The range indicator on his horizontal-situation display indicated seven miles to go. The target box started to move down his HUD. He climbed a few feet, trying for a visual sighting. Nothing. He climbed a few feet more and saw a muzzle flash at his ten o’clock position. He jinked hard and descended. Without consciously thinking about it, he marked the location. He might have a chance to settle that score later.
“Tallyho the fox!” he radioed. The target was at his two o’clock at two miles, exactly where it was supposed to be. Figures were scrambling furiously around an artillery tube, hooking it up for transport while others threw equipment into the back of a truck. He popped to twelve hundred feet and rolled in as he hit the flare button again, sending more flares out in his wake. He hit the pickle button and waited. Six Mark-82 Airs rippled off, walking across the gun emplacement below him. The truck was racing for safety, shedding its camouflage as it accelerated.
He pulled back on the stick and kept his Hog low to the ground as he escaped to the north. Once clear of the blast, he ruddered the jet back around and looked for the truck. It was still racing down the dirt road, its back end on fire and streaming smoke. He arced in on a perfect strafing run and mashed the trigger. The big cannon gave off a burring sound as he fired forty-eight rounds, literally cutting the truck in half. He pulled off and came around, selecting CBUs. He walked them across the area, ensuring that the message was received.
“Scratch one artillery tube,” he radioed.
“Rog,” Maggot answered. “RTB. Save the gas.”
Disappointed that he couldn’t go after the muzzle flash, Stormy turned south. He landed four minutes later and taxied into his shelter with over half his fuel remaining.
“General Pontowski,” the controller in the communications cab called. “A U.S. communications advance team has arrived in Singapore, and we’re back in contact.” He handed Pontowski a stack of four messages. “More’s coming.”
Pontowski settled down to read them, only to jump to his feet. “The dumb—” He cut off the obscenity that was on the tip of his tongue. “They want us to increase our sortie rate and hold at all costs.” He stormed back and forth.
“Who ordered the hold?” Maggot asked.
Pontowski checked the message. “The national command authority.”
“Does that mean the president?”
“What it means is that someone in Washington hasn’t got a fuckin’ clue. Screw that noise. We’re getting out of here.”
“General,” Clark said from her console, “the BDOC is reporting heavy small-arms fire on the eastern perimeter.” She stepped to the base map on the wall and circled in red the DFPs that were taking fire on the far side of the base. “Any chance we might get a Hog to return the favor?” she asked, thinking of the artillery battery they had silenced.
The sergeant waved another message at Pontowski. “Sir, Tengah was just hit by another missile with nerve gas. And we got a request for immediate close air support.” His eyes widened when he realized where the request came from. He handed the message over and retreated into the communications cab.
Pontowski read it and passed it on to Maggot. “We got to do it.”
Maggot never hesitated. He punched at his console. “Basher One, scramble. Basher Two, scramble. After takeoff contact FAC, call sign Bravo Zero One, on one-two-four-point-oh. If unable to recover at home plate, your alternate is Hang Nadim Air Base, heading one forty-five degrees at seventy.”
“Basher One scrambling now,” Waldo replied, his voice sounding bored and matter-of-fact.
“Stalwart fellow,” Maggot said sotto voce. But no one laughed.
Four minutes later Waldo radioed, “Basher One and Two rolling.”
Maggot dialed in the forward air controller’s radio frequency to listen. “I’d rather be up there than here,” he muttered to himself.
“Roger that,” Pontowski said, totally agreeing with him.
They listened as Waldo checked in with the FAC. Both men came to their feet when they heard Bravo Zero One say, “Tanks have broken through south of Paloh.”
“Son of a bitch,” Maggot said. “That’s fifteen miles from here.”
“Jammer,” Waldo radioed to his wingman, “ingress line abreast. You work west of the railroad tracks, I’ll take the east side. One pass, egress to the west. I’ll fall in behind and cover your six.”
“Copy all,” Jammer replied.
Pontowski recognized the tactics Waldo was employing. “They’re going in with Mavericks,” he said to no one.
“Beats getting up close and personal with the gun,” Maggot told him.
“Waldo, rifle,” Waldo transmitted as he launched his first Maverick. His voice was higher-pitched, and the words were coming fast. “Waldo, rifle.” His second Maverick was on the way.
“Jammer, rifle,” Jammer radioed as he launched a Maverick.
“Shack!” Waldo called as his first missile hit home.
Jammer was back. “Jammer, rifle.” His second Maverick was on the way.
“Jammer! Break left! Trip A at your six!”
Jammer’s voice was labored as he pulled four G’s to avoid the stream of high-explosive shells. “Coming from the flatbed on the tracks.” Then, “I’m clear.”
Pontowski and Maggot visibly relaxed. “I got the fucker in sight,” Waldo said. “I’m in.”
The tension was back, and in his mind’s eye Pontowski could see Waldo’s Hog as it rolled in on an antiaircraft battery firing at Jammer’s escaping A-10. The wait seemed to take forever. “Scratch one Trip A,” Waldo said. “Winchester Mavericks.” He had expended all his antitank missiles.
“Same-oh,” Jammer replied.
“RTB home plate,” Waldo ordered.
Four minutes later the two jets taxied clear of the active and raced for their shelters. The mission had taken less than twelve minutes, they had expended four Mavericks and two Mark-82 Airs, killed four tanks, obliterated an antiaircraft artillery battery, and cut the railroad tracks in the process. Pontowski and Maggot exchanged glances in relief, a visual high-five. But Clark was on the phone to the BDOC and brought them back to reality. “The cops are bringing in two casualties from across the runway.” She listened for a moment. “Whiskey Sector’s perimeter is heating up. It looks like they’re coming from the east.”
Marine One approached from the south as it returned from Richmond, and touched down on the helipad outside the River Entrance. General Wilding was waiting and saluted when the president climbed down. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. President.” She nodded, and he dropped the salute. “I understand the folks in Richmond gave you a warm welcome.”
She smiled graciously. “Southern hospitality at its best.” It was classic understatement, for the campaign speech had been an unqualified success. “But they did seem receptive.”
Wilding couldn’t contain himself. “I’m quite sure you’ll find an equally receptive audience here.” They walked in silence to the NMCC, each deep in thought. Inside, she stepped into the battle cab overlooking the main floor. Below her, the floor was crowded with people, all looking up and awaiting her arrival. Applause swept the room and rattled the glass in front of her, drowning out any conversation. Finally she had to lean over and speak into the boom mike in front of her.