“Open the doors!” Ryan shouted. Pontowski hit the switch, and the doors moved back. The gunfire grew louder. “Oh, shit!” Ryan yelled. He ran outside. Pontowski hit the switch and stopped the doors. Another burst from a submachine gun echoed outside, and he saw the nose of the van emerge between the open doors. Ryan was pushing the bullet-riddled van into the shelter. Pontowski ran to help and pushed against the side of the van, getting it over the door tracks. He ran for the switch to close the doors. Another burst of submachine-gun fire clanged against the doors as they slowly winched closed. Ryan was leaning against the back of the van, panting hard, when a grenade rolled in. He scooped it up and threw it back out. It cleared the doors and exploded. But fragments cut into Ryan, knocking him back. The doors jarred to a halt, jammed open.
“Medic!” Pontowski shouted, but a medic was already running for Ryan. He skidded to a halt and went to work while two more medics ripped open the side door of the van.
“Wounded!” one of the medics shouted, calling for help.
Pontowski saw the driver slumped over the wheel and ran to his side of the van. He jerked the door open and pulled him out. Somehow, in spite of his massive wounds, the man was still alive. Pontowski gently laid him down. “You tell Missy Colonel go home now,” he whispered. He exhaled and lay still.
“I didn’t even know your name,” Pontowski said, his head bowed. But he knew, without doubt, that this man had been worth fighting for. His head snapped up when he heard the distinctive clank of tank tracks.
“Waldo!” Maggot shouted over the radio. “A tank’s at the med station!”
“On the way,” Waldo transmitted. He looked over his shoulder as he slowly backed up. Just a few more feet to go. “Go! GO!” he shouted. The men responded, and the Hog rolled onto the main taxiway. He firewalled the throttle, fast-taxiing to the north and leaving his fire teams behind. The big jet touched forty miles an hour as it rumbled down the taxiway. He passed the BDOC, and two men ran after him. Ahead he saw the burned-out hulk of the med station. He never slowed as he headed for the nearby shelter. Now he could see the tank. Its muzzle flashed, sending a round into the partially open blast doors.
A heavy machine gun raked the side of the Hog as it lumbered past. But the titanium tub that shielded the pilot easily deflected the slugs. One of the cops following the Hog fired his SAW, taking out the machine gun. The tank commander saw the Hog coming at him, and the turret traversed, coming to bear on the charging A-10. Waldo firewalled the throttle and mashed the trigger, holding it down, pumping furiously on the brakes. The tank fired at the same instant. The A-10 disappeared in a thundering fireball as the tank came apart. Then it exploded, sending a column of smoke and flames skyward that joined with the rising fireball of Waldo’s Hog.
The rattle of a SAW cut into the soldiers running for cover. The gunfire stopped.
“Oh, my God,” Pontowski breathed. “How’s the doc?” he shouted.
“He’s pretty bad,” the medic tending Ryan said.
Pontowski chanced a look out the door. Rockne was striding down the taxiway, a SAW at the ready. The big man stopped and looked skyward. Pontowski followed his gaze and heard it — the distinctive sound of a C-130. He ran outside in time to see a Hercules fly down the runway at five hundred feet. Paratroops poured out the jump doors, their chutes snapping open in quick succession, catching the first light of the rising sun. He sank to one knee.
Another sound came to him. Shelter doors were cranking open, and the shrill whine of starting engines filled the air. A Hog taxied out as another C-130 flew past. More parachutes lined the sky, and in the distance he heard the sound of a third Hercules. Pontowski came to his feet and walked back into the shelter to check on Ryan. He was a bloody mess, but alive and conscious. “That was a pretty gutsy thing, Doc.” Ryan tried to muster a smile, but it wasn’t there. “You made a difference when it counted,” Pontowski told him.
Pontowski slowly walked toward the burning hulk of the A-10. A tower of black smoke rose skyward, a beacon marking Waldo’s funeral pyre. Tears streaked Pontowski’s cheeks. Was it the smoke? He didn’t care. “Damn, Waldo. You did good.” He blinked away the tears, then turned and headed for the command post.
The rain misted down through the jungle canopy, filtering the early-morning light into a gentle haze over the makeshift canvas shelter. Tel stood with Colonel Sun beside the shelter as water dripped from their helmets. Under the canvas a medic worked on Kamigami. He tightened the tourniquets on what was left of his legs and tried to bandage the gaping wound in his abdomen. But there was nothing he could do for the burns. Finally he administered a shot of morphine and stepped back. He had done all he could. “He’s in terrible pain,” he said.
“Can you make him comfortable?” Tel asked.
The medic shook his head. “That was the last of the morphine. Nothing else I’ve got will work.”
Kamigami’s lips moved, forming one word. “Tel.”
Tel ducked under the shelter and knelt beside him. “I’m here.”
Kamigami tried to focus his eyes but gave up. His right hand came up and touched the whistle around his neck. The effort exhausted him, and his hand fell to the ground. “Take it,” he whispered, every word an effort. His body shook with pain as Tel gently lifted the chain over his head.
“End it. Now.”
Tel shook his head. “Hold on, you’ll make it.”
“It’s over.”
“I don’t understand. What’s over?”
A long silence. “They killed my family. I killed them.” At last Tel fully understood. Kamigami had not sought this fight, it had come to him, and he had responded in the only way he knew. He was a warrior, a samurai bound by his own code of conduct. Kamigami’s words from an earlier time came back, now clear and full of meaning: “This is what I am.”
Kamigami gathered his strength and fumbled for the sidearm still at his side. He managed to half extract the Beretta before his hand fell away. Tel pulled the weapon free. The grips were worn with use, and he wondered how many men it had killed. “It’s okay,” Kamigami whispered, his words racked with pain.
Tel looked at Sun, not knowing what to do. “There’s no helicopter,” the colonel said. Tel touched the slide on the Beretta, mustering his courage. He chambered a round.
A single shot rang out, carrying through the jungle, only to fade away in the mist.
General Wilding’s staff car arrived at the entrance to the West Wing at exactly 7:00 P.M. He jumped out of the backseat and returned the Marine’s salute as he hurried down the steps to the basement. Mazie and Parrish were waiting for him in the corridor outside the Situation Room. “How long has she been waiting?” Wilding asked, concerned that he should have arrived much sooner.
“She’s been here all day,” Parrish said.
“Why didn’t someone tell me? I’d have come…”
Mazie’s gentle look stopped him in midsentence. “There was nothing you could have told her. She was just waiting.”
Wilding took a deep breath and pushed inside. “Madam President,” he began. He stopped. She was alone, sitting in her chair, and sound asleep. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. He turned to leave.
“General Wilding,” Maddy said, her eyes still closed. “You promised seventy-two hours. You did it in fifty-one.”
“Yes, ma’am. It was a very near thing.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Epilogue