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.
Eight
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?
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.