“All while the president,” Kennett said, “is focused entirely on the Middle East, being blamed for the heavy casualties, and fighting for her political life.”
“There’s one problem,” the DCI said. He pulled himself to his feet. “The Chinese simply can’t do it. They don’t have enough men or supplies available for the job, not with an alert and ready SEAC.”
“I hope you’re right,” Mazie said.
“If the AVG were in place,” Kennett asked, “would that discourage them?”
The DCI scoffed, dodging a direct answer. “The dreaded trip-wire force? Or should I say hostage force?”
“But it wouldn’t hurt,” Butler said. “Just to be on the safe side.”
The DCI conceded the point. “No, it wouldn’t. But do we have the airlift?”
“We can divert it,” Wilding said.
The chief master sergeant waiting in his office was without doubt the biggest man Pontowski had ever seen wearing an Air Force uniform. The uniform was obviously tailored to his bulk, and his highly polished boots were at least size fourteens. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body, and the way his neck muscles strained at his collar was ample proof he spent time in a weight room. An inner alarm went off in Pontowski’s subconscious, warning him not to underestimate this man.
“Lieutenant Colonel Clark gave me your name,” Pontowski said.
“She was the commander of a weapons-storage site in the Netherlands,” Rockne replied. “I was the NCOIC for her security flight.”
Pontowski was impressed. The NCOIC, or noncommissioned officer in charge, at a weapons storage site held an awesome responsibility. “Did you like working for her?”
“Yes, sir. She was an excellent commander. No nonsense. She gets the job done.”
Everything about the man told Pontowski to be direct. “She’s the base commander at our forward operating location. She said air base defense was inadequate and to bring our own security team when we deploy. She said to contact you for support.”
“Was that her word?” Rockne asked. “Inadequate?” Pontowski answered in the affirmative. “Then you’ve got problems. Was ‘support’ her word?”
“That’s her exact word,” Pontowski told him.
“She wants me for her NCOIC of security.”
Pontowski was perplexed. “Is this some kind of special code you two use?”
Rockne shook his head. “No, sir. That’s the way she works. When she asks someone for support, she means support. Like personal and committed.”
Pontowski made a decision. “Do you want the job?”
“Where is it?”
The same warning bell went off in Pontowski’s mind. You didn’t hold back with this cop. “Malaysia, sixty miles north of Singapore. In the jungle.”
“Shit.”
“I take it that means you don’t want the job?” Before Rockne could answer, a real alarm went off down the hall. Pontowski came to his feet. “Crash alarm. I’ve got aircraft airborne.” He grabbed his handheld radio and ran out the door.
Rockne was in hot pursuit. “I’ll drive, sir. The security pickup outside.” Pontowski was fast, but nothing compared to Rockne. By the time he reached the truck, Rockne was behind the wheel, the engine started, the light bar flashing, and the passenger door open and waiting for him. “The approach end of the runway?” Rockne asked.
“Right. Follow the crash trucks.”
“I know where it is, sir.” He gunned the engine and raced for the end of the runway. “There,” he said, pointing to the southwest.
Pontowski could barely see the two small dots. He keyed his radio and called the SOF, supervisor of flying, who was in the tower. “SOF, this is Bossman. Say emergency.”
A voice he didn’t recognize answered. “Miser One experienced catastrophic gun failure on a strafing pass. Lost all hydraulics plus wrapped the gun-access door around the nose and jammed the nose-gear door. He’s in manual reversion, but since he’s got two good engines, he’s gonna land it.”
“Say pilot,” Pontowski radioed.
The SOF answered immediately. “Lieutenant Colonel Walderman.”
“Waldo,” Pontowski said, half aloud.
“Is that good or bad?” Rockne asked. He coasted the pickup to a stop halfway down the runway and well back from the taxiway. They were merely spectators.
“Both,” Pontowski replied. “Manual reversion is an emergency procedure when you’ve lost hydraulics to get you to a safe area to eject. That’s good. The book says you can attempt a landing if you’ve got two good engines, which he does. He’ll try to land. Not good. He can’t get the wheels down, but the Hog’s main gear sticks out enough to land with it up.” Again he keyed the radio. “SOF, tell Waldo to jettison that Hog. I’ve got lots of aircraft but only one him.”
“I’ve advised him of same,” the SOF said. “It’s his option.”
Another voice came over the radio. “No sweat, Bossman.” It was Waldo. “And you speak with crooked tongue, white man. We no have lots of aircraft.”
“White man?” Rockne asked Pontowski.
“A play on words. We were in the Three Oh Third at Whiteman in Missouri.”
“I was stationed at Whiteman,” Rockne told him. “During the Jefferson court-martial.”*
Pontowski looked at him in surprise. “You were mixed up with that?”
“The whole damn Wing was mixed up.” His eyes narrowed as the two aircraft approached. “I see smoke.” A thin trail of smoke was trailing from Waldo’s aircraft.
“I got it now,” Pontowski said. “You got good eyeballs.”
They watched as the two aircraft came down final. Waldo’s wingman moved away for a go-around as Waldo crossed the approach lights. Waldo set the disabled aircraft down on the centerline just beyond the runway numbers, leaving plenty of room to drag the jet to a stop. “Pretty as a picture,” Pontowski said. And it was. The Warthog touched down on its partially exposed main landing gear, and Waldo held the nose up as long as he could. Finally the nose came down and sent out a shower of smoke and sparks.
“Why isn’t the crash wagon following him?” Rockne asked.
Pontowski took his eyes off the jet and looked back up the runway. The crash wagon was not moving. Two firefighters were off the truck and ripping open a side panel. “Hell of a time to stall,” Pontowski growled. A loud screeching sound jerked his attention back to Waldo’s Hog. Without hydraulics Waldo had five applications of the emergency brakes. When he tapped the brakes, the big jet started to slide off to the left. He tapped harder to straighten it out, but that only made matters worse. The Warthog jerked around and skidded sidewise down the runway. The right wingtip dug in, and the left wing lifted high into the air. For a brief moment Pontowski was certain it was going to do a cartwheel. Then the wing lowered back down as the big jet came to a halt on the runway. Waldo’s head was slumped forward.
Rockne gunned the engine and raced for the Warthog. “When we get there,” he said, “you drive. Give me enough time to get the fire extinguisher out of the back and then go tow the crash wagon here. A tow strap is behind my seat.”
“Got it,” Pontowski said as the pickup slammed to a stop. Rockne was out in a blur of motion, and before Pontowski could slip behind the steering wheel, he had jerked the fire extinguisher from the back and was running for the Warthog. Waldo’s head was still down and not moving. Pontowski spun the wheel and headed for the crash truck. He glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see Rockne hit the button to open the canopy.
Pontowski pulled up in front of the crash truck and jumped out. He threw the tow strap at a fireman. “Hook it up,” he called. He jumped back in and waited. Within seconds the driver gave him a thumbs-up, and he gunned the engine. The transmission whined in protest. “Go!” he yelled. Slowly, they started to move. Then they were picking up speed, reaching fifteen miles an hour. Ahead of him he could see Rockne pulling Waldo out of the cockpit as the back of the aircraft was enveloped in smoke. An ambulance drove up, and two med techs headed for the aircraft, but the heavy smoke drove them back. “Oh, no,” Pontowski moaned as he stopped on the upwind side of the Warthog. The crash truck slammed into the rear of the pickup, its brakes not working. A silver-suited fireman jumped out of the crash truck and headed into the smoke as three others unlimbered a hose. Rockne and the rescue man stumbled out of the smoke, half carrying, half dragging Waldo.