He hurried back to the NMCC, and another piece fell into place when he saw the two FBI agents in a corner comparing notes with two other civilians, obviously Army CID or Air Force OSI agents. He almost laughed aloud as he squeezed into the battle cab that was now overflowing with every general who could think of a reason to be there. He listened for a few moments. “We are now certain,” a one-star said, “that the embassy in Kuala Lumpur was hit by mortar rounds and not Scuds. The Scuds served as a cover for special units of the Ninety-second People’s Liberation Regiment of the PLA, who are operating in Kuala Lumpur.”
About time these boys got their act together, Shaw decided. It must be Bernie’s doin’, not the CIA’s. But intelligence wasn’t his problem. He inched his way to the conference room at the back and glanced in, finding it still empty. Luck of the Irish. He slipped inside and studied the DCI’s chair. Okay, there’s got to be something. There was only a yellow legal notepad and a black pen on the side table. Shaw glanced at the still-open door but saw only the backs of two officers outside. For a moment he hesitated. Do it! He used a handkerchief to pick up the pen and quickly copied the URL of the Web site on a corner of the yellow pad in simple block letters. Still using the handkerchief, he carefully ripped the corner off and dropped it into a crack between the chair cushions.
He shuffled back into the battle cab, certain that he had not been seen. Keep it simple, he warned himself. He waited patiently until Turner was leaving and followed her out. But he peeled off from the presidential party and headed for the men’s room. Again his luck held, and he saw one of the CID officers who had been talking to the FBI agents. He nodded at the man. “Special Agent, ah…”
“Carson,” the man replied.
Now he was at the tricky part. “CID, right?” Shaw ventured. A slight nod in answer. “You know who I am?” Again the nod. “The SecDef doesn’t need any surprises on this one. Keep him in the picture, okay?” Another slight nod. “We never had this conversation, right?”
“What conversation?” Special Agent Carson answered.
“I owe you,” Shaw said. He walked into the men’s room. Leland, I’m gonna nail your ass!
The driver dragged the dark green minivan to a stop in front of the concrete barricades blocking the road leading into the base. “Missy Colonel,” he said, his eyes full of worry, “this all new. No can go.”
The head of a very young security cop popped up from behind the left side of the concrete barricade, then disappeared. For a few moments nothing happened. Then he shouted, “Advance and be recognized.”
Before Clark or Pontowski could react, the driver was out of the van, his hands up. “I drive Missy Colonel! She your boss.”
Rockne emerged from a sandbagged guard post. “It’s okay,” he called as he walked up to the van. He was surprised to see that Pontowski was also with them. “General, ma’am, sorry for the confusion. We’re real short of people and still getting it all sorted out. We just got the barricades in place.” He hesitated for a moment. “I know you’re busy, but if you’ve got a moment, I’d like to do some training. Two minutes max. We’re stretched too thin, and I need every opportunity I can get.”
“You got it,” Clark told him. Rockne placed a small package in a wheel well and walked to the downwind flank of the minivan. He slapped the leash he was holding against his thigh, and Boyca bounded out of the guard post. “Good girl,” Rockne said as he snapped the leash on. “Seek,” he commanded. He followed Boyca as she moved around the van, searching for the scent of explosives. Once he called “Hup” to get her to search high. Then, to encourage her, “Whatcha got, girl?” When they got to the wheel well, Boyca reacted. She sat with her ears up and looked expectantly at Rockne. He reached into the wheel well and pulled out the package. “You still got it.” He pulled out a rubber dog toy and tossed it to her. She jumped up, snagged it, and started to worry it with little growls of contentment. “Good girl.” Rockne smiled at Pontowski and Clark. “Thank you.” He stepped back and waved them forward. The driver jumped into the van and threaded his way through the barricades.
“The Rock’s got ’em jumping,” Pontowski said, pointing to two airmen digging a defensive fighting position. Farther down the road another two were doing the same. “Overlapping fields of fire,” Pontowski said. “Rockne is good.”
“The best,” Clark said. They drove past two aircraft bunkers, but the big blast doors were closed and all was quiet. “I can’t tell if they’re generating,” she said.
Pontowski’s eyes squinted as he took it in. The goal of an aircraft generation was to get as many of their aircraft fully serviced and uploaded with munitions as quickly as possible for a combat launch. It was a challenge under the best of circumstances but more so since they had just arrived and were still bedding down. “We’ll see,” he allowed. Their driver had to stop as more barricades blocked the road leading to the command post. But this time there were no guards.
“I guess we walk from here,” Clark said. The lone guard at the entrance to the command post cleared them inside. “All things considered,” she said, “Rockne is doing a good job with security. But he needs the rest of his people.” She made a note on her PalmPilot.
Inside, they found Maggot sitting in the center of a long console in front of a bank of telephones. He was kicked back and sipping at a Coke. He stood up when he saw them. “I take it you’re generating,” Pontowski said.
Maggot motioned at the big Plexiglas-covered board on the front wall. The AVG’s twenty jets were listed by tail number in the far-left column, and by using a grease pencil to fill in the columns, the command post tracked each bird as it was fueled, loaded with ordnance, and assigned a pilot. “We’re six hours into it and got nine jets loaded and ready to launch. The jocks are standing by, but without tasking or an ATO, we’re pissin’ in the wind.” An ATO was an air tasking order that sent them into combat.
Pontowski shook his head. “We just came from SEAC headquarters. Total confusion. I asked for an ATO, but no luck. No one seems to know what’s going on.”
“All they have to do is listen to the radio,” Maggot said. “It’s even on TV.” He waved to a TV set in the corner. Thanks to satellite communications and miniature TV cameras, the deadly chaos sweeping Kuala Lumpur was being documented for the world to see. “Damn! We can help.” Doc Ryan walked up to the big boards and made a grease-pencil change to the status of two aircraft. Two more were fully operational and loaded with munitions. “Eleven jets ready to party,” Maggot muttered. “And no one to dance with.”
“Isn’t that Doc Ryan?” Clark asked, wondering why the flight surgeon was in the command post and not the base med station.
“The one and only,” Maggot said. “His people are ready, and he wanted something to do. Seems he learned how command posts and aircraft generations worked under Mafia Martini at Okinawa.”
“Is he any good?” Pontowski asked.
“You had to be good to survive Martini,” Clark answered.
Maggot stared at the ready board. “General, our job is killin’ tanks, and based on what I’m hearing on the radio and seeing on the TV, there just might be a few needin’ servicing around Kuala Lumpur. Why don’t we scramble four jets to go take a look?”