Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 (21 page)

           
Masters knew she was reviewing the
past few minutes and said, “Helen ... it was on countdown hold.”

           
“Because
I
put it there, Jon.” And, she thought, if we’d done it your^way
and continued the countdown, Masters might be splashing down in the Pacific
right now, right behind our twenty-million-dollar booster—if the thing didn’t
cook off first.

           
“Well,” Masters said expansively,
“it’s dead on course, dead on speed, dead on altitude. It’ll be in orbit in
eight minutes and the friggin’ Air Force can get a look at all that shit going
on in the
Philippines
.”

           
“Whatever you say, Jon . . .”

           
“Helen, come on . . .”

           
“Drop it.” .

           
And he did.

Palawan Passage, near Ulugan
Bay

Palawan
Province
,
the
Philippines

Thursday, 22 September 1994,
0417 hours local

           
The
Hong Lung
task force had driven to within twenty kilometers of the
fleeing Filipino fleet when the first Shuihong-5 antiship flying boat arrived
on the scene. The Chinese flotilla was picking its way through a series of
reefs and shoals along the Palawan Passage on the west side of the
island
of
Palawan
, the westernmost province of the
Philippines
. Most of the island was remote and sparsely
settled, but
Ulugan
Bay
, the Filipino fleet’s obvious destination,
had the best-outfitted port facilities at Nanan. It was also only forty-five
kilometers north of Puerto Princesa, a former United States Air Force base on
Palawan
that was now a Philippine Air Force base;
that base was the largest airport on
Palawan
and
the center of the isolated island’s meager population.

           
“Talon Eight-One, this is Dragon,”
Admiral Yin Po L’un radioed to the pilot of the flying boat. “Reconnoiter the
Filipino attack fleet to the east. Report on any hostile activity. Authorized
to return fire if fired upon. Warning, Chinese vessels have already been
attacked and destroyed by this combat group. Proceed with caution.” It was a
moot warning for the Shuihong-5 crew—if they followed their previous pattern,
the Philippine vessels would fire on the flying boat. The Shuihong crew would
then return fire with their murderous cargo and destroy most of the Filipino
warships.

           
But it did not happen. Several
minutes later, the pilot of the Shuihong-5 antiship aircraft reported, “Sir,
Talon Eight- One reporting. We are in contact with four surface vessels,
repeat, four vessels. The larger vessels identified as PF-class frigates, repeat,
two PF-class frigates. Two smaller, probably PS- or LF-class patrol vessels.
Over.”

           
“Commander Chow had reported
possibly two PS patrol boats out there,” Captain Lubu said. “He mentioned a
corvette . . .”

           
“But there are two frigates instead
of two patrol boats,” Yin said. “Chow can’t identify ships very accurately at
night at distances over five kilometers, even with ISAR radar.”

           
Lubu nodded, not quite convinced but
accepting the explanation for now. “The PS patrol boat is probably the Rizal
identified as the helicopter platform,” he added. “We should be on the lookout
for another missile attack from the helicopters.”

           
“They’re running,” Yin said
confidently. “The fight has gone out of the cowardly bastards. What is the
status of the enemy ships now? Why haven’t they opened fire on the patrol
plane?” A large patrol plane like the Shuihong-5 was a major threat to any
ships such as those of the Filipinos’, which had no antiaircraft missiles.
“What is his range?” “Nine kilometers,” Lubu reported, relaying the information
from the Combat section. “They detect search and navigation radar only—no
target-acquisition radars detected. He is awaiting instructions.”

           
Incredible, Yin thought—how could
the frigate captain stay so cool in the face of an airborne hostile contact?
Surely he must realize that the Chinese Air Force had such strike aircraft in
the region? And then he realized that the Philippine vessels probably had no
antiair weapons other than their guns, which had a maximum range no farther
than four to five kilometers; the
Hong
Lung's
Hong Qian-9 surface-to- air missile had a range of about seventy
kilometers, and Yin would not hesitate to use them against any unidentified
aircraft that flew within range of his ship.

           
“Close to five kilometers, maintain
contact, report any change in hostile status,” Yin ordered the patrol plane. “I
want positive identification of all vessels in that formation.” The Shuihong-5
pilot hesitated for a few long moments— he realized that his commanding officer
had just ordered him to fly within gun range of the Filipino vessels. The pilot
responded hesitantly, “Yes... sir. Talon Eight-One copies.” There were a few
warning messages broadcast in English on international emergency channels, but
Yin ignored them all. The plane drove only a few kilometers closer before the
slow-scan P-band air-search radar switched to a high-PRF X-band fire-control
radar, and soon, at precisely five kilometers range between the largest ship in
the Filipino battle group, Admiral Yin heard the satisfyingly terrified voice
of the pilot screaming in the radio that he was under fire from heavy
antiaircraft artillery.

           
“Return fire,” Admiral Yin ordered
angrily. “Clear to launch air-to-surface missiles. Stay out of gun range and at
high altitude; Dragon task force will be attacking as well.”

           
Yin turned to Captain Lubu. “Are we
receiving target telemetry from the patrol plane?”

           
“Yes, sir,” Lubu responded,
double-checking with his Combat Information officers. The Shuihong-5 patrol
plane could transmit radar data from its Heracles II surface-search radar to
other ships capable of accepting the information; the
Hong Lung
could use this information to target the Fei Lung-7
antiship missile as if it were picking up the radar data from its own
transmitters.

           
“Very well,” Yin said smugly. “Begin
our attack. Launch two Fei Lung missiles from long range, get a strike report
from the plane, and re-attack with two more. I want this battle concluded as
quickly as possible, Lubu.”

Puerto Princesa Airfield,
Palawan
,
the
Philippines

           
The naked young girl lying on
Colonel Renaldo Tamalko’s chest was so thin and lithe that he inadvertently
tossed her onto the floor as he reached for the incessantly ringing phone. He
grunted an apology to the girl as he picked up the receiver. “What?”

           
“Command Post, Sergeant Komos, sir,”
the voice of the NCO in charge of the tiny Philippine Air Force base at Puerto
Princesa,
Palawan
, replied. “We’ve received an urgent message
from a naval task force group west of
Palawan
,
requesting immediate assistance.”

           
“Wait a second.” Tamalko flicked on
the light and rubbed his eyes sleepily. All that registered to the Philippine
Air Force squadron commander was that his command post senior controller was
excited, and that usually meant bad news.

           
The old window-mounted air
conditioner was on full force, but the room was still hot and steamy. He
motioned toward a glass of clear liquid on the table in the center of the room,
silently ordering the girl to bring it to him and hoping that it wasn’t more booze.
He watched the young maid’s gentle curves and tight butt as she brought the
glass over to him—she didn’t look any older than fourteen or fifteen, but her
sexual skills were certainly well developed, he thought. He grabbed her wrist,
pulled her back over to him, and guided her hand back to his crotch. The glass
had a bit of whiskey mixed with several melted ice cubes, so he contented
himself with pouring the liquid over his face to help wake himself up. “Say
again, Sergeant?”

           
“A Navy captain Banio of the
Thirty-first Patrol Group from Zamboanga has issued a tactical emergency
warning message to all military units,” the NCO said. “He states that a Chinese
naval force is in pursuit and is approaching
Palawan
, about forty miles west of
Ulugan
Bay
. He requests immediate air support.”

           
“A Chinese naval force? In pursuit?
Of who? Pursuing
him?
What kind of
air support does he need? What the hell is going on out there?”

           
“We’re trying to raise him again,
sir,” Komos said. “There was a brief radio message about an attack in progress,
but no more details are available.”

           
“Shit,” Tamalko swore. Fucking
Chinese. To Komos he said, “This had better not be some kind of joke, Sergeant.
Did you receive any kind of verification? Was the message authenticated?”

           
“No, sir,” the controller replied.
‘‘.Contact has not been reestablished.”

           
Tamalko swore to himself. This could
be some kind of drill or exercise—it was similar to the kind of stuff the
Americans liked to pull, when the Americans used to be here. But since the
Americans had been kicked out of the Phihppines, things had been very, very
quiet. . .

           
Too quiet, as matter of fact.

           
The Communist guerrillas, who were
numerous and strong on
Palawan
and
the other outlying provinces, had stepped up their recruitment drives and had
certainly become much more active, but incidents of violence were not as
common—he hadn’t had one of his officers shot or beaten up downtown in weeks.
Before the Americans departed, it seemed to happen every weekend. As much as
almost everyone in the military hated having a Communist like Daniel Teguina as
First Vice President, it was obvious that his election had a stabilizing
effect. Tamalko would probably have shot the bastard if he met up with him in a
dark alley, but if, because Teguina was in office, the peasants liked him and
quit shooting up the villages, so much the better.

           
So what was this shit with a Chinese
invasion? It had to be bogus, an exercise cooked up by some know-nothing
staffer in
Manila
. He had been involved with many such
scenarios with the American Navy and with other military units in ASEAN, the
Association of South East Asian Nations, whose member nations frequently ran
joint exercises with the newly independent Philippine military. But bogus or
not, Tamalko knew he had to act decisively. He had to do everything he could to
make sure that his cushy job here at Puerto Princesa, one of the most beautiful
seacoast towns in all the world, was protected. Puerto Princesa was a diamond
surrounded by jungle and mountains, far enough from
Manila
to retain a very relaxed atmosphere. He was
in charge of a small squadron of F-4E fighter-bombers and F-5R day fighters
purchased from the
United States
, and he also maintained the base for other
miscellaneous military and civilian air operations. There was no job on Earth
better than his, and he guarded it jealously.

           
The girl was halfheartedly trying to
arouse Tamalko with a rather distracted pumping action, obviously hoping he
would leave soon so she could get some sleep. He pushed her head into his
crotch, watched her begin her work, which she did as if completely bored, then
turned back to his phone: “Sergeant, start a squadron recall immediately. Tell
Captain Libona in Maintenance to get two F-4s fueled and ready to fly in twenty
minutes; I will take one, and I’ll take the first sober crew that shows up with
me.”

           
The girl between his legs nipped at
him, and the sudden pain sent a bolt of dazzling blue energy radiating from his
penis through the rest of ins body. “I want a full combat generation begun
immediately—no simulated weapons or procedures—until I give the word,” Tamalko
continued. “Major Esperanza will command the battle staff until I return.
Inform the flight leaders that I will have Security arrest any crew members
they find that do not respond to the recall.