One of the boys raised the M-16 rifle he was carrying. His right hand moved as he charged a round.
Waldo sat in the command post and took a long pull at a water bottle. “All I saw were two bodies lying on the ground outside the kampong.”
“Were they wearing uniforms?” Maggot asked.
“Flight suits, maybe,” Waldo muttered. “They were pretty well hacked up.”
“The general was wearing a flight suit,” Clark whispered.
Waldo looked at them in agony. “It could have been him.”
“We were taking ground fire from the kampong,” Buns added.
Waldo gave them a hard look. “So we morted the muthafuckers.”
The sun had set when the big diesel fired to life in the underground warren deep in the ridgeline. Smoke belched from the center tunnel as the transporter/erector/launcher moved out of hiding, its huge twelve wheels slowly turning. The missile it carried was heavily camouflaged and resembled a long, bushy caterpillar moving slowly down the rough trail. The sergeant hiding on the ridgeline noted the time and motioned for his runner. The lance corporal listened to his instructions and pulled back from the observation post, little more than a shadow moving silently in the night. Once clear of the ridge, he moved fast and reached Kamigami in less than twenty minutes.
“That’s two,” Kamigami told Lieutenant Lee, his team leader.
“Do we take them out?” Lee asked.
Tel knew the answer before Kamigami replied. The Taman Negara was essentially a staging area for the PLA, and all around them supplies were dispersed in the jungle waiting for transport south. However, side by side were large numbers of soldiers being fed into the maw of combat, and for Kamigami that was the real threat. It was only a matter of time before one of his four teams was discovered. Tel calculated they had two or three more days at best before they had to withdraw.
“For now our mission is to observe and report,” Kamigami told the lieutenant. “Get a message out.” But even that was not easy. Although their PRC319 radio was capable of sending an encrypted, short-burst transmission that defied decoding, simple triangulation would warn the PLA that intruders were in the Taman Negara. A runner would have to take the message miles away for transmission. However, nothing could be written down in case the runner was captured, so the message had to be committed to memory.
“Sir,” Tel said, “should we include the coordinates of the tunnel?” Kamigami didn’t answer. “I mean the exact GPS coordinates of the entrance,” Tel explained.
“How do you propose we get those?”
Tel never hesitated. “We send someone down there with a GPS. All he has to do is press the fix button.”
“And if he gets caught?”
“We shoot him,” Tel replied.
“I’ll do it,” the lance corporal volunteered. “Those missiles are targeted at my family in Singapore.”
Kamigami agreed and huddled with the team, telling them exactly what he wanted. The lance corporal changed into a worker’s dungarees and pocketed a small GPS before he moved out. After he had left, Kamigami handed Tel an M-16 with a night-vision sight. “This was your idea,” he said.
Tel’s face blanched. “What if I miss?”
“Don’t,” Kamigami warned.
Tel lay beside the sergeant in the observation post overlooking the tunnels and sighted the scope. The greenish image was unbelievably clear as he zeroed in on the entrance. It was all familiar from the time when he and Kamigami had first discovered the base camp. But now it was swarming with people. He estimated the range at five hundred meters and dialed it in. “Five-fifty,” the sergeant said. Tel changed the setting. The sergeant pointed to the shadows to the left of the tunnel entrance, and Tel glued his right eye to the eyepiece.
A figure shambled out of the shadows and crossed in front of the center tunnel. It was the lance corporal. In the direct center he stopped and fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. A guard stepped out of the tunnel and challenged him. The corporal said something, and the guard laughed. The corporal tapped two cigarettes from the pack and offered one to the guard. He shouldered his submachine gun and took one of the cigarettes. The corporal struck a match and lit the cigarettes. Even at that distance it was a flare, washing out a small part of the scope. Tel moved the crosshairs slightly to the side so he could see. The corporal shoved the pack of cigarettes into his pocket and hesitated for a moment as he keyed his GPS. Then he withdrew his hand and walked on across as the guard stepped back into the shadows.
Tel exhaled in relief.
The ExCom was waiting in the president’s private study off the Oval Office early Sunday morning. They talked quietly until she arrived. Kennett automatically did a quick appraisal of his president, deeply worried that she wasn’t getting enough rest. “Good morning,” she said, her voice calm and not showing the fatigue that was drawing her down. “First, the UN is going to consider a cease-fire resolution this afternoon.”
“H-hour for Operation Anvil is 0100 hours Gulf time tomorrow morning,” General Wilding said. “Our forces are in place, and the UIF knows it’s coming. This is nothing but an attempt to stop it.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Turner assured him. “I’ll have our ambassador delay any vote in the UN as long as possible. But if it comes too early, I fully intend to ignore it until the UIF surrenders. Period.”
Wilding carefully considered his next words. “Madam President, this is going to be a max effort. That means heavy casualties.”
“I understand,” Turner said. “What else?”
“I talked to Herbert last night,” Mazie said. “The EU is demanding that the Germans halt their drive on Baghdad. The French are really putting the pressure on, and Herbert isn’t sure how long they can ignore it.”
Turner caught Mazie’s use of von Lubeck’s first name and arched an eyebrow. “Tell von Lubeck to delay as long as possible. What else?”
It was Butler’s turn. “The situation in Malaysia is critical. The PLA has broken out and is driving hard toward Singapore.”
“We may be able to do something on the political front,” Turner told them. “The Chinese special envoy, Zou Rong, arrived yesterday. Stephan is meeting with him at noon and thinks he may have an offer.”
Butler frowned. “I wouldn’t count on that, Mrs. President.”
Turner glanced at the TV. “I think there’s something you’d like to see.” She hit the remote control, and the logo for Meet the Press appeared.
“Madam President,” Kennett said, “why do you torture yourself this way?” The commentator’s face, which reminded the vice president of the “muffin boy,” filled the screen as he introduced his guest, Senator John Leland. Kennett’s missing left arm started to itch, which was always a bad sign. “This is bad. He likes Leland.”
“Because the good senator feeds him inside information,” Butler observed.
“Leland’s desperate,” Mazie said worriedly. “There’s a rumor he’s got an ‘October Surprise’ in store for us.”