“Why don’t you just be a total asshole and completely wash your hands of the whole thing, George?” Elliott retorted. “Nobody’s stopping you.”
“What I would like even better is to shut you down, have those planes cut up into little pieces, and throw you in prison,” Balboa said. “There is a question of how the Taiwanese found out so much about this operation, and I have a feeling you were responsible for that. As for this operation, it looks as if the President wants to continue this foolhardy plan. If the loss of one of your airframes and Lieutenant Vikram poses a problem, Mr. McLanahan, I expect you to report promptly to Admiral Allen so we can make alternate arrangements.”
“A replacement crew and plane is being ferried from Blytheville as we speak,” McLanahan said. “It’ll arrive in about twenty hours. But we can maintain a normal schedule right now.”
“Then do it,” Balboa said. “But you are not authorized to speak with anyone else, especially foreign nationals, at any time. The only persons you are authorized to communicate with are units or command posts briefed to you prior to takeoff. Failure to comply with this order will subject you and your co-workers to the most severe penalties allowable. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” McLanahan said. Elliott shook his head and rolled his eyes at his partner acceding to Balboa’s lame threat so passively, but McLanahan ignored him. “Sir, I need permission to contact Lieutenant Vikram’s family. ”
“Denied,” Balboa said. “My staff will decide how to handle notification. You worry about your patrol missions and keeping out of trouble. Dismissed.” The videoconference link was abruptly terminated.
“What a butthead,” Elliott fumed. He got up and found himself a cup of coffee. “I’ll bet he wanted so badly to shit-can us that he probably considered ignoring the President’s orders. That asshole, blaming you for all those deaths. Ignore all that, Muck. The PLAN’s at fault for attacking the ROC and for killing Emitter, not you.”
McLanahan got up. His muscles were aching, a by-product of long hours in the Megafortress’s cockpit, nearly an hour of sheer terror while under attack by the People’s Republic of China’s People’s Liberation Army Navy, a dead crew member, two hours of nursing a crippled bomber back home to an emergency landing in marginal weather—and then, after all that, a tongue-lashing by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. All in all, a pretty shitty twelve hours. He wasn’t ready to hear Round Two from Brad Elliott. “Let’s give it a rest now, Brad, all right?” McLanahan asked. “We’ve got a lot to do—get repairs going on our damaged bird, get the patrols back in the air.” He wanted to call Emil’s family, whom he had met several times, but decided against it.
“The first thing I’m going to do is make a few phone calls back to Washington,” Elliott said resolutely. “I’ve got plenty of markers to call in. Balboa doesn’t have the authority to cancel our contract. If we put a little pressure on him, he’ll be forced to back off. We should—”
“Do nothing,” McLanahan said angrily. “Nothing. No phone calls, no markers. Just back off, okay?”
“What in hell’s the matter with you?” Elliott asked. “You can’t let jerks like Balboa run our lives. He’s the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, not commander in chief or the damned emperor. ”
“Brad, he’s running this operation.”
“Balboa and Allen are pissed because we launched a couple Rainbows and Wolverines and protected that frigate,” Elliott went on. “They would’ve done the same if they were flying that mission, but because we did it, they’re mad. I’ll tell you the truth, son—if it was their plane, or if they had a ship of their own in position, theyd’ve blasted that carrier and destroyer and as many of the other ships back there to hell in the blink of an eye! You know it, and I know it.”
“I hear you, Brad, and I agree one hundred percent,” McLanahan said. “But they are calling the shots, not us. That’s the difference. We weren’t given the go-ahead to make our own attack decisions. It may be hurt pride, or embarrassment, or professional jealously, whatever—it doesn’t matter. They say ‘jump,’ we ask ‘how high?’ ”
“What about Sung? What about those Taiwanese sailors? They died right before our eyes, waiting for our help.”
“Brad, if that had been an American ship down there, I’d have stayed until all our weapons were exhausted, and then I would’ve helped the other Megafortresses roll in on target, and then I’d go back and reload and come back out again,” McLanahan said. “But it wasn’t one of ours.”
“So you don't care what happens to them?” Elliott asked incredulously. “Man, this doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“What I care about is how this weapon system integrates with our other military forces,” McLanahan said, “not how we can kick ass and sink ships all over the Pacific. We’re not mercenaries, and we’re not avenging angels.”
“What is this? I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” Elliott shouted, shaking his head. “Did you think you had a chance of ‘integrating’ the Megafortresses with any project coming out of the Pentagon? Did you really think Balboa was going to embrace you and the Megafortresses, whether or not you did as you were ordered to do?”
McLanahan was silent—he knew Brad Elliott was right. The Megafortresses got to fly over the Formosa Strait only because he and Terrill Samson had earned the Presdent’s attention and respect as a result of the secret Iran bombing missions. Patrick had deluded himself into believing that he could reintegrate the modified B-52s into the American aerial strike force—but that was not going to happen. The current Pentagon brain trust did not care for large land-based bombers. They weren’t going to pay any money to keep any around, no matter how high-tech they were. The Quemoy mission was dead right from the start. Emil Vikram may indeed have died for nothing.
“Screw it, Brad, just screw it,” McLanahan said irritably. “I’m tired of your military services bigotry, I’m tired of the political games, and I’m tired of risking my neck for nothing. Just shut up and—”
“Whoa, whoa, listen to yourself, Muck,” Elliott said. “You sound like a quitter, like a spoiled brat who just wants to take back his bat and ball and go home. What is with you? This doesn’t have anything to do with Wendy being pregnant, does it? You’re not trying to keep us out of harm’s way because you got one in the oven, are you?”
“Wendy’s pregnant?” Cheshire exclaimed. “Is it true? You didn’t tell us this, Muck!”
“Tell ’em, Muck,” Elliott said, that cocksure grin on his face again. He guessed, McLanahan knew, and he was smug and happy that he guessed right.
“Yes, it’s true,” McLanahan said. “We didn’t say anything because we’re only going on our third month.” McLanahan jammed a finger in Elliott’s face. “General, it has nothing to do with Wendy—it has to do with you, ” he shot back angrily.
“What about me? I’m doing my job, the job I was hired to do!”
“Hired by whom? Jon Masters, the U.S. government—or the Taiwanese government?” McLanahan asked.
“What in hell are you talking about?” Elliott retorted, perhaps a little too vehemently.
“I’m wondering how that Captain Sung synchronized onto our comm channel during our surveillance,” McLanahan said hotly. “The chances of him finding our initial frequency, channel-hopping along with us, then calling in the blind and reaching us at the exact moment we were in the area—I’d say that was a thousand-to-one shot.”
“A kid with a Radio Shack scanner and some brains can do it,” Elliott said. “You know that.”
“So how did he know we were flying a bomber?”
“He must’ve guessed,” Elliott said. “That Taiwanese ambassador saw us in the White House; he knows we’re bomber guys, and he passed the info along to his navy. Hell, stealth bombers have been in the news for months now.”
“So I suppose you guessed the captain’s name, then?”
“What?”
“You mentioned the captain’s name, Sung, even before he called us on the se
cure channel,” McLanahan said. “You also admonished Sung for launching the attack when he did. You didn’t bother getting an authentication—even though you got one from Samson, talking to him over an even more secure satellite freq—because you knew Sung couldn't authenticate. And you were quick to blame the Navy for lousy communications security, when it was you all along.”
“You’re nuts, Mack.”
“Nuts, huh? Why don’t I call back to Blytheville and get Wendy to pull the phone records from the day before our launch?” McLanahan asked angrily. “We can get the caller’s name and number for any call in or out of headquarters, and Security might even be able to get a transcript. You must’ve been in contact with someone right before launch—we can find out who it was.”
Elliott was about to protest again, but he looked at McLanahan’s stone-angry face and cracked a smile. “Jesus, I can’t believe I guessed right: you are going to have a baby,” the old ex-three-star general said. “I think of you as a son, Patrick. I feel like I’m going to be a granddad.”
“Stick to the point here, ‘grandpa.’ ”
“All right, all right—yes, I was in contact with the Taiwanese—with Kuo, the new ambassador to the U.S. that we ran into in the West Wing,” Elliott said resignedly. “He called me, and that’s the goddamn truth. He knew, or guessed, everything we were about to do. He told me about Taiwan’s plans to block the Chinese fleet. He told me about the intelligence they received about China putting nuclear warheads on its land attack and anti-ship missiles. And then he asked for my help. What in hell was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to hang up and report the foreign contact to the security department at Sky Masters, Inc.,” McLanahan said, “and sure as hell, you weren’t supposed to confirm any information or reveal any information to him, like the synchronizer codes! Jesus, Brad, if Balboa ever finds out—no, I should say, when Balboa finds out!—he’s going to throw all of us in prison for twenty years! It’s a clear violation.”
“Balboa’s too stupid to find out, and besides, I think the ROCs will cover their trail and explain away the rest,” Elliott said confidently. “Don’t worry about it.”
It was no use arguing with Elliott over this, McLanahan decided—as usual, he felt he was invincible, not just above the law but somehow blessed by God and given full authority to stretch the law and the truth with impunity. He continued to study his friend and mentor, watching him sip coffee; then: “You okay, Brad?”
Elliott seemed startled, then annoyed, that anyone was watching him. He scowled over the rim of his coffee mug. “I’m fine, Mack. Why?”
“How’s the chest pains?”
“Chest pains? What chest pains?”
“You complained of chest pains on the plane.”
“I just got blasted half out of my seat by an imploding one-hundred-pound sheet of Lexan,” Elliott responded. “You’d be in pain too.”
“Nothing else? Shortness of breath, numbness in the arms, blurred vision, feelings like indigestion, headaches?”
“Hey, Dr. Pat, I did not, nor am I now, having a heart attack or stroke,” Elliott retorted. “Sure, I got rattled when that windscreen blew out in my face. Yeah, I could use about twenty-four hours of sleep—in fact, that’s where I’m headed right now. You want to waste time hooking me up to monitors and making me walk a treadmill, go ahead—I challenge you to keep up with me! In the meantime, Balboa will be chopping up your planes right there in the hangar and trying like hell to toss our company into the crapper. You make the decision, mission commander. I’m going to hit the rack. ”
On his way out, Elliott bumped into none other than Wendy McLanahan. Without one bit of surprise at her being on Guam, he gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Congratulations, gorgeous,” he said simply, then walked away toward the exit.
“Brad? Hey, General, how about . . . ?” But he was off, leaving Wendy confused.
“Wendy!” Patrick exclaimed, taking his wife into his arms. They kissed tenderly, enjoying a long, warm embrace. “What on earth are you doing here?” he asked, still in her embrace.
“Jon needed help, and I volunteered,” she said. “I was en route when I found out about the mission, about Emil. I’m so sorry, Patrick.”
“Thanks, sweetie, but I’m worried about you, about the baby.”
“I’m working on the computer and the phone, nothing else,” Wendy said. “I flew first-class commercial on United and Cathay Pacific, not on the NIRTSat booster launch plane or the tankers. I’ll be fine.” Wendy accepted a hug and another round of congratulations, first from Nancy Cheshire, then from a few of the other crew members and specialists in the hangar. “It looks like the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Brad guessed,” Patrick said. “Of course, he threw it in my face.” “He did what?”
“I’ll explain everything, sweetie,” McLanahan said, “but it’s not a fun story.”
“CINCPAC, are you still up?” Admiral Balboa called.
“CINCPAC’s up, along with General Samson,” Admiral William Allen responded. The videoconference between Hawaii and the Pentagon was still active.
“I’ve got orders for you too, General,” Balboa said. “Apparently the President still thinks highly of your judgment. You will report immediately to Admiral Henry Danforth at STRATCOM to stand up CTF Three. ”
“Yes, sir,” Samson responded. He wasn’t stunned at the news that STRATCOM was standing up, or forming, the CTFs, considering all that had just happened in the Formosa Strait—he was stunned at being chosen to command one of them, after the day’s debacle.
STRATCOM, or U.S. Strategic Command, was a combination of the old Air Force Strategic Air Command, the Navy’s Fleet Ballistic Missile Submarine Force, and the Air Force-Navy Joint Strategic Target Planning Staff. Based at Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha, Nebraska, the command of STRATCOM changed periodically between Air Force generals and Navy admirals; now, it so happened (not so coincidentally, with a Navy admiral taking charge of the Joint Chiefs of Staff) the organization was commanded by a Navy four-star admiral, Henry Danforth. USSTRATCOM had an unusual makeup. In peacetime, STRATCOM played “war games” and drew up contingency plans for major conflicts with other nations—conflicts usually involving nuclear weapons. It had no aircraft, no ships, no weapons, no troops other than its small group of planners, and no bases.
But in times of military crisis or war, STRATCOM transformed into the world’s most powerful fighting force. STRATCOM could quickly “gain” all the aircraft, submarines, bases, and soldiers it required from the various U.S. armed services to fight a full spectrum of conflicts, from show of force and nuclear deterrence alert to a full-blown intercontinental thermonuclear war. STRATCOM geared up its warfighting capabilities in stages by forming Combined Task Forces, or CTFs, representing the three legs of the United States’ nuclear triad—submarine-launched ballistic missiles, land-based intercontinental missiles, and long-range land- based bombers, plus their major support services. STRATCOM would “gain” land-based intercontinental ballistic missile forces from Air Force Space Command, sea-launch ballistic missile forces from the Navy’s COMSUBFLT, bombers from Air Force Air Combat Command, and aerial refueling tanker planes from Air Force Air Mobility Command. Samson, as commander of all the Air Force’s intercontinental heavy bombers and the highest-ranking expert on long-range bombers, was being given command of CTF Three, the strategic nuclear bomber leg of the triad.
“Admiral Allen, you will retain direct command of the EB-52 bombers on Guam,” Balboa went on. “They’ve caused enough trouble, but the National Command Authority still wants them over the Strait for now. I’m going to snatch Ken Wayne for CTF One.” CTF One was the task force in charge of the submarine-launched intercontinental ballistic missiles; Vice Admiral Kenneth E. Wayne was COMBALSUBFLT, the man in charge of the Navy’s ballistic missile submarine fleet.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Allen responded.
“Is STRATCOM gaining any weapon systems, sir?” Samson as
ked.
“None have been requested,” Balboa replied. “The President wants the CTFs together just in case the shit hits the fan. But I think he’s overreacting—I think Martindale got a little scared with those nukes going off. Taking an unexpected no-shit, this-is-not-a-drill ride in the E-4 NEACP ‘Doomsday Plane’ probably put the fear of God into him too.” Samson saw Allen chuckle, and he felt like hitting him in the mouth. There was nothing funny about it—there was plenty of reason for the President of the United States to be scared when something as horrifying as a nuclear explosion occured.
“But nothing will happen,” Balboa went on confidently. “It’ll be a good exercise for STRATCOM, and then we’ll all go home.”
“In general, in battle one gains victory through the unorthodox. . . . One who excels at sending forth the unorthodox is as inexhaustible as Heaven, as unlimited as the Yangtze and Yellow rivers ...” —SUN-TZU,
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE FORMOSA STRAIT, FIVE KILOMETERS SOUTH OF HONG KONG
THURSDAY, 19 JUNE 1997, 0811 HOURS LOCAL (WEDNESDAY, 18 JUNE, 1911 HOURS ET)
“Contact!” the undersea sensor operator reported. “Slow screws, cavitating, bearing . . . bearing zero-eight-zero, range . . . range eight thousand meters and closing, speed eight knots, depth unknown.”
The combat action officer aboard the Chinese aircraft carrier Mao Zedong nodded, then passed along the information to the bridge. The commanding officer of the Mao, Admiral Yi Kyu-pin, picked up the intercom phone himself. “Combat, bridge. Identification?”
“Sea Dragon-class submarine, sir,” the combat action officer responded. “It is the same one that has been shadowing us since we entered the area.”
“You are positive of the identification?”
“Yes, sir,” the combat officer replied. “We are positive. We can even identify the exact vessel—it is number 795, the Hai Hu. This rebel vessel has a distinctive rudder flutter, and the Holec alternators have a distinctive waveform pattern as well. Its identification was confirmed by ASW aircraft before we arrived at Hong Kong, and we have maintained steady contact on it since. Identification confirmed.”
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