Authors: Richard Herman
“I’d like to speak to the press,” Turner said to Parrish.
“Yes, ma’am,” he sang. He punched at his communicator, warning the press secretary as he followed her down the hall. Ahead of them, they could see reporters running for the Press Room. “Give them a few moments,” he said. They spoke quietly, going over what she should say. “Ignore Grau and Leland,” Parrish counseled. “Keep it brief and make them focus on what’s ahead.”
Madeline Turner closed her eyes for a moment. Then she nodded and led the way into the Briefing Room. As one, the reporters stood and applauded.
Central Malaysia
Friday, October 8
Kamigami maintained a relentless pace, pressing his men to make the rendezvous with the three helicopters. They had been in the field almost five days, and in the world of special operations that was an eternity. By now it was a certainty that someone was out there looking for them. The answer was movement and speed. Thanks to night-vision goggles, superb charts, and a GPS, they could move through the jungle at night and make good time. But it wasn’t easy.
They reached the landing zone just after midnight, seventeen minutes before the Pumas were scheduled to arrive. The men collapsed to the ground, breathing deeply and gulping water. Half of them knew they were going home and started to relax. But Kamigami was merciless. He posted lookouts and briefed his four team leaders. “The two teams returning to Alpha board the last helicopter, the rest get on the second Puma. I’ll board the first aircraft with the replacement teams. Helicopters get attention, so minimum time on the ground. I want us out of here in less than a minute. Count your men; no one gets left behind. We all lift off together and egress the area together. Once clear of the area, we split. One and Two head north, Three returns to Alpha.” The muf
fled sound of the helicopters brought them to their feet. “Move,” Kamigami ordered. He pulled Tel aside. “It’s easy going in; it’s the getting out that’s hard. Remember that.”
“Good hunting,” Tel said. They shook hands as the first Puma settled to the ground. Kamigami ran for it without looking back and climbed in the side door. The eighteen men returning to Camp Alpha clambered on board the last helicopter. For a moment Tel hesitated. Then he ran for the second aircraft.
The helicopters lifted off in quick succession and flew low over the jungle canopy, heading to the southeast. Sixteen minutes later they flew up a river valley and entered the Gunong Besar mountain range. The river glowed like a silver ribbon in the moonlight, and the helicopters dropped even lower. When the river split, the first two Pumas turned north, toward the Taman Negara, and the third continued to the south, heading for Camp Alpha, fifty miles away. For the forty-two men on board the two northbound helicopters, it was a bumpy ride, as the pilots used terrain masking to escape detection. Exactly thirty-six minutes later the two Pumas hovered over a jungle clearing and the men jumped out. Tel was the last off and made his way through the tall grass, trying to look inconspicuous.
Kamigami was crouched beside a tree, giving his team leaders last-minute instructions. “You’ve got three hours before daylight,” he told them. “Use it.” He gave them the rendezvous coordinates and sent them on their way. Without looking up, he said, “Tel, get your ass over here.” He waited. “The next time I give you an order, do it.”
“Yes, sir,” Tel answered, not the least bit intimidated.
Camp Alpha
Friday, October 8
Clark’s driver accelerated across the runway at the midfield intersection, leaving the main base behind them. Once clear of the runway he drove down the road that led
to the weapons-storage area. Clark pointed to a muddy dirt track, and the driver made a hard turn off the asphalt, sending a wave of water over a recently dug defensive fire position. He jerked the minivan to a halt when he saw Rockne and Boyca standing beside a bigger, heavily reinforced bunker. He jumped out and ran around to open the sliding door, grinning at Clark. “We here, Missy Colonel.” She climbed out, followed by Pontowski and Doc Ryan.
Rockne threw them a crisp salute and led the way down into the bunker. “This is the operations bunker for Whiskey Sector,” he explained. They gathered around a wall chart as Rockne detailed the base’s defense plan. “I’ve divided the base into three sectors: Whiskey, Yankee, and Zulu.” He traced the boundaries of the sectors on the chart, which reminded Pontowski of a big T. Two long sectors lay side by side, parallel to the runway, and formed the stem while an oblong sector crossed the T, like a big cap. Rockne circled Zulu, the northern sector that formed the cap. “Any attack will most likely come from the north. That’s why the Malaysian Army laid a big minefield in this area before we arrived. Unfortunately, they didn’t make a plan of the minefield. The really bad news is that they laid it inside the tactical boundary.”
“So why did they plant the mines there?” Clark asked.
“Because it’s outside the base perimeter fence line,” Rockne explained. “They never considered the tactical boundary. At least there’s nothing in this sector, so I’ve turned it into a kill zone.” Four jets took off, forcing him to wait for the noise to subside.
Pontowski checked his watch. “The first go of the morning,” he told them. He tapped the chart, pointing to the sector on the western side of the T’s stem. “It looks like everything important is in Yankee sector—the runway, command post, aircraft bunkers.”
Doc Ryan said, “It looks like the base medical station and the command post are at the hub.”
Clark studied the map. “It all makes sense,” she said. “If
we come under heavy attack, we can give ground and fall back in concentric rings to the hub. One thing I don’t understand. Only the fuel dump and the weapons-storage area are on this side of the runway. Wouldn’t it be better to place Whiskey Sector ops bunker on the other side of the runway where you can better defend it?”
“We thought about it,” Rockne said. “We rigged the fuel dump and the weapons igloos with demolition charges in case we have to withdraw. But there was no way we could get the firing wires across the runway. We have to detonate them from here.”
Pontowski saw it first. “Neat, Chief, very neat.” His eyes narrowed. “If we come under attack and have to give up Whiskey, we can blow the fuel and ammo dumps.”
“Exactly,” Rockne said. “Whoever gets caught in Whiskey is going to have a very bad day.” He showed them the panel that activated the charges.
“Let’s hope,” Ryan said, “it won’t come to that and we’ll all be long gone.”
“In an evacuation,” Clark told him, “the security police are the last to go.” Worry filled her eyes. “If they go.”
“Oh, no,” Ryan said, at last understanding.
“It goes with the territory,” Rockne said, trying to be philosophical about it.
Clark checked the time. “We’ve got an inbound C-130 with more personnel. It might be some cops. Why don’t we go meet it?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Pontowski said.
Rockne led the way in his pickup with Boyca. Doc Ryan trailed along with Clark and Pontowski in her van and sat in silence, calculating how to evacuate wounded if they abandoned the base. A dull explosion brought him back to the moment. “It came from the north,” he said.
Clark keyed her handheld radio and called the controller in the main command post. But before the controller could determine the source of the explosion, Rockne’s pickup was racing for Zulu, the northern sector. The controller in the command post was back on the radio.
“Two civilians are in the minefield. One is down, the other is waving for help.”
Clark’s driver floored the accelerator, trying to pass Rockne. “Slow down!” Clark shouted in Malay. He did and followed Rockne to the edge of the minefield. Behind them, two fully loaded A-10s lifted off.
Pontowski watched them as their landing gear came up and they turned out of the pattern. “Those were the alert birds,” he told them. “I’ve got to get back to the command post.” Clark told him to use her van and that she’d stay with Rockne.
“I’ll stay here,” Ryan said.
Rockne grabbed a pair of binoculars out of his pickup and swept the minefield. “They’re kids,” he said. He pressed the zoom lever. “One’s down, the other is standing there, not moving.”
“How are we going to get them out?” Ryan asked.
“It’s for damn sure I’m not sending anyone in there without a map,” Clark told him. “How long will it take to sweep a path?”
“A couple of hours,” Rockne replied, still studying the two boys. “The one kid is indicating his buddy is hurtin’ bad. I don’t think we got the time.”
Ryan shook his head. “So we’re going to let him die?”
“Maybe not,” Rockne answered. “Come,” he called. Boyca jumped out of the pickup and trotted to him. He knelt down beside her and pointed to the boy standing in the minefield. Then he patted the ground. “Seek,” he commanded. Boyca sniffed the ground and started to range. She stopped. She had found a mine. “Good girl,” he said. “Seek.” Again the dog sniffed the ground and stopped. “Good girl.” He pointed toward the boy. “Seek.” Boyca did as commanded and worked her way toward the boy, stopping whenever she found a mine.
“I didn’t know she could do that,” Clark said.
“Neither did I,” Rockne replied, his voice full of pride. “Oh, no,” he moaned. “Doc, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Ryan was walking slowly into the minefield, a first-aid kit slung over his shoulder. “Following her path,” he called. “Muddy footprints.”
“Doctor!” Clark shouted. “That’s dumber than dirt!” But he kept on walking. She sucked in her breath and waited. “Losing a dog is one thing,” she grumbled. She exhaled in relief when he reached the two boys.
“Boyca,” Rockne called. “Stay.” The dog sat on her haunches and waited while Ryan worked on the boy. Then he stood and gave a thumbs-up. He handed his bag to the uninjured boy before picking the other one up in a fireman’s carry. “Boyca,” Rockne called. “Seek.” He slapped her leash against his thigh, hoping she would seek and come at the same time. She did.
Two more A-10s took off, heading north as two entered the pattern for landing while Ryan walked out of the minefield. Clark was beside herself with anger. “Doctor, that was dumb.”
Ryan ignored her. “We need to get him to the med station.”
“For his sake,” Rockne said with a straight face, “I hope you know what you’re doing this time.” He looked up as a C-130 entered the pattern. “Let’s go,” he told the two officers. They loaded the boys into the back of his pickup, and he deposited the doctor and the boys at the medical station before dropping Clark off at the command post. Then he hurried back to the parking apron where the C-130 was unloading. He parked and clipped the leash to Boyca’s collar. Together they walked across the ramp, where a familiar figure was waiting with a group of thirty-three security cops. “Welcome back, Sergeant Maul.”
“It’s good to be back, Chief,” Jessica said, meaning it. She knelt down and stroked Boyca’s head. “You been a good girl?”
“The best,” Rockne replied. He looked at the waiting cops and stifled a snort when he saw Tech Sergeant Paul Travis and Staff Sergeant Jake Osburn. “I thought you two were minding the squadron at Lackland.”
“We were,” Travis replied. “But we got backfilled from the reserve.”
Jake nodded in agreement. “We thought you might need some help.”
“We’ll find something to do with your worthless bodies,” Rockne allowed.
Clark stood at the back of the command post and waited. Maggot was at the center console talking to Maintenance Control while Pontowski was in the communications cab on the secure phone to SEAC headquarters. Pontowski waved her into the glassed-in booth when he saw her. “We’re surging,” he told her. He held up a hand and listened for a moment. “We’ll do what we can,” he promised. He broke the connection. “The PLA’s broken through at Segamat. Singapore’s two regiments gave a good account of themselves before withdrawing. It’s bad.”
Maggot stuck his head through the doorway. “Two Scuds just hit Changi Airport and Pulau Tekong. SEAC headquarters got shook up, but they’re okay.”
“Those weren’t Scuds,” Pontowski said. “SEAC better move before they find the range.”
Taman Negara
Friday, October 8
It was near sunset when Kamigami stepped out onto the jungle trail, looked both ways, and sniffed the air. Someone was bivouacked nearby and cooking. He ordered his team into a quick-reaction drill, and within seconds they had shed their heavy bergens and were ready to engage. “We’ve been on this trail before,” Tel told him. “We’re twenty kilometers from the PLA’s base camp.” He quickly checked his GPS and plotted their position on a chart. “Sorry,” Tel muttered, “we’re twenty-one kilometers away.”
“Close enough,” Kamigami allowed. He motioned Tel to silence when he heard movement on the trail. Almost immediately a man trudged into sight, bent under a heavy load. Kamigami’s eyes narrowed as he took the man’s measure.
This was a soldier, not a porter. Then another came into view, and Kamigami started to count. Every six to eight seconds a heavy-laden soldier passed in silence, totally unaware of the men hiding less than six meters away. Two hours later a bevy of officers brought up the rear, totally unencumbered and talking loudly. Finally the trail was deserted. “How many?” Kamigami asked.
“Nine hundred and eighty,” Tel answered.
“Close enough,” Kamigami said. He had counted 983. “I make it a battalion.”
“That’s a big battalion,” Tel replied, comparing it to what he had been taught.
“God favors big battalions,” Kamigami told him. They heard movement and fell silent as another man came down the trail. Again they counted as a long line of men tramped past. As before, the officers brought up the rear. But this time there was no break before a third battalion plodded past. When the last group of officers passed, an eerie silence descended over the jungle. “Make that big regiments,” Kamigami said. “They’re traveling at night and bivouacking during the day.” He thought for a moment. “Think you can play FAC?”
“I can try.”
“Good. Take a radioman and follow them. I’m guessing they’ll make camp before morning. I’ll radio SEAC, and with a little luck we can have a few Hogs on station first thing in the morning. Your job is to get them on target.”
“Is this what I get for not obeying orders?”
Kamigami ignored his question. “Your call sign is Gopher Hole.”
Central Malaysia
Saturday, October 9
Tel wiggled onto the rock outcropping near the crest of the ridgeline and scanned the top of the jungle canopy with his binoculars. As Kamigami had predicted, the regiment
had marched all night and made camp while it was still dark. Below him, the smell of campfires being lit drifted up. He tried to find the smoke, but since he was looking directly into the sun as it broke the eastern horizon, he couldn’t see a thing. His radio crackled to life. “Gopher Hole, this is Mudfighter with two. How copy this frequency?”