Sky Masters

by Dale Brown

  office to the Battle staff briefing area. But as they were leaving, with

  Teguina well out of earshot, Yin grabbed Captain Sun and hissed, "Get

  headquarters' political section on the line immediately. I want to find

  out about the ASEAN vote and the status of Nansha Dao. Do it

  immediately." THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE SATURDAY, 8 OCTOBER 1994, 0627

  HOURS LOCAL The President of the United States had extended his hand to

  greet United Nations ambassador Deborah O'Day as she walked into the

  Oval Office, but by some sort of sudden urge he found himself giving her

  a cordial hug. "Welcome back home, Deborah, " the President said,

  guiding her to a chair. Secretary of State Danahall, Secretary of

  Defense Preston, Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Curtis, and several

  members of the House and Senate armed services committees stayed on

  their feet until O'Day was seated, then took their place around her.

  "You've had a hell of an ordeal, haven't you?" "Dealing with the ASEAN

  representatives and the Chinese delegation has been tougher than getting

  kidnapped by Samar's rebels, " O'Day admitted. She extended a hand, and

  her aide placed a leather-jacketed folder into it. "Mr. President,

  I've been given a communique by the Chinese government, a reply to your

  last message requesting withdrawal from the Philippines. "I take it by

  your tone that it's not good news."

  "I haven't read the letter itself, sir, but the Chinese ambassador was

  not cordial. I think it's bad news." The President took the folder,

  broke the seal, initialed the original Chinese-language version of the

  letter and placed it aside, then read the United Nations and State

  Department translations. "Just as we thought, " Taylor said wearily.

  "China rejects our demands for an immediate withdrawal. They say they

  are in the Philippines with the permission and full sanction of the

  Philippine government, and the American involvement there is illegal

  meddling in the internal affairs of another government. They say they

  do not know the whereabouts of Arturo Mikaso and said we should make

  inquiries with the Filipino government as to his status, but as far as

  they are concerned Daniel Teguina is in charge and Jose Trujillo Samar

  has no authority in the government. "They regret the attacks on our

  aircraft and warships, but in the current unstable world climate such

  interference should have been anticipated and therefore we should carry

  as much of the blame for the loss as they . "Bullshit, " Curtis

  murmured. "They further regard the deployment of heavy bombers and

  carrier battle groups around the Philippines as an extremely hostile act

  and they will use any and all means at their disposal to protect their

  citizens and property." The President tossed the communique aside and

  regarded the advisers around him. "Well? Thoughts?"

  "Samar's rebels come under attack in less than five hours, sir, " O'Day

  said. She glanced at Wilbur Curtis. "Is that right, General?"

  "Yes, it is, " Curtis said. He referred to the pile of mounted

  satellite photos on the coffee table before him-the photos taken from

  the B-2 and U-2 reconnaissance flights. "It may have begun already.

  Chinese warships were in position to bombard Davao by sundown. When

  their landing craft get into position, they'll start the invasion."

  "Five hours? So you're saying it's too late ~"

  "No, sir, I'm not, " Curtis said. "As we discussed in the tactics

  briefing, the Chinese troops are most vulnerable while they're still in

  their troop transports. They've already begun unloading troops along

  the Buoyan peninsula east of Mount Apo to secure the coastal towns, but

  the main force still hasn't landed in Davao yet-Samar's rebels are

  mining the straits and inlets, trying to slow the convoys up. We still

  have time to stop them." The President nodded to Curtis. "Thank you,

  General." To Secretary of Defense Preston, he asked, "Thomas? What do

  you have for me?"

  "Only my wish that we wait and bring the Lincoln and Nimitz carrier

  battle groups, and the Wisconsin surface action group, forward into

  position first, " Preston replied. "But I know if we still desire to

  support Samar and his Islamic rebels that we must act quickly." The

  President seemed to consider his words for a moment. "Thank you." He

  continued around the room, getting last thoughts from Danahall and the

  congressional leadership. A few voiced hesitation, but all seemed to

  want to act. From the front of his desk, the President withdrew a

  redcovered folder and opened it. Below large dark letters that read Top

  Secret were the words Executive Order 94-21, Air Operations, Strike,

  Island of Mindanao, Republic of the Philippines. Without any further

  hesitation, the President signed the order and several copies, then

  replaced it in the folder and resealed it. Wilbur Curtis was on the

  phone thirty seconds later to the National Military Command Center.

  ANDERSEN AFB, GUAM SUNDAY, 9 OCTOBER 1994, 1915 HOURS LOCAL (SATURDAY, 8

  OCTOBER, 0815 WASHINGTON TIME) Patrick McLanahan awoke thirty minutes

  before his alarm rang. Two hours before the first daily standby

  situation briefing-he needed rest, but he knew his mind was not going to

  let him have any more. His bedroom was a maintenance office on the top

  floor of hangar building number 509, on Andersen's expansive north

  parking ramp, which he shared with his aircraft commander, Major Henry

  Cobb. Down below them in the huge hangar were two very unusual

  machines-Patrick's B-2A Black Knight stealth bomber and an EB-52C

  Megafortress strategic escort aircraft-the same Megafortress that had

  "saved" their tails from the F-23 Wildcat fighters during General

  Jarrel's training sorties three weeks ago in Powder River Run. The

  hangar also housed all the other flight, maintenance, and support crews

  for the HAWC aircraft, as well as a full squadron of heavily armed

  security police. Careful not to disturb his aircraft commander, Patrick

  pulled on his flight suit, picked up his socks and boots from their

  place under his canvas folding cot, and tried to tiptoe out. "Up

  already, Colonel?" Cobb said from his cot. "Yep. Sorry to wake you."

  "You didn't. I never went to sleep." Cobb threw off the sheet covering

  him and swung his feet onto the floor. "Never slept in a hangar before.

  Don't think I want to again after this."

  "Amen, " Patrick said. "The smell really gets you after a while. I

  started to have... bad dreams." He wasn't going to say what those

  dreams were like or what mission he was flying in his dreams. He got

  the same dreams every time he was exposed to kerosene-like fumes-a

  morning long ago and far away... a tiny snow-covered fighter base at

  Anadyr, Siberia, in the Soviet Union, when he pumped thousands of

  gallons of kerosene into a B-52 by hand in subzero weather so they could

  take off again before the Soviet Army found them. David Luger had

  sacrificed himself to make sure they could escape, driving a fuel truck

  into a machine gun emplacement-and Patrick relived that horrible moment

  every night after smelling jet-fuel fumes. He would probably
do so for

  the rest of his life. Henry Cobb hadn't heard all the stories about the

  Old Dog mission-he had of course met all the survivors of that mission,

  most of whom worked-some called it "exiled"-at the HAWC, and he had seen

  the first Megafortress itself after Ormack and McLanahan flew it from

  Alaska back to Dreamland-but he could guess that it was some event in

  that mission that starred in McLanahan's bad dreams. Both men quickly

  washed up in the lavatory down the hall, then returned to their rooms to

  dress. Despite the warm, muggy afternoon, they donned thin,

  fire-resistant long underwear and thick padded socks under their flight

  suits. Under the long underwear were regular cotton briefs and

  T-shirts. They wore metal military dog tags next to their skin so they

  wouldn't rattle or fly loose during ejection. Many crew members laced

  dog tags into their boots as well, because many times lower body parts

  survived aerial combat better than upper body parts. They both carried

  survival knives in ankle sheaths, lightweight composite-bladed knives

  with both straight and serrated edges, a built-in magnetic compass in

  the butt cap, and a watertight compartment in the handle that carried

  waterproof matches, fishing line, sunscreen, a small signal mirror, and

  a tiny first-aid and survival booklet. In thigh pockets they carried

  another knife, this one attached to their flight suits by a

  six-foot-long cord-this knife was a legal switchblade knife with a hook

  blade for cutting parachute risers. The thigh pocket also contained a

  vial with earplugs, which were often mistaken by curious nonflyers for

  suicide pills. They carried no wallets, at least not the same ones they

  carried normally. Into a specially prepared nylon "sortie" wal- let

  they placed their military identification cards, some cash, credit

  cards, and traveler's checks-these were many times more valuable than

  the "blood chits" used to buy assistance during earlier wars. During

  the intelligence briefing before a mission, they would receive

  "pointee-talkee" native language cards and small escape.and-evasion maps

  of the area, which both went into the sortie wallet. Just about every

  pocket in a flight suit contained something, usually personal survival

  items devised after years of experience. In his ankle pockets, Patrick

  carried fireproof Nomex flying gloves, extra pencils, and a large

  plastic Ziplok bag containing a hip flask filled with water and a small

  vial with water purification tablets. Cobb took a small Bible, a flask

  of some unidentifiable liquid, and included an unusual multipurpose tool

  that fit neatly inside his sortie wallet. They packed up their charts,

  flight manuals, and other documents in a Nomex flying bag, picked up a

  lightweight nylon flying jacket-which had its own assortment of survival

  articles in its pocketsand departed. While they were up on the

  upper-floor "catwalk" in the hangar, they had a good opportunity to look

  at the EB-52C escort bomber that was in the hangar with their B-2.

  Unlike the B-2, where there was little activity, the technicians and

  munitions maintenance crews were swarming around the Megafortress like

  worker bees in a hive. It had to be the weirdest plane-and the most

  deadly looking plane-either of them had ever seen. The long, sleek,

  pointed nose was canted down in taxi position, with the aerodynamically

  raked windscreens looking Oriental and menacing. The dorsal SAR

  synthetic aperture radar radome, which ran from just aft of the crew

  compartment and ended in a neat fairing that blended back into the

  fuselage and the diagonal stabilators near the aft end, made the

  Megafortress seem broad-shouldered and evil, like some warlock's

  hunchbacked assistant. The pointed aerodynamic tip tanks, two on each

  wingtip, looked like twin stilettos challenging all corners, like

  lowered lances held by charging knights on horseback. Short low-drag

  pylons mounted between the inboard engine nacelles and the ebony

  fuselage on each side held six AIM-I 20 Scorpion air-to-air missiles,

  their red ground-safety streamers still visible. Faired under the wings

  were sensor pods that contained laser target designators, infrared

  scanners, telescopic cameras for long-range air-target identification,

  and millimeter-wave radars to scan for large metallic objects hidden by

  trees or fog that normally could not be picked up by other sensors, such

  as tanks and armored vehicles. This was one of the older Megafortress

  escort bombers-it still had the older, conventional metal wings that

  drooped so far down that the wingtips were only a few feet above the

  ground and had to be supported by pogo wheels. The new Megafortress

  wings were made of composite materials and wouldn't sag one inch, even

  fully loaded with fuel and weapons. Other weapons were just being

  uploaded, and Henry Cobb, who had had little experience with the

  Megafortress project, could only shake his head in amazement. The

  forward section of the bomb bay contained two four-round clip-in racks

  that held AGM-136 TACIT RAINBOW antiradar cruise missiles. The aft bomb

  bay contained a Common Strategy Rotary Launcher filled with smooth,

  oblong-bodied missiles-eight TV-guided AGM-84E SLAMs, or Standoff Land

  Attack Missiles. "Looks like the Megafortresses are getting loaded for

  bear, " Cobb remarked. They could also see the loading procedures for

  the Stinger airmine rockets in the tail launcher. Watching this

  Megafortress getting ready for combat made McLanahan feel strange-a

  crashing wave of deja vu was descending on him. The hangar in a remote

  location, the weapons loaded and ready, the plane fueled and ready to

  go-it was horribly like the last time he had taken a B-52 into combat

  all those years ago. But that wasn't his bird now. He had a new one, a

  bigger, darker, more lethal one-the B-2 Black Knight, modified like the

  EB-52 to be a strategic escort bomber. All of the B-2's weapons were

  internal, and the sophisticated sensors were buried within the wing

  leading edges or in the sensor bay in the nose under the crew

  compartment. The reconnaissance pods were gone, to be replaced by

  rotary launchers that would carry much more lethal warloads than cameras

  and radars. The B-2's ground crew had just arrived for the pre-takeoff

  inspection, and since the two crewmen were awake at least an hour before

  they intended, they had time to look over their Black Knight before

  reporting to the briefing room. They found little changed. The

  maintenance crews were going through a normal pre-flight as if the plane

  were going on another training sortie-they were less than four hours

  from takeoff and no weapons had been uploaded yet. "Where are the

  missiles?" Cobb asked McLanahan. "I thought we were loading up on

  Harpoons or SLAMs for this run. "Won't know what we'll be doing for at

  least another two hours yet, " Patrick replied. "We don't know yet if

  we're going after ships, or radars, or ground targets-it could be

  anything. Once the Joint Battle Staff decides, it'll take them just a

  few minutes to snap those launchers and bomb racks in and do a gro
und

  check. They can probably do it while other planes are launching." They

  completed a casual walkaround inspection, chatting with the maintenance

  crews along the way. It was apparent that each and every one of them

  was just as apprehensive, just as nervous, just as concerned for what

  was happening on Andersen Air Force Base and in the rest of the Pacific

  as Cobb and McLanahan. One of the munitions maintenance men stopped

  inspecting a SLAM missile seeker head when McLanahan greeted him. "Think

  we'll be flying tonight, sir?" the man asked. The "we" was not just a

  demonstrative-ground crews were just as emotionally and professionally

  tied to their aircraft as the flight crews. When McLanahan's B-2 rolled

  down the runway, a hundred other minds and hearts were right in there

  with him. "Wish I could tell you, Paul, " Patrick said. "They tell us

  to be ready, that's all." The man stepped closer to McLanahan, as if

  afraid to ask the question that had obviously been nagging at his

  consciousness: "Are you scared, sir?" he asked in a low voice. Patrick

  looked back at the man with a touch of astonishment at the question.

  Before he could reply, however, some other technician had pulled the man

  away. "That's McLanahan, you butthead. He's the best there is, "

  Patrick heard the second tech tell him. "He's too good to get scared."

  None of the other crew chiefs dared to speak with the two aviators. Cobb

  and McLanahan finished their inspection, checked in with the security

  guard, who inspected their bags before allowing them to leave, and then

  the two B-2 crew members stepped out of the hangar into the twilight.

  Unlike the controlled, calm tension inside hangar 509, outside it was

  sheer bedlam. The ramp space in front of the hangars was the only clear

  space as far as either man could see-the rest of the base was filled

  with aircraft of every possible description, and the access roads and

  taxiways were clogged with maintenance and support vehicles. The north

  ramp to their far right was choked full of cargo aircraft-C-141

  Starlifters, C-5 Galaxys, and C-130 Hercules planes, all surrounded by

  cargo-handling equipment offloading their precious pallets of spare

  parts, personnel, weapons, and other supplies. Like a line of ants