A few minutes later the radio operator motioned to Kamigami when the LED display on the PRC319 radio flashed. A message was coming in. He entered the decryption code on the keypad, the screen blinked, and the message started to scroll. Delta Team under Lieutenant Lee operating in the north sector had finally reached their objective, some fifty miles north of Kamigami’s position. They made good time, Kamigami conceded. But not worth breaking radio silence. He made a mental note to knock some heads when they got back to the island. The radio operator scrolled the message. Delta team had discovered a wide and well-constructed dirt road hidden underneath the tree canopy. A diesel-powered, eight-wheeled vehicle carrying a forty-foot missile had passed their position and was heading south. Two support trucks accompanied it. Again the message scrolled. Unless otherwise directed, Lee was going to recce the road to the north.
Kamigami nodded. He had been premature in deciding to knock heads. Good thinking. Silence implies consent. Another bean pod bounced off his head, and he looked up again. Tel’s hand was sticking out of his perch high in the tree and moving furiously. A large number of men were returning to the base camp. Kamigami checked his watch. Forty minutes to sunset. He looked up and flashed a hand signal for Tel to climb down when it was dark. Now he had to wait, something he was very used to. He went to sleep.
Tel nudged him awake forty-five minutes later. “Over two hundred men and women returned to camp,” he said in a low voice. “They came down the road from the north and were carrying shovels, picks, buckets, things like that.”
“Sounds like a work detail building the road,” Kamigami said. He showed Tel the message that had come in earlier. “We need to find out if that missile is headed for one of those tunnels dug in the ridge.” He thought for a moment. “Too many people around now. We need to pull back.” Within minutes the three men were up and moving, with Tel in the lead. They had gone less than fifty meters when Tel made a waving motion by his ear and pointed straight ahead. He had heard something. Kamigami quieted his breathing and closed his eyes. He was not straining to hear but in a receptive mode. Finally, over the slight ringing in his ears that plagued him, he also heard it. A man and a woman were talking softly. Kamigami flashed a hand signal, and the three of them melted into the brush.
After a few moments the voices changed into moans and breathless pants. The couple was making love. It didn’t last long, less than a minute, and the man started talking much more loudly. He spoke in Chinese and was anxious to get back to the camp. The girl protested in the same language, demanding that he treat her with respect. They walked by, less than six feet from Kamigami, easy targets. How old are they? he thought. Eighteen? Nineteen? How do you tell turbocharged teenagers that sex in a combat zone can kill you? Where the hell are their commanders?
They waited to ensure that no one else was wandering around in the dark in search of more nocturnal pastimes. Kamigami didn’t stir for over an hour and was ready to move out when the distinctive sound of a diesel engine drifted up the path. He came to his feet, but Tel was already moving, ghosting down the path leading to the Tembeling River. Kamigami followed and immediately lost contact.
“Here,” Tel said in a low voice. Kamigami followed the sound and almost stepped on him in the dark. The big man dropped to the ground, and Tel pushed a low branch aside. The big open area was directly below them, and they could see lights in the three tunnels. The sound of the diesel engine grew louder, and finally an eight-wheeled, camouflaged vehicle carrying a missile emerged from the jungle. “Scud,” he said to Tel.
“The Chinese don’t have Scuds,” Tel replied.
“They do now.”
Tel pulled out his camera to photograph it as Kamigami pointed to his radio operator and signaled for the detachable keypad. He punched at the keys with his blunt fingers. Frustrated with the small keys, he handed the keypad to Tel. “Re-transmit Delta Team’s message to GHQ. Also tell them we found a Scud at these coordinates.” Tel drafted the message to General Headquarters in Singapore and handed the keypad back to the radio operator. Kamigami motioned for the other keyboard to send a second message. He used a pencil to punch in a simple RETURN TO RENDEZVOUS ASAP and keyed the code that sent it to his four teams. He stood and motioned at Tel and the radio operator. “Time to get the hell out of Dodge.”
Twelve
The guard at the security checkpoint on the Pentagon’s main concourse recognized Pontowski and quickly came to his feet. “Good morning, sir.” He stood at half attention as Pontowski signed in.
“Busy for a Sunday morning,” Pontowski said.
“Hasn’t been like this since the Gulf War in ’91,” the guard replied. “The place is going crazy.” He glanced at his clipboard and noted the office Pontowski was visiting, then handed him a visitor’s badge. “Take the first set of stairs to the basement,” he said as Pontowski passed through the turnstile.
Pontowski followed the basement corridor to the purple water fountain everyone used as a reference point. “Almost there,” he said to himself. He stopped in front of a heavy steel door and waited. The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open. Bernie Butler was waiting inside. “Thanks for coming,” Butler said as they walked down a narrow hall.
“How bad is it?” Pontowski asked.
“In the Gulf? I think we’re over the hump. We should stabilize in the next few hours.”
“How’s Maddy doing?”
“She’s a rock,” Butler replied. “But the casualties are causing her a problem. Over four hundred KIA in the last twenty-four hours. The media are starting to make it a major issue. But she’s handling it.”
“I was thinking of the personal cost,” Pontowski said.
“It’s high,” Butler replied. “I saw it when she told General Wilding that his son was killed fighting a rear-guard action. He held the center for ten hours with eight tanks. Completely stopped the UIF advance while a Marine battalion retrograded in force. He was twenty-three years old.” Butler pushed open the door to his cramped office, where a tall, elderly man was waiting. “Matt, I’d like you to meet Mr. Deng Shikai from Singapore.”
The man extended his hand. “Please, call me Gus.”
“I know who you are, sir,” Pontowski said, shaking his hand. Pontowski looked at the two men. “I’m not here because of the Gulf, am I?”
Butler shook his head and motioned them to seats. “We have a problem on the Malay Peninsula.” He handed Pontowski a folder holding two messages Kamigami’s team had sent to Central Headquarters in Singapore.
Pontowski quickly read the messages. “Your people send these?” he asked Gus. A nod answered him. “I’m not impressed.”
Gus said, “Victor Kamigami identified the Scud.” Pontowski arched an eyebrow but didn’t respond. “Also,” Gus continued, “there’s a large contingent of regular PLA operating in the area.”
Pontowski’s head came up at the mention of China’s People’s Liberation Army. Gus had his undivided attention. “How large and what are they doing?”
Gus’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Their exact size is unknown, but special units destroyed several Malaysian villages. That set off a series of reprisals between Malay and Chinese villagers, which has turned into a full-blown civil war between the Malays and local Chinese. As a result, Chinese villagers are turning to the PLA for protection. In fact, Kamigami’s kampong was the first target, and his family was slaughtered.”