Maggot shook his head. “Who knows? But it looks like the Russians are their supplier of choice. What else do they have?”
Janice Clark joined them. “You need to see this,” she said, handing Maggot a message.
Maggot scanned it and then carefully reread every word. “It’s from Kamigami. Neck got a Maverick off. Flew right into a tunnel. A shack.” He crumpled the message into a wad. “It didn’t do any good. Twenty minutes later four tactical missiles moved out.” He stood up and took a deep breath. “No parachute was observed.” He slumped into his chair, thinking. Finally he stood up. “Any word from Rockne?” Clark shook her head. “Okay, folks,” Maggot announced. “We’re evacuating. When’s the next C-130 due in?”
“No word yet,” Clark told him. “They said they’d be back but weren’t sure when.” She was deeply worried. “They might not make it.”
“We’ll be ready if they do,” Maggot said. “Have a group standing by ready to board the moment it lands. We can pack ninety to a hundred bodies on board at a time.” He paced the floor. “We’ll shanghai that fucker if we have to.”
Clark parked her minivan under the camouflage netting behind the aircraft shelter and then walked to the rear entrance. Even though it was a short walk, she was sweating and wished her driver were back. By being available, literally at her beck and call, he had increased her efficiency, and she needed him. She banged on the small blast door until someone answered. Inside, a group of men were waiting for her. She checked her clipboard and ticked off the names. “Okay, listen up,” she called. “We’ve got a C-130 due to land in a few minutes. When I give you the high sign, I want you out of here and running for the parking ramp, which is about a hundred yards through the trees. Everyone know where that is?” Nods all around. “Great.” She paused, searching for the right words. “We tried to make a difference here. But it wasn’t in the cards. Now it’s time to go home.” One man headed for the rear door. “What’s the problem?” she called.
The man stopped and turned around. “No offense, Colonel Clark. But I was with the AVG and the general in China. We got chased out of there and, damn it, as long as we got Hogs flying, I ain’t gettin’ chased out of here.” He released the two locking levers and pushed the door open. Two men followed him out.
Clark erased the ticks by their names and looked up. “I promise you this,” she told the men, “I will get them out.” She walked over to the phone on the wall and called the command post for the status on the C-130. “Okay, it’s on short final. GO!” A crew chief hit the switch for the main blast doors, and they started to roll back. The men streamed out, running for the trees. She followed them as the doors cranked closed. She was still in the trees when the Hercules touched down and reversed its props. By the time she reached the parking ramp, it had cleared the runway and was rolling fuel bladders out the back. Then she saw it. The pilots had no intention of stopping for passengers.
She dropped her clipboard and ran for the exit leading to the runway. It was a race between her and the big plane, which was now turning toward the runway, free of its cargo. She won and stood in the middle of the exit, blocking the C-130. But the big bird kept coming, its props howling. She drew her Beretta and used a two-handed shooter’s stance as she aimed directly at the pilot sitting in the left seat.
He got the message and stopped. The crew entrance door flopped open, and the lieutenant colonel from the MAAG stood in the doorway. She could barely hear him over the roar of the engines. “NO PROBLEM…DIDN’T UNDERSTAND.”
“Yeah, right,” she grumbled as the rear cargo door raised and the ramp lowered. The waiting men rushed aboard, and she stepped aside, holstering her weapon.
“WE’LL BE BACK,” he shouted, pulling the entrance door up.
Clark threw the pilot a salute as the Hercules taxied past, and much to her surprise, he returned it. She walked across the ramp and picked up her clipboard. She pulled out her pen and changed the numbers: 104 gone, 481 to go. Then she walked briskly back to her minivan.
“Missy Colonel,” a familiar voice said. “Where you want to go?”
“You’re back!” She almost hugged him in relief. “About time.” He opened the door and she climbed in. “Command post” was all she said.
“General at doctor, not at command post.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Broken bone. But he walk back.” The driver pulled a long face. “Rockne…he very mean man. Kill a man who want to eat Boyca.”
Clark shook her head, wondering what the story was behind that. “I imagine he would.”
The driver stopped beside the med station and ran around to open her door. But Clark was already out and running down the ramp. “I go get general some clothes,” he called to her back. Inside, she found Pontowski sitting on an examination table as Doc Ryan taped his left shoulder. His boots were off, and the upper half of his flight suit was cut away and hanging around his waist. He was filthy, encrusted with dried grunge from the rice paddy, and he had a distinct aroma about him.
For a moment she said nothing as relief flooded over her. “Damn, General. You do need a shower.”
Pontowski cocked an eyebrow. Then the grin was back. “The Hilton was having a few problems with their staff.”
“You are one lucky man,” Ryan said. “Not many walk away from a crash. Other than your shoulder and a few cracked ribs, you seem okay. But God only knows what was in that rice paddy you landed in.” He prepared a syringe. “Antibiotics. Just in case.” He glanced at Clark, who turned away. “Drop your trousers and bend over, sir. This will feel a little warm.” He finished and pointed to the back. “Take a shower while we find you some clothes.”
“My driver is bringing them,” she said. She stood outside while Pontowski showered, and talked through the doorway, bringing him up to date. He was toweling off when a dull thud rocked the bunker. A little dust rained down from the ceiling. “What the hell?” she wondered aloud. Two more thuds, this time more distant, shook the walls. She ran for the entrance, where her driver was standing holding Pontowski’s fatigues and a clean pair of boots.
His eyes were wide. “Mortars. Missy Colonel, you go home now?”
“Not yet,” she told him, taking the clothes from him. The wail of warning Klaxons echoed over the bunker as another mortar round slammed into the base. She closed the blast door and dogged it down.
Mazie leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She knew she should go home and get some rest, but an inner need held her close to the White House. A gentle snore drifted across from the couch where Bernie Butler was stretched out. Like her, he couldn’t leave. She glanced at the clock — two in the morning. Again she closed her eyes, but her restless mind drove her on. Upstairs, in the residence, the president was sleeping — why couldn’t she? “Damn,” she muttered, sitting upright. It was Operation Anvil. The Gulf offensive was in its ninth hour, and she needed an update. Maybe then she could go home. She stood and walked out, careful not to disturb the sleeping Butler.
The duty officer in the Situation Room stood when she entered. He knew why she was there, and called up the current status reports coming from the NMCC. “It’s going well,” he told her. Slowly the tension that held her tight gave way. “Casualties are much lighter than expected.” His fingers danced on the keyboard, and the three monitors changed displays. “In the north the Germans are driving hard for Baghdad.”