Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 (53 page)

           
Cunningham nodded thoughtfully and
said to Curtis, “Depending on fuel availability, Walheim can mount a credible
air-defense operation from Ratulangi for a rescue operation if they could get
full cooperation from the Indonesian government.”

           
“It’s unlikely, considering all the
shit that’s going on,” Curtis said, “but we’ve got to find out.” To Rodgers,
Curtis said, “I want to talk with the State Department ASAP. Danahall himself
if he’s available, otherwise his Pacific deputy.”

           
“Admiral Walheim suggested going
ahead with search and rescue efforts anyway; a lone vessel broadcasting that it
is part of a rescue effort might be allowed to proceed.” “The STRATFOR can
organize a cover counter-air operation from Andersen,” General Falmouth, the
Air Force Chief of Staff, suggested. “PACAF has a number of fighters on
Guam
we can use ...”

           
“Action denied,” Curtis replied. “I
want
Sterett
to stay out of the
Celebes
and outside six hundred miles from
Zamboanga until I talk directly with State and Admiral Walheim. No vessels
enter the
Celebes
without support.” He thought of the four Tomcat
naval aviators that were down, but he also knew the result of a damaged plane
slamming into the sea from thousands of feet in the sky—unless someone saw
parachutes, there were probably no survivors, and certainly there was no reason
to risk hundreds of lives on
Sterett
to save four men. As much as Curtis hated to admit it, a rescue operation now
was out of the question. “Continue. Status of the Air Force aircraft?”

           
“Minor injuries sustained during
escape maneuvers when the crew thought they were under attack,” Rodgers said.
“The RC-135 refueled inflight and safely recovered at Andersen Air Force Base
on
Guam
. The E-3C AWACS plane and the KC-10 are
still on station in the southern Philippine

           
Sea north of
Manado
between the
Philippines
and
Indonesia
; the AWACS plane is keeping an eye on
Chinese fighter activity and attempting to locate the two downed aircraft. They
have four of the six Tomcat fighters with them for air cover; the other two
Tomcats landed in
Indonesia
with the medevac helicopters. They estimate
they can stay on station until daybreak, then they must withdraw for aircraft
servicing.”

           
Curtis checked the row of world
clocks below the NMCC’s ‘‘big board”—it was almost two-thirty in the morning
Guam
time. “I want the AWACS plane back on
Guam
by sunrise,” Curtis said. ‘‘Have them stay
long enough to cover any naval flight operations in progress, but I don’t want
any heavy American military aircraft airborne during daylight hours, with or
without escorts.” He then thought of Dr. Jon Masters’ satellite system—what the
hell did he call them, NIRTSats?—and said, “I want to talk with General Stone
on
Guam
immediately.”

           
“Yes, sir.”

           
Curtis turned to Cunningham. “We got
a satellite system up there that can find a Chevy in a parlung lot full of
Fords, on a cloudy night, from four hundred miles in space—now’s the time to
use it.”

           
“Amen to that,” Cunningham said.
“Sir, the
Independence
carrier group should be notified of the
incident and briefed on their actions. I’d like to set up the two-hundred-mile exclusion
zone and put fire-first provisions in the ROEs.”

           
“Two-hundred-mile exclusion zone
approved,” Curtis said. “Fire-first provisions only for aircraft on antiship
cruise-missile profiles. Any other actions have to come through the NCA.

           
“Get a full report from Admiral
Walheim on
Ranger,
then brief me ASAP
on what we need to send to
Manado
to assist our troops in
Indonesia
; I need a laundry list for the State
Department. Find out what ships are available to replace
Ranger
—including submarines. I want to be able to take control of
those waters as quickly as I can.” Cunningham turned to his communications
console to begin issuing his orders.

           
The orange fight on his console
illuminated, and Curtis donned a headset and plugged it into the phone jack.
“Curtis here.”

           
“Hold for the President, please.” A
moment later: “Yes, Wilbur, what’s going on?”

           
“Mr. President, we have an incident
pear the
Philippines
. The aircraft carrier
Ranger
was hit by a Chinese air- launched cruise missile and
damaged with loss of life. Two Navy fighter planes were shot down as well.”

           
“Oh, no . . .” the President
murmured, obviously not wishing his feelings to be heard by others with him. He
was speaking on a scrambled cellular phone, but from the background noise
Curtis heard, it sounded as if he were at a luncheon and were still right at
the table. “I’ll be out of here in ten minutes. Ask ‘laddie’ to come up and see
me when he can.” The line went dead.

           
Curtis could not help but smile at
the casual, almost backwoods code words the President liked to use during
conversations like this: “laddie” was this month’s code word for the National
Security Council, whom he wanted assembled in the White House Situation Room
immediately. To his communications officer, Curtis said, “Call the White House
communication office and get the NSC in the Situation Room ASAP.”

           
The phone fine began to come alive
at that moment, and Curtis motioned for someone to get him a glass of water as
he settled in. Two or three calls to get a better picture of the situation,
then formulate a plan of action during the car ride to the White House. It was
as it always was: he was cut out of the loop for most of the really important
policy decisions, but when the shit hit the fan, he was expected to have all
the answers. Well, he told himself, he was going to
have
all the answers when the National Security Council met.

           
The next call came from
Guam
: “General Stone here, sir.”

           
“Rat, got a report for me?”

           
“The
Ranger
got jumped by B-6 bombers and Q-5 or B-7 fighters, sir,”
Stone replied. The exhaustion in his voice was obvious, even over the scrambled
satellite link. “We didn’t see them coming until about a hundred and fifty
miles out. We had the radar planes bug out, and we thought the Navy fighters
turned them away, but they weren’t after the radar planes—they were going after
ships right away. Only two of the first flight of six were armed for air
defense; the other four were carrying two each C601 missiles as well as
heatseeking air-to-airs ...”

           
“Are you sure they were 601s?”

           
“Pretty sure, judging by the flight
profile and the damage they caused. They were a hell of a lot bigger than C801s
or Exocets.”

           
“No evidence of . . . special
warheads?” It was possible that the C601 missiles were carrying nuclear
warheads but they simply failed to go off.

           
Curtis could hear a genuine sigh of
relief even through the static-charged transmission: “No, thank God.” The
alternative, as Curtis well knew, could have been much worse. In 1946, during
secret tests code-named
OPERATION CROSSROADS,
the Navy wanted to see the effects of a twenty-kilo- ton nuclear blast on
an aircraft carrier. CV-3 USS
Saratoga
was towed out to Bikini Atoll and the device
set off five hundred yards away. The blast of that one warhead threw the
forty-thousand-ton aircraft carrier nearly fifty feet out of the water, pushed
it sideways nearly a half-mile, crushed its seventeen-inch armor plating and
caved in the flight deck, then sank it in seven hours.
Ranger
would have suffered much the same fate.

           
“We got pictures of the aircraft on
the ground in Zamboanga after the attack—they were B-6 bombers all right,”
Stone continued, shaking Curtis out of his reverie. “The Chinese put their
top-of-the-line maritime-attack plane in Zamboanga. Each one had two C601
missiles and two PL-7 or PL-9 missiles. No definite ID on the fighters—only the
B-7, F-8, or the A-5 with air refueling have the legs these guys had to go
after
Ranger
from that distance. We
also got pictures of Y-8 reconnaissance planes and PS-5 antisubmarine-warfare
planes out there.”

           
The Chinese were moving a major
naval air force into the south
Philippines
, Curtis decided. With this force they could
seal off the entire area and conduct bombing raids on the government bases on
Mindanao
. Curtis asked, “Do they own the
Celebes Sea
, Rat Killer?”

           
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Stone replied.
“Air, land, sea, everything. We gotta go in hard if we want to have access.”
Curtis knew what that meant—no more fucking soft probes, no more RC-135s no
matter how many escorts they had. Sending
Sterett
into the
Celebes Sea
now would be a big mistake. “I copy. Looks
like Doctor Masters’ gadgets are going to be the only intel we get for a
while.”

           
“He’s giving us some great poop,
sir,” Stone said. “His gadgets are working just fine. I’ve already transmitted
some pictures to you via Offutt; they should be in your hands very soon. You
should have some more detailed shots of the Chinese positions in Zamboanga
within a couple hours.” “Good. I meet with the boss in thirty minutes; he’s
going to want to see them. What else have you got for me?” “With Masters’ gear
set up here, General Harbaugh from Third Air Division, General Houston from
Fifteenth Air Force, and I have already played out a couple strike scenarios
for the south Philippines,” Stone replied. “We’re definitely going to need the
Air Battle Force—and then some—to dislodge our Oriental buddies.”

           
“What kind of scenarios have you
come up with?” Curtis asked. “Can you send me some of your data?”

           
“I sent the scenarios to you along
with the photos,” Stone said. “It’ll make interesting reading for you. Masters
practically duplicated the entire Air War College and Naval Postgraduate School
war-gaming computer models right here in my command post, complete with
up-to-the-minute intelligence data, and we’ve built and revised data tapes for
the B-52’s Offensive Avionics System suite and for the B-l’s AP-1750 strike
computers for the Air Battle Force aircraft. We’ve fought the battle of
Mindanao
three times already.” Curtis remembered the
old saying, “Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer,” but he
asked anyway: “Who won?”

           
“It depends, sir,” Stone replied.
“Exactly how bad do we want the Chinese out of the
Philippines
?”

           
“What I want is to send a ship into
the
Celebes
to search for the downed crews from the
Tomcats we lost. I also want to get the Navy back in there just to tell the
Chinese they can’t lock us out. I need some air cover. The Navy planes are
grounded for now.”

           
“Sorry, sir. Don’t think we can
help,” Stone said. “We’ve only got seven F-15 fighters on station—we’d need at
least twenty to cover a rescue operation. None are modified for air-to-surface
ops.”

           
Curtis swore to himself. With
Ranger
out of the fight, they were
really stuck for both offensive and defensive punch. It would take time to send
in another carrier group, and that would allow the Chinese to fortify their own
sea and land forces.

           
What they needed was
real
offensive and defensive power. They
needed the Air Battle Force in there—right
now.

The White House Situation Room

Thirty minutes later .

           
“You told me the carrier battle
groups could protect themselves, General,” the President began. “One hit, and
now we’ve got sixty dead and hundreds more injured.”