“General Pontowski, Colonel Clark,” the controller called from the communications cab. “The tower reports a C-130 is inbound.”
“How many you got ready to go?” Pontowski asked.
“Ninety-eight,” she replied. “That leaves three hundred eighty-three.”
“Let’s go see them off,” he said. They hurried out the door to where her driver was waiting. A light rain was falling as they sped toward the parking ramp. “I’m not going to miss this place at all,” he told her.
“Did we make a difference?”
“We slowed them down a bit.” They rode in silence, each deep in thought. The van skidded to a halt. “Let’s do it,” he said. Together they walked toward the C-130 that was taxiing in. A group of men emerged from the trees, running toward them as fuel bladders rolled out the back of the Hercules. It stopped, and the men charged up the cargo ramp. The lieutenant colonel hopped off the ramp and hurried over.
“I need empty bladders,” he told them.
“What’s going on?” Pontowski asked.
“I wish I knew,” he told them. Even in the dark they could see he was fatigued to the point of collapse. “As best I can tell, SEAC is in a tactical retreat and giving ground slowly. Tactical missiles carrying nerve gas have hit every airfield and closed ’em down. We’re landing on highways.” He fished a message out of his pocket and handed it to them. “I received this about two hours ago.” He snorted. “I don’t think it’s gonna happen.” He looked at the C-130. “Got to go. I’ll be back.” He ran for the aircraft, which was starting to move. He jumped on the ramp and disappeared inside.
Pontowski watched the big cargo plane taxi out of the parking ramp. His head snapped up as the shrill shriek of an incoming artillery round split the air. “Incoming!” he shouted, dropping to the ground and dragging Clark with him. The C-130 disappeared in a blinding explosion. Pontowski rose up on all fours, shaken but unhurt. The Hercules was nothing but a mound of fire and smoke on the taxiway.
Clark staggered to her feet, raging in the night. “Goddamn you to hell!”
The command post was silent as a tomb, every eye on Pontowski as he sat, his chin on his chest. Finally he stood up. “Don’t forget them,” he said. His back straightened, and he studied the aircraft boards. “We got enough fuel now to fly thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight sorties. When we run out of gas, we can suit the pilots out in APE and recover at Tengah.” APE was aircrew protective equipment that protected the wearer from chemical and nerve-gas agents.
“Got it,” Maggot said, determined to make it happen.
How much more can I ask of them? Pontowski thought. He collapsed into a chair and ran through his options. None good. He pulled out the message Maggot had given him, and reread it for the third time. He knew what he had to do. “Colonel Clark,” he said, “we need to talk. In private.” She followed him into a back office and he handed her the message without a word.
She read it twice. “So the vanguard from the Third Marine Division is due to arrive no later than midnight Wednesday.” She returned the message. “Remember what the lieutenant colonel said? He didn’t think it was going to happen.” She stared at him. “Because that requires airlift, and there’s no place to land.”
“Yes there is,” Pontowski told her. “Here. I don’t know why we haven’t been hit with chemical or nerve gas, but I suspect it’s because they haven’t got the resources to do it, or they want to capture the base intact so they can use it.”
She saw it immediately. “Which explains why they haven’t cratered the runway. Or maybe they’ve got too many of their own people in the area.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re going to hold as long as we can.” He hesitated, hating what he had to say. “Janice, it could get very ugly here. For you…all the women…personally. I want you out at the first opportunity.”
She stood up to leave. “General, there’s two other women on base besides myself. I’ll make them the same offer, and they can decide for themselves. But as for me, I’ll leave when you leave.” She changed the subject. “By the way, Rockne wants to talk to us.”
They found him sitting on the floor in the hall sound asleep. Boyca was curled up beside him, her head on his lap. She came alert when Pontowski and Clark approached. It was enough to wake Rockne, and he stood up. “I think we got an intruder on base,” he told them. “A good one who is acting like a spotter for artillery. Think about it. For most of the time the mortar fire was purely harassment. Twice, when it really mattered, it got accurate as all hell. Once when the Hogs launched. If they hadn’t’ve done a tactical split like they did, that mortar round would have nailed them. They were waiting for us to take off.”
Clark’s eyes narrowed. “And the second time was the C-130.”
“Exactly,” Rockne said. “I’m gonna find the little bastard.”
Pontowski checked his watch. “You’ve got nine hours. I want to launch at first light.”
“Got it.” He spun around and left.
How much more can I ask? Pontowski wondered.
Stephan Serick stumped down the hall, his usual grumpy self. But not even he could put a damper on the euphoria pervading the West Wing. The news from the Gulf was simply too good, too positive to let the secretary of state ruin the best Monday morning they had experienced in over a month. The president’s secretary was waiting and immediately ushered him into the Oval Office for the 8:00 A.M. meeting. He was ninety seconds late. Turner was sitting in her rocker, surrounded by her key policy advisers. She patted the arm of the couch next to her, where she wanted him to sit. He dropped his bulk onto the couch, his cane upright between his knees. “My apologies, Madam President, but I was on the phone to the Chinese embassy.”
Turner made a mental note. Serick had mentioned the phone call only because it warranted her attention. They would discuss it later. “First,” Turner began, “I fully expect the honorable senator to continue with his October Surprise today.” They all knew she was talking about Leland and his allegations about the late DCI. She looked directly at the secretary of defense, Robert Merritt. “That would be a mistake on his part, and I urge him not to go there.”
“Madam President,” Merritt replied, “I’ll be glad to relay the message.” It was the reason she had told him to be there. Bobbi Jo Reynolds, the head of the reelection campaign, smiled at him, reminding him of a shark — or Patrick Shaw.
“Well, Stephan,” Turner said, turning back to the secretary of state, “do the Chinese have a message for us?”
Serick’s hands had a death grip on his cane as he tried to strangle it. “Not a message, Madam President, a demand. The ambassador told me to be at their embassy at ten o’clock this morning to meet with Zou Rong.”
The shock that went around the room was palpable, intense, and immediate. The Chinese demand was shattering, totally beyond the carefully scripted world of diplomacy. An ambassador simply did not give orders to high-ranking officials in the government he was accredited to. The president came to her feet and crossed her arms. She stood in front of them. “Oh, my. Did the ambassador indicate what the meeting was about?” Her voice was soft and reasonable.
“No, ma’am, he did not. But I suspect it involves Singapore and Malaysia.”
“I see,” she murmured, a concerned look on her face. “Well, I suppose we must respond.”
“We can return the ambassador’s letter,” Serick ventured. The return of his formal letter of accreditation from the Chinese government was tantamount to declaring him persona non grata and breaking off relations with China.