Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06

by Fatal Terrain (v1. 1)

  “Guard your throttles!” she heard a voice thunder. Just as she laid her hands on the throttle quadrant, Patrick McLanahan reached across the center console and began unbuckling Elliott’s lap belt and parachute harness straps. “You okay, Nancy?” McLanahan shouted over the wind- blast.

  “Yes!” she shouted back. She didn’t dare take her eyes off her instruments, but out of the corner of her eyes she saw McLanahan detach Elliott from his ejection seat, drag him out of the pilot’s seat, lay him down on the deck between the pilot’s seats and instrument console, hook up his oxygen mask and interphone cord, turn his regulator to oxygen 100%, and begin checking his wounds.

  “How is he, Patrick?” Cheshire asked.

  “He looks okay,” McLanahan replied. “A few cuts on the left side of his face and shoulders.” He quickly wrapped bandages from a first-aid kit around the worst-looking wounds. Thankfully McLanahan had thought to detach the man from his seat rather than simply undo his shoulder straps, because now Elliott had a parachute on and at least had a fighting chance to eject or do a manual bailout if they got hit. “How are you doing up there?”

  “I feel like I’m suddenly flying an ambulance plane rather than a bomber. ”

  “Can the wisecracks, co,” McLanahan snapped—but he was happy that Nancy Cheshire was still cracking wise. If she was too quiet or too serious, it was an indication they were in serious trouble! Satisfied that Elliott was breathing on his own and secured the best he could be, he crawled back into his seat and called up the aircraft systems status page on his supercockpit display. “Number four’s shut down, no further fire indications,” he announced, acting as copilot while his only other surviving crew member flew the plane. “Successful fuel system transfer, successful hydraulic and electrical shunts. Auto transferring fuel from the fuselage and mains to the wings, because I think we’re leaking fuel.”

  “We’re on the deck at mil power and four hundred knots, and I think that’s all we’re going to get out of her,” Cheshire added. “We’ve lost the left-side windscreen and all of the left-side controls and indicators. At least it’s warm out there.”

  “Defense is tits-up,” McLanahan reported after doing a status check on the defensive suite. “All weapons went into emergency safety shutdown with the engine fire. I’m going to reset everything. Radar should be up in ninety seconds. If we still have weapons, they’ll be up in two minutes. Nav systems successfully reset and reloaded. All weapons went into emergency safety shutdown.”

  “What about those fighters out there, Muck?” Cheshire asked.

  “If we can see him and track him on the attack radar, there’s a chance,” McLanahan said as he started to check his own equipment. But a few seconds later: “I’ve got no-go lights on all internal and external weapons, Nance—they might’ve been hit by a bullet or damaged by the fire. Looks like we got squat. Left turn heading zero-four-five, co. We’re heading right for Taiwan. If we got any help out there, that’s where they’ll be. I’ll do another restart, but I think my stuff is dead.”

  “Any contact with the Taiwanese air force?” Cheshire asked on interphone.

  McLanahan tried all the radios. “Negative,” he responded. “The electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear explosions shut down all the radios. Nothing’s getting through.”

  “We won’t make it,” Cheshire said. “That Chinese fighter is probably lining up on us right now. Without weapons or countermeasures, he can slice us up at his leisure.”

  “I’ll jettison the wing weapons pods so we can get max performance,” McLanahan said. Moments after punching off both wing pylons: “Hey, I’ve got a green light on the bomb-bay Striker missiles! The wing weapons pods must’ve been damaged from the explosion on the number four engine—jettisoning the bad missiles cleared the continuity faults on all the other missiles. But there’s still no way we’re going to hit a fighter with a three-thousand-pound Striker missile ...” But that didn’t stop him from repowering the Striker missile rotary launcher and getting the eight remaining missiles on-line.

  “Radar’s up!” McLanahan shouted over the screaming windblast coming through the Megafortress’s shattered left windows. “Bandit six o’clock, five miles!”

  “Nail him! ” Cheshire shouted on interphone. “Launch the Strikers! ”

  “Got him!” McLanahan shouted. He touched the fighter symbol on his supercockpit display, which designated the target, then hit the control stud on his trackball pad and spoke, “Launch commit Striker.”

  CAUTION, NO AIR-TO-AIR weapons available, the attack computer responded.

  “Override that caution,” McLanahan ordered the computer. “Launch commit Striker.”

  WARNING, WEAPON SELECTION OVERRIDE, WARNING, WEAPON PERFORMANCE HAZARDOUS, RECOMMEND LAUNCH ABORT . . . RECOMMEND LAUNCH ABORT . . .

  Just then, they felt the Megafortress’s tail slide to one side, followed by a heavy buffeting. “Jesus, I think we’re hit! ” Cheshire shouted.

  “Launch,” McLanahan ordered.

  WARNING, LAUNCH COMMIT STRIKER, BOMB DOORS OPENING.

  “Wings level!” McLanahan shouted. “Gimme a slight climb.” Cheshire raised the nose and leveled the wings. As she did so, she felt the rumble of the aft set of bomb-bay doors swinging up into the bomb bay, and a Striker missile was ejected into the slipstream. The missile dropped two hundred feet, wobbily stabilized itself, then ignited its first- stage rocket motor. Just as the bomb doors slid closed, another electrical spike drove through the EB-52’s electrical system, sending the good systems back into reset.

  The Chinese Sukhoi-33 pilot had just released the trigger on his fighter’s cannon after a three-second burst from the left rear quadrant at about a half-kilometer distance when he saw the big 2,900-pound missile ignite its rocket motor. The missile shot straight ahead, climbed almost straight up, then looped backward and down right toward him! He got off a quick one-second burst at the bomber before dropping decoy chaff and flares and breaking hard right away from the missile and plugging in full afterburner power.

  Guided by the Striker’s onboard radar, the Striker missile heeled sharply, ignoring the tiny clouds of chaff dropped by the fighter. With incredible precision, the Striker missile lined up on the Sukhoi-33’s tail and cruised in. The Chinese pilot made a last-ditch dodge to the left, but even the high-performance jet was no match for the speed of the big Striker missile at full thrust. The explosion completely vaporized the fighter—nothing recognizable was left to hit the water.

  “I’m blind again,” McLanahan shouted on interphone. He started to roll the trackball across the screen to highlight the target—again, nothing. “I think I lost my system, Nancy,” he said. “I’ll try a reset. Let’s hope this last asshole runs out of gas or—”

  Suddenly, Cheshire screamed, “Fighters! Twelve o’clock! Right in front of us! Launching missiles! My God!” She could clearly see the twin trails of air-to-air missiles leaving the wing hardpoints of the plane in front of them, streaking directly toward them—it was as if the missiles were aiming directly for her! It was like watching a demonstration video of an air-to-air-missile launch. Nancy Cheshire closed her eyes and waited for the impact, waited for the explosion, waited for death . . .

  ... so she didn’t see the missiles streak just a few dozen yards overhead, past the Megafortress, and hit the last Chinese Sukhoi-33 carrier fighter, seconds before it opened fire on the EB-52 from close range.

  When she found herself still alive, Cheshire opened her eyes. There before her, making a graceful left turn to parallel her course, was another EB-52 Megafortress! The second Megafortress, paired with hers, had come off the refueling anchor when the shooting started and had just arrived in the area. “Oh my God, it’s Kelvin and Diane’s crew,” Cheshire breathed. “When the shooting started, I forgot all about them coming on station. They must’ve just come off the tanker and headed right down here when they heard the shooting start.”

  “What a beautiful sight,” McLanahan said to Cheshire. He w
as behind her again, checking on Elliott. “Get on their wing—it looks like they’re headed back to the air refueling anchor.”

  “You got it,” Cheshire agreed. “How’s Brad?”

  Elliott’s oxygen blinker looked OK, so he was breathing; McLanahan checked for any signs of chest trauma or bleeding, and found nothing. Elliott’s eyes were closed, but when McLanahan gently touched his eyelids, the veteran three-star aviator opened his eyes. “Quit fucking with me, nav,” Elliott groused.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  “I feel like I’ve got a two-thousand-pound bomb on my chest,” he responded. “The windblast must’ve knocked the wind outta me.”

  “Any other pain? You’re not having a heart attack on me, are you, sir? You took one hell of a slam by that windblast when the cockpit windscreen let go. ”

  “Hey, I’ll compare EKGs with you any day, Muck,” Elliott grumbled, trying to sit up against the starboard bulkhead. “We okay?”

  “Kelvin Carter showed up and saved our bacon right at the nick of time,” McLanahan said. “We’re on his wing, heading back to the anchor.” Elliott nodded. He looked a little pale, and his oxygen blinker showed a slightly shallow, labored breathing pattern. McLanahan removed a flight glove and tried to take Elliott’s pulse, but he shook McLanahan’s fingers off his wrist. “Get away from me and help Cheshire fly the beast,” Elliott said. “I’m fine. It’s her flying you need to keep an eye on now.” “Har har,” Cheshire said.

  “Brad ...”

  “Get out of my face, nav. I’m fine,” Elliott said.

  Deciding that there was nothing more he could do for his friend and aircraft commander now, McLanahan nodded. He retrieved both his and Elliott’s flight jackets and covered the pilot up with them. “I’ll check on you in a few,” he said.

  “You better not wake me up trying to play nurse,” Elliott said, giving his young protege a thumbs-up. “Get back to your seat. And Muck ... I mean, Patrick?”

  “Yeah, Brad?”

  “We had to take on those Chinese warships, didn’t we?” Elliott asked. “We had to help defend those ships, didn’t we?” The pain in his eyes was obvious—but whether it was from his injuries or from having doubts about his actions, McLanahan couldn’t tell.

  “We had to do something, Brad—we’re not out here flying around for nothing,” McLanahan replied.

  The smile in Elliott’s eyes seemed to light up the cockpit, despite the windblast damage. “You’re damned right, Muck,” Elliott breathed behind his oxygen mask. “You’re damned right.”

  THE WHITE HOUSE CABINET ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TUESDAY, 3 JUNE 1997, 1927 HOURS ET

  “Mr. President, there is no one on Capitol Hill more aware of the need for extreme security than me,” the new Senate Majority Leader, Barbara Finegold, said, as the group settled in for the meeting in the White House West Wing’s Cabinet Room, “but eventually you have to release some information to the congressional leadership. Now might be the perfect time to do it.”

  “Senator, as I told you before this photo op began, there is nothing else I can tell you,” the President said, with a forced smile. “I have procedures I need to follow too, and I have to wait on the results of the security review. ”

  “I see,” Senator Finegold said, letting out an audible exasperated breath. The seating had been rearranged after the press had departed, so now Finegold, the forty-eight-year-old former Los Angeles mayor and third-term senator from California, was seated across from the President, instead of two seats from him as in the official press photos. On her side of the table was House Minority Leader Joseph Crane and several other prominent House and Senate Democrats. Seated to President Martin- dale’s right was Vice President Ellen Whiting, Secretary of Defense Chastain, House Majority Leader Nicholas Gant, Senate Minority Leader Michael Fortier, and White House Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale; on the President’s left was Secretary of State Hartman, Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman Admiral George Balboa, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman, CIA director Layne W. Moore, and Attorney General Robert M. Procter.

  “Great meeting, everyone, thank you,” the President said. Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale stood, a signal for the rest of the President’s advisors to start heading for the door, but the President said, “We have a few minutes more. Any other questions I can answer for anyone?” Hiding his impatience, Hale stood beside the door and listened intently to every word.

  “Mr. President, I’m afraid this might require some Senate Arms Services Committee hearings to determine exactly what happened in the Persian Gulf,” Finegold forged on, “and to respond to the question brought up by the media and by several well-known military experts as to exactly how the radar sites in Iran were destroyed. If it’s true that the only way those sites could have been bombed was by an American stealth bomber secretly flying all the way across China and Afghanistan, as has been speculated, I think the congressional leadership needs and has a right to know. ”

  “You certainly have the right and the authority to call such hearings,” the President said. Although Kevin Martindale had been successful in regaining the White House by a slim margin, he had not been as successful in helping to keep a majority in the Senate, and Barbara Finegold was a powerful and worthy adversary. Tall, dark, immensely popular, with a fashion models face and figure, she was already being touted as a shoo- in for her party’s presidential nomination in the year 2000, outstripping the former administration’s vice president and a host of other male candidates. “We will cooperate all we can—”

  “But the White House would insist on closed-door hearings,” Secretary of Defense Chastain interjected. “All records would be placed in the highest classification level possible.”

  “Given the current events concerning China,” Secretary of State Hartman added, “we think that’s the most prudent avenue to take.”

  “Fine—I agree,” Finegold said. “Then you agree to cooperate in committee hearings?”

  “I might remind the President that the Pentagon’s security review on the events in the Persian Gulf hasn’t even been completed yet,” National Security Advisor Freeman said. “We don’t even really know to what extent everything is classified yet. Our review could take several months.” “I see,” Senator Finegold repeated stiffly. This was the face of the opposition, she thought—this White House was tough, experienced, and well organized under Kevin Martindale. It might take several months for hearings to begin if these political pros put on a full-court press to postpone them.

  But the unwritten “three-month honeymoon” period after the inauguration was now over, and the Martindale administration was fair game to any inquiries she could concoct. “Well, I’ll see to it that the SASC gets together with you and the Pentagon folks in drawing up a list of witnesses and agreeing on a format,” Finegold said. “I’m counting on your full cooperation.” The President nodded stiffly and gave her a cocky smile. It was obvious to Senator Finegold that the entire Cabinet had given the idea of Senate hearings very careful thought and had already begun to arrange its ground rules, all of which would be designed so the White House and Pentagon would reveal as little hard information as possible.

  “The other matter I wanted to mention to you, Mr. President,” Fine- gold said, leaning forward and interlacing her long fingers on the table, “was your proposal to repeal the 1979 Taiwan Relations Act, which would allow for full diplomatic recognition of Taiwan. Did you think it was wise to announce this proposal to the entire world before consulting with Congress? To my knowledge, you didn’t even consult with leaders in your own party before announcing your intention to support Taiwan’s independence from mainland China and to allow an exchange of ambassadors.”

  “Is there a problem?” the President asked. “Don’t you feel we should support Taiwan’s independence efforts?”

  Finegold looked angry. “Frankly, Mr. President, I hadn’t thought about it,” she said testily, “just as I haven’t considered what the proper response migh
t be in Northern Ireland, or Cyprus, or dozens of conflicts anywhere else. The point is, we should be deciding these questions together. It would help the ratification process tremendously if the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and the leadership knew what you have in mind before announcing it to the world.”

  “My hand was forced by Taiwan’s abrupt vote for independence— they chose not to consult with us, or anyone else for that matter,” the President said. “I felt it was necessary to make a decision and take a stand quickly, before China decided it needed to give its errant province a spanking. I will be sure to consult with you closely the next time.”

  “The world still considers Taiwan a province of China, Mr. President,” Finegold said. “We’ve isolated ourselves and put ourselves on a collision course with mainland China by recognizing the Republic of China.”

  “Do you think it’s nothing but a rogue republic, Senator?” the President asked. Finegold shook her head in exasperation, and the President went on, “The question is important, Barbara. Read your history books. The Nationalists were our allies in World War Two, every bit as important in establishing a ‘second front’ in Asia as Britain and France were in Europe. Because of a Communist-sparked civil war, our allies were pushed off the mainland and onto a rock in the Pacific Ocean. They’ve endured artillery bombardment, constant military threats, global loss of diplomatic recognition, and economic isolation. Today, they’re one of the richest industrial democracies in the world, and they still count the United States as a friend and ally despite what we’ve done to them over the past thirty years.

  “Now they’ve taken a major step in deciding their fate as a nation by rejecting their Communist overlords and declaring independence, and they’ve asked for our support. I proudly gave it to them. I took a stand. Now you have to do so as well.”

  “The Congress has got to look at the overall effect on our economy and the military threat,” Finegold argued, “before we vote to repeal the Taiwan Relations Act or ratify your recognition of an independent Taiwan.”