The screens on the TV cycled, and Wilding took a deep breath. “The situation is unclear, Madam President.” He pointed to SEAC’s defensive line centered on Segamat. “It appears that SEAC is holding. Unfortunately, the AVG lost another aircraft earlier today, but the pilot was unhurt and has returned to duty.”
“Stay on top of it,” Turner ordered, “and do what you can.” Her voice turned to steel. “I hope you’ve started planning for redeployment to Malaysia.”
“Indeed we have, Madam President,” Wilding replied. “But the lack of airlift is the limiting factor.”
The briefing was over, and Turner came to her feet. The ExCom stood with her. “We’ll fix that problem when this is all over,” she promised. She paused for a moment. “I can’t thank you enough.” Her voice cracked with emotion, and she quickly left. Outside, in the corridor, shouting and cheering coming from the main floor echoed down the stairs. Nancy reached for her personal communicator to warn the staff that the president was returning to the Oval Office, but Turner stopped her. “Let them enjoy the moment,” she said. “They’ve earned it.”
Rather than return directly to her office, she strolled through the West Wing, keeping in the background. Everyone was clustered in front of TVs and bouncing with excitement as reporters and political pundits searched for the right words to describe the turn of events. Even the most hostile commentators were comparing Operation Saracen to General Douglas MacArthur’s Inchon landing in the Korean War.
“A brilliant maneuver…”
“Governor Grau strangely silent…”
“Syria’s ambassador to the United Nations has petitioned for an in-place cease-fire.”
A loud “No way!” chorused from her staff.
“I’d like to speak to the press,” Turner said to Parrish.
“Yes, ma’am,” he sang. He punched at his communicator, warning the press secretary as he followed her down the hall. Ahead of them, they could see reporters running for the Press Room. “Give them a few moments,” he said. They spoke quietly, going over what she should say. “Ignore Grau and Leland,” Parrish counseled. “Keep it brief and make them focus on what’s ahead.”
Madeline Turner closed her eyes for a moment. Then she nodded and led the way into the Briefing Room. As one, the reporters stood and applauded.
Thirty
Kamigami maintained a relentless pace, pressing his men to make the rendezvous with the three helicopters. They had been in the field almost five days, and in the world of special operations that was an eternity. By now it was a certainty that someone was out there looking for them. The answer was movement and speed. Thanks to night-vision goggles, superb charts, and a GPS, they could move through the jungle at night and make good time. But it wasn’t easy.
They reached the landing zone just after midnight, seventeen minutes before the Pumas were scheduled to arrive. The men collapsed to the ground, breathing deeply and gulping water. Half of them knew they were going home and started to relax. But Kamigami was merciless. He posted lookouts and briefed his four team leaders. “The two teams returning to Alpha board the last helicopter, the rest get on the second Puma. I’ll board the first aircraft with the replacement teams. Helicopters get attention, so minimum time on the ground. I want us out of here in less than a minute. Count your men; no one gets left behind. We all lift off together and egress the area together. Once clear of the area, we split. One and Two head north, Three returns to Alpha.” The muffled sound of the helicopters brought them to their feet. “Move,” Kamigami ordered. He pulled Tel aside. “It’s easy going in; it’s the getting out that’s hard. Remember that.”
“Good hunting,” Tel said. They shook hands as the first Puma settled to the ground. Kamigami ran for it without looking back and climbed in the side door. The eighteen men returning to Camp Alpha clambered on board the last helicopter. For a moment Tel hesitated. Then he ran for the second aircraft.
The helicopters lifted off in quick succession and flew low over the jungle canopy, heading to the southeast. Sixteen minutes later they flew up a river valley and entered the Gunong Besar mountain range. The river glowed like a silver ribbon in the moonlight, and the helicopters dropped even lower. When the river split, the first two Pumas turned north, toward the Taman Negara, and the third continued to the south, heading for Camp Alpha, fifty miles away. For the forty-two men on board the two northbound helicopters, it was a bumpy ride, as the pilots used terrain masking to escape detection. Exactly thirty-six minutes later the two Pumas hovered over a jungle clearing and the men jumped out. Tel was the last off and made his way through the tall grass, trying to look inconspicuous.
Kamigami was crouched beside a tree, giving his team leaders last-minute instructions. “You’ve got three hours before daylight,” he told them. “Use it.” He gave them the rendezvous coordinates and sent them on their way. Without looking up, he said, “Tel, get your ass over here.” He waited. “The next time I give you an order, do it.”
“Yes, sir,” Tel answered, not the least bit intimidated.
Clark’s driver accelerated across the runway at the midfield intersection, leaving the main base behind them. Once clear of the runway he drove down the road that led to the weapons-storage area. Clark pointed to a muddy dirt track, and the driver made a hard turn off the asphalt, sending a wave of water over a recently dug defensive fire position. He jerked the minivan to a halt when he saw Rockne and Boyca standing beside a bigger, heavily reinforced bunker. He jumped out and ran around to open the sliding door, grinning at Clark. “We here, Missy Colonel.” She climbed out, followed by Pontowski and Doc Ryan.
Rockne threw them a crisp salute and led the way down into the bunker. “This is the operations bunker for Whiskey Sector,” he explained. They gathered around a wall chart as Rockne detailed the base’s defense plan. “I’ve divided the base into three sectors: Whiskey, Yankee, and Zulu.” He traced the boundaries of the sectors on the chart, which reminded Pontowski of a big T. Two long sectors lay side by side, parallel to the runway, and formed the stem while an oblong sector crossed the T, like a big cap. Rockne circled Zulu, the northern sector that formed the cap. “Any attack will most likely come from the north. That’s why the Malaysian Army laid a big minefield in this area before we arrived. Unfortunately, they didn’t make a plan of the minefield. The really bad news is that they laid it inside the tactical boundary.”
“So why did they plant the mines there?” Clark asked.
“Because it’s outside the base perimeter fence line,” Rockne explained. “They never considered the tactical boundary. At least there’s nothing in this sector, so I’ve turned it into a kill zone.” Four jets took off, forcing him to wait for the noise to subside.
Pontowski checked his watch. “The first go of the morning,” he told them. He tapped the chart, pointing to the sector on the western side of the T’s stem. “It looks like everything important is in Yankee sector — the runway, command post, aircraft bunkers.”
Doc Ryan said, “It looks like the base medical station and the command post are at the hub.”
Clark studied the map. “It all makes sense,” she said. “If we come under heavy attack, we can give ground and fall back in concentric rings to the hub. One thing I don’t understand. Only the fuel dump and the weapons-storage area are on this side of the runway. Wouldn’t it be better to place Whiskey Sector ops bunker on the other side of the runway where you can better defend it?”