by Dale Brown
massed numbers of fighters. They would have to contend with the naval
threats, too. The odds were looking worse every minute. "The Chinese
have at least a hundred fighters in the area, half of which have the
endurance for long overwater patrols, " Elliott continued. "The Chinese
can effectively layer their defenses-warships, fighters, warships,
fighters, then warships, in the target area. If they take Samar
International Airport near Davao and start using it as a forward staging
base, it definitely means no AWACS or tankers-and it may mean no Air
Battle Force over Mindanao."
"You got any good news on that screen, General?" McLanahan asked wryly.
"Sort of. The New People's Army and the Chinese lost a big battle for
the city of Cotabato, here on Moro Gulf. We think the Chinese wanted to
use the airport there to stage fighters to support their upcoming
assault on Davao. Samar's guerrillas held out-for a while. But it was
long enough, because they demolished the airfield before they were
driven out by Chinese air raids. Pretty clever how they did it,
too-instead of just cratering the runway, which would have made it easy
for Chinese engineers to repair, they stripped out sections of runway,
buried stolen bombs in it, then cemented trucks over the bombs. It's
going to take the Chinese two or three days to repair the runway and
another few days to make it a usable staging base."
"So what do we do, then?" McLanahan asked. "This is what might be
called a target-rich environment. What's first?"
"General Stone and the Joint Task Force still haven't decided, " Elliott
replied. "They have a general outline to work with, but they'll wait
for the latest satellite data from Washington before going ahead with a
frag order. If Jon Masters' setup was working, we'd be done by now-it
only takes a few minutes to build a frag order from PACER SKY data. We
get flight plans, data cartridges, computer tapes, charts, briefing
boards, even slides from his system here. Now we have to program all
this stuff by hand." McLanahan saw Masters on the master console.
"Masters, how are you doing?"
"Cool, Mac, my man, real cool, " Masters said. Masters was dressed in
white shorts, a flowered Hawaiian shirt, and sneakers with no socks-it
looked as if he had just returned from Tarague Beach, Andersen Air Force
Base's recreation area. "Brad, we got ten more minutes until the data
comes in... "Is it back on-line, Doctor Masters?"
"Not quite, " Masters admitted. "But, hey, you gotta think positive.
Everything looks good so far. Say, Mac, you ready to kick some Chinese
butt out there tonight?" Patrick stared, not believing what he had just
heard. "Excuse me, Doctor?"
"Yeah, man, you're gonna clean up, " Masters enthused. "We got
spectacular photos and data, and we've got ingress and egress routes
scoped out so well that the Chinks won't even know you've just kicked
their sloped asses "I don't think we better-"
"Hey, loosen up, " Masters said, taking a big swallow from his
ever-present squeeze bottle of Pepsi. "Just sit back in that big B-2
cockpit of yours, put on some tunes, turn on the BNS, and send Uncle
Cheung's squids to the bottom of the Celebes Sea. You can come back and
we'll check out the Japanese babes out on Tumon Beach . . Patrick
noticed General Elliott take a step toward Masters, but Patrick was
already moving by then. Without another word, Patrick had taken
Masters' skinny left arm in his big left hand and had pulled the young
scientist up out of his chair and out of the battle staff area. "Hey,
Mac, I can't leave the board quite yet. The adjacent office near the
Command Post was unoccupied and unlocked, so McLanahan took Masters
right inside, closed the door behind him, and deposited him
unceremoniously onto the worn Naugahyde sofa. "Let's get something
straight, Doctor. First, the name is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick
McLanahan. Second, you've got a big mouth." Masters stared at the
looming, six-foot blond pilot. He looked a lot bigger standing over him
than he had a moment ago. "Look, Colonel, I know you're a little
nervous about-"
"You don't know jack-shit, including when to keep your mouth shut about
classified material and when to conduct yourself in an appropriate
manner Masters smiled weakly. "Hey, who are you, Dirty Harry?" He
tried to rise, but McLanahan pushed him back down. "Get this straight,
Doctor. While you're in this command post, you'll not wear shorts or
sneakers, you'll address the senior officer in the room as 'sir' or by
their rank, not their first name, and you'll keep your bigoted comments
to yourself. You're supposed to be a professional, so start acting like
one." McLanahan looked at his watch. "You've got about ten minutes
before your satellite data comes in-that's plenty of time for you to go
back to your barracks and change."
"Hey, man, you're not my father, " Masters complained. "Get off your
Clint Eastwood act and off my case. McLanahan leaned over the couch,
putting his face within an inch of Masters' own. They were but eight
years apart in age, but worlds apart in experience. McLanahan looked
directly into Masters' eyes. "I shouldn't have to be on your case,
Doctor. But if you'd open your eyes, you might learn a thing or two
about what's going on here." Masters cleared his throat and tried to
look away from McLanahan, but couldn't. "Hey, " he said calmly, "I know
what's going on. I know the weapons you're going to use, the routes
you'll fly. I wrote the friggin' scenarios, for Godssake."
"You may have, " McLanahan said, moving back a bit from Masters, "but
you don't know anything about combat. About what it's like to be in a
war machine facing your own mortality. Have General Elliott or Ormack
or Cobb tell you sometime about combat, about life in the cockpit.
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before-your secret society, your
brotherhood of aviators. Brad-General Elliott-and his B-52s during
Vietnam, out at that Arc Light Memorial, he tried to get into it, but he
couldn't explain it. He says, 'You gotta be there." Stone, Jarrel, and
all the others, even you-you've all been in combat before. But you
treat it like a game, so why shouldn't I?" McLanahan bristled. He
pulled out his dog tags from under his flight suit. "A game? What are
these, Doctor? Tell me." Masters rolled his eyes. This was boring.
"Dog tags. Next."
"You're partially right. Out here, Doctor, we have them for more than
ornaments on a key ring. See how one is on the neck chain and one's a
small chain all by itself? There's a reason for that. One they bring
back to headquarters to prove you were killed in action-f they find your
body, that is. The other they keep on the body, usually clamped shut in
your mouth." He pulled out his water bottle from his left leg pocket.
"You see this? Emergency water supply in case I lose my survival kit
after ejection-this could be the only fresh water for a thousand miles
if I have to punch out over the Philippine Sea." He ripped off his unit
patches and name ta
g from their Velcro strips on his flight suit.
"Patches Velcroed on and removed before we take off in case we get shot
down and captured-so the enemy won't know what unit we're from. Some
chaplain will come around and collect them before we go out to our
planes. They'll check if we made out a will, check to see if they know
who our next of kin are. "Take a look at that data you're generating
sometime, Masters. Those ships your satellites are locating represent
hundreds of sailors whose job it is to find and destroy me. There are
thousands of sailors out there waiting for us-"
"But we know where they are . . . we know who they are. . "We know
where they are because men risked their lives to get that data, "
McLanahan said. "A man died getting us those pictures... "Well, once
the NIRTSat comes back on-line, that won't happen again "It doesn't
matter, my friend. Combat isn't a series of preprogrammed parameters on
a computer monitor-it's men and women who are scared, and brave, and
angry, and who feel hopeless. It's not a clear-cut engagement. Anything
can happen. You gotta realize that the people around you don't think in
absolutes, because they know that anything can happen... "Maybe in wars
past that was true, " Masters offered. "When the enemy was a mystery,
when you couldn't see over the horizon or through the fog or under the
ocean, maybe it wasn't so clear-cut. But things are different now.
Hell, you know more than anyone else how different it is-you fly the
most advanced warplane in the friggin' universe! We know exactly where
the bad guys are. Once the NIRTSats are working again, I can steer your
weapons, I can warn you of danger, I can tell you exactly how many
weapons you need to win, and I can tell you how long it will take you to
achieve any objective. "Then tell me this, Doctor Masters, " McLanahan
said, affixing his steel-blue eyes on the scientist and letting his
glare bore into him: "Tell me who's going to die out there." Masters
opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it suddenly, thought a
moment, then replied, "I estimate your losses at less than five percent
for the duration of this conflict . "No, I didn't ask you how many. I
asked who."
"Well, how the fuck am I supposed to know who? If you follow the plan
and put your weapons on target, no one should die. "You said should die,
Doctor. That means that even if everything turns out perfectly, someone
may still die. Right?" Masters shrugged. "Well, it's very unlikely,
but-anything can happen."
"You're damned right it can. Now tell me how to deal with that. Tell me
how a highly trained professional pilot or navigator can climb into a
bomber or fighter and fly into the teeth of the enemy and know that even
if everything goes perfectly, he may still end up at the bottom of the
sea, and I'll let you act like a cocky little punk peacock all you want
in my command post. Until then you will give this campaign and the
people who fight it-all the people who fight it, the combatants on both
sides-the proper respect." Masters was finally silent. McLanahan backed
away from Masters, allowing him to get up, but Masters stayed where he
was. "So what you're saying is-you're scared, " Masters said after a few
long moments. He looked at McLanahan, and when the officer didn't reply
for several seconds, Masters' eyes opened wide in surprise. "You're
scared? You? But you're the-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, " Patrick said. "I'm supposed to be the best. But
it's bullshit. I know my shit, and I'm lucky. That doesn't make me
invincible, and it doesn't give you or anyone the right to think this is
going to be easy-for any of us. Nothing is cut and dried. Nothing is
certain. We know our equipment, know our procedures, but when you go
into combat we learn not to trust it. We trust ourselves. We look to
ourselves to find the strength to get through the mission." Masters
rose and stood before McLanahan, afraid to look into the Air Force
officer's face but respectful enough to want to be able to do it. "I
never realized that, Patrick. Really. I always thought, 'Well, the
gear's in place, everything's running, so everything's going to be
okay." I guess... well, I don't work with people that much. I'm really
so used to dealing with computers and machines. McLanahan shrugged.
"Hell, listen to me. A few years ago I never gave a shit much about
people either. I wasn't exactly what you'd call a team player. I did
my job and went home. I hate to say it, but we were a lot alike back
then." Masters smiled at that. "Oh yeah? Dirty Harry was laid-back and
mellow? You drank beer and chased girls and got stupid?" It was
McLanahan's turn to smile this time. He remembered the B-52 crew
parties back in California, the weekends rafting down the American
River-one big twelve-person raft for crew dogs, wives, and girlfriends;
another slightly smaller raft for the numerous ice chests full of
six-packs-the bar-hopping in Old Sacramento till two in the morning, the
ski trips to Lake Tahoe when they'd get back to base just minutes before
show time for a training mission. "All the damned time, Jon."
"What happened to you?" McLanahan's smile vanished, and all his fond
recollections of life back home exploded in a bright yellow fireball
called reality. He put his dog tags back under his shirt and put his
water flask back in its pocket. The pungent odor of jet exhaust and the
roar of a plane on its takeoff run invaded the office, and the horrors
of another impossible mission thousands of miles away flooded back into
his consciousness once again. "Combat, " was all he said, and he turned
and walked away. CHINESE DESTROYER HAIFRNG TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILES
SOUTHEAST OF THE CITY OF DAVAO MINDANAO, THE PHILIPPINES MONDAY, 10
OCTOBER 1994, 2351 HOURS LOCAL had been hanging around for so long now,
big, slow, and I gt~~~~p~~~g, that they had humorously dubbed it
Syensheng Tz, Old Gas. They could see the thing easily, almost a hundred
miles away and at high altitude-a single, unescorted, vulnerable B-52
bomber. It was cruising westward at a leisurely four hundred and twenty
nautical miles per hour. Although it was definitely getting closer, on
its present course it would pass well out of HQ-9 1 missile range of the
Chinese People's Liberation Army Navy missile destroyer Kaifeng. It was
obviously giving the Chinese ships a wide berth. Even so, if the
aircraft carried antiship missiles, it was still a substantial threat:
it was within Harpoon missile range of the destroyer, yet outside the
range of the destroyer's missiles, and there were no fighters nearby
that could reach it. The commander of the destroyer Kazfeng, a
Luda-class destroyer with over three hundred men on board, wanted very
close tabs kept on this intruder. "CIC, bridge, status of that B-52, "
the commander of the Kazjeng requested. "Bridge, CIC, air target one
still at seventy-eight-nauticalmiles range, altitude ten thousand
meters, speed four-twozero knots, offset range six-zero nautical miles.
No detectable radar transmissions from aircraft.
It is within Harpoon
missile range at this time."
"Copy." The commander was carefully trying not to let his frustration
and impatience show. American B-52s had been flying these "ferret"
missions for many days now, passing just inside missile range of the
destroyer's missiles, then hightailing it out when missile-guidance
signals were aimed at it. It was always one bomber, always at thirty
thousand feet, always challenging in this same location. It stayed high
and relatively slow-very nonthreatening despite being within extreme
range of Harpoon antiship missiles it might be carrying. It was
obviously collecting intelligence information-it was probably crammed
with sensors and recorders, hoping to intercept radio messages or
analyze missile fire control radar signals... ... or it was crammed
with antiship missiles, ready to strike. "Comm, bridge, any response
from that plane about our airdefense warnings?"
"None, sir, " the communications officer replied. Kafeng, as well as
other ships in the South Philippines Task Force commanded by Admiral Yin
Po L'un, had been warning all aircraft to stay away from this area for
days now. The area over the Celebes Sea had been a very well used
airway for travelers heading to Brunei, Malaysia, Indonesia, and
Singapore through Samar International Airport, but the People's
Liberation Army Air Force had refused all access to the region, and air
traffic to and from Manila was tightly controlled. All air traffic was
forced to fly farther south through the sparsely populated islands of
northern Indonesia. Philippines supply routes in the South China Sea
were virtually isolated. But with the nuclear explosion near Palawan
and the extreme danger of radiation poisoning and contamination, these
areas were being studiously avoided anyhow. The American Air Battle
Force, however, was obviously ignoring all warnings. "CIC, bridge,
position of our fighter coverage. "Sir, Liang-Two flight of eight J-7
fighters are over Nenusa Archipelago, one hundred eleven kilometers
northwest of the B-52. They are less than ten minutes from bingo fuel