Authors: Richard Herman
“Take it down. I want to see the camp,” he told the pilot.
“The First Special Operations Service,” Gus explained, “takes the best from the British and the United States. Our staff structure parallels your army, but much of our equipment is British. All of our officers and senior NCOs train in England or the United States at one point in their career. Colonel Sun Dan, the commander of the First, was an honor graduate at Sandhurst.”
“Did he train with the SAS?” Kamigami asked. The SAS was Great Britain’s Special Air Service regiment, arguably the best special operations unit in the world.
“No. I believe he trained with the British Parachute Regiment and your Rangers.”
“I never met him when I was with the Rangers,” Kamigami said as the helicopter descended. He grimaced when he saw a hardened command bunker flying the flag of the First SOS. He had his work cut out for him.
As Kamigami had requested, only Tel was waiting for them at the helipad. He had changed in the month since Kamigami had last seen him. He had put on weight and was standing tall in freshly washed jungle fatigues. His hair was cut short, his boots were polished, and a big smile was spread across his face. He snapped a sharp salute when Kamigami emerged from the helicopter. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
“I’m not a ‘sir,’” Kamigami grumbled, “and you don’t salute retired sergeants.”
Tel refused to drop his salute. “They teach about you here,” he replied.
Kamigami gave in and returned the salute. “I was hoping you’d learn something useful.”
“I guess not,” Tel said. “I washed out.”
Gus came up behind them. “Actually, I recommended he be removed from training.” From the look on Kamigami’s face, an explanation was in order. “It’s a language problem,”
Gus said. “His Chinese isn’t good enough to understand the instruction.”
“It’s good enough,” Tel said, a newfound confidence in his voice. “But I got into some arguments with my instructors. They didn’t like the way I set up an ambush. I did it just like we did on the trail.”
Kamigami instinctively understood what had happened. It was the ethnic problem that cursed Tel’s life. The First SOS was made up of Singapore Chinese, and while they may have been Singaporean, they were still Chinese. And Tel was anything but. “Every ambush is different,” Kamigami said. “You got to learn the basics.”
“He can fly back with me,” Gus said.
“I want him as my butt man,” Kamigami said.
Gus looked amused. “Butt man?”
“A gofer and bodyguard,” Kamigami explained.
“You won’t need a bodyguard here,” Gus said.
Kamigami changed the subject. “Time to meet the troops.”
“Your staff is waiting in the command post,” Gus said. He led the way into the nearby bunker. It was an impressive structure with blast doors, an air lock, a decontamination chamber, and highly polished floors. It was a perfect setup for a regular-army unit and the last thing Kamigami needed. Colonel Sun Dan was waiting for him with five lieutenant colonels and seven majors. To the man, they were a perfect match for the building: neat, trim, and wearing highly polished boots. For Kamigami the next two hours were an exercise in frustration, as he went through the motions of assuming command and meeting his staff. But he endured, taking the measure of each man. Colonel Sun impressed him, but he made a mental note to transfer out four of the lieutenant colonels and three of the majors at the first opportunity. Finally it was time to meet the men of the First Special Operations Service.
“We’re organized in four squadrons of eighty men each,” Colonel Sun explained as they approached the parade ground.
“They look very…ah, military,” Kamigami wryly observed.
“As you can see,” Sun replied, missing the cynicism in Kamigami’s voice, “we select only the elite.”
We’ll see how elite,
Kamigami thought. He had learned the hard way that the truly elite special operations units had little time, or respect, for the conventions of the normal military. They had to be totally committed to battle discipline, and everything else was garbage. He stepped up onto the low platform as every face turned toward him. “My name is Victor Kamigami,” he began. “I’m your new commander, and while I hold the rank of brigadier, you will not salute me, or any other officer, at any time. To help you remember, remove your berets.” As one, they snatched off the black berets they were wearing, and shoved them under an epaulet. “Very good,” Kamigami said. “Now fall out and return here with full battle gear in thirty minutes.” He stepped off the podium and turned to Colonel Sun. “I’ll need to borrow a rucksack,” he said.
“We use bergens here,” Tel said.
“Ah, the English influence,” Kamigami said. He preferred the British backpack, as it could carry more.
“You can use mine,” Tel offered.
“You’ll be needing it,” Kamigami replied.
Exactly thirty minutes later Kamigami stepped back onto the platform. Only this time he was shouldering a sixty-five-pound bergen, wearing a belt kit, and carrying his personal MP5. For a moment he stared at the men. “Follow me,” he commanded. He stepped off the podium and set a quick pace to the road that led around the island.
Two hours later he reached the two boulders he called the Devil’s Gonads, and called a halt. “How are the men doing?” he asked Colonel Sun.
“Four men have dropped out, and Three Squadron is falling behind,” came the answer.
“Four in only two hours?” Kamigami replied. Both he and the colonel knew that it was an unacceptable number. “Tell Three Squadron to keep up,” he ordered. He drank from his
first canteen, emptied it, and set off again. But this time he increased the pace, and they made it back to camp in ninety minutes. He let the men rest for fifteen minutes, refill their canteens, and then he headed out again, this time running the road counterclockwise. He maintained a killing pace but stopped every fifty minutes. This time they made the circuit in three hours, and again Three Squadron tailed in, strung out over a quarter of a mile. Kamigami shook his head. “How many men have dropped out?” he asked Sun.
“Seven,” Sun replied.
Kamigami snorted, showing his displeasure. “Send them home,” he ordered. He walked through the squadrons, again taking their measure. He was not impressed. He called the squadron COs together and asked for a chart of the island. The four majors looked at one another. “We all know the island and don’t need a chart,” one finally answered.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Kamigami replied. “So you all know where the Devil’s Gonads are?” He waited in silence, and when he didn’t get an answer, he described the two boulders on the north shore. “I’m sending a squadron over the center of the island to set up an ambush at the Devil’s Gonads.”
A major protested. “That’s very rough terrain. No one would do that.”
“That’s what special operations is all about,” Kamigami replied. “Doing what nobody else would do. While the squadron mounting the ambush is crossing the island, the rest of us will do one and a half circuits on the road to end up at the Gonads. Gentlemen, it’s a race to see who gets there first. Any volunteers?” The four majors were silent. “Okay,” Kamigami said, “Three Squadron has it.”
“Brigadier,” the major commanding Three Squadron said, “I must protest. You don’t know the island. I do. No one can cross the center of the island that quickly.”
“Tell your men,” Kamigami said in his quiet voice, “that if we get there before they do, they’re gone, eliminated.”
“But some of my men have blisters,” the major said.
“It’s only pain,” Kamigami replied. “Split your squadron
into fast and slow movers.” He stood back and watched as the majors returned to their squadrons in a state of shock. Within minutes Three Squadron filed past as they headed into the brush. Kamigami’s eyes drew into narrow squints as he studied each man. He estimated about half would make it, not including the major.
“Colonel Sun,” he called. “Follow me.” To Kamigami’s way of thinking, the leader of a combat unit had better be able to do what he demanded of his men and demonstrate it from time to time in a way they understood.
Exactly three hours later Kamigami led the main force back into camp after the first circuit. He didn’t stop to refill canteens and kept right on going. Tel came up behind him. “Some of the men are making threats against you,” he said.
“Anyone collapse yet?” Kamigami asked. No answer. “Then keep on pushing,” Kamigami said. Ninety minutes later he reached the Devil’s Gonads.
A lieutenant emerged out of the brush and reported in. He was close to exhaustion and, in his confusion, almost saluted. “Three Squadron in place, as ordered.”
“Well done. How many made it?”
“Thirty-two, sir. Counting me.”
“Your name?”
“Lieutenant Lee Go Sung.”
Kamigami nodded. “Lieutenant Lee, as of now you’re the CO of Three Squadron. Move your men to the end of the line.” He turned to Colonel Sun. “Select twenty men from One Squadron and have them report to me in fifteen minutes. I’ll be leading them back over the island.” Sun turned to give the order. “Colonel, you’ll be leading the main body on the road. One and a half circuits back to the main camp. Tell the men that if they all make it before I do, they’ll never see me again.”
A wicked smile crossed Sun’s face. “My pleasure, Brigadier.”
“Split your men into fast and slow movers.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sun replied.
Fifteen minutes later Kamigami led his men into the brush as the major and the last of Three Squadron arrived.
“Take them to the barracks,” Kamigami told the major. “I want you all off the island by sundown.”
A corporal stepped forward. “Brigadier, I want another chance.”
Kamigami studied the corporal for a moment. He was small and too thin for special operations. But there was a driven look in his eyes that Kamigami recognized. “Fall in behind me.”
The corporal hesitated. “I know a way along a ridge. But the major wouldn’t take it.”
“Really?” Kamigami replied. “Take the lead.” The corporal jerked his head and trotted to the head of the column.
Tel came up and spoke quietly. “He’ll never make it.”
“He will,” Kamigami replied.
“I’m almost out of water,” Tel said.
“Go thirsty,” Kamigami muttered.
Sweat poured off Kamigami as he followed the corporal up the ridge that led to the center of the island. It was hard going, and many of the men slipped and fell. Twice they had to stop and pull a man out of a ravine. A sergeant fell into a thornbush and was a bloody mess by the time they got him out. But he refused to quit and slogged on, determined to keep up. A heavy rain started to fall, and Kamigami called a halt to let the men fill their canteens. Then they were moving again as the rain poured in sheets. Visibility was down to fifty feet when they crested the hill in the center of the island, but Kamigami never stopped. Tel seriously wondered if the big man was human.
The corporal stopped. “There, sir.” He pointed to a break in the brush that opened into a ravine. He swayed on his feet, his face gaunt. He was on the edge of total exhaustion. “The brush thins out about one-third of the way down. It will be easy going into camp.”
“Lead the way,” Kamigami said. The corporal turned like an automaton, took a few steps, and collapsed. Kamigami was beside him in a flash and stripped off his bergen and helmet. He felt for the artery on the side of his neck. There was no pulse. “Medic!” he shouted. A corpo
ral rushed up and went to work on the prostrate body. But it was too late.
“He’s dead,” the medic announced.
Kamigami stood over the body, holding the man’s helmet. He bowed his head. Then he knelt and picked up the body, surprised at how light it was. “Bring his weapon and gear,” he ordered. He led the way down the ridge and into camp, not stopping once. He marched up to the flagpole in front of the command post and gently laid the body on the ground. “Have the First fall in here,” he ordered. “When they arrive.” He squatted on his haunches, and his right hand reached for the gold whistle around his neck. He absently stroked it as he gazed at the body.
Tel stood behind him, not sure what to say. He had seen the same look at the village when they built the shrine to hold the ashes of their families. “Can I get you anything?” he finally asked.
“Get his poncho and weapon,” Kamigami said. “I wish I had known him.” Tel rummaged in the dead corporal’s bergen and handed Kamigami the poncho. Kamigami tenderly wrapped it around the body. Then he fixed a bayonet to the corporal’s M-16 and drove it into the earth, making a temporary head marker as Colonel Sun and the road team straggled into camp. They formed up while Kamigami reached into his own bergen and pulled out the red beret he had worn in China. He jammed it on his head and stood.
Colonel Sun marched up and stopped. He almost saluted before remembering. “First Special Operations Service reporting as ordered,” he barked.
Kamigami jerked his head in acknowledgment and turned to face his command. “We lost one of our comrades today,” he began. “I didn’t know his name.”
“We called him Tiger,” Lieutenant Lee said.
“I wish I had known Tiger. But I do know this. He wouldn’t quit.” Kamigami paused, carefully selecting his next words so there would be no confusion. “Earlier today I had you remove your black berets. It was my intention to replace them with a red beret like the one I’m wearing. But
you had to earn it.” He removed his beret and placed it on the butt of the corporal’s M-16. “Tiger earned his today.” Again he paused. “As of now, Three Squadron no longer exists. It is now Tiger Red.”
Something in the thirty-two men of Tiger Red caught Tel’s attention as Kamigami spoke. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but they were standing straighter, and there was a look of determination on their faces he had never seen before. It was as if they had been reborn out of the ashes of Three Squadron.
Palau Tenang, Singapore
Tuesday, September 7
Kamigami dropped his bergen by the door of his quarters as a blast of cool, air-conditioned air washed over him. He walked around the modern and well-appointed three-room suite before turning off the air conditioner. “Open the windows,” he told Tel. He walked into the bathroom and peeled off his clothes. “I’ll need a mosquito net over the bed,” he called. He stepped into the shower, savoring the hot water. Every muscle in his body was protesting the abuse he had given it.
Can I still do this?
he wondered, feeling his age.
“Am I your personal servant?” Tel called from the kitchen.
“Not exactly,” Kamigami replied. He thought for a moment.
How to explain it?
“The idea is to take care of small details for me so I can devote my time to other things.”
“So I polish your boots?”
“Clean them. No polish. Pass the word that I don’t ever want to see a polished pair of boots here again.” He paused. “Turn off every air conditioner on the island. Now.”
“They won’t like that,” Tel said.
Kamigami came out of the bathroom and fell into bed. “We’re ninety miles north of the equator, a long way from
Mother Nature’s air conditioner. The tropics are our area of operations, and they’ve got to be a part of it.”
“Sir, what was going on out there today?”
Kamigami yawned. “A new day. Reveille at four-thirty tomorrow morning.” He was asleep.
Tel adjusted the mosquito net over the bed and turned out the light. He closed the door and checked his watch. Six-thirty in the evening.
A new day?
he thought.
What does that mean?
The White House
Tuesday, September 7
At the same time Tel was turning off the lights in Kamigami’s bedroom, Maddy was sipping her first cup of morning coffee in the residence. She was still wearing slippers and a white fuzzy bathrobe that enveloped her. She curled up in the corner of the couch and cupped the mug in her hands. An image of Matt slipped through the door of her carefully guarded emotions, and for a moment she was in New Mexico when they first met. She held on to the image for a few moments and wished she could return to that magical time and place. But reality intruded, and she willed the image back into its hiding place. Matt was flying back to Oakland and she didn’t know when she would see him again.
She steeled herself for what was to come, and set the mug down. “Day two of the war,” she said half aloud. It was a new day.
At exactly 7:30
A.M.
President Turner stepped into the hall outside her bedroom. Her personal assistant, Nancy Bender, was waiting for her. “Good morning, Madam President,” she said, taking Turner’s briefcase. They walked to the elevator.
The dark-suited Secret Service agent standing at the end of the hall lifted his left wrist to his mouth and spoke into the whisper mike. “Magic’s moving,” he said. “Descending
in the elevator.” In the basement office directly below the Oval Office, the lighted board that monitored the president’s movements flashed. The agent on duty sent out the word that the day had started.
The ExCom was waiting for her in the Oval Office, and they stood as one when she entered. “Thank you for coming so early,” Turner said as she sat down. She picked up the President’s Daily Brief and read as her five advisers refilled their coffee cups. It didn’t take long for her to finish. As expected, the PDB was devoted entirely to the conflict in the Persian Gulf. But it didn’t tell her what she most wanted to know. She looked at General Wilding. “Do we have a casualty list?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.” Wilding’s face was grim as he handed her a single sheet of paper.
Her face paled as she read the numbers. “Two hundred and three killed in action. Sixty-four wounded in action. Over four hundred missing. Am I to assume they’re all KIA?” She hated the term “KIA.” It was a shorthand that allowed her to sidestep the reality of people’s dying because of her policies and decisions.
“No, ma’am,” Wilding said. “Most likely a large percentage are in POW status. What you’re seeing is the result of the UIF’s initial attack.”
“The current situation?” she asked.
“The bombing campaign is under way. The Air Force and Navy have flown a combined total of a hundred and ninety-three sorties, and the tempo will increase as more aircraft arrive in the area. For now the main objective is to interdict their forces in the field.”
“Which means?” Turner asked.
“We’re going to cut them off and isolate them,” Wilding replied. “Then we’re going to kill them. We do have a few surprises in store for the UIF tonight. The Forty-ninth Fighter Wing is launching twelve F-117 Stealth fighters out of Khamis Mushayt in southern Saudi Arabia, and the Five Hundred Ninth Bomb Wing at Whiteman Air Force Base is launching ten B-2s. Target Baghdad. They plan on taking
out every bridge, turning the lights off, and hammering their main command-and-control centers.”
“We’re doing all this with just twenty-two aircraft?” Turner asked.
Wilding allowed a tight smile. “An F-117 carries only two bombs, but each of those ten B-2s has a mix of sixteen smart bombs, mostly GBU-31s, for a total of a hundred and eighty-four weapons.” She gave him a quizzical look, not understanding what a GBU-31 was. “The GBU-31,” Wilding explained, “is a two-thousand-pound bomb with an inertial guidance system updated by GPS. Given the accuracy of that weapons mix, we expect ninety-two percent—that’s a hundred and sixty-nine bombs—to impact within the target structure.”
“And the other fifteen bombs?” the president asked.
“We’re trying to keep collateral damage to a minimum,” Wilding answered.
“You mean killing civilians.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Turner stared at her hands, not saying a word. The DCI spoke up. “Madam President, please remember the Iraqis deliberately shield targets with civilians to discourage us from bombing them.” He let that sink in.
Wilding continued with his update. “On the ground our forces engaged at first light and are falling back on King Khalid Military City. K squared…” He paused, embarrassed that he had used the nickname the military had given to the desert outpost. “Excuse me, I meant to say King Khalid City. The city is under artillery attack, and all noncombatants have been evacuated. Demolition teams are at work in King Khalid destroying everything of value before we withdraw.”
The president came to her feet and leaned across the desk, resting on her hands, her face flushed with anger. “You mean we’re abandoning our major base to the enemy and retreating? Why wasn’t I advised of this, and who made the decision?”
“It was a tactical decision made in the field by General
Riddenblack, the commander of Central Command. I concurred with the decision at one-thirty this morning, Eastern daylight time. We are not going to defend King Khalid but continue a tactical withdrawal to a more defensible line.”
“That was a decision I do not approve of,” Turner said.
Again General Wilding paused. They had come to a crossroads. He firmly believed in civilian control of the military. Not only did he support his commander in chief’s policies, he fully accepted one of the basic premises of civilian control—that civilian leaders have the right to be wrong. He was also a professional in every sense of the word, proven in combat, and true to his oath—but he would resign rather than serve under a civilian official with a Napoleon complex who insisted on seizing operational control of the actual fighting. That job belonged to him and his subordinate commanders, and if he made a mistake, she could fire him. “In my judgment the withdrawal from King Khalid was the only sound decision if we were to preserve our forces and keep fighting.” He waited for her reply.
Turner sat down and stared at him.
He’s been up all night,
she thought. “My primary concern,” she said, “is to stop this aggression and defend our allies.”
“Madam President, just tell me what you want to do. Set the general guidelines, but, please, let your commanders in the field handle operations.” He bowed his head, fully ready to resign if she didn’t understand.
Her reply surprised everyone in the room. “How do I know if you’re doing it right?”
Wilding’s face turned to granite. “When they’re bleeding so hard they have to stop advancing and we can stabilize the situation and go on the offensive.”
“What will that take?”
“A lot of hard fighting and sacrifice.”
“Is that a euphemism for heavy casualties?” she asked.
“We are going to take casualties,” Wilding said. “But so will they. If we do it right, it will be forty to one in our favor.”
“I hope I’ve made this clear: I am not going to sacrifice our men and women. Nor, for that matter, am I going to kill innocent civilians.”
“Neither am I.” How could he make her understand? “Madam President, my oldest son is at King Khalid leading a tank battalion.”
His son is in harm’s way,
she thought. The reality of modern warfare beat at her, threatening her humanity and all that she believed in. She looked at her advisers, carefully shielding her own doubts and fears.
“Madam President,” the DCI said, “a more complete brief is ready in the Situation Room.”
Turner nodded. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.” The meeting was over, and all but the vice president filed out of the Oval Office.
“General Wilding’s a good man,” Kennett said.
“Is he going to resign?” Turner asked.
“Only if you don’t let him do his job,” he replied.
Chief of Staff Parrish and the president’s personal assistant were standing in the door waiting to escort her to the Situation Room. “Nancy,” Maddy said, “please call Brian.”
Nancy understood. “He should be up by now.” She hurried out to make the call.
Warrensburg, Missouri
Tuesday, September 7
Maggot was waiting when Pontowski taxied his T-34 Mentor up to the fuel pumps at Skyhaven Airport. As usual, he was wearing a flight suit, but this time brand-new eagles were sewn on its shoulders. He waved a salute at Pontowski, not expecting one in return, and set the wheel chocks. Physically, it was impossible to distinguish Dwight “Maggot” Stuart from the average middle-aged male citizen of Missouri. He stood five feet ten inches tall and had close-set gray-green eyes and graying red hair. He was on the lanky side and hadn’t put on a pound of weight in ten years. There
was nothing in his friendly manner or easy way of speaking to indicate that he was, without doubt, the best A-10 Warthog pilot in the United States Air Force.
The Mentor’s canopy slid back, and Pontowski stood up. “Maggot, good to see you. Congrats on the eagles. Much deserved.” He climbed onto the wing and stretched before removing his earplugs. He loved the old Mentor, but it was a noisy bird. “Thanks for coming.”
“Nothing else to do,” Maggot groused. He studied the pristine aircraft for a moment, appreciating what he was seeing. “She is a pretty thing,” he said. Pontowski climbed down, and they shook hands.
“What are you up to these days?” Pontowski asked.
“Nothing since I pinned on eagles,” Maggot answered. He had been the commander of an Air Force Reserve squadron of A-10 Warthogs at the nearby Air Force base but had been promoted out of a job when he assumed his new rank. “I’ve been cooling my heels waiting for an assignment to come down. I was hoping to get the Wing, but everything is on hold now.”
“Shooting matches do that,” Pontowski said. He told the ramp rat to top up the Mentor’s fuel tanks and check the oil as they walked into the fixed base operations building. “What’s happening at the squadron?” he asked.
“We’re getting ready to deploy,” Maggot replied. He shook his head. “Problems.”
“Such as?”
Maggot frowned. “We’re undermanned, especially in maintenance, and half the women are bailing out. Also very short on spare parts. Forty percent of our aircraft are down.”
“Ouch,” Pontowski said. “Pilots?”
“Young. All the old heads have left for the airlines. We’re basically okay but low on experience.”
“The first ten days are going to be hell,” Pontowski said ruefully. Combat had taught both men a hard lesson: the highest attrition rates occurred in the first ten days, and the lower the experience levels, the higher the attrition. “I remember when I had the squadron,” Pontowski said. “Just
hint at a shooting match and the old heads couldn’t get here fast enough.”
“Things change,” Maggot said. “The damnedest thing, Waldo showed up.”
Pontowski laughed. “George Walderman? The last I heard he was flying C-130s for the CIA out of South Africa.”
“He was, but he quit. Claims it was too boring. For a while I thought he wanted back in. But he took a look around, talked to the training folks, and voted with his feet. We could use a stick like him.” Maggot thought for a moment. “I’ve got the feeling we’re going to need every pilot we can get.”
“Is the squadron in bad shape?” Pontowski asked.
Maggot thought for a moment. “Just low on experience. Compared to the rest of the Reserves, the squadron’s in great shape. But the tactical air force is living with the sins of the past ten years and rebuilding. We needed another two or three years to rebuild. Given enough flying time…” He shook his head in resignation. “This hit us too damn soon.”
“I take it you’re not deploying to the Middle East.”
A pained look crossed Maggot’s face. “I’m not on the roster.” Pontowski felt sorry for Maggot, but there wasn’t a place for an extra full colonel when a squadron went to war. That was when lieutenants and captains counted. Inside the building they walked up to the counter. Maggot glanced at the TV mounted in the corner. “There’s your old friend.” Elizabeth Gordon, CNC-TV’s star reporter, was on the screen, her mouth moving in silence. “Nice teeth,” Maggot said. “I bet she gives one hell of a blow job with that overbite.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Pontowski replied. Maggot gave him a look that said “Really.” A map of the Middle East flashed on the screen with the words
SPECIAL REPORT FROM BAGHDAD
in prominent letters. Pontowski turned up the volume.