While most of the young couples from Singapore explored what few attractions Mentakab had to offer, she discussed the problem with the older man who seemed to be the nominal leader of the group. She beamed and tossed her hair as they talked, all for the benefit of the man’s son, a very attractive and physically fit young man about her age. She was glad she had brought her thong bikini to wear on the beach. After discussing the situation and delays involved — the replacement bus wouldn’t arrive until midnight — it was decided to split the group. The wives would go on ahead to Kuantan on the eastern coast and check into the luxury hotel they had booked for the weekend.
The tour guide was surprised at how easily the men reloaded the baggage, throwing heavy suitcases and bags of sports equipment around with ease. She smiled as the young wives said good-bye and boarded the first bus. “Are they honeymooners?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t call them that,” the older man said. “But they haven’t been married long.” The tour guide was the last to board and waved as the bus pulled onto the highway. An odd thought struck her as she looked at the men waving back. They all seemed relieved that their wives had gone on ahead.
The relief bus arrived after midnight, pulled up behind the disabled bus, and turned off all its lights. Eight men slipped off the disabled bus in total darkness and fanned out to ensure that the area was clear. One by one they checked in on their pocket-size, short-range radios. Their voices were low and barely audible as they reported the area clear. The rest of the men then streamed off the bus, and the baggage doors of both buses were quickly opened. A service light came on. It was quickly extinguished, but not before it illuminated a strange scene. All the men were dressed in dark green jungle fatigues and wearing combat boots. Their faces were streaked with camouflage paint, and they moved with a ghostly silence.
Heavily laden bergens were passed out and bags ripped open to reveal a variety of small arms and assorted ammunition pouches and bandoliers. Within minutes the men had their night-vision goggles on as they loaded up.
Kamigami handed Tel a Minimi light machine gun along with three ammo boxes of two hundred rounds and six thirty-round magazines. It was an awesome amount of firepower, and the light weapon could be used as a rifle in an attack. “You know how to use this?” Tel nodded in answer. “Good. I want the radio operator right behind me and you right behind him.” While Tel shouldered his load, Kamigami spoke to the man carrying the patrol radio, a PRC319 set capable of sending and receiving short-burst encrypted messages. Satisfied that he was in contact with his four eight-man teams and that they had all adapted to night vision, he ordered them to move out. Tel fell in behind the radio operator, bent forward under his 180-pound load.
Two hours later Kamigami called for a quick-reaction drill, and the four teams went into defensive fire positions. Satisfied with their response, he transitioned into an ambush scenario. While less than happy with the way Team Alpha sited its fields of fire, he thought the covering and fallback teams were well situated. Rather than break radio silence, he passed the word to bivouac in place for the night. They would move out at first light. “Too difficult to move in the jungle at night,” he told Tel. “We can make better time in the morning.” He went to sleep.
Shortly after Kamigami had drifted off to sleep, the ExCom gathered outside the Oval Office for their second meeting with the president that Thursday. Nancy Bender checked her watch. It was exactly 2:00 P.M. “She’s with her campaign advisers, and—” Before she could finish, the door opened and four people trooped out of the Oval Office. There may have been a building crisis, but Madeline Turner was still driving her schedule. Mazie led the four men inside. Turner rested her elbows on her chair, folded her fingers together under her chin, and watched them as they sat down.
Mazie looked at the men and told the president the bad news. “Seven hundred and seventy-three as of midnight.”
Turner’s head came up. “Less than seventy-two hours into this and almost eight hundred casualties.”
General Wilding made it worse. “That’s KIA only.”
The president did the math. “Ten an hour.” She thought for a moment, trying to balance the personal with the political cost of the war. She wasn’t sure if she could do it. “How much longer will it go on?”
Wilding didn’t hesitate. “Another seventy-two hours at the earliest before we can stabilize.”
“Does that mean another eight hundred killed?” she asked.
“Probably more,” Wilding replied.
“We have the largest and best military in the world,” Turner said. “Surely there’s something we can do…tactically or strategically.”
“Not unless we go nuclear,” Wilding replied.
“Out of the question,” Turner said.
Now it fell to Wilding to give his president a quick lesson in the realities of warfare. “Amateurs think of war in terms of strategy and tactics,” he told her. “A professional thinks in terms of logistics. It takes a mountain of equipment to support even a small unit in the field.” His voice was a monotone. “When a land power invades a neighboring country, the forces taking the brunt of the attack will experience heavy casualties until they are reinforced and their logistical base is in place.”
Nothing betrayed the emotion Turner felt, and for all appearances she was the cool politician working toward a decision. “I was under the impression that the modern nature of war had changed all that.”
Wilding’s voice changed, now more that of the professor lecturing a student. “Ah, yes, future war based on high-tech, precision-guided weapons and information. All politically correct and trendy. But reality is different when you’re facing a determined enemy who is fighting on his terms. For now all we can do is fight a holding action until we build up. Thanks to the Civil Air Reserve Fleet, the necessary troops are arriving in country, but until their equipment arrives, think of them as heavily armed tourists.”
Kennett looked sick. “And we lost most of our predeployed equipment when King Khalid City fell.”
“Which is why it was the UIF’s first objective,” the DCI added.
Wilding continued. “Fast Sealift Squadron One will sail from Savannah within twenty-four hours. That’s eight ships with enough equipment to field a heavy division.”
“How long before it arrives?” Turner asked.
Wilding ran the numbers. “It’s eighty-seven hundred nautical miles and, averaging twenty-five knots, fifteen days. That assumes no breakdowns. Then the units still have to marry up with their equipment and check it out. Figure at least another four or five days before they deploy. So until those ships arrive, it’s all airlift, and we simply don’t have it. The Air Force is at max effort. Air Mobility Command has every airlifter they own in the system. Tactically, every available A-10 is in theater, and they are starting to make a difference. More F-16s and F-15 Strike Eagles are on the way.”
She held up a hand and stopped him. “Do I need a full situation brief?”
“I could certainly use it, Mrs. President,” Kennett replied.
Turner stood and led the way to the Situation Room, where the Marine colonel was waiting. “It’s not a good afternoon, Madam President,” Scovill said. He launched into his briefing, and, as warned, it was not good. “The center of the UIF’s drive across the desert has slowed as it expands its flanks. They’re trying for an end run, and so far we’ve blocked their eastern flank. But they’re expanding to the west, into the desert.”
A glimmer of hope crossed the president’s face. “Does that mean the fighting has slowed as they maneuver?”