Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 (64 page)

           
“What is he talking about?” Yin
asked angrily. “We did not make a deal with
Vietnam
for anything!”

           
“Mr. Teguina says that
Vietnam
abstained in a recent vote of the
Association of South East Asian Nations,” the interpreter said, “and the rumor
that was passed to the Agui- naldo government was that the Chinese government
made a deal with
Vietnam
to give them rights to the
Spratly
Islands
in exchange for blocking a key vote.”

           
Yin was about to rebuff the
accusation, but the words died in his throat. That
had
to be the reason why he had heard the tremendous outcry from
the ASEAN nations concerning the Chinese invasion, yet nothing had been
done—because two nations,
Thailand
and
Vietnam
, abstained. High General Chin Po Zihong
must have lost a key argument in
Beijing
if he allowed the Nansha Dao—what the world
called the
Spratly
Islands
—to fall back into
Vietnam
’s hands ... Chin would
never
have allowed that to happen unless his voice was firmly
stilled by Premier Cheung.

           
“I assure you,” Yin calmly told
Teguina, “that our alliance is firm and there is no duplicity involved. The
vote to censure us was defeated in ASEAN because the members believe in what
we’re doing, not because of any back-room deals, especially with the
reprehensible Vietnamese government . . .”

           
But Teguina didn’t seem to be
waiting for the interpreter to finish; he began lashing out more accusations.
“He is saying that his alliance is ruined, that the Chinese are out to get him,
that he can trust no one . . .”

           
“Calm yourself, Mr. President,” Yin
said via the interpreter. “We will brief you on our preparations for assisting
your forces to retake
Davao
, and we will give you a tour of our flagship. You may even speak to our
officers. They will all tell you that they fully support your government in
this struggle.” That seemed to mollify Teguina a little, and he allowed himself
to be escorted out of Yin’s office to the
Battle
staff briefing area.

           
But as they were leaving, with
Teguina well out of earshot, Yin grabbed Captain Sun and hissed, “Get
headquarters’ political section on the line immediately. I want to find out
about the ASEAN vote and the status of Nansha Dao. Do it immediately.”

The White House Oval Office

Saturday, 8 October 1994, 0627
hours local

           
The President of the
United States
had extended his hand to greet United
Nations ambassador Deborah O’Day as she walked into the Oval Office, but by
some sort of sudden urge he found himself giving her a cordial hug. “Welcome
back home, Deborah,” the President said, guiding her to a chair. Secretary of
State Danahall, Secretary of Defense Preston, Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman
Curtis, and several members of the House and Senate armed services committees
stayed on their feet until O’Day was seated, then took their place around her.
“You’ve had a hell of an ordeal, haven’t you?” “Dealing with the ASEAN
representatives and the Chinese delegation has been tougher than getting
kidnapped by
Samar
’s rebels,” O’Day admitted. She extended a
hand, and her aide placed a leather-jacketed folder into it. “Mr. President,
I’ve been given a communique by the Chinese government, a reply to your last
message requesting withdrawal from the
Philippines
.”

           
“I take it by your tone that it’s
not good news.”

           
“I haven’t read the letter itself,
sir, but the Chinese ambassador was not cordial. I think it’s bad news.” The
President took the folder, broke the seal, initialed the original Chinese-
language version of the letter and placed it aside, then read the United
Nations and State Department translations.

           
“Just as we thought,”
Taylor
said wearily. “
China
rejects our demands for an immediate
withdrawal. They say they are in the
Philippines
with the permission and full sanction of
the Philippine government, and the American involvement there is illegal
meddling in the internal affairs of another government. They say they do not
know the whereabouts of Arturo Mikaso and said we should make inquiries with
the Filipino government as to his status, but as far as they are concerned
Daniel Teguina is in charge and Jose Trujillo Samar has no authority in the
government.

           
“They regret the attacks on our
aircraft and warships, but in the current unstable world climate such
interference should have been anticipated and therefore we should carry as much
of the blame for the loss as they . . .”

           
“Bullshit,” Curtis murmured.

           
“They further regard the deployment
of heavy bombers and carrier battle groups around the
Philippines
as an extremely hostile act and they will
use any and all means at their disposal to protect their citizens and
property.” The President tossed the communique aside and regarded the advisers
around him. “Well? Thoughts?”

           
“
Samar
’s rebels come under attack in less than
five hours, sir,” O’Day said. She glanced at Wilbur Curtis. “Is that right,
General?”

           
“Yes, it is,” Curtis said. He
referred to the pile of mounted satellite photos on the coffee table before
him—the photos taken from the B-2 and U-2 reconnaissance flights. “It may have
begun already. Chinese warships were in position to bombard
Davao
by sundown. When their landing craft get
into position, they’ll start the invasion.”

           
“Five hours? So you’re saying it’s
too late . . . ?”

           
“No, sir, I’m not,” Curtis said. “As
we discussed in the tactics briefing, the Chinese troops are most vulnerable
while they’re still in their troop transports. They’ve already begun unloading
troops along the Buoyan peninsula east of
Mount
Apo
to secure the coastal towns, but the main
force still hasn’t landed in
Davao
yet—
Samar
’s rebels are mining the straits and inlets,
trying to slow the convoys up. We still have time to stop them.”

           
The President nodded to Curtis.
“Thank you, General.” To Secretary of Defense Preston, he asked, “Thomas? What
do you have for me?”

           
“Only my wish that we wait and bring
the
Lincoln
and
Nimitz
carrier battle groups, and the
Wisconsin
surface action group, forward into position
first,”
Preston
replied. “But I know if we still desire to
support
Samar
and his Islamic rebels that we must act
quickly.”

           
The President seemed to consider his
words for a moment. “Thank you.” He continued around the room, getting last
thoughts from Danahall and the congressional leadership. A few voiced
hesitation, but all seemed to want to act.

           
From the front of his desk, the
President withdrew a red-covered folder and opened it. Below large dark letters
that read Top Secret were the words
Executive
Order 94-21, Air Operations, Strike,
Island
of
Mindanao
,
Republic of the
Philippines
.
Without any further hesitation, the President
signed the order and several copies, then replaced it in the folder and
resealed it.

           
Wilbur Curtis was on the phone
thirty seconds later to the
National
Military
Command
Center
.

Andersen AFB,
Guam

Sunday, 9 October 1994, 1915
hours local (Saturday,
8
October, 0815
Washington
time)

           
Patrick McLanahan awoke thirty
minutes before his alarm rang. Two hours before the first daily standby
situation briefing—he needed rest, but he knew his mind was not going to let
him have any more.

           
His bedroom was a maintenance office
on the top floor of hangar building number 509, on Andersen’s expansive north
parking ramp, which he shared with his aircraft commander, Major Henry Cobb.
Down below them in the huge hangar were two very unusual machines—Patrick’s
B-2A Black Knight stealth bomber and an EB-52C Megafortress strategic escort
aircraft—the same Megafortress that had “saved” their tails from the F-23
Wildcat fighters during General Jarrel’s training sorties three weeks ago in
Powder River Run. The hangar also housed all the other flight, maintenance, and
support crews for the HAWC aircraft, as well as a full squadron of heavily
armed security police.

           
Careful not to disturb his aircraft
commander, Patrick pulled on his flight suit, picked up his socks and boots
from their place under his canvas folding cot, and tried to tiptoe out.

           
“Up already, Colonel?” Cobb said
from his cot.

           
“Yep. Sorry to wake you.”

           
“You didn’t. I never went to sleep.”
Cobb threw off the sheet covering him and swung his feet onto the floor. “Never
slept in a hangar before. Don’t think I want to again after this.”

           
“Amen,” Patrick said. “The smell
really gets you after a while. I started to have ... bad dreams.” He wasn’t
going to say what those dreams were like or what mission he was flying in his
dreams. He got the same dreams every time he was exposed to kerosene-like
fumes—a morning long ago and far away... a tiny snow-covered fighter base at
Anadyr, Siberia, in the Soviet Union, when he pumped thousands of gallons of
kerosene into a B-52 by hand in subzero weather so they could take off again
before the Soviet Army found them. David Luger had sacrificed himself to make
sure they could escape, driving a fuel truck into a machine gun emplacement—and
Patrick relived that horrible moment every night after smelling jet-fuel fumes.
He would probably do so for the rest of his life.

           
Henry Cobb hadn’t heard all the
stories about the Old Dog mission—he had of course met all the survivors of
that mission, most of whom worked—some called it “exiled”—at the HAWC, and he
had seen the first Megafortress itself after Ormack and McLanahan flew it from
Alaska back to Dreamland—but he could guess that it was some event in that
mission that starred in McLanahan’s bad dreams.

           
Both men quickly washed up in the
lavatory down the hall, then returned to their rooms to dress. Despite the
warm, muggy afternoon, they donned thin, fire-resistant long underwear and
thick padded socks under their flight suits. Under the long underwear were
regular cotton briefs and T-shirts.

           
They wore metal military dog tags
next to their skin so they wouldn’t rattle or fly loose during ejection. Many
crew members laced dog tags into their boots as well, because many times lower
body parts survived aerial combat better than upper body parts. They both
carried survival knives in ankle sheaths, lightweight composite-bladed knives
with both straight and serrated edges, a built-in magnetic compass in the butt
cap, and a watertight compartment in the handle that carried waterproof
matches, fishing line, sunscreen, a small signal mirror, and a tiny first-aid
and survival booklet. In thigh pockets they carried another knife, this one
attached to their flight suits by a six-foot-long cord—this knife was a legal
switchblade knife with a hook blade for cutting parachute risers. The thigh
pocket also contained a vial with earplugs, which were often mistaken by
curious nonflyers for suicide pills.