“No, ma’am, it doesn’t. We’re throwing everything we’ve got at them.”
Again she had to ask the one question that couldn’t be avoided. “Casualties?”
The colonel’s reply was merciless. “As of an hour ago, eight hundred and sixty-five KIA, three hundred and ten missing in action. Of the three thousand wounded, slightly over two thousand have been evacuated.”
“Why only two thousand?” she asked. “Surely those aircraft flying troops in can take them all out?”
“Many of the less seriously wounded have returned to their units,” Scovill explained.
“Why?” Turner asked.
“They do it voluntarily. But we’re replacing them as fast as we can.”
“But why do they do it? I don’t understand at all.”
For a brief moment silence held them all. Finally Mazie started to talk. “One time in China, I asked Matt Pontowski the same question. He couldn’t answer. But he did tell me the story of an Air Force colonel named Muddy Waters. Waters commanded the Forty-fifth Tactical Fighter Wing during the fiasco before the Gulf War.”
“I remember that,” Turner said. “That was before the Soviet Union collapsed, and everyone was worried it would turn into World War Three. As I recall, we withdrew the Forty-fifth at the last minute.”
True to his nature, Bernie Butler had been hovering in the background and mostly listening. Now he had to talk. “Not exactly,” he said. “The base was under heavy attack, and they had to fight their way out. Waters fought like a demon while he evacuated his people. But many of them wouldn’t go at first. They wanted to stay with him and fight. He held on long enough to get most of them out, along with his last five aircraft. Waters gave the pilot who led those five aircraft, a Captain Jack Locke, his personal call sign before they took off. But Waters was killed before he could surrender the base.”
“According to Matt,” Mazie added, “Jack Locke was the finest leader he ever knew.”
“Knew?” Turner asked.
“Locke was later killed in a training accident,” Mazie said. “Matt said Locke set the standard, and he only hopes he can measure up.” She searched for the right words. “It’s like a torch they pass on, and for some reason it reminds me of the legend of the Phoenix — the giant bird of mythology that is consumed in the fire of its own nest and then arises reborn out of the ashes.”
The Marine colonel shook his head. “It’s not that complicated, Mrs. Hazelton. It’s a combination of leadership and unit identification. They go back because that’s where their buddies are.”
Turner came to her feet, a decision made. “As of now I’m ordering an all-out effort. Pull out all the stops short of going nuclear.” Anger filled her voice. “And let them know that option is not off the table.”
Maddy retreated into her private study next to the Oval Office. “Nancy, please close the door. I don’t want to be disturbed for a few moments.”
“Yes, Madam President.” Nancy closed the door and leaned against it, her eyes closed. I wish I could help, she thought. But no one could.
Maddy stared out the window as tears streaked her face.
Kamigami’s internal alarm clock sounded, waking him up. Automatically, he checked his watch. He had been asleep three hours, and it was the beginning of morning twilight. He carefully shifted his weight and blinked twice. Tel was sitting against a tree devouring a cold meal pack. His Minimi and bergen were beside him, ready to go. “The rest of the men are ready,” he told Kamigami.
“I must be getting old,” Kamigami said. He called the team leaders together for a final briefing. “Nothing’s changed,” he told the four men. “This is a reconnaissance mission. Get your team into your assigned area as quickly as possible and find the bastards. I can’t stress it enough — silence is golden. Transmission protocols are standard, and maintain radio silence to the maximum extent possible. Do not engage unless attacked. Shoot only if shot at, and then scoot for all you’re worth. If you find anything that resembles a main camp, they’ll be using motion detectors and urine sniffers to monitor the perimeter.” He pointed at his map. “Our current location. Memorize the coordinates and rendezvous here in six days. Any questions?” There were none. “Okay, good hunting.”
He listened as the four teams moved out. Satisfied that all was well, he hoisted his bergen. “Let me guess,” Tel said, his voice barely audible. “We’re going to the base camp.”
Kamigami gave a little grunt as he settled the bergen on its shoulder straps. “Wouldn’t hurt to pay them a visit.” He set a fast pace, moving silently as they headed into the heart of the Taman Negara.
Eleven
Don’t jump to conclusions, Bloomy cautioned herself for perhaps the hundredth time. She slowly rearranged the note cards on the table, searching for another pattern. But nothing else made sense. Feeling the need for a caffeine jolt, she checked the clock on the wall. It was exactly 9:00 A.M. She grabbed her empty coffee mug and walked briskly to the break room. The entire staff was there, oblivious to the television and transfixed by Matt Pontowski. He was leaning against a wall, his hands wrapped around a coffee mug. Bloomy filled her mug as she listened.
“General,” one of the volunteer graduate students from UC Berkeley said, “eleven hundred have been killed so far. How much longer will this go on?”
“The number is one thousand ninety-five,” Pontowski replied.
“What’s five, more or less?” the grad student replied.
“A great deal, if you’re one of the five. But you’re right to be worried about the high casualties — as are the commanders.”
“I seriously doubt that,” the grad student said. He stood and walked out of the room, leaving a stunned silence behind him.
“General,” Bloomy said, “I apologize for—”
Pontowski shook his head. “No apology is needed.” He motioned at the screen, where an attractive young couple was dancing around a bed in an underwear commercial. “It’s the fifth day of the war, and you’re seeing raw, unedited coverage directly from the battlefield. What you’re not getting is the big picture.” He walked over to the map of Saudi Arabia tacked on the wall. He drew a broad, slashing arrow from Iraq through King Khalid Military City, with the arrowhead fifty miles to the south. “The UIF’s goal is the capital, Riyadh, approximately a hundred and seventy miles away.” He drew a flat, oblong circle under the arrowhead. “This is where the fighting is.” Next he drew what looked like a set of horns on each side of the oblong circle, curving back toward Iraq. “As the UIF advances into Saudi Arabia, it must extend its flanks to the east and west, making the front much wider. This also reduces their mass in the center.” He made the horn on the right, or eastern side, much longer than the horn on the west. “Slowly their eastern flank is extending, inviting a counterattack.” He drew a perpendicular arrow from the right that pierced into the side of the arrow representing the UIF’s advance.
“They must know that,” a voice said.
“Indeed they do,” Pontowski said. “That’s why speed is critical. I figure they’ve got three weeks max to capture Riyadh before we have the forces in place to mount a major counterattack.” He pointed to the TV, which now showed a dirty and tired reporter standing in front of a first-aid station.
“Peter,” the reporter said, “I recorded the following scene thirty minutes ago, less than a mile from where I’m now standing.” He turned and pointed to the north as the screen flickered, showing a squad of American soldiers hunkered down behind a low ridge as they moved a TOW antitank missile into position.