Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 (79 page)

           
. . . and they were still under
attack. “Bandit at our
four o’clock
position, range ten miles, turning right
and coming around behind us,” McLanahan shouted. “Descend as low as you can . .
.”

           
“I’m going, I’m going ... hell, if
we descend too much we won’t be able to climb back up.” Cobb was straining on
the control stick, since the auxiliary hydraulic system provided only 70
percent of the primary system’s power, and the flight-control system was no
longer assisting. “I’m having trouble controlling, Patrick. If that bozo
attacks, we’ve had it. I can’t maneuver ... I can barely hold it as it is. Tighten
your shoulder straps again. Get ready to jump out if he attacks...”

           
“He’s got to find us first, Henry,”
Patrick said as he pulled his shoulder straps as tight as he could stand it.
“Range seven miles . . . turning on our six . . . keep descending, Henry. We’re
still jamming . . . maybe he won’t be able to see us . . . five miles and
closing ...”

           
The Black Knight bomber began to
rumble, and the nose began to oscillate as Cobb fought to hold it steady. “Get
ready to go, Patrick. It’s still flying, but I don’t know how . . .”

           
“Just hang in there, Henry—” But
McLanahan watched the SMFD as the fighter icon closed mercilessly—the Chinese
fighter was coming in for the kill, and there was nothing they could do to stop
it. . . .

           
The JS-7 pilot was more experienced
in air-to-air engagements than his former leader—A-5 pilots did more ground-
attack training than dogfighting—and he knew, judging by the B-2’s slow
airspeed and erratic flight path, that he was in danger of crashing at any
moment anyway. The A-5 pilot— he did not even know the man’s name—rushed his
shots, not closing in enough for the inherently poor PL-2 missiles to get a
solid lock-on. A boresight missile launch was the best way to go—the PL-2
missile was especially prone to decoys, so if the seeker head was bypassed it
was more deadly. He switched the attack system to “Boresight” and kept his
power high, closing the distance rapidly. A boresight launch made the missile
nothing more than a big, powerful bullet— far more deadly than his 23-millimeter
cannon, but with the same effective range. It had to be led on target just like
a gun, but that was easy in this case, since the B-2 wasn’t maneuvering and
seemed virtually incapable of doing so.

           
He had no laser rangefinder, no TV
camera, and no usable radar to judge distance, but when he could see the
ghostly shape of the American B-2 highlighted against the faint glow of the
sky, he knew he was close enough . . .

           
His radar warning receiver suddenly
screamed to life. There were no warning beeps, no search radar, no hint of the
approach of any fighter—just an enemy fighter symbol superimposed on the center
circle of his threat scope, meaning that it was already within lethal range. He
was distracted away from the B-2 for only a split second after deciding he was
going to attack instead of taking evasive action, but that split second was all
that was needed—the B-2 made a gentle 30-degree bank turn to the west, and it
took several seconds of frantic searching to reacquire it again in the darkness
of the forests of Mindanao below. The boresight launch was spoiled.

           
With a fighter somewhere on him,
there was no time to line up another boresight launch. The JS-7 immediately
switched to seeker guidance and received a lock-on indication with a few
seconds ...

           
. . . but he never got to fire the
missile. Two AIM-130 Scorpion missiles from Major Kelvin Carter’s Megafortress
bomber ripped into the Chinese fighter, slicing it into three pieces and
flinging it across the
Padada
River
valley below.

           
“Keep it coming to the right,
Horse,” Major Kelvin Carter told Cobb and McLanahan. “We’ll take it over
central
Mindanao
and try to escape to the northeast. Is this
Horse One-Six?”

           
“Affirm, Diamond One-Three,” Cobb
replied on the scrambled tactical frequency, recognizing Carter’s voice.
“Thanks for clearing our tail.”

           
“No problem. We got you on the FLIR,
and you’re trailing smoke from your number one. What’s your situation?”

           
“Lost number one, lost our primary
hydraulics, lost part of our left flight controls, losing fuel out the left
wing,” Cobb replied. “We’re going to need a tanker in about thirty minutes.”

           
“If you’re still hooked up to the
network, they’ll be alerted and someone will be waiting for you,” Carter
reminded him. The Dreamland aircraft that could receive and transmit NIRTSat
data were constantly being monitored by the Air Battle Force officers back on
Guam
—the computers would automatically upload a
status report to a NIRTSat as it passed overhead every fifteen minutes, and the
satellite would relay the aircraft reports to General Stone on
Guam
. “We’ll stay with you—we’re out of
air-to-surface stuff anyway.”

           
“What’s the status of the strike
package?” McLanahan asked.

           
“We lost two BUFFs and one Black
Knight going in, not counting you guys,” Carter said, “and that was before we
dropped one damned weapon on the assault force invading
Davao
. The real fight should be starting . . .
right about now.”

Emergency Conference Room ,

Camp
David
Presidential Retreat,
Maryland

Sunday, 9 October 1994, 1323
hours local (Monday, 10 October 1994, 0223 hours Philippines time)

           
President Lloyd Emerson Taylor sat
with hands folded under his chin, staring at a spot atop his desk. He was still
wearing his brown leather Air Force-issue flight jacket over casual slacks and
a red flannel shirt, the same things he had put on the day before. He had taken
Marine Corps One to
Camp
David
yesterday at
six
P.M.
,
arriving just before sunset. After his
arrival, he wordlessly kissed his wife, Jean, good-bye, then proceeded directly
to the Emergency Conference Room, seated himself at that desk and, almost
literally, had not moved since. Members of the National Security Council and
key members of Congress had been filing in and out of the Emergency Conference
Room all day—he all but ignored them.

           
Military communications technicians
were manning phones and headsets nearby, but the President had only two phones
on his desk: one direct to the National Military Command Center at the
Pentagon, where General Curtis and Secretary of Defense Preston had been since
the President had signed the executive order authorizing the mission against
the Chinese; the other was direct to the White House Communications Center,
where calls from overseas could be immediately transferred to him. There was
also a series of reports transmitted to him via secure teletype from General
Curtis—including some casualty reports. Those he dreaded most of all.

           
The news crushed him, especially the
word that a B-2 had been lost. He resisted the urge to wad up the teletype
paper instead laying it flat on top of the growing stack of urgent reports from
Curtis, then returned to his stoic position at the desk. But the more he
thought about the reports that had just come in, the more he realized it was
the loss of the B-2 that bothered him the most. Yes, it was horrible that
they’d lost six B-52 crew members, and the F-14 Tomcat aviators, and the
sailors from the USS
Ranger.
But he’d
always thought of the B-2 as . . . almost invincible. For the kind of money and
research that had gone into those planes, they should have been. And yet, as he
more than anyone knew, nothing was ever certain in life.

           
Nothing.

           
Paul Cesare had been keeping the
President’s coffee mug filled and hot all this time, even though the President
had only taken two or three sips in nearly twenty-four hours; now, he replaced
the thick, white Navy galley mug of coffee with a mug of chicken soup. “Eat
something, Mr. President,” Cesare said. “Get up and stretch . . .”

           
Taylor
considered it, but the ringing of the White
House phone glued him to the desk. Cesare picked it up, listened, then handed
it right to the President. “Sir, it’s the Chinese Foreign Minister on the line
from
Beijing
.”

           
Taylor
would have loved to tell Zhou to piss off
backwards, or tell him that, yes, we won’t bomb your ships anymore—hell, he
wasn’t sure what he would tell Zhou. Instead, he motioned to Secretary of State
Danahall to take the phone. They had already discussed in great detail exactly
what was going to be said—now was the moment to start the . drama. .

           
The President turned to a separate
no-voice phone to listen in while Danahall cleared his throat and said,
“Secretary Danahall speaking.”

           
“Mr. Secretary, this is Zhou Ti
Yanbing,” the Chinese Foreign Minister announced himself. “I thank you for
taking my call, sir.”

           
“Do you have a message for us?”

           
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” Zhou said.
“Premier Cheung wishes to officially protest the unwarranted and brutal attack
on the People’s Republic of
China
’s fleet in the southern
Philippines
. Premier Cheung demands to know if a state
of war has been declared and whether Article Four of the Brussels Conference is
hereby implemented.” Article Four dealt with the formal declaration of
hostilities between nations, setting in motion all the legal and diplomatic
formalities of war.

           
Taylor
couldn’t believe it. He listened with a
growing sense of fury and frustration. God, how he’d love to tell Zhou and
Cheung to go to hell. Better yet, to bomb them back into the Stone Age. With
that one nuclear explosion they had set off the most maddening and aggravating
chain of events in his administration. And now the fuckers were demanding that
the
United States
follow the letter of the law. The audacity
. . .

           
He shook his head and took a deep
breath. Even going on twenty-four hours without sleep, he knew, as much as he’d
rather not, that rules had to be obeyed, protocol observed, words exchanged. He
nodded for Secretary Danahall to continue ...

           
Danahall took a deep breath and said
calmly, “Please advise Premier Cheung that the government of the
United States
desires no direct communication with the
government of the People’s Republic of
China
except to receive an offer of an immediate
cease-fire and guaranteed promise to halt all military operations in the
Philippines
. Any official notification this government
has with your government will be through the United Nations.”

           
“I understand the formal
notification procedures, Mr. Secretary, and we will of course abide by them as
well,” Zhou said in his polished, fluent English-Oriental accent. “My
government has already delivered an official letter of protest to the Secretary
General, and I trust Ambassador O’Day will contact you in short order. But any
nation that embraces peace, freedom, and human rights would surely desire to
begin negotiations to end all hostilities as soon as possible. You do not wish
to fight a war, do you, Mr. Secretary? Will you simply make demands of us
without opening any sort of dialogue?”

           
“We have no message or statements
for your government, Mr. Foreign Secretary,” Danahall said resolutely, “except
that we expect your guaranteed promise to withdraw all military forces from the
Philippines
immediately. Do you have a message for my
government?”

           
There was a slight pause; then: “Mr.
Secretary, please convey ...”

           
And then the line went dead.

The Presidential Residence,
Beijing

People’s Republic of
China

Monday, 10 October 1994, 0231
hours local

           
“You will
not
capitulate to the Americans!” Chinese High General Chin Po
Zihong said as he grabbed the phone from the Foreign Minister’s hand. Several
other members of Premier Cheung Yat Sing’s Cabinet shot to their feet in
absolute shock. Premier Cheung himself remained impassive, his hands folded on
his desk, watching the spectacle with a stone-cold, expressionless visage.

           
“How dare you disrupt a call to a
foreign ministry like that!” Zhou shouted. “Explain yourself, Comrade General.
You are violating a direct order from the Comrade Premier himself...”

           
“I am in charge of this military
operation, Comrade Zhou,” General Chin said. “Any communications that involve
it must go through myself. I have full authority—”

           
“You are out of line, General,” Zhou
said angrily. “You were insane to begin this foolish military incursion, you
were insane to place that criminal Admiral Yin in charge of an invasion force
on Mindanao, and you are a fool to refuse to open a dialogue with the
Americans.”

           
He turned and motioned to a stack of
reports piled on a granite conference table nearby. “You have read these
reports. Four destroyers have been sunk out there!
Four destroyers!
That is
half
of the destroyers assigned to Admiral Yin, and one-fourth of all the destroyers
in the entire People’s Liberation Army Navy fleet! At first report, ten
frigates and nearly thirty patrol boats were sunk or put out of commission as
well. There is no report of casualties yet, but they must number in the
thousands!
This operation must be
terminated immediately!”

           
“Impossible!” Chin shouted. “Out of
the question. We are hours away from final victory, Zhou Ti Yanbing. The
invasion has already begun, and the early indications are that there is no
resistance ...”

           
“No
resistance?
Four destroyers on the bottom of the

           
Celebes Sea
, and you say no resistance? You cannot hope
to ever claim a
victory
in this
debacle!”

           
“I was referring to rebel resistance
in
Davao
,” General Chin said. “We expected heavy
losses from the very beginning . . .”

           
“You told this government that we
could expect twenty to thirty percent losses maximum throughout the duration of
this conflict,” Zhou argued. “You did not say we would sustain thirty percent
losses
in three hours . . . !”

           
“The objective of the operation was
to seize
Samar
International
Airport
and secure the
island
of
Mindanao
,” General Chin said. “This government authorized
that operation—you authorized it as well, Comrade Zhou, with your affirmative
vote. That objective is still within my reach. Loss figures have not been
verified, and all my reports indicate that the objective can still be achieved
in less than six hours. So far only the American Air Battle Force has been
involved in this operation. They have sustained heavy losses as well, and even
if they complete their raids we can still achieve total victory. Once
Samar
International
Airport
falls, not one single American aircraft
will be able to approach within five hundred kilometers of the
Philippines
again ...”

           
“It appears obvious to me, General,
that even if you do take
Samar
International
Airport
, you have gained nothing,” Zhou said. “The
losses we are experiencing are staggering. We must withdraw immediately or we
will not have an army to land on
Davao
Airport
when you finally take it—or should I add,
if
you take it.” Zhou turned to Premier
Cheung, who had not said a word during the entire argument. “Comrade, I
request, with all due respect, that General Chin’s operation be terminated and
that we return—”

           
"You
cannot do this,”
General Chin shouted. “You cannot abandon a military
operation simply because of unverified reports of heavy losses in the first few
hours of a battle.” To Premier Cheung, he said, “Comrade Premier, we know the
Americans cannot mount a follow-on attack with the Air Battle Force—Admiral Yin
estimates they are using two- thirds of their strength on this raid alone and
are sustaining heavy losses. This is nothing more than a warning—the Americans
want us to know that they are serious about the status of the
Philippines
.

           
“But if we back out now, we have no
claim to make for
Palawan
,
Mindanao
,
or the
Spratly
Islands
whatsoever. If we take
Davao
and secure
Mindanao
, we can negotiate for favorable terms. The
Americans might even be forced to disengage if their losses are heavy enough
and if both world and popular opinion turns against them, and then we begin our
consolidation of the
Philippines
under Chinese stewardship.” He lowered his
voice, stared the Premier straight in the eyes, and said, “I can guarantee you
a victory, Comrade Premier. If I am stopped, I can guarantee you only
embarrassment and defeat.”