Sky Masters pm-2

by Dale Brown

  “Help does not appear to be at hand, ” Samar said. “We took an awful chance coming here, and we have failed.” He turned to Bowman and said, “You must leave your crewman here.”

  “No way… “He will slow us down. The jungle will be too thick…”

  “I’m not leaving him.” Samar shoved a raised hand in his face to silence him, then stomped on Bowman’s aluminum cookstove to extinguish the fire. Bowman heard nothing, but after six years of flying F-14s off aircraft carriers, he wouldn’t be surprised if his hearing had deteriorated. He moved to his feet and went over to hoist Miller onto his back, but two of Samar’s troops restrained him and snapped handcuffs on his wrists, binding his hands in front of his body. “You can’t do this, Samar. “Be silent.” He raised his rifle, scanning the skies to the east… then stopped. Bowman followed his gaze. Far off on the horizon, toward the northeast, three specks, arranged in a tight diamond formation, were highlighted against the dawning sky. “Chinese patrol helicopters. Pray they haven’t found us . . The diamond formation was heading south, about a mile offshore, but the specs suddenly began to wheel right toward the coastline. “Damn. They must have triangulated our radio transmissions…”

  “Radio transmissions. “Silence. Stay here.” Samar hurried off into the thicket toward his perimeter guards. He returned ten seconds later. “Three men are running north to create a diversion. The rest say they will fight. I wanted you to know that. There’s an inlet about three hundred meters away; we must reach it before the helicopters arrive. Run for your life.” Samar wheeled and dashed into the thicket, keeping as many trees as possible between him and the oncoming helicopters. Bowman followed close behind but was immediately passed by four of Samar’s soldiers. Soon Bowman lost sight of the five men and could do nothing else but trust his hearing to tell which direction they were heading. It seemed they had been running only for a few seconds when suddenly a ripple of explosions behind him threw Bowman to the slimy jungle floor. Two of the helicopters were shredding the forests with rocket fire; the third was hovering offshore, scanning the trees for the rebel soldiers. Bowman heard animal-like screams from the jungle as the Chinese rockets found their targets-the three rebel soldiers that were acting as decoys. Bowman struggled to his feet. He was about to run when a dark figure body-tackled him to the ground. “Stay down!” Samar cried. He pressed something into Bowman’s hands-it was his PRC-23D survival radio from his survival kit. “Use this when the time comes “Wait! What are you “Start crawling toward the heavy jungle. Stay as hidden as you can-they are using infrared scanners to find us.” The third helicopter had started toward shore, bearing down on them-it was less than a half-mile away . A burst of rifle fire opened up to their right. “No!” Samar screamed in Tagalog. “Don’t shoot!” But it was too late. Samar’s soldiers had started to fire their rifles at the third helicopter, which was exactly what its pilots were waiting for. The chopper banked hard left, and a pod-mounted machine gun chattered to life, spitting a long tongue of flame at each one-second burst. “Our only hope is to get back into the heavy forest, ” Samar said in English. “Run away from the sunrise. When you hear the rotors, find a mud pit or wet thicket and hide in it. When the sound goes away, run again. The chopper’s fuel must be getting low, so we may have enough time.” He was suddenly on his feet, dragging Bowman with him. “Now! Run!” Bowman had taken one step when he heard rotors. He found a patch of mud and dived onto it, but it was not deep enough to cover him. Samar was nowhere to be seen. He rolled to his back just in time to see one helicopter fly overhead and one hover nearby, less than a hundred yards away-the first two choppers had returned. It was close enough for Bowman to see the chopper’s infrared scanner ball under the nose and an outrigger on each side holding a torpedo-shaped weapon pod. It had him… There was nowhere to run anymore. There was a scream from somewhere off to Bowman’s left, some sort of battle cry, and a long staccato ripple of automatic rifle fire. Several sparks flew off the nose of the chopper, and it suddenly nose-dived almost straight down into the jungle not fifty yards away. Bowman needed no more encouragementhe turned around and raced as hard as he could away from the stricken chopper. But he could not escape. Bowman heard a short pwoooosh, and a split second later a terrific explosion erupted in the first level of jungle canopy only twenty feet overhead and a few yards ahead. The dimly lit jungle suddenly turned bright yellow, his head felt as if it had exploded, and he felt himself cartwheel several feet away from the concussion. He opened his eyes. The chepper was just a few dozen yards away, nose aimed right at him. Its rotors were whipping the foliage around as if they were in a hurricane, but Bowman could not hear or feel anything. The chopper was translating, lining up the blunt muzzle of the weapon pods directly on him. When he tried to move his arms or legs, nothing worked. His vision was blurring, growing dimmer, everything was going dark…. With the target flitting over the jungle, it would have made a difficult shot-not impossible, but very difficult-but the chopper suddenly stopped, obviously lining up for the kill, and now it made an easy target. Marine Corps Captain Fred Collins swung the nose of his MV-22A Sea Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft a bit farther left to line up the aiming “donut” of his Stinger missile system on the infrared image of the Chinese patrol helicopter, then waited until he heard the familiar “growl” in his headset, indicating that one of his heat-seeking missiles had locked on. He lifted the protective cover off the safety release, pressed the release with his right thumb, got a “Ready Shoot” indication on his integrated helmet display system, then pulled the trigger with his right index finger. “Fox two, Able ZeroSeven.” From less than a half-mile away, the kill was quick and spectacular. The Stinger missile flew directly into the unbaffied, unprotected engine exhaust of the Chinese Zhishengji-9 combat patrol helicopter, turning both engines and its fuel tanks into balloons of fire. The orange and yellow balloons seemed to hold the helicopter in midair for several seconds, but soon it dropped straight down and crashed into the jungle. “Splash one chopper, ” Collins radioed. “Where’s the other two?”

  “Lost contact with bandit two, ” replied the controller aboard an Air Force E-3A Sentry radar plane from Andersen Air Force Base. “Bandit three is at your nine o’clock position, same altitude, range six miles, airspeed niner-zero and accelerating, turning south. He appears to be extending.”

  “I’m coming up on bingo fuel, Basket, ” Collins said. “I either chase him or continue with the pickup. I can’t do both. Where’s he now?”

  “Bandit three now heading southwest, your ten o’clock position, eight miles, airspeed one-zero-zero knots, altitude three thousand. Appears to be buggin’ out.” Collins knew that the guys could turn and re-attack quickly, but he had no choice-he was too far away to pursue. “All right, Basket, I’m staying. Give me a heads-up if he comes back. Switching to Guard channel.” To his copilot in the Sea Hammer’s left seat, Collins said, “You got the aircraft.” The copilot shook the control stick to acknowledge the order, and Collins released the controls. “Start an orbit over the area. I’ll see if I can find him on the FLIR.” Collins’ copilot climbed to five hundred feet, stabilized, then began a slow orbit over the area. Collins activated the AN/AAQ-16 FLIR, or Forward Looking Infrared, sensor ball, which presented a thermal image of the forest below in his helmet-mounted sights. At the same time he keyed the microphone button: “Bullet, this is Able Zero-Seven on Guard. Bullet, if you read me, give me a tone on Rescue one. Over.” A few seconds later, Collins heard, “Able Zero-Seven, this is Bullet on Guard. I read you loud and clear.” The DF directionfinder read southwest. The accent was strange, the voice clipped and precise-too precise. There was also a lot of background noise. It could be his own rotors . . . or it could be someone else. Collins said, “Bullet, go to Rescue One and hold down for ten. Over.”

  “Able Zero-Seven, I cannot. Land on shoreline. I can see you. Land on shoreline.”

  “Bullet, go to Rescue One. Over.” “Able Zero-Seven, I am injured. I cannot work my radio. Land
on the shoreline. I am just a few meters inland. Hurry. Over.” The DF readout still read southwest-but that could mean a hundred yards southwest or ten miles southwest. The Navy pilot was not following orders because he was panicking-or because it wasn’t a Navy pilot talking. The term “meters” worried Collins, but more military guys were using metric measurements like meters and “klicks, ” so that wasn’t a definite giveaway. On the Guard emergency channel, Collins said, “Stand by, Bullet.” To his copilot, Collins said, “Swing west a few miles. Let’s see if we can triangulate this DF steer.” The MV-22 swung west away from the coastline, keeping as close to the treetops as possible. “Able Zero-Seven, this is Bullet, come in. Come in, Able.” Bowman was groggy but awake. He had a pounding headache and completely washed-out vision. He felt paralyzed, and when he tried to move, a red-hot wave of pain rolled up and down his back. Same for his left arm-it wasn’t just his elbow anymore, the entire arm felt broken. His wrists were still handcuffed together and the survival radio was gone… No, not gone. He could hear faint voices coming from somewhere. Fighting through the pain in his back and arm, he scratched his fingers across the mud and foliage toward the sound. Just as he thought he was going to pass out from the pain, his fingers brushed the thick rubber of the short antenna. A spark of hope shot through his pain-tortured brain, and he was able to grab the radio and drag it to his body. “Stand by, Bullet, ” Bowman heard. “Bullet, switch to Rescue One, if able. Over.”

  “Unable to switch. Help me. Land on the shoreline. I will find you. Able… that was the call sign of the Navy rescue choppers on Ranger on the day that Bowman was shot down. The PJs finally found him! But who was he talking to? There was another Bullet crew member out here? Who was he talking to? Miller? Was Cookin’ alive? He couldn’t believe it-Miller had really made it! But he suddenly realized that wasn’t right. Miller was dead. The voice on the radio didn’t sound American-it sounded too smooth, too practiced. It had to be Chinese! The Chinese were trying to coax the Navy rescue bird into landing. No downed aircrewman would ever do that-a downed aircrewman’s responsibility was to first get himself located, then follow instructions from the rescue bird. He was not supposed to issue orders. Bowman’s radio was set to the Guard channel. On the PRC23D radio, there was a four-position rotary dial: full clockwise, toward the side with the antenna, was Guard, one click counterclockwise was Off, one more click was Rescue One, and one more was Rescue Two. With trembling fingers, Bowman depressed the rotary dial and twisted the knob once to the Off position; then, with a tremendous effort, twisted the dial to Rescue One and depressed a rubber switch on the side of the unit. … The DF readout on radio number one was moving slightly south. “Few more miles, ” Collins said to his copilot, “and we can plot out his position Suddenly, radio number two came alive with a distinctive Piiinng! Piiinng! Piiinng! Piiinng! tone. The DF readout on the second channel pointed directly east. “I got a tone on Rescue One!” Collins shouted. “Coming from the area we just left!”

  “That guy on Guard must be an eavesdropper, ” the copilot said. “I almost fell for it, too. Follow the DF steer from Rescue One.” Collins switched from Guard channel to Rescue One. “Bullet on Rescue One, I copy your tone. Give me a tone when we fly overhead.” They were about sixty seconds on the new heading toward the east when Collins said, “I think I have something down there. PJs, stand by.” In the rear of the MV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft were four pararescue jumpers, or PJs, two sitting on the port and starboard cargo doors, wearing rappelling gear. Collins tracked the warm spot below him with the FLIR. Just before the object was directly beneath them, they heard another series of tones on Rescue One. The copilot flew past the spot, but Collins continued to track the warm spot and hit a button on the AN/AYK-14 mission computer, which would store the latitude and longitude of the spot they flew over. “Bullet, this is Able Zero-Seven, authenticate Victor-Kilo. Victor-Kilo.” No response. “Bullet, this is Able, I say again, authenticate Victor-Kilo. Over.”

  “We’re coming up on bingo fuel, ” the copilot said, “and the Chinese are bound to bring reinforcements. We can’t stay…”

  “Once more, then we’re outta here, ” Collins said. On Rescue One, he said, “Bullet, I say again “Bullet . . . authenticates . . . Poppa Zero . . . PoppaZero…”

  “He didn’t give the whole response, ” the copilot said. “Close enough for me, ” Collins said. “But you don’t know…”

  “I’m taking the chance. I’ve got the aircraft.” Collins took the controls, gave them a shake to verify transfer of control, then banked sharply to the left and lined up on the object he was tracking on the FLIR. When he was pointing at it, he moved a switch on the power quadrant, which rotated the twin rotor nacelles on the wingtips of the MV-22 vertically and transformed the Sea Hammer aircraft from an airplane to a helicopter. He maneuvered the big cargo~plane~turned~heli copter into a hover, then translated slightly sideways until he found a clearing beneath the airplane. On interphone, he said, “PJs, our boy’s off the nose, about thirty yards. No complete ID, but I don’t see a weapon and he’s alone. Out.” Using their rappelling gear, the PJs edged off the Sea Hammer and slid to the ground. Unslinging their rifles, they took a bearing from the MV-22 and proceeded toward the subject. A few cautious minutes later, they found Bowman. “Able, this is PJ One, I got him. Looks like one of our boys.” The rescue technician quickly searched Bowman for hidden explosives or booby traps as the second PJ stood a safe distance away, guarding the area. “Move in position.” Collins edged the Sea Hammer aircraft forward, and the crewmen in the cargo hold lowered a rescue hoist with a forestzpenetrat0r device down to the men on the ground. He unfolded the petal-like seats on the forest penetrator, lifted Bowman up, and secured him into the seat. Bowman had enough strength to wrap his arms around the rescue device and do as he was told. “Samar… Samar. Don’t forget Samar.. .” Bowman told the PJ. It was hard to hear over the roar of the MV-22 overhead, but the first PJ caught a snippet of Bowman’s words. “He seems to be saying Sammy something, ” the PJ said on a helmet radio to Collins. “There might be someone else nearby.”

  “We don’t have time to search for anybody else, ” Collins’ copilot said. “We’re past bingo already.” Collins was using the FL1R scanner to search the area around the rescue site. Suddenly he stopped. “I got someone else, ” he said. “Thirty yards to the right. He’s not moving. Check it out. Hoist Robby on board.” The first PJ on the ground climbed onto another seat on the forest penetrator, strapped himself on, then pushed Bowman’s head down and wrapped his arms around him as the cargo hold crew hoisted them up through the foliage. The second PJ began moving toward the second object, taking directions from Collins, using the gradually brightening morning skies to find cover until he was close enough. The crew in the cargo hold of the MV-22 dragged Bowman inside and wrapped him in a blanket. One PJ shined a flashlight in his face, then compared the face to a sheet of ID-card photographs of downed crewmen from the Saratoga. “He matches, ” the PJ shouted on interphone. “Bowman. Bullet Seven’s pilot.” Collins let out a sigh of relief. “Dammit, I don’t believe it. We got one. The other guy might be his RIO.” The second PJ on the ground reached the body. “He looks like a Filipino… wait. He’s wearing general’s stars. No name tag, but he’s got two stars on his collar.” Collins maneuvered closer to his ground crewman. “General’s stars… a general? Named Sammy? Sammy… Sa~ar? Holy shit, that might be General Samar, the fucking Vice President! Get him on board! Hurry!” ABOARD THE USS RANGER, IN THE PHILIPPINE SEA MONDAY, 3 OCTOBER 1994, 0600 HOURS MANILA TIME The Philippine national anthem played in the background. The television transmission showed a sign written in English, Tagalog, and Chinese, telling the viewer to stand by for an important message from the Philippine government. After two minutes, the scene dissolved, to be replaced by the grim face of Second Vice President General Jose Trujillo Samar. Most of his hair was burned off, and one eye was swollen shuthe had refused to wear any bandages, however, because he was af
raid his countrymen might not recognize him, and because he wanted all the world to see what the Chinese military had done to him. He was wearing his uniform, freshly cleaned and starched, which hid a tightly wrapped separated shoulder and burns across most of his upper torso. “My fellow Filipinos and all others who can hear my voice. I am Jose Samar, Second Vice President of the Republic of the Philippines. I am speaking to you from a control room aboard the American aircraft carrier USS Ranger, which is en route to Guam after being viciously attacked by Chinese warplanes three days ago. This message is being broadcast to you at six o’clock A.M. on the third of October, Manila time, via Philippine TV channels two and three, on the Voice of America, the British Broadcasting Channel shortwave channel seventeen, and on other international radio and television channels. “As you can see, 1 am injured but alive. I was rescued on the second of October from the island of Mindanao by American Marines shortly after being attacked and nearly killed by patrols from the People’s Republic of China. The Chinese patrols killed several of my militiamen while we were engaged in rescue operations, trying to save the life of an American Navy pilot shot down by Chinese fighter planes several days ago. “I am speaking to you today to tell you that, as the governor of the Commonwealth of Mindanao and Second Vice President of the Republic of the Philippines, that the People’s Republic of China is engaged in a full-scale military invasion of my country. Do not be deceived by stories of cooperation with the Philippine government. The Chinese are believed to have murdered President Arturo Mikaso. Chinese warships have taken the Commonwealth cities of Puerto Princesa, Zamboanga, Cotabato, and Cagayan de Oro, and they are preparing to launch an all-out assault on the Commonwealth of Mindanao capital city of Davao. The Chinese are not liberators, nor are they assisting any legitimate Philippine government officials. They are invaders. They are moving large-scale military forces into my country with the intent of permanently occupying and annexing the Philippines. The Chinese invaders have attacked and killed Philippine citizens and have also attacked unarmed American reconnaissance planes. “1 am hereby urging all nations to impose economic and political sanctions on the People’s Republic of China for their illegal invasion, and to do everything in their power to help remove all Chinese military forces from my country. As Second Vice President and the only legitimate government leader of the Philippines, I hereby proclaim all incursions into the Philippines by the People’s Republic of China to be illegal, and I formally order the People’s Republic of China to remove all personnel, warships, and aircraft from our territories immediately. “My authority may be challenged by the Communist government in Manila, led by the murderer Daniel Teguina. Teguina has called me a traitor and a rebel, but it was he who conspired to assassinate President Mikaso, allow the Chinese Army to invade the country, and take power for himself behind the brutal arm of the Red Chinese. His allegations are unfounded, but only the Supreme Court and the Parliament of the Republic of the Philippines can decide our guilt or innocence. “But in the Commonwealth of Mindanao my authority is absolute, and I am still in command despite my injuries. My militia forces have denied the Chinese complete access to Cotabato Airport, we have continually routed them from the Cabagan, Davao, and Pulangi river valleys, and we have prepared a strong defense and a few surprises for them in Davao if they try to invade us there. This will be the greatest battle in Philippine history since World War Two. But we cannot hold off the Chinese hordes alone. “I am therefore formally requesting military and economic assistance from the government of the United States in helping me to repel the Chinese invaders. I hereby authorize the American government full overflight, landing rights, and sailing rights into all Philippine and Commonwealth territories, and hereby grant full authority to conduct military, security, safety, and other operations in my country. I also authorize the President of the United States and his designated representatives, civil and military, to act with full presidential authority in the Commonwealth of Mindanao, including full authority for all defense matters, and I order my state militia to obey all orders of the President of the United States or his theater commanders as if those orders were my own. If I die of my injuries or am killed by hostile forces, my orders here stated will remain in force until my state is returned to peace, with all foreign powers removed. “I hope that all loyal Filipinos hear my words. These are my standing orders to all loyal Filipinos: “All active, reserve, national guard, inactive reserve, and former militia members under the age of sixty are ordered to active duty immediately. Report only to a district or city militia commander; do not report to a federal, National People’s Party, or New People’s Army official, or to anyone you do not know personally. If it is not possible to contact a militia commander, attempt to travel to Davao and report to a militia outpost. “To all other citizens of Mindanao: Do not report for work. Do not surrender your weapons to anyone under any circumstances; keep them hidden. Report movements of Chinese or New People’s Army troops, or anyone you suspect of aiding or informing to the Chinese or NPA, to a militia member known to you. My militiamen will attempt to contact all residents of Davao, Samal, Panabo, Santo Tomas, and other towns on the Davao Gulf and take your women and children out of any known battle areas. “If your town is under attack or is threatened, move toward the coast as quickly as you can. Do not move toward Davao, as you might move into the middle of a battle area, trapped between opposing forces. Avoid Chinese or NPA troops; travel on secondary or back roads, at night if possible. If you can travel by boat, do so only at night, stay hidden near the coastline, and avoid all large coastal towns. Do not assist any Chinese or federal government representatives or military personnel. If you are forced to assist them, do so to save your own life, but escape when it is safe to do so and resist to the best of your ability. Provide aid and comfort to any of my militia members known to you. “Above all, pray for the strength and courage we will need to resist the Chinese invaders. As long as I live, I will do everything in my powers to remove the foreign invaders from our homeland. May God give me, and you, my loyal brothers and sisters, the strength to continue fighting until our country is once again free. “This transmission will be recorded and repeated several times daily. Do not give up the fight. Allah akbar. God is great. Good luck.” The opening sign reappeared, along with the national anthem, and then Samar began to repeat the message, this time in Tagalog, the native language of the Philippines. ANDERSEN APB, GUAM TUESDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1994, 0211 HOURS LOCAL “What do you mean, it’s down?” Brad Elliott asked. He kicked off the sheets, and his one good foot was hitting the floor milliseconds later as he readjusted the phone. “Sorry, General, but that’s what it looks like, ” jon Masters said over the phone. “Carter-Seven didn’t download its last sensor pass over Mindanao. We’re checking on it right now, but I think our ground equipment is malfunctioning. I can’t poll the satellites.”