Authors: Richard Herman
The man stared at Kamigami in defiance and said nothing. Kamigami hooked his rigid fingers under the man’s jaw and lifted him out of his seat. He banged the man’s head against the low ceiling before dropping him to the floor. He placed his right foot over the supine man’s Adam’s apple and started to bear down.
The man’s eyes darted to a man sitting across the circle, and Kamigami lifted his foot. The man nodded in the same direction, as if to confirm that that individual was their
leader. Kamigami lifted the man off the floor and dumped him in his chair before walking over to Tel. He spoke in English, a mere whisper. “Watch his face.” He then circled behind the men, not making a sound as he fingered the gold whistle dangling around his neck. He stopped behind the supposed leader and placed his hands on his shoulders. At the same time he gave a blast on the whistle. All the prisoners jumped with surprise, and Kamigami could feel the man shaking in fear. Still bearing down, Kamigami spoke in Cantonese. “Do you know who I am?” The canvas-covered head bobbed in answer. “I’m more than you think,” Kamigami said. “You must make a choice. Answer my questions truthfully and live. Or you can spend the next three days dying. It will be a most miserable, painful death. When you pass out, you will dream of pain and wake up screaming, only to learn the pain is real. You will curse your mother for giving you birth. Your comrades will tell me all they know, and beg me to end it. When I finally slit your stomach and let you hold your own intestines, you will thank me and kiss my feet in gratitude as you bleed to death. Choose now.”
A torrent of words erupted from the man, and the others quickly joined in. They were members of the Ninety-second People’s Liberation Regiment. It was an independent and elite unit of the People’s Liberation Army, whose mission was terrorism and insurgency. None knew how big the Ninety-second was or who commanded it, only that their unit specialized in urban terrorism. Their first and only assignment had been to start a riot in Kuala Lumpur. They all had entered Malaysia from Thailand, but when Kamigami asked a second time, one revealed that the first man he had interrogated had entered by another route. “Who burned the Malay fishing village the last week of July?” Kamigami asked. The man sitting in front of him shook his head in confused silence. They had nothing left to give. Kamigami walked over to Tel and motioned at the man who was looking directly at them. Kamigami spoke in a low voice. “What did he do?”
“He never said a word,” Tel replied. “He only listened.”
Kamigami grunted and turned to the man, who lost control of his bladder when he saw the look on Kamigami’s face. Tel also saw it and took a step backward. He bumped into Sun. “What’s going on?” Sun asked. Tel motioned him to silence, afraid to speak. The prisoner’s eyes were wide with fear as Kamigami loomed over him. He babbled in Cantonese, pleading for his life. Kamigami’s hands were a blur, grabbing the man’s chin and the back of his head. He gave a sharp jerk, and a loud snap echoed over the room. He dropped his hands, his face now impassive and calm, as the lifeless body slumped to the floor.
“Free them,” Kamigami said. “In the Taman Negara.” The colonel rushed to the door and shouted for the guards. The prisoners were dragged out as Kamigami nudged the lifeless body with his toe.
“Why him?” Tel asked.
“He was the leader.”
“When did you know?”
“When I sat them down,” Kamigami answered.
Tel was confused. “But how?”
“He was the only one who resisted. The others did as they were told. I knew for sure when they talked and he said nothing.”
“Your threat,” Gus said, “about taking three days to die. Would you have done that?”
“It wasn’t a threat.”
Tel alone understood. “It was a promise,” he explained. “Why did you kill him?”
Kamigami headed for the door. “He was there.”
“At the village,” Tel said. It wasn’t a question. Then, “Why did you release the others?”
Kamigami stopped at the door and stood in the sunlight. “So they can tell their comrades they met the vampire.” He walked outside.
The White House
Wednesday, September 15
The woman noted the time the lights came on in the president’s bedroom. Her mouth pulled into a little grimace as she shuffled toward Lafayette Park across the street from the White House. “Forty minutes early,” she murmured in Arabic, maintaining her image as a mumbling old woman who liked to feed pigeons in the early morning. Normally Madeline Turner’s morning routine was set in concrete, and the change had to be reported. The woman walked slowly across the park toward the statue of Baron von Steuben and Connecticut Avenue.
Once across the street and clear of the park, she pulled out a cell phone and hit the speed dial. The number connected, but all she heard was a loud screeching sound. She panicked and looked around to find the source of the jamming. But her training held, and she forced herself to be calm. She punched the number off and dropped the phone down a drain as she hurried north. She stepped into a doorway, shrugged off her overcoat and shook out her hair, shedding thirty years of age. Feeling more confident, she crossed the street and headed west on L Street. A nondescript SUV coasted to a stop beside her, but before the doors opened, two men were beside her. They easily picked her up by her
arms and carried her to the truck. “You can’t do this!” she screamed. “I’m an American citizen!”
A man jabbed a needle into her arm. “Of course you are,” he agreed.
The Secret Service agent standing in Maddy’s bedroom spoke into her whisper mike. “Copy all. Tell the guys good work.” She smiled. “Thank you, Madam President. We caught a watcher and made a connection. This looks like a good one.”
“Was it the old woman?” Maddy asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” came the answer. “But she wasn’t old. Probably in her mid-thirties. We’ll know more in a few hours.”
“Please keep me informed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The agent made a mental note to relay the president’s request, which wasn’t really a request. The woman would be interrogated and rendered in short order as the FBI, the Secret Service, and a few other nameless agencies closed in on the terrorists stalking the White House. It was a race against time as they went head-on-head with no holds barred. “Shall I turn out the light?”
“No. I’m awake now.” Maddy sat on the edge of the bed as the agent left. Then the door opened again, and Maura came in. A woman followed with a coffee tray. “You’re up early, Mother.”
“Well, it is all exciting, isn’t it? I mean, helping catch a spy.”
“I suppose it is.” She stepped into her dressing room, where her maid was waiting.
“The news is good from Saudi Arabia,” Maura called.
“For now,” Maddy replied. Maura poured a cup of coffee and waited. A few minutes later Maddy stepped out, ready to start a new day. She snatched a tissue from a holder and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. Then she was back in control.
But Maura saw the tears. “Oh, dear.” Maddy sat down as Maura pulled a comb and brush out of her ever-present
handbag. She stood behind her daughter. “Well? Are you going to talk about it?”
“It’s Matt,” Maddy said. Her mother was silent as she did her magic, combing Maddy’s hair into a very simple but stylish arrangement. “I’m worried.”
“About helping SEATO?” Maura replied. “Malaysia’s a lot better than the Gulf.”
“I’m not so sure.” Silence. Then, “I’m using him.”
“A man like Matt,” Maura said as she finished, “is used only if he wants to be used.” She tapped Maddy’s shoulder with her comb. “Have you told him you love him?”
“He knows.”
“Have you told him?” There was no answer. “I think,” Maura fumed, “that you should do it before it’s too late.”
The Pentagon
Wednesday, September 15
Butler introduced the men and women gathered in the basement workroom. “This motley crew,” he told Pontowski, “has forgotten more about putting together expeditionary forces and creating forward operating bases than I ever wanted to know.”
The working group’s leader, a trim and elegant lieutenant colonel who took pride in her ability to get things done quickly and efficiently, stood up. “Good morning, General. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Janice Clark from Installation Plans and Requirements.” She cut to the heart of the matter. “Think of your MAAG as the logistics pipeline and the AVG as your operational arm. The MAAG is already in place and functioning, so it’s not a problem. However, we have two immediate problems with the AVG. One, you need a place to form up in the States, and two, you need a base to deploy to. As for the first, we have identified Kelly Field in San Antonio, Texas. The old Air Material Command hangars and offices have been vacant since the logistics center was closed, and are available.” She waited for Pontowski’s reply. Was he
going to staff a decision to death, or was he capable of making a decision? The answer was critical, for it determined how they would proceed.
Pontowski didn’t disappoint her. “Kelly Field sounds good.”
She jotted down a note and said, “As for the second problem, there is no suitable base in Singapore.”
“We need to get as close to the action as possible,” he told her.
Janice Clark allowed a tight smile. This was a man she could work with. “We may have something. Major.”
A major standing by a worktable spread out a series of photos. “This is satellite imagery of Camp Alpha,” he began. “It’s a full-up base hidden in the Malaysian jungle approximately sixty miles north of Singapore and meets all the requirements for A-10 operations.” He gave a very audible sigh. “I wished it belonged to us.”
“Will the Malays let us use it?” Pontowski asked.
“Who knows?” the major replied. “It was built under the SEATO treaty, and supposedly we don’t even know about it.”
“I don’t think,” Butler said, “that access will be a problem.” He added mentally,
Not if they want us to get involved.
Pontowski studied the high-resolution photos. “Okay,” he muttered, “you’ve stumped the student. Where the hell is it?”
The major handed him a magnifying glass and pointed to what looked like a straight stretch of highway carved out of the jungle. “Here’s the runway. You’ve got ten thousand feet of reinforced concrete and enough room to land a C-17. The parking ramp at the south end is a bit small and can accommodate only one cargo plane at a time. If you look closely, you can see the taxiways leading to the runway here, here, and here. This is the control tower.” His pencil circled what looked like the top of a tall tree.
“Clever,” Pontowski said. “You called it a ‘full-up base.’ What exactly does that mean?”
The major unrolled a large-scale map of the base. “This
is compiled from synthetic aperture radar imagery, which can penetrate the foliage. You’ve got twenty-four hardened aircraft shelters, each capable of housing maintenance and munitions.” His pencil flicked from shelter to shelter. “Here’s a hardened command post, and we think these structures are barracks and a mess hall.” He pointed to a series of igloolike structures on the far side of the runway. “Munitions storage.”
“Water and fuel?” Hard experience had taught him that the four essential prerequisites for a forward operating location were a runway, a weapons-storage area, a fuel dump, and a secure water supply. Everything else they could bring with them.
“Civil engineers,” the major replied, “claim that the base is built over a limestone aquifer. So there’s your water. I suspect they’ve already sunk wells. If they haven’t, our civil engineers can correct that in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, we haven’t identified a fuel dump.”
Pontowski bent over the map and cross-checked it with the photos. He gave a little humph. “The Israelis built this, didn’t they?”
The major agreed. “It certainly looks like their work.”
“They like to refuel in bunkers,” Pontowski said.
Now it was the major’s turn to humph. “Which sounds like a recipe for disaster.”
“Not the way the Israelis do it,” Pontowski explained. “There’s a main dump somewhere that feeds small underground holding tanks, which in turn feed the shelters through a network of pipes, sort of like a spiderweb. The fuel lines are automatically purged after each refueling with a fire retardant, which also serves for firefighting. When they want to use a line for fuel, the jet fuel pushes the retardant back into the web.
A skinny captain hovering behind them coughed for attention. “Excuse me,” he mumbled. He paused, embarrassed by his rashness. Pontowski’s reputation was well known, and the captain, like many junior officers, stood in awe of him. “There may be a problem with fuel. The base is only
serviced by a laterite road that may be impassable during heavy rains, and there is no pipeline.”
“So check it out,” Pontowski said.
The more Pontowski paced the office, the more Butler envisioned a tiger stalking its prey. But this tiger had a slight limp as he circled the computer bench. Finally the captain looked up from his computer and said, “I wish we had a pipeline, but we can work around it.”
Pontowski bent over a worktable and studied the map of the air base. “What else is out there that can come back and bite us?”
Janice Clark ticked off all the variables. “Runway: good. Aircraft shelters: state of the art. Water: may have to drill wells, not a problem. Fuel: we can do it with work-arounds. Weapons storage: I can vouch for that.” She continued to run the long list.
Pontowski made a mental note to ask her if she would be the base commander. It was a critical decision, for whoever ran the base had to be a hard taskmaster, perfectly capable of driving people until they dropped but able to work for a wing commander whose primary orientation was flying operations. He split his attention as she talked, thinking about what he needed in a wing commander. There was only one real choice: Colonel Dwight “Maggot” Stuart. That decision made, he focused on Clark. She finished, and he asked the key question: “Is Alpha doable?”
“It’s doable,” she said.
Pontowski looked around the room. “Anything else I need to know?”
“There is one thing,” Butler said. He walked to the big chart of Malaysia hanging on the wall. He used a wide-tip felt pen to trace two sweeping arrows down the peninsula, one on the west coast, one on the east coast. Then he tapped the chart. “These are the two invasion routes the Japanese used when they invaded the Malay Peninsula in World War Two.” He extended the arrows and brought them together over Camp Alpha, where he formed one big
arrow pointed directly at Singapore. “They merged forces here for the final push on Singapore in 1942. My guess is that SEATO took a lesson from history in building the base where they did.”
“Well,” Pontowski said, “I did ask to get close to the action, didn’t I?” He thought for a moment. “Camp Alpha it is,” he said, bending back over the map on the worktable.
Butler’s image of a tiger changed to one of an eagle swooping down on its prey.
“We’re transferring to a permanent office in my directorate,” Janice Clark told Pontowski. “Butler will be glad to see the last of us.” She signed for a box of classified material and sent the sergeant on his way. “We should be up and operating by the time you get to Kelly Field in San Antonio.”
Pontowski looked around the now-vacant office. It had been a long day, and he desperately needed some exercise to brush away the mental cobwebs. “I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind.” He loaded a cart with boxes and pushed it out the door. It amazed him how quickly the paperwork had piled up once the decision was made to activate the AVG at Kelly Field and deploy to Camp Alpha. He checked his watch. “Butler wants me at the NMCC.” The NMCC was the National Military Command Center and the closest thing the United States had to the command centers Hollywood and TV fantasized about.
“The dreaded marching orders?” Clark asked.
“I suppose,” he said, pushing the loaded cart into the hall. “Where’s the elevator?”
“You better let me push that,” Clark said. “It might upset the sergeants if they saw a general doing something physical.”
Pontowski laughed. “Ouch.” They headed for an elevator. “What do you think they’ll be?”
“Your marching orders?” she asked. He gave a little nod. “Formally and in writing, pretty standard. Diplomatic boilerplate, nothing surprising. Informally, I’d guess you’ll be given a great deal of latitude. Just don’t screw up.”
“Or they’ll disavow all knowledge of my mission and
claim I was a cowboy out playing shoot-’em-up at the OK Corral.”
She grew very serious. “That’s the way it works.”
He pushed a button to call the elevator, then looked around. They were all alone. “Colonel Clark, I’d like you to be the base commander at Alpha.”
“And the wing commander is?”
“I’ve got a body in mind. He’s all fighter jock, hair on fire. A certified aerial assassin. I haven’t asked him yet.”
“He’ll say yes,” she predicted. “If he can make a decision, I can work for him.” She looked at him, thinking. “How long do I have to decide?”
“How about the same length of time you gave me?”
She laughed. “Ouch.” Then, “You’ve got yourself a base commander, General.” The elevator doors opened, and she pushed the cart inside. “You’ll want the second floor to get to the NMCC,” she told him. The doors swooshed closed.
Pontowski stood next to the glass in the commander’s cab high above the main floor of the NMCC and watched the president as she moved over the main floor. A two-star general, puffed with pride, escorted her, explaining the function of each position. Even from this distance Pontowski could sense Turner’s impatience.
“He’s running out of time,” Mazie said from behind him. Pontowski turned to see the national security adviser standing less than two feet away. She gestured at the president to indicate whom she was talking about.
“It’s the general’s chance to shine,” Pontowski said.
“Not for long,” Mazie replied. She pointed to a briefing room off to the left. “The ExCom is meeting inside.”
Pontowski followed her into the small room. He stiffened when he saw the secretary of defense, Robert Merritt, sitting in the chair next to the president’s position.
Why do I distrust that man?
he wondered. Butler motioned him to stand immediately behind him and against the sidewall.