“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.
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.”
“Then I’ll prop ’em up,” she shot back.
“That works,” he said. “Talk to Doc Ryan and make it happen.” She hurried out. “Be careful,” he called. He checked the time — less than an hour to sunset. Could he evacuate the AVG during the night? He could always fly the Hogs out at the last minute, and the helicopters proved that SEAC had not abandoned them. But SEAC simply couldn’t supply enough airlift to get everyone out. Could they escape and evade over land? He had to talk to Rockne. But equally important, he had to get out and be seen, talk to the troops and sense their morale. “Maggot, I’m going to take a short tour. I’ll start at the BDOC and go from there. You got the stick.”
“Got it,” Maggot replied, scrambling two more A-10s.
Pontowski walked outside and spoke to the two security cops manning the DFP. No problems there, but one cop did wonder why it had gone so quiet. That’s when it hit Pontowski — all he heard was the sound of two Hogs taxiing out. He hurried over to the BDOC, where he found Rockne bent over the base defense chart. “The command post said you were on the way,” Rockne told him. “Bad news. SEAC is reporting nerve gas a mile to the east.” He pointed to an area beyond the base’s tactical perimeter. “As long as the wind holds from the west, we’ll be okay.”
“Make sure everyone is suited out,” Pontowski said.
“I got patrols out right now checking on everyone.” He paused. “You know what I think, sir? That missile that missed was carrying nerve gas and hit right in the middle of their main force. They assholed their own troops.”
“Gas cuts both ways,” Pontowski said. “We learned that lesson ninety years ago in World War Once.”
“According to what SEAC is saying,” Rockne continued, “it takes about eight to twelve hours for the shit to dissipate. That might explain why it’s so damn quiet right now.”
Pontowski nodded slowly. “That’s part of it. But we know they regroup at night, and we’re forty minutes from sunset.” The two men fell silent for a moment. “Chief, level with me. Can we evacuate out of here over land?”
“There’s a lot of small units floating around out there. We might be able to get some of our people through. How many, I don’t know.” He considered the odds. “Sir, if we go, we got to go as soon as it’s dark. It’s going to get very interesting in a few hours.”
“When the nerve gas dissipates,” Pontowski added.
Rockne didn’t answer. The last two jets took off.
Maddy stared into the cold fireplace as the elegant grandmother clock in the corner of the family room chimed six o’clock. She cupped the mug in her hands and took another sip. Maura came through the door and joined her. “Did you get any sleep?” There was no reproach in Maura’s voice, only a deep concern for her daughter.