Leland was as close to losing control as he had ever come in his political career. He paced the floor, then spun around to face Merritt and jammed a rigid forefinger into his chest. “That child-pornography ring, the one the DCI was involved in.”
“Like I said before, there’s nothing there. One slip of paper with the address of a Web site does not—”
Leland interrupted him. “Then how did it get in his chair in the first place? Tell me that!” More pacing. “I’ll tell you how. It fell out of his pocket or briefcase, that’s how.”
“Don’t go there,” Merritt pleaded. “My investigators have totally discounted it. There’s that phone call I told you about and—”
“I want it,” Leland said, his voice firm. Merritt gave in to the inevitable and recited it from memory. “Damn it. Are you hard of hearing or just stupid? I want the actual note. The gloves are off, and I’m going to render that bitch.”
“You’ll have it first thing tomorrow morning,” Merritt promised. Leland shot him a look of triumph as he turned and left. Merritt walked to the sideboy and poured himself a drink. It was ginger ale, for no sane politician drank at a time like this. He considered his options and, like everyone at the party, knew it was time to shift positions. But how? He sank into a deep leather chair and wished that Shaw were not in the hospital. He made a mental note to call Parrish the moment he got home. But he didn’t like that option. Then the image of Bobbi Jo Reynolds flashed in front of him, and he changed his mind.
Thirty-one
The first explosion shattered the two windows on the end wall. Luckily, the heavy duct tape that crisscrossed the windowpanes held, and most of the glass shards were embedded in the blackout curtains. Instinctively, Pontowski rolled out of his bunk, hit the floor, and rolled under the bed. For a moment he breathed hard, getting his bearings. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled. He checked the time. It was 0528, a half hour before sunrise. The second explosion rocked the building off its foundations and cracked the ceiling, sending a cloud of dust and debris onto the bed. He coughed twice and waited. Nothing. He heard running feet in the hall, followed by a banging on his door. “General! Are you okay?” It was Janice Clark.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“We’re on fire. Get out!”
Pontowski rolled out from under the bed and pulled on his boots. He didn’t stop to tie them and grabbed a flight suit as he bolted out the door. Clark was ahead of him, running down the hall, banging on doors to make sure the building was clear. Smoke chased them both out of the building. They ran for the bomb shelter and crashed through the narrow entrance. In the half-light of early morning, he could see about a dozen people crowded inside. He leaned against the sandbags and pulled off his boots so he could don his flight suit. “Ah, Colonel,” he began, “I think you need to…”
The base commander was only wearing a T-shirt that showed a generous amount of leg. “Tough shit!” she barked. She paused as a heavy silence came down. “Sorry, sir. That wasn’t called for.” Someone handed her a radio, and she called the command post for a status report. They all heard the on-duty controller detail what looked like two missile strikes. Outside, they could hear a siren wail the all-clear. “Better late than never,” she grumbled. “Sir, can I meet you in the command post in a few minutes?” Without waiting for an answer, she darted out the door.
Pontowski had to stifle a grin when he heard her driver’s voice. “Missy Colonel! Where you clothes?” Little snickers and guffaws moved around the bunker as the tension shredded.
“What does that guy do?” someone asked. “Sleep in his van?”
“As a matter of fact,” Pontowski replied, “he does.” He finished tying his boots. “Okay, let’s go. We got work to do.” The bunker rapidly emptied. The officers’ quarters were half consumed in flames and sending billows of smoke over the base. In the distance he heard two Warthogs lift off for the first go of the morning. He ran for the command post.
Maggot looked up from his console in the command post when he saw Pontowski. The wing commander had been up most of the night, and his eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn. “It was definitely two missiles. One hit the fuel dump, the other here.” He pointed to the main dormitory where half of the AVG was billeted. “Thank God almost everyone was at work. Doc Ryan is there now with the rescue crews.”
Janice Clark joined them, now dressed in a fresh set of fatigues. She didn’t bother to explain how her driver had rushed inside the burning officers’ quarters and found her clothes and a brush and comb. She studied the base map. “They went after the two biggest high-value targets that weren’t revetted,” she told them. “Damn good intelligence, if you ask me.”
“With that accuracy,” Maggot said, “it means they weren’t Scuds.”
“Colonel Clark,” the controller called from the communications cab. “All land lines are down, but we’re still in radio contact with SEAC.”
“Get with the Malaysian Army,” Clark told him, “and see what they can do. This is their base.”
“The MA’s not answering the phone or radio,” the controller said.
“General Pontowski,” the liaison officer from the First SOS called, “Colonel Sun will be here in a few moments. He says it’s urgent.”
“Any reports from the fuel dump?” Clark asked.
“Negative,” the controller told her. “The crash wagon and fire truck are at the dorm. The security police report the fuel dump is burning like hell…hold on.” He called Maintenance Control and asked for the fuel status. He listened for a moment. “Maintenance says the only fuel they got is in the lines and the holding tanks. Maybe enough for twenty-four hours. That’s all.”
Colonel Sun walked in just ahead of Rockne. “Two missiles hit Singapore this morning,” Sun announced. “One hit the main petroleum terminal, the other destroyed the largest refinery on the main island. Many fires. Many riots, and the people want peace.”
“First they cut the city’s water supply,” Pontowski said. “Now they’re going after POL. Sounds like a blockade strategy.”
“Mr. Deng,” Sun continued, “has ordered an all-out search for the missile launch sites. He wants them destroyed.” He paused, searching for the right words in English to convey the urgency of the situation. “This is most critical.”
“We got other problems,” Rockne said. “The MA is gone.”
Clark was on her feet, almost shouting. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
Nothing betrayed Rockne’s anger, and he could have been discussing a training exercise. “The Malaysian Army battalion assigned to defend the base has deserted en masse. We’re uncovered.”
“We’re not going to be hung out to dry,” Pontowski promised. “Colonel Sun, can one of your helicopters fly me to Singapore? ASAP.” The wiry colonel jerked his head yes and reached for a phone to alert a crew. Pontowski came to his feet in one easy motion and paced the floor. He jabbed a finger at the situation chart tracking the fighting fifty miles to the north of them. “We’ve got to slow the bastards down, so fly as much close air support as you can. I’m going to beat the bushes and get the airlift we need to get the hell out of Dodge. Meanwhile, keep launching sorties.”
“The helicopter will be ready when you arrive,” Colonel Sun told him.
“I’m on my way,” Pontowski replied. “Colonel Clark, Chief, ride with me so we can talk.” He turned to Maggot. “Dwight, you’ve got the stick here. My gut tells me all hell is about to break loose.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Maggot said straight-faced. For a moment they stood there, looking at each other. “Hell, General, you never promised me a rose garden.” They shook hands. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir. I’ve got a war to fight here.” He turned around and picked up the phone to Operations. “Waldo, brief the jocks for a surge.”