With Cindy guarding the girl, Jessica searched until she found her weapon. “She was out of ammo.” She keyed her radio. “Rat Hole, we’ve got the spotter.” Before Rockne could answer, a single shot rang out. Jessica froze, stunned by the scene in front of her. Cindy had shot the girl in the head.
“Say status of prisoner,” Rockne radioed.
Jessica paused, the coppery taste back. “Prisoner is dead.”
“Search the body and proceed to the DFP as assigned,” Rockne ordered. “We’ll pick up the body later.”
The two women stared at each other in silence as the sun cracked the horizon. The sound of a jet engine cranking to life rolled across the runway as another burst of gunfire from the eastern perimeter split the air. “Why?” Jessica whispered.
“I had buddies on the C-130.”
Marine One lifted off from the south lawn at exactly 6:18 P.M. for the forty-two-minute flight to Norfolk, Virginia. Turner settled into her chair and for a moment gazed out the window. Floodlights bathed the base of the Washington Monument, but the tip was caught in the fading evening twilight. It’s Tuesday morning in Malaysia, she thought. The lights of Alexandria winked at her as they headed south. Across the narrow aisle Bobbi Jo ran through the campaign speech one last time before handing it to her.
“Patrick always called Norfolk ‘Leland Loony Land,’” Bobbi Jo said, having second thoughts about the wisdom of delivering a critical campaign speech in the heart of the Confederacy.
“A lot of nice people live there,” Turner said.
“I wonder how many of those ‘nice people’ are listening to him right now?” Bobbi Jo said. “He’s on the local TV.” Turner punched a button on the arm of her chair, and the small TV screen in front of her came to life with Leland’s face. They listened for a moment, and Bobbi Jo snorted. “This is a preemptive strike if I ever heard one.”
It was true. Leland was hitting hard, determined to undermine any positive effect the president’s speech might have. “…involved the country in an unwise war, sacrificing our boys and girls on the altar of big oil.”
Turner scanned her speech, committing key phrases to memory. The defense of freedom is not optional.
Leland continued to rant in the background. “…a morally degenerate administration unable to cleanse itself.”
Another line from the speech burned with emotion. So many have answered the call for service, and they should be honored for their sacrifices.
Leland built to a climax. “This note in my hand”—the camera zoomed in to read the printing—“was deliberately buried by the administration to cover up the suicide of the director of Central Intelligence!” The camera panned to Leland’s face and caught the iron set of his jaw.
The two women exchanged glances, and Bobbi Jo let out a war whoop that filled the passenger compartment. “There is a God!”
Turner handed the speech back to her and looked out the window as the Sikorsky S-61V settled to earth on the helipad near the convention center while a high school band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” The entrance door lowered, and two Marine guards came to attention. As if to prove the impossible, their salutes were sharper than usual as the president descended the steps. She nodded, her way of acknowledging the salute. “Thank you, Madam President,” one said, breaking all protocols. But there would be no reprimand. She stepped onto the red carpet, and the two Marines turned to face her back, ready to be of instant service — and to protect her at all costs.
A reporter yelled, “What about Malaysia?”
A second joined in. “Can you answer Leland’s charges?”
But the crowd chanting “Maddy, Maddy!” drowned him out. “MADDY!” It grew to a roar as she entered the building.
Bobbi Jo joined the press pool and stood by Liz Gordon, CNC-TV’s star political reporter. Neither could speak over the commotion. Finally the noise died away. “Who would’ve believed a reception like this?” Gordon said. “Right in the heart of Leland land. But I don’t think it’s going to last. Enjoy it while you can.” Bobbi Jo didn’t respond. “Leland is going to be on the front page tomorrow,” Gordon said, egging her on. Still no answer. “You can’t ignore him.”
Bobbi Jo handed her a tape cassette. “You need to listen to this, in private. And I assure you, it is authentic.” She turned to follow the president inside.
The sergeant popped out of the command post’s communications cab. “General, a C-130 is inbound, due to land in twenty minutes.”
Pontowski glanced at the master clock on the walclass="underline" 0809 hours. He looked around for Clark but couldn’t see her. “Relay that inbound to Colonel Clark,” he said, heading for the entrance. Outside, the thunder of artillery rolled over him. “Damn,” he muttered. It was too close for comfort and getting louder. He jumped into his pickup and raced for the hardened aircraft shelter where Clark was marshaling the evacuation. He drove around to the backside and stopped. A guard saw him and banged on the small entrance door to let him in. “How’s it going?” Pontowski asked.
The young security cop tried to make a show of it but failed miserably. “Sir, I’m scared as all hell.” He made a vague motion in the direction of the thunder.
“It’s okay to be scared,” Pontowski told him. “Just don’t freeze.” The sound of two Hogs taking off demanded their attention. In his mind’s eye Pontowski saw their gear come up as they turned out of the pattern. They’d be back on the ground about the time the C-130 landed.
The door swung open. “Sir,” the cop said, “there’s a rumor going around that we’ve been hung out to dry and ain’t getting out of here.”
“We’re getting out of here,” Pontowski promised. He stepped inside the shelter, where Clark was waiting.
“I got the message, sir. I’ve almost got everybody here. My driver’s out collecting a few more.”
Pontowski nodded. That explained why he didn’t see her van and driver. “How many you got going out?”
She checked her clipboard. “So far, a hundred and nine.” She handed him the clipboard as the entrance door opened and six pilots walked in. “Make that one-fifteen,” Clark said, correcting the total.
He studied the numbers, worried about who was left: 184 maintenance troops, 55 support personnel, 9 medics, 133 cops, and 22 pilots. He changed the total remaining to 403 and returned the clipboard. The number beat at him—403. Could he get them all out? For the first time he wasn’t sure.
Kamigami lay motionless as insects buzzed around him. One landed on his forehead and crawled along his brow, finally moving onto the binoculars jammed against his eyes as he swept the area below him, watching for movement in the tunnel entrances. Nothing. In the distance he heard the sound of jets, and he checked his watch. The F-16s were late. The sharp double-barreled crack of two SAMs launching drifted down the shallow valley. He made a mental note that they were employed in pairs. Then he heard a distant, very faint explosion. He scanned the sky and saw a tumbling fireball. At the same time a shadow flashed across his line of sight as a rapid-fire antiaircraft artillery battery opened up.