“Thank you,” she said. Her voice echoed from the loudspeakers. She waited for the clamor to subside. “I hope this applause is for yourselves and your comrades. You deserve it, not me.” She stood as the big room thundered an ovation. The UIF had unconditionally surrendered, and the fighting had stopped.
Turner sat down and closed her eyes. The war in the Gulf had stopped three hours short of the thirty-eighth day, at the cost of 3,114 lives. She corrected herself—3,114 American lives. For a moment a raging doubt assailed her. Was it worth it? She put the question aside for the historians to debate from their safe and secure towers with all the benefits of hindsight and time. Now she had to win the war in Asia. Her eyes opened. “Singapore and Malaysia?” she murmured.
Wilding spoke into his telephone, and the map on the big screen at the front of the room cycled to the Far East. It zoomed in on southern Malaysia and changed again to a computer-generated cartographic display. The map came alive with strings of lights snaking down the peninsula, crawling toward the island city. An illuminated arrow highlighted the map as Wilding spoke. “We now have a Joint Rivet aircraft in place and monitoring the ground situation. This is a real-time downlink. As you can see, the PLA has broken out here”—the pointer circled the village of Paloh—“and is advancing on the American contingent at Camp Alpha.” The pointer paused over the base. “The AVG is still launching sorties flying close air support for the Singapore Army and have been instrumental in slowing their advance. However, four aircraft have been diverted to Tengah.” The pointer moved onto Singapore. “Advanced communications and command teams have arrived at SEAC and are assessing the situation. We have parachuted decontamination teams and equipment into these air bases.” The pointer circled Changi and Tengah. “We should have them open within twenty-four hours.”
“But until that happens,” the president said, “we have no place to land.” She paused. “Have you considered paratroops?”
“Yes, ma’am, we have. We have elements of the First Airborne en route from the Gulf. Indonesia has given us permission to land and stage out of Djakarta”—the pointer circled the airport—“some five hundred nautical miles away. But I’m hesitant to commit them piecemeal.”
Turner stood and studied the flashing lights on the main map as they moved slowly southward. “How long can the AVG hold?” she asked.
“I can’t answer with certainty,” Wilding replied. “We are getting reports of small-unit action around the base.” Silence. “Madam President, we may have waited too long. I should have recommended a withdrawal when we had time.” She looked at him, an unbelievable sadness in her eyes, and shook her head. He stared at her, at last understanding.
“You said seventy-two hours,” she reminded her general.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
It was after midnight when Mazie arrived at the opulent town house. As expected, her hostess was waiting at the side door. “What wonderful news from the Gulf,” she gushed. Mazie smiled in return but said nothing as they walked up the stairs. Instead of turning to the right and into the library, her hostess led the way to the guest suite. She knocked twice and opened the door. “Please ask if you need anything,” she cooed. Then she closed the door behind the national security adviser and sighed. “La,” she murmured to herself.
Herbert von Lubeck was sitting in an easy chair and reading. He rose to his feet in a graceful motion when he saw Mazie, and came to her. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, slacks much too casual for public wear, and hand-sewn Italian loafers. He took her hand and held it. “It was a very close thing,” he told her. “My government was under enormous pressure to halt the advance.” He didn’t release her hand.
“Please relay President Turner’s thanks,” she said. “Your armored units were magnificent.”
“I do hope you are as successful in the Far East. Unfortunately, there is little we can do to help you there.” She nodded at his concern. “Perhaps we can broker a prisoner exchange,” he added. “So unfortunate that President Turner did not withdraw your AVG in time.”
“She had no intention of withdrawing them,” Mazie told him.
Von Lubeck dropped her hand and sat down, stunned by the revelation. “Du lieber Gott,” he whispered. “They’re a hostage force.” The pieces all fell into place. “She will sacrifice them.”
“If she has to,” Mazie said.
His respect for Turner went over the moon. She was, without doubt, a superb politician and strategist, able to enter the world of power politics and force her will on vain and vicious tyrants. He elevated her to his pantheon of statesmen, above FDR and nudging Bismarck for first place. “It could mean a wider war.”
“I doubt it. Sooner or later the Chinese will realize what’s happened.”
“So simple,” von Lubeck said. “American casualties guarantee American involvement when the political situation would otherwise prevent it.” He looked at her with admiration. “You were part of this?” A little nod in answer. “Was it your idea to involve my country?” Another nod of her head. His face lit up. “There is always a quid pro quo.”
“Really?” she answered, arching an eyebrow and playing the game. “Which is?”
“You.” He was deadly serious and not playing games. “We will have beautiful children.”
Mazie was shocked. “I’m married.”
“Divorce him. We will create a dynasty for the new century.”
For a moment they stood frozen in time. Then she stepped out of her shoes and led him into the bedroom.
Thirty-seven
“We got wounded coming across the runway,” Clark said. She paused, listening to the radio traffic on the security police net. “One litter case and two walking.”
“Got it,” Pontowski said. He glanced at the status board. They had ten A-10s good to go, but fuel was still the limiting factor. “Maggot, how many sorties we got left?”
“Twenty-six, sorta.” They both understood the “sorta” to mean that three birds were down to half fuel.
“Top ’em up,” Pontowski ordered.
Clark came to her feet. “We’re taking mortar rounds on the taxiway in Yankee Sector.” She fought the panic that ripped at her. The heart of her base — the aircraft shelters, the medical station, command post, and the BDOC — were all in Yankee Sector.
“Are the shelters buttoned down?” Pontowski asked, equally worried.
“That’s affirmative,” she answered.
“We ain’t gonna be scrambling jets if we’re taking mortar rounds,” Maggot said, telling him the obvious.
Pontowski thought for a moment. “We got four jets at Tengah. They got fuel but no munitions. How they doing on the gun?” Each Hog carried 1,170 rounds of thirty-millimeter ammunition when fully loaded. “We might get a sortie or two out of them.”
“I’ll find out,” Maggot replied. He punched up the line to the communications cab and went to work.
Clark stood up. “The BDOC reports two DFPs are falling back.” She hurried to the base map and drew slashing red X’s through two defensive fighting positions on the eastern perimeter. She pressed her headset to her head, trying to understand the chatter coming in. Then she lost it and screamed, “A tank’s in Whiskey and firing!” A dull thud rocked the command post, and debris laced with dust cascaded from the ceiling.