“I’m in,” Bag radioed.
Clear of the tanks, Waldo looked back and saw Bag’s Hog in a low-level pass at six hundred feet. Six canisters of CBU-58s came off cleanly as two lines of tracers reached for the A-10, clearly visible in the fading light. The ground twinkled with flashes as the bomblets exploded. Now Bag was clear, racing for safety on the deck. “RTB,” Waldo radioed. “Stick a fork in ’em. They’re done.”
“Smokin’ holes in the ground,” Bag replied as the four jets headed for home plate.
The voice was bodiless and at a distance, yet it was still close. “General, you’re needed in the command post.” Slowly Pontowski came awake as sleep yielded to the voice. Doc Ryan was hovering over his bed. “Sorry, sir. But the NMCC is on the secure line.” The voice was bodiless and at a distance, yet it was still close. “General, you’re needed in the command post.” Slowly Pontowski came awake as sleep yielded to the voice. Doc Ryan was hovering over his bed. “Sorry, sir. But the NMCC is on the secure line.”
Pontowski pulled himself to a sitting position and glanced at the clock beside his bed. It was 0130 Sunday morning. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he asked Ryan.
“They need help in the command post,” Ryan replied, as if that explained everything.
Pontowski pulled on his fatigues and boots. “They better have coffee,” he warned.
“Your reputation has preceded you,” Ryan replied. He led the way to Clark’s minivan, which was waiting outside with her driver, and they rode in silence to the command post. This time there were two guards at the barricade sealing off the bunker. “My medics,” Ryan told him. “They hate being security police augmentees, but we haven’t got much to do right now. I figure we can help until the rest of Chief Rockne’s cops arrive.” Pontowski wondered if the doctor was pushing his people too hard. He made a mental note to discuss it with Clark.
Inside the command post, Maggot and Waldo were huddled with Clark in the communications cab. A sergeant he had never seen before stood at the big Plexiglas status board and grease-penciled an ETA on two inbound helicopters. In the notes column he wrote PC: 37.
PC, Pontowski thought. Precious cargo. Kamigami and the First SOS had snatched a few more innocent villagers out of harm’s way. Then he saw the other number at the bottom of the board: AC: 20. Twenty aircraft. How many will I lose before this is over? But for every aircraft lost, there was a human price. How many pilots? Because he was half awake and his mental defenses down, the fear buried deep in his subconscious burst free. How many? All the numbers were there, beating at him. Maggot and his 30 pilots. The chief of Maintenance with his 309 wrench benders and gun plumbers who kept the aircraft flying and armed. Clark and her support group of 108 personnel who made the base work. Rockne with his 102 cops, most of them too young and inexperienced. Doc Ryan with his 8 medics.
The number 562 beat at him. But it was more than a number. It was 562 faces — each one a living, vibrant individual. How many will I lose? None today, he promised himself. Slowly he forced the numbers back into the shadows, promising to deal with them later. But he had forgotten to include himself in the grand total.
“Am I the only person getting any sleep around here?” he asked. The answer was an obvious yes. He sat down at the console.
“General Butler is on the secure line,” Clark told him.
Pontowski punched at the monitor button so they could all hear. “Pontowski here. Go ahead, Bernie.”
The voice was tinny and crackly, the result of scrambling, a multisatellite relay, and unscrambling. A slight delay was noticeable, but it was not too distracting. “The shit has hit the diplomatic fan,” Butler said. “Some human-rights group we’ve never heard of is claiming you used a secret terror weapon at Kuala Lumpur.”
“We launched three Mavericks,” Pontowski replied, “expended four hundred fifty-eight rounds of thirty-millimeter ammo, and dropped six canisters of CBU-58.” He waited.
“Can you confirm that?”
“We know what we uploaded and what the jets recovered with. The math is pretty simple.”
“Did you confirm your BDA?” Butler asked. BDA was bomb-damage assessment, which was always controversial.
“Come on, Bernie. You know how it works with an unknown threat. The jocks were too busy getting the hell out of Dodge. The flight lead, Lieutenant Colonel George Walderman, did a quick visual as he pulled off. He thinks they got four tanks, but didn’t hang around to check out the BDA from the CBU.”
There was a short break as the system did its magic. “Apparently CBU is now a terror weapon.”
“It’s the shotgun approach to bombing,” Pontowski told him. “It chews up soft targets something fierce, and it’s fairly awesome if you’re on the receiving end.”
Again the pause. “I’ll tell Wilding and brief the president.”
“We’re all loaded out for the morning and waiting on an ATO,” Pontowski told him.
A short break. “Don’t launch without an ATO. It might be best if you downloaded any CBU.”
“What the hell’s going on there, Bernie? CBU’s damn good area-denial ordnance. It beats the hell out of napalm, which was squirrelly to deliver and only made for good TV coverage. This is no time to start playing politics.” He drummed the console with his fingers, waiting for a reply.
Another voice came on the line. “Kennett here. The videos we’re seeing are very gruesome. The Chinese have involved the UN, and Senator Leland is calling for a congressional inquiry. You can expect a visit from the GAO.” The GAO was the General Accounting Office, the investigative arm of Congress headed by the comptroller general, with over five thousand employees.
Pontowski almost lost it. “What the hell is the matter with you people? You’re treating us like some peacekeeping mission. We’re not here to stand around wearing a blue beret and watch a massacre.”
Maggot made a waving motion to Ryan. “Get him some coffee. Quick. The stronger the better.”
It was enough to calm him down. “I apologize, sir. I just don’t like hanging my people out to dry.”
The pause was longer than normal. “No apology necessary,” Kennett said. “I feel the same way. Coordinate with SEAC and do what you can.”
Butler came back on the line. “The situation in Saudi has gone critical. The UIF has broken out, and it’s touch and go. The president doesn’t need any more distractions right now.”
“Understand all,” Pontowski replied. He broke the connection. He looked at his small staff. “Does anybody have any idea what the hell is going on?”
“You’re getting your ass kicked,” a soft voice said from the doorway. As one, they all turned. Victor Kamigami was standing there with Tel and Colonel Sun.
Clark bristled. “What are you doing here?”
“I called when they landed,” Doc Ryan said, “and asked them to come over. They’ve got good intelligence, and we don’t.”
Pontowski studied the flight surgeon for a moment, not sure whom he was dealing with. An inner voice told him to use the man. “What are you suggesting?”