sergeant hurried over to the major and handed him a message. He read it as he added it to the pile on his clip
board. Then he stopped and handed it to Pontowski. “It’s an Op Rep from Alpha, sir. The attack on the bridge.”

Pontowski read the operations report without a word and handed it to Gus. The bridge was still standing, and the AVG had lost an aircraft and, more important, the pilot. The number three beat at Pontowski—he had lost three people under his command. But this time there was no body to send home.
You’ve lost people before,
he told himself. He tried to rationalize.
It’s a risk that goes with the business.
But nothing helped, for each number had a face. “A SAM got him. It had to be more sophisticated than a Grail. Maybe one of the new Strelas.” He thought for a moment. “I hope it’s not a Gadfly.” The Gadfly was a Russian-built missile guided by monopulse radar that could engage high-performance aircraft down to fifty feet off the deck.

“Is that a problem?” Gus said.

“I went against those puppies in the Middle East. I was flying a Strike Eagle and almost didn’t make it. A Hog’s a sitting duck.”

The major coughed for their attention. “We have four F-16s that are configured for air-defense suppression. So far we haven’t used them.”

“It’s getting tough out there,” Pontowski said. “We’re going to need them.” As if to punctuate his statement, the siren started to wail again. “I’d guess that’s another missile.”

Gus stood at the wall map, his eyes fixed on the Taman Negara. “We need to do something about that.”

Central Malaysia

Thursday, October 7

The night air steamed around the five men as they pushed their way up a small stream. They rounded a bend, and a cloud of gnats descended on them, burrowing under the straps of their night-vision goggles. Tel kept moving, and soon they were in the open and free of the irritating insects. He checked his watch. They had been evading
through the jungle for eight hours, and he planned to make good use of the hours remaining before sunrise. Aware that his night-vision goggles were growing dim, he called for a break to replace the batteries. He motioned his men to cover on one bank and told a corporal to retrace their steps to stand lookout. He quickly replaced the batteries, but before donning the goggles, he checked their position with his GPS. They were making good time and should make the rendezvous with Kamigami that afternoon. He decided to take a break.

The corporal was back, his hand flashing a warning—soldiers were coming. Tel could hardly credit that their pursuers had kept up, and that irritated him more than the gnats. He decided to end it. He slipped out of his bergen and sent his men into a quick-reaction drill. But this time it was not for practice. Satisfied that they were ready, he and the corporal moved back downstream. They didn’t have to wait long.

Two men waded upstream, their weapons at the ready. They passed by, and four more soldiers came into view. Tel let them also go by. A sixth man brought up the rear, his eyes darting from side to side. He angled over to the bank directly below the corporal and sat down, his back to them. At first Tel couldn’t determine what he was doing. Then the distinctive smell of urine wafted back to him. The soldier was relieving himself as he sat on the sloping bank. Tel pointed to the soldier and made a chopping motion with his hand. The corporal nodded and silently moved out of cover. He took two quick steps and rabbit-punched the side of the soldier’s neck. But it didn’t work. The man screamed twice before the corporal could pound him into silence.

Tel unlimbered his MP5 as loud shouts echoed from upstream. A grenade exploded, followed by five quick bursts of submachine-gun fire. A soldier stumbled back downstream, and Tel fired twice, putting two bullets in his head. He waded out to make sure the soldier was dead as another body came floating down. He dragged both bodies to the bank and quickly searched them.

“What do I do with this one?” the corporal asked, standing over the unconscious body.

“Drain it,” Tel said.

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, October 6

Bobbi Jo Reynolds’s voice was flat and unemotional as she tallied the fallout from the previous evening’s debate. “Most of the media are repeating verbatim what that asshole said.” Like Shaw, she refused to call David Grau by his name. But for the other five people gathered with the president in the Oval Office for the afternoon recap, her words were the death rattle of Turner’s election campaign. “What’s amazing,” Reynolds said, “is who has
not
jumped on the bandwagon. The
Washington Times,
of all things, and CNC-TV have adopted a wait-and-see attitude.”

“The polls aren’t quite as bad,” Parrish said. “But the trending is down. Grau and group are hitting us with too many unanswered charges. The GAO has issued a report highly critical of the AVG, and Congress is getting on board. The Senate is going ahead with the investigation into the fall of King Khalid Military City, and Leland is pushing for the hearings to begin before the election.”

Turner rocked back in her chair, feeling the gloom in the air. “That’s nice of him.” Her instincts told her it was time for the half-time locker-room pep talk. But how much could she tell them without compromising the impending operations in the Gulf? “Please trust me on this. We have to hunker down for the next few hours and take the hits. But we come out swinging tomorrow. Until then no comment to the press or anyone else.” From the look on Bobbi Jo’s face, Turner knew she wasn’t reaching her.

The door opened and Nancy entered. “Madam President, it’s time for the afternoon briefing in the Situation Room.”

Turner stood up, a decision made. “Bobbi Jo, please join us. I think you’ll find it very interesting.” She led the way
down to the basement, discussing the next day’s schedule with Parrish. Bobbi Jo followed, not sure why she was there.

Wilding was waiting with the ExCom, eager to start the briefing. He glanced at Bobbi Jo and arched an eyebrow. “Bobbi Jo is taking Patrick’s place,” Turner said. She patted the chair where Shaw normally sat. Suddenly Bobbi Jo understood. Patrick Flannery Shaw was gone, and she was now walking in his shoes.

“Madam President, ladies and gentlemen,” Wilding said, “Operation Saracen will commence in two minutes.” The big center monitor came to life with a map of northern Iraq on the screen. It zoomed onto the area where the Tigris River flowed south across the Turkey-Iraq border. “Two German panzer regiments with one hundred thirty-four Leopard tanks and lighter armored vehicles are in position to sweep down the eastern bank of the Tigris. The first objective is Mosul, eighty miles away.”

“When do they expect to reach Mosul?” Turner asked.

“If everything goes as planned,” Wilding answered, “within twenty-four hours.” The left screen came on with a report that the Iraqi air-defense net was reporting massive air strikes against its northern radar net and missile sites. “Luftwaffe Tornados launching out of the airbase at Diyarbakir in Turkey are tasked with kicking the door open,” Wilding said. He watched the screen as Iraqi radar and missile sites disappeared from the map one by one. “It appears the door is open.” He called up the latest information being downlinked from an orbiting Joint Stars aircraft. A remarkably detailed radar picture of vehicular movement along the northern Turkey-Iraq border appeared on the right screen. He used a laser pointer to indicate a bright line. “This is as near real-time as we can get. This radar return is an armored column.” More information appeared on the screen, identifying and classifying the vehicles. “Definitely German,” he said, his lips a grim line.

“So they’re off to a good start,” Vice President Kennett said.

“They’ve started as planned,” Wilding replied.

Butler looked worried. “A plan never survives the first thirty seconds of combat,” he intoned.

For the first time in four weeks, Wilding smiled. “I think this one will. And for good reason. The first convoy arrived eighteen hours early and is docking as we speak. We will have the troops and equipment in place and ready to commence Operation Anvil Monday. The Air Force has destroyed the tunnels at the northern end of Saddam’s Spider, and nothing is moving on the southern end.” He looked at his president with deep respect. “Madam President, your strategy to trap the bulk of the UIF in the Spider was brilliant.”

Bobbi Jo couldn’t contain herself. “When can we go public with this?”

“For now,” Turner replied, “we’re not. We’re simply going to let the facts speak for themselves.” She looked around the table. “I’ve got an election to win. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Butler said. “But given the sensitivity, perhaps it would be best if Miss Reynolds…”

“Bobbi Jo,” Turner said, “would you be kind enough to meet with me later?”

Butler waited until Reynolds had left. “Madam President, I’m very worried about Malaysia. If I may.” He punched at a hand controller, and the center screen changed to a map of central Malaysia. “The PLA is pushing hard down the center of the peninsula. SEAC’s main forces have taken up a defensive line anchored on the town of Segamat and are reported in contact with advanced elements of the PLA. The analysts at DIA don’t think SEAC can hold Segamat and will have to fall back to here.” He pointed to Camp Alpha. “Alpha is not defensible, and my analysts expect it to fall within days. There is nothing between Alpha and Singapore to stop them.”