Sky Masters

5

General Larry T. Tyler, commander in chief of the Strategic Air Command, was getting ready to make his first serve of the tennis match between members of the headquarters staff when the beeper on his portable radio went off. But, like a baseball pitcher halfway into his windup, he completed the serve and managed to hit his Reserve Forces Advisor, Colonel Hartmann, in the left leg. Hartmann was distracted and didn’t expect his boss to finish his serve.

“Cheap shot, General,” Hartmann shouted.

Tyler raised his racket to offer an apology to Hartmann, who politely waved it off, then trotted over to the bench, where his radio was sitting. Tyler’s driver, a young buck sergeant named Meers, heard the beeper and immediately started up the General’s staff car, which was waiting just a few dozen yards away. In Tyler’s footsteps was his doubles partner, the former commander of Pacific Air Force’s Philip-pine-based Thirteenth Air Force, Major General Richard “Rat Killer” Stone, who was to become Tyler’s Deputy Chief of Staff of Pacific Operations in a few weeks.

It had been said that CINCSAC — the Commander in Chief of the Strategic Air Command — was a prisoner of his job, and to a certain extent it was true — the radio, the car, and the driver were his constant companions. But the fifty-six-year-old ex-Notre Dame football quarterback was determined not to let the awesome responsibility of his position disrupt his life — and that responsibility was truly awesome.

Tyler was in charge of the United States’ smaller but still potent nuclear combat force of ninety B-1B Excalibur bombers, two hundred B-52G and H-model Stratofortress bombers, ten B-2A Black Knight stealth bombers, six hundred Minuteman III intercontinental ballistic missiles, one hundred rail-garrison Peacekeeper ICMBs, fifty MGM-134A Mustang road-mobile ICBMs, eight hundred AGM-129A advanced cruise missiles, and one thousand AGM-131A Short-Range Attack Missiles.

In addition he commanded several hundred aerial refueling tankers, strategic reconnaissance aircraft, airborne command posts, and communications aircraft, and a total of about eighty thousand men and women, civilians as well as military, all around the globe — and his job was to stay within moments-notice contact with each and every one of his sixty active and reserve units at all times.

Although he was at the very pinnacle of his Air Force career, he was determined not to get jabbed in the ass by its sharp point.

As Tyler made his way to the bench where his radio sat, he noticed the amber rotating lights at the street intersection nearby — the SAC command post was recalling the alert crews, and the amber warning lights told other drivers to be aware of alert crews heading toward the flight line. Offutt Air Force Base had an alert force of four KC-135 aerial refueling tankers that would prepare for takeoff to support airborne command post aircraft at Offutt, as well as other strike and communications aircraft.

The alert crews were tested regularly to make sure their response time was always within limits. But Tyler knew the schedule of all alert crew exercises, especially for the E-4 and EC-135 aircraft — if enemy warheads were inbound, Tyler himself would transfer his flag of command and take an EC-135 airborne — and this wasn’t a scheduled exercise. His pace quickened as he grabbed for the radio; his tennis partners sensed his sudden anxiety, saw the rotating lights, and immediately made their way to their staff cars as well.

With Stone standing a discreet distance away — he had a Top Secret security clearance but was not yet recertified for the SIOP, or Strategic Integrated Operations Plan, after losing his command in the Philippines — Tyler keyed the mike to turn off the beeper and spoke: “Alpha, go ahead.”

“Colonel Dunigan, Command Center, sir,” came the voice of his command center’s duty senior controller, Colonel Audrey Dunigan. Dunigan was the first woman senior controller, rising through the ranks from KC-135 tanker pilot all the way to a Headquarters senior-controller slot. Dunigan was now the senior controller of the busiest shift in the Command Center, in direct communication with the Pentagon and all the SAC’s military forces around the globe, and she seemed to take charge of the place like no one else before her. “Zero-Tango in ten minutes. Command Center out.”

“Alpha copies. Out,” Tyler replied. Turning to Stone, he said, “Let’s go, Rat Killer. In my car. We’ll have a little impromptu on-the-job training.” He dropped his racket on the bench and loped toward his waiting sedan, not even bothering to make apologies to his staff — whom he knew would be right behind him anyway. Stone piled into the front seat beside Tyler’s driver and they roared off.

“We got a Zero-Tango notification,” Tyler told Stone. “You should be familiar with that: notification by NCA or Space Command directly, teleconference of the NCA, JCS, specified and unified commanders, all that stuff.”

“I’ve only been in one,” Stone replied, “and I was the one who called it. Just before the Philippine elections last year, Manila was a war zone. I thought Clark was going to be overrun. I had to kick General Collier at PACAF in the butt to do something. I raised a ruckus that obviously went right to CINCPAC, but he finally made the call and we got the support we needed.”

“I remember that,” Tyler said. “From what I read in the messages, Rat, Clark could have looked like the American embassy in Tehran in ’79. Landing that Marine Expeditionary Unit on Luzon may have seemed like overkill to most of the Pentagon and the press, but it defused the situation perfectly.”

“Sure it did,” Stone added dryly. “And I got shit-canned for even suggesting it.”

“Best thing that could have happened to you was getting bumped out of Pacific Air Forces and coming to work at SAC, Rat,” Tyler said. “You know as well as I do that everyone will remember the last commander of Clark Air Force Base. Wherever you went in PACAF, that stigma would have followed you. It would have hurt your chances for promotion — I know it sounds shitty, but shit happens. Here at SAC, I get a topnotch expert in the Pacific Theater and maritime warfare, and you get a fair shot at your third star.”

A coded message was being read over the radio, and Tyler squelched it out. Stone said, “You’re not going to monitor the alert network?”

“The messages are for the crews, not for me,” Tyler replied. “When I try to second-guess those messages, I give myself ulcers. Now I try to relax, think about what I need to do, and think about what I should be hearing when I get to the Battle Staff area.”

“And the whole staff gets notified and called in?”

“Yep,” Tyler replied, hanging on to the seat back as Meers negotiated a tight turn, switching on the siren to clear some traffic out of an intersection. “At this time of day it’s no problem. When we get one at two in the morning, it can get real hairy.”

“How often do you get these notifications?”

“Not very often lately,” Tyler admitted. “A lot of the notifications can be expected — the riots in Lithuania just before their independence, the SCUD missile attacks during DESERT STORM, the assassination in Iraq, shit like that. You can read the evening paper and pretty much anticipate that a Zero-Tango was going to be called. But things just aren’t all that critical in the real world these days.”

They were approaching SAC Headquarters, a low, generally unimpressive building in the center of the base. The building was unimpressive because only three stories were above ground — there were five more stories underneath. Stone could see the Minuteman I missile out in front of the building, a lone dedication to the thousands of SAC crew members who spent as much as a third of their careers on twenty-four-hour alert, sitting near their planes, in underground missile-launch complexes, or in windowless command posts, ready to respond in case deterrence failed — in case they were called on to fight World War III.

He also saw the weeping willow on the lawn in front of the headquarters building, and the sight struck Richard Stone as oddly ironic. Fifty feet under that lone weeping willow, men and women were ready, at the direction of the President of the United States, the Secretary of Defense, and the man in the car with him, to unleash thousands of megatons of explosive power all across the planet with uncanny precision. The location of the willow, Stone realized, was even a little absurd — several nations probably had their thermonuclear weapons aimed at that precise spot, ready to knock out the two-thirds of America’s nuclear forces controlled from this one location.

No wonder Tyler turned off his radio, Stone thought. Even in these days of relative stability and peace, the thought of being flattened and vaporized by the first incoming warheads was enough to drive a guy crazy.

“In ten, Sergeant Meers,” Tyler told his driver.

“Got it, sir.”

“Keep your badge in sight and follow me in, Rat,” Tyler told Stone. “We might have to put you in the ‘press box,’ but you’re certainly cleared inside the Command Post. It should be fun, whatever we got going here.”

Stone blinked at the four-star general. “General, you mean you don’t know what’s happening?”

A grim-faced expression from Tyler gave Stone his answer.

At the outer gate to the parking lot/security perimeter around SAC Headquarters, a security guard had his M-16 rifle in one hand, and with the other hand he held up four fingers. Meers flashed the guard five fingers, then one finger, and the guard let him through. If Meers had added wrong and flashed the wrong number — he had to add the right amount of fingers to the guard’s fingers to equal ten, the security number that Dunigan had relayed to Tyler in the notification message and the one that she would have relayed to the gate guards — they would probably have had their tires shot out by two or three well-trained guards, and their noses would be pinned to the pavement a few seconds later. They had to pass through a second gate before reaching the building, and this time the guard was kind enough to flash eight fingers so Meers had to raise only two fingers in response.

Meers stopped the car just outside an enclosed doorway, guarded by a single security policeman. Tyler and Stone ran past him, not bothering to return his salute, and Tyler punched in the code to the Cypher-Lock beside the steel door. The door buzzed, and Tyler yanked the heavy steel door open, ran inside, flashed his security access badge to a guard in a bulletproof booth, and trotted to the private elevator that would take him four floors down, directly to the underground Command Center. The guards, Tyler noticed, all wore subdued smiles as he dashed by — it must be fun for them, he thought, to see a two- and four-star general in warmup suits running around the place. One more guard in a bulletproof booth checking ID badges, through a metal-detector device, another guard, two blast doors, past the Command Center weather station, and they were in the SAC Command Center itself.

The Command Center consisted of three areas, separated by thick soundproof glass and remote-controlled privacy shutters — the Battle Staff area on the main auditorium floor area, the Essential Elements area behind the main auditorium, and the Support Staff area in a balcony over the auditorium. All three areas could see the “big board,” the eight 5-by-6-foot computer screens in the front of the Command Center, but depending on the security classification of the activity and the occupants, the senior controller could seal off either area to prevent eavesdropping — an unclassified briefing could be going on in the Support Staff area while a Top Secret briefing could be given in the Battle Staff area, with complete security.

Tyler glanced up at the Command Post status board just inside the entrance and found red lights flashing near the signs that read “Battle Staff” and “Essential Elements” — the rooms were both classified Top Secret. Tyler pointed to a doorway to their right. “Take those stairs up to the Support Staff room, Rat,” he said. “They’ll direct you from there.” Stone did not argue or hesitate, but went through the door, which locked behind him. A set of stairs took him up to the glassed-in observation area overlooking the Battle Staff area, where a technician had him put on a pair of headphones as he sat down to watch. The shutters remained open, which meant he could watch the big board but not hear any of the conversation going on below.

The Battle Staff area below him resembled a small theater, with forty seats of three semicircular levels facing the big board in the front of the Command Center. Tyler took his seat in front row center, behind a director’s computer console with two phones, a keyboard, and four 19-inch color monitors. The seat beside him was already occupied by the Vice Commander in Chief of the Strategic Air Command, Lieutenant General Michael Stanczek. Around them were arranged the various deputy chiefs of staff of the Command, most of whom were already in place by the time Tyler had arrived from the tennis court. Each staff position had two flip-up color computer monitors, a small keyboard, a telephone, arid a microphone.

The first thing Tyler did after taking his seat in the Command Center was check the rows of digital clocks above the computer monitors. The first row of clocks had times in various places in the world — Washington, Omaha, Honolulu, Guam, Tokyo, Moscow, and London. London was labeled “Zulu,” the time along the zero-degree-longitude Greenwich meridian used by SAC as a common time-reference point. Below that were three event timers, and one was already activated — it read 00:15:23. The third row of timers and clocks were thankfully still reading zero — those were the clocks that set reference times used by American strategic nuclear forces to execute their nuclear strike missions. Two of those timers, the L-hour and A-hour, were set by Tyler himself, but the other one, the ERT, or Emergency Reference Time, could be set by the National Command Authority if the President himself ordered a nuclear strike.

Tyler hit the mike button on his console: “Alpha in position. Log me in, please, and let’s get started.”

A voice on the auditorium’s loudspeaker immediately chimed in: “Major Hallerton, with an Event One situation briefing.” Hallerton was the shift’s ADI, or Assistant Chief of Intelligence. “Approximately fifteen minutes ago, Space Command was alerted by a FOREST GREEN nuclear-detonation-warning sensor on three different NAVSTAR satellites. The event remained unclassified by NORAD and DIA for several minutes until verification could be made by DSP resources, and they have not made a conclusive evaluation yet. However, by authority of CINCSPACECOM, an Event One warning was issued to us and to JCS and Zero-Tango conference initiated. SPACECOM is currently reporting a high probability of a small-yield nuclear explosion in the South China Seas region near the Philippines.”

Tyler felt his jaw drop. “Ho-ly shit.” Stanczek just sat there, a blank expression on his face. Tyler asked, “Just one explosion?”

“Yes, sir,” Hallerton replied. “No other large-scale weapon detonations detected might suggest counterattacks. However, SPACECOM advises that the three NAVSTAR satellites have gone off the air and no other DSP or AMWS resources are on station to confirm any reports.”

“Estimate on yield?”

“No official reading yet, sir.”

“Well, anyone got an estimate?” Tyler grumbled. The sheer magnitude of the thing was bad enough, but being in the dark about even the smallest detail was worse. “Anyone got an educated guess?”

“Sir, the only other indications we have are that COBRA DANE or BMEWS have not detected missile tracks from land- or submarine-launched missiles,” Hallerton said uneasily. The long-range over-the-horizon radars would have picked up the tracks of international missiles long ago. “All other stations are quiet, and intelligence reports no buildup of strategic forces or mobilization. This incident cannot be part of any massive attack against the CONUS.”

Tyler couldn’t believe it. A real nuclear detonation. But not a prelude to general war — or was it?

“When was the Pentagon notified and what did they say?”

“NCA was notified five minutes ago by Space Command, sir,” Hallerton replied. “They requested follow-up notification from Teal Ruby satellite data on incoming missile tracks and received a negative reply. They are assembling the commands for a teleconference.”

Tyler looked surprised. “That’s it? A teleconference?” He turned to Stanczek. “What’s our status?”

“The notification message from Space Command didn’t direct any particular posture or DEFCON,” Stanczek said. “There’s a breakdown in communications somewhere. Anyway, since I didn’t have a checklist to work off, I went right to the posture-four checklist and ran it. I heard the word ‘nuclear’ and thought the crews should be heading to the ramp.”

Tyler nodded agreement. Most of SAC’s forces were positioned at the discretion of the National Command Authority, either directly or through the Joint Chiefs of Staff acting as military advisers to the White House. Although Tyler could position his forces in almost any way he felt prudent, most of his decisions came from guidance or direct orders from the President or the Secretary of Defense, in the form of DEFCON, or Defense Configuration, orders. But in any case, especially when communications had broken down or the President wasn’t in the position to make decisions like this, Tyler had the responsibility to see his men and machines were ready to fight. He did this by setting postures for SAC alert forces. “Good decision,” Tyler told Stanczek. “I wonder what the hell the Pentagon is waiting on?” Sounds like nobody was doing anything, Tyler thought — they didn’t see any incoming missiles, so everyone hesitated, waiting for someone else to act. Well, now was the time.

“Colonel Dunigan, place the force officially at posture four,” Tyler ordered. “Then get the Pentagon on the line and inform them that I upgraded the SAC alert force posture and I’m recommending a full DEFCON change.”

“Yes, sir,” Dunigan replied. Part of the awesome responsibility of CINCSAC was his control over SAC’s nuclear strike forces. It was his responsibility to keep the bombers and land-based ICBM forces safe and viable. Tyler had a long list of options, all designed to put the nuclear strike forces in the best possible position to survive an attack against the United States but to avoid unnecessarily moving too many nuclear weapons around or causing undue alarm to either the enemy or to American citizens.

Launching the bombers, either to dispersal airfields, airborne alert orbits or to their fail-safe positive control orbits, probably wasn’t warranted yet. What was warranted, however, was stepping up everyone’s overall readiness a couple of notches until the White House and the Pentagon figured out what was going on. That should have been automatic as soon as they discovered that it was in fact a nuclear explosion, but at least now it was getting done.

In the Essential Elements section of the Command Center, two positive-control technicians quickly prepared the radio message for the SAC alert force crews. Using a computer, they devised a forty-character message, triple-checked it manually for accuracy, using the same code books that the crews in the field would use, then broadcast the message via telephone, radio, and satellite communications channels to all SAC units in the United States, England, Germany, and Japan. The message directed all SAC units to stand by for further emergency action messages; it placed SAC’s two hundred B-52 and ninety B-1 bombers, and thirty Minuteman ICBM launch-control centers, into higher readiness states, which would make their reaction times much shorter should they be directed to execute their SIOP war plans.

It would also direct twenty-two rail-garrisoned Peacekeeper missile convoys out from their shelters onto the nation’s rail system and put twenty MGM-134A Mustang missile crews on full-deployment alert.

After receipt of the message, each SAC unit would verify and authenticate the coded message, rebroadcast the message to their forces, then compose and send a coded acknowledgment message back to SAC Headquarters. The entire process took approximately two minutes. Tyler watched one of the big digital screens before him as a list of all the SAC units was displayed, with red dots indicating connectivity with each unit; as the acknowledgment messages came in, the red dots disappeared.

“All units acknowledge, sir,” Colonel Dunigan reported. “Expect status report from the field in about five minutes.”

“What’s the latest status on the units?” Tyler asked.

In reply, Dunigan put up a computerized fisting of the latest status reports of all the SAC bases in the world, beginning with the SAC bomber units, and read off how quickly — or not so quickly — the units could move.

“What’s the status of the Air Battle Force?”

“The current session reports ninety percent manned, due to some elements being recalled by their parent units before the session completed,” Dunigan answered. “The new session that began training last month has the first B-2 bomber elements” — she paused as she referred to her notes, then said — “plus some GENESIS elements.”

“GENESIS?” Tyler exclaimed. He had forgotten all about that — but it was easy to forget about Lieutenant General Brad Elliott’s research group, lost from view in the middle of Nevada. Tyler had remembered granting approval for Elliott’s weird hybrid planes to participate, but had not bothered to check up on their status during their course. “Jesus, I completely forgot about that. Refresh my memory, Colonel — what’s he got at Ellsworth now?”

“He’s got four modified B-52 bombers, six stretched F-111G bombers, and a B-2 bomber involved in the Air Battle Force session,” Dunigan reported. “The -111’s and the B-2 are garrisoned at Ellsworth; the B-52s — I should say, the EB-52Cs — are stationed at HAWC but still participate in Air Battle Force activities.” She paused, then said, “I can get General Elliott and General Jarrel on the line and—”

“We don’t have time,” Tyler said. What a time to have Elliott’s mutant planes out flying around in the Air Force Battle, Tyler thought. Christ, it was like Elliott knew there was going to be trouble. “It’ll have to wait for the Air Battle Force status report. Move along.”

Up in the Support Staff area, General Stone could not hear most of the interphone exchange between Tyler and his staff — but he was familiar enough with the items up on the big board to know that something serious was going on.

He saw lists of all the SAC bases in the world on the big board, saw the status indicators change as he received the message sent by Tyler, and saw weather maps, charts, and checklist pages being put up on the board so everyone knew where the staff was in the Zero-Tango response procedures. But the left-center screen had something more interesting — satellite photographs.

Stone turned to the technician seated beside him. “Is that real-time imagery?”

“Not real-time, but very recent, sir,” the tech replied. He checked a computer screen and replied, “It’s about ten to thirty minutes old. DSP Control Center will automatically upload the latest satellite imagery of a subject area. I don’t exactly know what the source of this imagery is, though — it’s not from Colorado Springs…”

“Any ideas when we can get the real-time pictures of the area?”

“I’m sure the request is being made right now, sir,” the tech replied. “The request will probably come through whatever command is placed in charge of the current emergency, or direct from JCS or the National Security Council.”

Stone’s ears buzzed when he heard the words “current emergency,” but he didn’t bother to ask what was going on — he was busy scrutinizing the satellite photos being flashed on the board.

“Ulugan Bay,” Stone observed. He turned to a technician seated a few chairs beside him. “I recognize that harbor. Ulugan Bay, Palawan. The Philippines. But that big ship… I don’t recognize it. What’s going on?” The technician seemed to ignore him, but he had depressed his mike switch and had sent a message down to the Battle Staff area.

Then, as the satellite imagery of the warship zoomed in closer, maintaining remarkably high resolution even in ultra-closeups, Stone realized that what he was watching was not a Filipino ship. "Hong Lung,” Stone declared. “It’s the Chinese destroyer Hong Lung. What’s it doing so close to Ulugan Bay?”

Just then Stone’s headset clicked to life. “Rat — Tyler here,” the Commander in Chief of SAC said. “Sergeant Rowe says you seemed to recognize that harbor and that ship. What is it?”

The technician pointed to a button near the base of the microphone on the desk in front of him, and Stone depressed the button and replied, “Yes, sir, Ulugan Bay on Palawan in the Philippines. Palawan is a large island about two hundred miles southwest of Manila. That ship looks like the Chinese destroyer Hong Lung. It’s one of the two EF5-class destroyers in China’s fleet. It’s the flagship of the Spratly Island flotilla.”

There was a long pause; then: “Well, you’re right about the Philippines,” Tyler said. “But what’s the Spratly Islands? I never heard of them.”

“It’s a small island chain between Vietnam and Palawan in the South China Sea,” Stone replied. “China claims them but legally occupies the lower one-third; the Philippines, Vietnam, Indonesia, and Malaysia occupy the northern third, with the middle third a neutral zone. Those five countries have been fighting over the islands for decades.”

“Well, the fighting has just reached a new level, Rat,” Tyler said dryly, “because someone set off a nuke right near the Philippines just a few minutes ago.”

Richard Stone was so surprised that he forgot to press the mike button. “A nuke?” He paused, then managed to find the button. “Someone set off a nuke…? General Tyler, that destroyer, the Hong Lung — it carries nuclear-tipped missiles.”

Tyler and half-a-dozen other staff members in the Battle Staff area looked up in the Support Staff area. The nearreal-time satellite photo of the Chinese ship had changed several times by the time a shocked Tyler asked, “That Chinese warship carries nuclear missiles? I never heard that before, Rat.” He shook his head, stared hard at the charts of the South China Sea region, then rubbed dried sweat from his eyes in exasperation. “Jesus Christ, what’s a Chinese ship doing cruising around the Philippines with nukes aboard?” He turned to Stone again and asked, “Can you verify that, Rat? What kind of nuclear missiles? How many…?”

“It’s never been verified as far as I know, sir,” Stone replied, “just like we never verify that American warships carry nukes. But it’s a well-known fact that EF5-class destroyers carry at least two Fei Lung-9 antiship cruise missiles with RK-55 warheads — twenty-kiloton yield. I can’t believe the Chinese would actually cook one off, though.”

“Do the Filipinos have nuclear weapons?” Stanczek asked.

“Not to my knowledge, sir,” Stone replied. “We had some nuclear weapons stockpiled at Clark for a few years, but they were removed years ago.”

“Could they have built a weapon of their own? Are they advanced enough to do that?”

“I’m surprised there was a Philippine Navy out there for a nuke to destroy,” Stone said. “Everything they have is at least twenty to fifty years old, and most of it is World War Two vintage. As far as weaponry, they have Sea Lance and Harpoon missiles, but nothing more potent than that. No, they couldn’t have built a nuclear device.”

Stone could see Tyler shaking his head in amazement at the news, and it was then that he began to get a real feeling for the pressure that was on Tyler and his staff right now. In a few minutes the President of the United States was going to get on the line with Tyler and ask him how he should respond to the incident.

That call came a few moments later, but not from the President.

After a ten-second warning tone on the microwave telephone hookup, a voice began, “All stations, all stations, this is RENEGADE on Zero-Tango action teleconference network. Security classification is Top Secret. All stations stand by. Network poll in progress. National Command Authority, White House…”.

While the lengthy teleconference poll continued, Tyler got on the intercom to Stone. “Rat, tell me more about the Chinese and the Philippines. Are the Chinese a threat to the Philippines or is their involvement limited only to the Spratly Islands? I mean, could they have been victims here, caught in the explosion?”

“Hard to say, sir,” Stone replied. “The Communist movement in the Philippines has very close ties to the mainland Chinese, but as far as I know, the link is only ideological. Until the current regime got into power, there wasn’t any direct contact between the Philippine Communists and the Chinese. But I’ve never heard of the Chinese ships operating so close to Palawan before, especially not a destroyer — and especially not the EF5 class. It’s their newest, most modern and well-equipped model, and they’re risking a lot driving that big boy around in those shallow waters around Palawan.”

“What do you mean, the current regime?”

“Teguina, the First Vice President,” Stone replied. “He’s the leader of the pro-Communist National Democratic Front. Some say he’s the leader of the main Communist armed opposition, called the New People’s Army, that’s been operating in the outlying provinces for the past several years. Teguina has been active in strengthening economic and cultural ties with China over the past few years; China has become a big trading partner with the Philippines and the United States. But it has been suggested that Teguina is working not only to strengthen economic ties to China, but military and political ties as well.”

“China and the Philippines?” Tyler remarked. “Is that really possible?”

“Very possible, sir,” Stone confirmed. “The Philippines have a large population of ethnic Chinese, and mainland Chinese own several large businesses and banks there. But more importantly, China sees itself as the protector of world Communism these days. With the Soviet Union becoming more democratic and capitalist every year, China is the last and perhaps the greatest exporter of Communism in the world. I’d say the Philippines are very fertile ground for them.”

He went on. “I doubt Teguina’s had anything to do with this Chinese fleet off Palawan or the nuclear explosion, but because of his presence in the Philippine government and his relations with the PRC, this could turn out to be a lot more complex than it is right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“My guess is we probably won’t see a total condemnation of the Chinese from the Philippine government,” Stone said. “I don’t know any details, of course, but when it comes time to point the finger, you won’t see all the fingers pointing at China — you’ll see a few pointed at President Mikaso.”

“Mikaso? Why?”

“Mikaso is popular, but perceived as weak,” Stone said. “Teguina is considered a strong leader. Mikaso was also too friendly with the United States. Although Mikaso is much more of a nationalist than Teguina, Teguina’s call for eliminating all U.S. presence in the Philippines was a strong stand that most Filipinos liked to hear.” Stone decided against injecting his own reservations about Teguina into the discussion, but remembered all too well the look in Teguina’s eye that last day at Clark.

“I still don’t get it,” Tyler said with rising exasperation. “Why would Mikaso suffer by having the Chinese explode a nuke near Palawan?”

Just as Stone was about to answer, the poll was completed and the situation briefing began. Five minutes later, the briefing concluded with no mention of the Chinese destroyer or its weaponry. Space Command or the Defense Intelligence Agency refused to comment on the origin of the explosion.

Fine — Tyler would tell them himself. “General — Tyler at SAC,” Tyler said, interrupting the Space Command briefer. “My staff expert here has possibly determined the origin of that nuclear detonation.”

There was a bit of a pause, then: “Go ahead, SAC.”

“China. Satellite imagery confirmed their presence in the area, and my expert reports that the Chinese ships seen in the satellite imagery carry nuclear weapons—”

“Defense Intelligence here,” a voice chimed in. “We have no information of any Chinese vessels carrying nuclear weapons in the South China Sea. In fact the idea is ludicrous.”

Tyler clicked on the intercom to Stone. “You sure of your data, Rat Killer?”

“Positive, General,” Stone said. “My intelligence may be a few weeks old, but it’s reliable.”

The intercom clicked off, then on, and this time Stone could hear the entire conversation on the network. “My expert maintains that the Chinese vessel in the satellite imagery we’ve just received carries nuclear-tipped antiship missiles. The vessel is a Chinese destroyer, the Hong Lung, which is the flagship of a large patrol fleet that operates in the Spratly Islands.”

“JCS copies, SAC,” came the reply after a few moments: the reply came from the chairman himself, General Curtis, and he seemed curiously unsurprised at the revelation. “What is the current status of your units at this time, General Tyler?”

“Sir, I’m showing one hundred percent of the force fully mission ready,” Tyler said, checking the connectivity readout of all his SAC units on the big board. The force is currently under posture four, under my authority. However, please be aware that the current SIOP OPLAN has no contingencies for operations against China or in the east Asian region. We hold no Chinese targets at risk.”

“Understood,” Curtis replied. “It may be premature to declare an A-hour, however. We will defer that decision for the NCA when we call the Charlie conference.”

“Discharge of nuclear weapons automatically invokes at least a DEFCON Three level,” Tyler said. “I recommend we proceed with that. Undoubtedly the Russians and the Chinese will respond by increasing their readiness levels as well; we should take the first step and then re-evaluate the situation.”

“We’d have time for a discussion about contingency planning at a later time,” General Curtis said. “Right now I want recommendations for the NCA as to the status of our deterrent forces.”

“SAC recommends DEFCON Three, posture four,” Tyler said.

“Forces concurs,” General Jackson, commander of the Army Forces Command, said. As the largest single military command, the Army needed the most time to generate its units to go on a wartime footing and therefore had an equal say in whether a higher readiness state should be declared.

“COMSUBFLT concurs,” Admiral Towland, commander of strategic nuclear submarines, added.

There was a slight pause, followed by a cryptic “Stand by” from General Curtis. Tyler found his palms moist and clammy. He rubbed them on his warmup-suit pants to dry them.

The Chairman of the JCS came back on: “All units, this is RENEGADE. Implement DEFCON Three. Posture will be no higher than that implemented by DEFCON Three. Stand by.”

A few moments later, a warbling tone was heard over Tyler’s headset and through the interphone system. The DEFCON lights above the big board changed from “4” to “3” and all of the Command Center status lights changed to red Top Secret indications. The Joint Chiefs of Staff communications center had assembled a coded message and broadcast it to all of the major commands. When received in the Essential Elements section, the message was decoded, checked, and the checklist for that order run immediately. “What do we got, Audrey?” Tyler asked.

“DEFCON Three, posture three,” the SAC senior controller replied. “No A-hour specified. Time-control clock start in five… four… three… two… one… now.” Just then, the second event-timer above the big board started counting. “Message acknowledged to JCS, checked and verified, standing by for retransmit.”

“Retransmit,” Tyler ordered. The message ordering an increased state of readiness would now be sent to all SAC alert units in the United States. The DEFCON change would also affect nuclear-capable Tactical Air Command units in Europe and Asia, all of the Navy’s ballistic missile submarines, and the Sixth and Eighth Armies in Europe and Korea, which were some of the few Army units with deployed nuclear weapons.

After acknowledgment messages were received from all the major military commands, General Curtis said to the poll participators: “I will convene a Charlie conference as soon as possible. Have a breakdown of the pre-planned options for this contingency, along with your further recommendations. RENEGADE out.”

The connection was then terminated.

“So what do we do now?” Stone asked.

“Run the checklists,” Tyler said. “It’s not unlike flying a fighter — we follow the checklist and it generally keeps us out of trouble.”

A yellow light flashed on the telephone beside Tyler. “Well, here we go.” He sighed. Before he picked up the phone, he turned and requested that iced tea be brought for him and Stone. “This is going to take awhile,” he predicted. “We do it a little bass-ackwards, but it usually works.

“Curtis does a Charlie conference to direct each service branch to review the pre-planned contingency OPLANS, and the JCS decides which one to run. Then Curtis’ll go to the President and SECDEF face-to-face and make his pitch. The President usually signs off on the plan just to get the ball rolling — then, when his Cabinet, the Congress, and the press find out, shit hits the fan. But that’s not our concern.”

“Where do you need me?” Stone asked.

“Right with me, Rat Killer,” Tyler replied. “You’re my resident Philippine expert. We built a new Philippine contingency plan when Clark closed, but I’ll need you to look it over, tell me if it’s still valid in the face of what the Chinese have out there.”

“I’m ready,” Stone said. “Is there any time to get out of these sweats, though? I’m not sure the staff will be able to work closely with me if I stink like an old pair of sneakers.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tyler said, a grim smile on his face. “Before long, everyone here will be just as nervous and sweaty as you are — except it won’t be from exercise, it’ll be from good ol’ fear.”

Philippine First Vice President Daniel Teguina paced restlessly as he, the Second Vice President Samar, and the Cabinet awaited the arrival of President Mikaso in the presidential conference chamber. Everyone was tense and worried. A few were terrified. All had rushed to the presidential palace immediately after being advised of the disaster in Palawan.

Finally, President Arturo Mikaso entered the conference chamber. Unlike the others gathered, who were dressed casually, Mikaso was in a dark-gray business suit, polished shoes, and a tie. His appearance was so crisp that a few wondered silently if he hadn’t just dressed.

“Gentlemen…” Mikaso said, his old body moving as quickly as it could into the room. “Please take your seats.” The elder statesman stiffly took his at the center of the oblong maple conference table and the other Cabinet members immediately sat down.

“As you know, a terrible tragedy has occurred,” Mikaso began. “Less than thirty minutes ago, a patrol task force from this country was attacked by a large Chinese naval patrol off the coast of Palawan.”

The Cabinet members exchanged looks of complete shock. They’d been advised of a major sea disaster, but given no details. Murmurs went around the room.

Teguina immediately spoke up. “A Chinese naval patrol? Judging by the state of our naval force, I assume we were beaten badly?”

Mikaso nodded sadly. “We were indeed. We’ve suffered serious losses—”

“Naturally,” Teguina interrupted. “What do we have to fight with? Outdated, expensive, useless American equipment that we were suckered into buying.”

Mikaso glared at Teguina. “Daniel, now is hardly the time for editorializing. There are far more serious considerations at hand.” Mikaso looked at the men gathered in the room and said, “Gentlemen, the worst part of this confrontation, which involved two of our F-4E fighters, was that the Chinese launched a nuclear missile against our force.”

Gasps went around the table, followed by immediate cries of outrage which echoed off the walls of the conference room. Everyone was talking at once until Mikaso rapped his knuckles on the table. “This has not been confirmed by us yet,” Mikaso said, “but the detonation was detected by American and Japanese monitoring stations.”

Again everyone started talking at once, their voices reaching a crescendo of questions of concern: What about the fallout? The food and water supplies? How could the Chinese have justified a nuclear-tipped missile? Did it mean this was a prelude to a full-scale invasion? Question piled upon question.

Mikaso tried to calm them down.

“We have no definite reports of an invasion,” Mikaso said, “although the Chinese warships are in Ulugan Bay on Palawan, being guarded by our Army.”

“But how did this happen?” demanded Second Vice President Jose Samar. “Civilized nations don’t just set off nukes!”

Mikaso nodded in agreement. “One would think. However, this was a battle between our forces and theirs. They ventured into the neutral zone, were going to attack a drilling platform, and we opened fire.”

“What was a drilling platform doing there anyway?” Teguina asked, even though he knew. “Those islands are not for exploration or drilling. The Chinese have long considered that their territory, even though we don’t. Why were we provoking the Chinese?”

“We weren’t,” Mikaso said pointedly. “Exploration is allowed within ten miles of the boundaries of the zone, Daniel. Learn your treaties. If you did, you’d know that the Spratly Island agreement not only allows that, but also prohibits a deadly force to patrol the zone. Armed warships must stay on their own side. We’ve seen how the Chinese violated that in the past — the previous incident was just a few months ago. I authorized our forces to protect themselves if the Chinese prepared to attack again, and that’s what they did.”

Teguina shook his head. “Why don’t you tell them who we were really protecting? Unless I’m mistaken, it was an American-financed company who erected the oil platforms in the zone to begin with.” He looked directly at Mikaso: “A company, I believe, Mr. President, run by one of your relatives?”

More murmurs went around the room.

“That is beside the point. It’s a Philippine company and they had every right to explore the island and the resources on it.”

The two men stared at each other.

“What about fallout?” another Cabinet member demanded.

Mikaso nodded. “That is our first priority. Daniel, you will immediately dispatch National Guard forces to Palawan to assist in the recovery efforts. In fact, I think the people of Palawan would appreciate seeing you there to help in the effort. Use all available transport assets and—”

Teguina pushed back his chair and stood up, something he usually did in Cabinet meetings to stress a point. He leaned over the table, looking at the others seated. “I will be honored to help our fellow Filipinos in Palawan, but there’s one point we’ve dismissed too easily: who really launched that missile?”

Rumbling went around the table, and Mikaso pointed his finger at Teguina: “Daniel, I don’t know what you’re up to, but it’s not going to work. I resent the dissension you’re trying to create in the middle of a crisis. It—”

“Yes, sit down!” Second Vice President Samar said.

Teguina ignored them. “You say that the Chinese are at fault, but what you really meant to say is that it’s not known who’s to blame for the attack. That nuclear explosion could have just as easily been caused by an American nuclear device, either delivered by covert American forces or by Filipino airmen under orders by the American military or Central Intelligence Agency—”

“What are you talking about, Teguina?” Mikaso snapped angrily, his hands and lips trembling as much from confusion and exhaustion as from fury. “Are you that paranoid? There aren’t any nuclear weapons on Filipino soil, no American airmen, and we did not launch any sort of nuclear attack. It was a Filipino vessel that was destroyed, for God’s sake!”

“Do you deny that there are still American Intelligence agents here in the Philippines?” Teguina asked, his eyes darting between Mikaso and Samar.

Mikaso hesitated — only for a moment, but the pause was the answer.

The Cabinet officers looked at each other, then at Mikaso with undisguised shock. “Then it is true?” one of the Cabinet officers gasped.

“The American consulate is still open,” Mikaso explained, trying hard to ignore the accusing glances, “and yes, I gave permission for several CIA officials to be stationed here.”

“No, Mr. President…”

“This is outrageous…” Samar said.

Teguina couldn’t believe it — he had stumbled onto something that at least for the moment overshadowed even the nuclear explosion in Palawan. The American CIA had long been blamed for the Philippines’ internal turmoil, and Mikaso’s admission could, even after all American military personnel had left the country, eventually bring down Mikaso’s government. A common fear among the newly “liberated” Philippine government was that America would leave “moles” in place who would report to Washington and who could easily take over the Filipino government and realign with Washington in a coup. The Americans had left easily when ordered out — too easily, many thought…

“You did this in direct violation of the law, without consulting your Cabinet or Congress?” the Minister of the Interior asked incredulously.

“Why weren’t we informed?” another Minister demanded angrily.

As the chorus of other voices rose up in angry protest, Daniel Teguina sat back down in his chair, listening and inwardly smiling. Even in the middle of a crisis there was more than one way to skin a cat…

Generals Calvin Jarrel and Brad Elliott had been waiting on the tarmac for the F-23 fighter pilots returning from their Powder Run sortie. Elliott especially was looking forward to giving the pilots some good-natured ribbing about the surprise they encountered with the EB-52 Megafortress that he’d gotten Jarrel to put in the air. Elliott was willing to bet that McLanahan had gotten a big kick out of seeing the F-23 pilots turn and run.

Just then a dark-blue staff car pulled up a few parking spaces from where Jarrel and Elliott were standing. Out of the car came Major Harold Briggs, General Elliott’s aide and chief of security. Plugging his ears with his index fingers, he strode toward Elliott clutching a sheet of paper. He handed it to him.

Elliott read the note, and Briggs saw the expression on his boss’s face change. “I’ll take you back in my car, General,” Briggs said loudly over the whine of the nearby jet engines.

“Problem?” Jarrel asked. Elliott showed Jarrel the note, keeping the sheet of paper tight in his fingertips — it was stamped Top Secret on both the top and bottom.

“Christ,” was all Jarrel could say.

“I’ll give you a ride back to your command post,” Elliott said. They hopped in the sedan the second Briggs braked to a stop beside them.

In the car, Briggs passed out two red-colored vinyl folders, one to each of them. “Full text of the classified FLASH message for you, sir,” he indicated to Jarrel. “Message from Colonel McLanahan from the Black Knight bomber sortie.” Elliott frowned at the folder he was given and was about to set it unopened on his lap, but Briggs added, “I think you should read it, sir. I think it might have a connection with the DEFCON Three message.”

There was silence in the sedan for several moments. Then, as though they were thinking the exact same thing, they handed their folders over to each other.

“Holy shit,” Jarrel finally exclaimed. “This NIRTSat thing — your SPO actually thinks this satellite got pictures of a Chinese nuclear attack against a Philippine patrol?”

“Well, God knows it was possible,” Elliott said. “If they had the NIRTSat up there, and it was over the Philippines at the time, it’s more than possible. That might also explain why the satellite went off the air for McLanahan. Except it didn’t go completely off… the thing was alive long enough to download the last of its photos to McLanahan in the B-2 during his bomb run here.”

“But McLanahan says here the data wasn’t transmitted to SPACECOM…

“Space Command wasn’t one of the users,” Elliott said. “They provided launch and orbiting monitoring and had backup-performance telemetry but weren’t scheduled to receive the imagery.” Elliott paused for a moment, then said, “You know, Cal, if you’re in DEFCON Three…”

“Yeah?”

Elliott knew that if Jarrel was going to be in a conventional contingency operation, which was very possible, he would be deploying, as priority one, the Air Battle Force. “Well, I think we’ve got the ultimate mission-planning tool in the world available for you if you want it. All we need to do is hook you up with Jon Masters and his NIRTSat boosters, and you can build mission packages for the STRATFOR so detailed that you’d think someone already flew the mission.”

“Maybe not,” Jarrel said, motioning to the message from McLanahan. “Your SPO says that SPACECOM will deorbit the NIRTSat. SPACECOM didn’t know about the nuke — they thought it had malfunctioned.”

“Hal, step on it,” Elliott told Briggs. “We need to get to the command post five minutes ago.”

“Got you covered, sir,” Briggs said. He tossed a pocketsized cellular telephone into the backseat. “I wasn’t cleared to peek at General Jarrel’s message, but I was cleared to peek at yours. When I read the thing about Space Command, I ordered a direct scrambled call to General Talbot at Falcon Air Force Base. He should be calling back any minute.”

True to his word, the phone rang just as Briggs pulled up to the steel and glass headquarters building, so Elliott sat in the car and took the scrambled telephone call from there. A gruff, impatient voice answered, “NORAD, General Talbot,” then added with even greater brusqueness, “Make it quick.”

“Mike, this is Brad Elliott calling from Ellsworth. How the hell are you?”

“Fine, Brad, just fine. Listen, Brad, can this call wait? I’m up to my ears in ’gators right now.”

Brad Elliott knew that was the understatement of the year. Air Force General Michael Talbot had one of the most unusual military jobs in the world: he was a “triple hat,” commander of three major military organizations all at the same time. Because the Air Force was the lead agency in space-related matters, Talbot, as commander of the Air Force Space Command, was also commander of the United States Space Command, the new specified military command that directed all military space functions and coordinated all space-related activities for the three services; and because Space Command was the United States’ agency in charge of space defense, Talbot was also, the current commander of the North American Aerospace Defense Command, which was a joint U.S. and Canadian organization that commanded all long-range radars and air-defense fighter bases for the defense of North America.

As such, Talbot was incredibly busy even during the quiet times — with an air-defense emergency in the works, he was stretched to the limit. Even through the hiss and pop of the secure phone line, Elliott could hear the stress in Talbot’s voice. “I know you’re busy, Mike, but this is important. I need to talk to you about Jon Masters…

“I got young Doctor Hot-Shot Big-Sky Damn-the-Torpedoes Masters sitting right here, Brad,” Talbot said with audible contempt. Talbot’s commander of the Air Force Space Command’s Second Space Wing (which was in charge of all Defense Department satellites from launch to recovery) had gotten on the phone to Sky Masters’ DC-10 the minute the satellite went out. Since the NIRTSat had been launched seventy-one seconds outside of the launch window after disobeying an Air Force request to cancel, Talbot’s subordinate, the commander of the Second Space Wing, had ordered up a specifically modified C-130 cargo plane to recover the satellite. Better that, the commander thought, than having a nine-hundred-pound piece of scrap metal in a bad orbit. Masters had no choice but to go along with the Air Force. Either that or face handcuffs at Falcon Air Force Base, where he was now sitting.

“He was just about to let my senior staff in his plant office inspect his records, weren’t you, Doctor Masters?”

“That’s got to wait,” Elliott said. “He just lost a satellite and I’ve got to get him out to GENESIS right away. It’s all connected…”

There was a slight pause; then, “Oh…”

Few things in this world could knock guys like Talbot back on their heels, but GENESIS, Brad Elliott’s classified call sign from Dreamland, was one. Just mentioning the word meant that most of the Pentagon was involved. Which was, Talbot thought, typical of Elliott, who was known to be kicking ass with an array of high-tech toys developed out in his secret labs in Nevada. Rumors had been circulating for months about Elliott’s B-2 bombers and other strange planes flying around the desert. God only knows what he needed Masters for. But the fact that Elliott knew all about a classified satellite launch that had gone wrong only twenty minutes before, told Talbot that Elliott was plugged in right at the top.

“Well, you got him, Brad. Now where do you want him?”

“I need him back in his lab in Arkansas soonest. When are you going to be done chewing on him?”

“I’m done. I don’t have the time or energy for shit like this anymore,” Talbot said in a low voice. “His jet is already fueled. He’ll be airborne in thirty minutes and in Arkansas in three hours. Does this have something to do with… events this afternoon?”

“It could have everything to do with it.”

“I was afraid of that. The little prick leads a charmed life. You need his satellite intact as well?”

“Have you deorbited it yet?”

“Just about ready to do it — window opens in about an hour.”

“Better leave it, then. The brass hasn’t made up their minds what they want.”

Talbot knew the “brass” usually included only men who had collected more than fifty million popular votes.

“Whatever you say, Brad. I’ll be glad to jettison that little cocksucker anyway. He’s a pain in the ass.”

“You have that effect on people, my friend.”

“Yeah, right. The bastard never stops smiling, too. You notice that? Always with the damned grin on his puss. I don’t trust somebody who grins all the time — it usually means they found someone else to put the blame on.”

“If he busted one of your rules, Mike, he’s gotta pay. When GENESIS is done with him, I’ll send him back to you. How’s that?”

“Naw. Keep him outta my sight. Just get the bastards who fried my NAVSTAR satellites and we’ll call it even.”

“Deal, buddy. GENESIS out.”

The President had been in the Roosevelt Room listening to a planning meeting for a world economic conference when they told him.

Lloyd Emerson Taylor, forty-third President of the United States and a descendant of the twelfth President, had made a mental note of what he was doing at that moment. It would, after all, be important for the memoirs he was going to write after he left office. And this, Lloyd Emerson Taylor guessed, was going to be one hell of an important chapter in his book.

After his military aide had handed him the Eyes Only message, Taylor had immediately excused himself from the planning meeting and retreated to the Oval Office. From there, over a secure hot line, he began to get a handle on the situation: he learned that Defense, JCS, and the CIA suspected the Chinese of setting off the nuke, but no one had been able to completely verify that. Worse, the President couldn’t get word on how President Mikaso was or what was going on in Manila because all phone lines were jammed and all satellite and HF networks had been disrupted. He also learned that even though the U.S. had been monitoring the situation between the Chinese and the Philippines since their naval skirmish of a few months ago, nobody wanted China or the Philippines to know that the United States had pictures of the explosion. Apparently the pictures were not taken by a regular satellite but by a new, highly classified one called PACER SKY, an experimental system that would allow real-time targeting data for strategic bombers.

Whatever the hell PACER SKY was, Taylor knew it had just snapped what might be one of the most famous photographs in thirty years, thanks to a simple stroke of luck.

Finally, a more formal, albeit hastily arranged, assessment meeting was scheduled a half-hour later in the Situation Room.

As Taylor, his military aide, his official White House photographer, his Secret Service bodyguard, and a civilian-clothed Navy captain who carried his “football,” the portable scrambled UHF transceiver that Taylor would use in an emergency to order his strategic nuclear forces to war, made their way down the elevator to the Situation Room in the basement of the White House, the enormity and gravity of the situation finally began to sink in.

Like his famous great-great-great-great-grandfather, the President was a bull-nosed, laissez-faire bureaucrat who’d done well as president because of his quiet, hardworking, rock-steady style. And like his ancestor, Taylor was an ex-Army general and judge advocate who had retired to enter politics at age fifty-one, soon after pinning on his first star. Taylor had, above everything else, a keen sense of history — and his place in it.

He knew, even as he entered the Situation Room and everyone stood up, that he was the first American president to have to deal with a nuclear weapon crisis since John F. Kennedy.

And he was determined to handle it better than Kennedy did.

He had not been in the Situation Room five minutes when he had his men on the griddle — even as phones rang constantly in the background. His eyes wandered around the table to each and every adviser: Tom Preston, his Secretary of Defense and an experienced politician; General Wilbur Curtis, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; Kenneth Wayne, Director of the CIA; and Frank Kellogg, his National Security Advisor.

His eyes settled on General Wilbur Curtis, chief military officer of the United States and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was the President’s principal military adviser but a holdover from the last administration. Unfortunately, he was so well respected on the Hill and at the Pentagon that Taylor knew he couldn’t get rid of him even if he wanted to.

“General Curtis, even though you got us in this DEFCON Three posture — and I wish I had been in on that decision from the start and not after your commanders went ahead and did it themselves — the ‘bolt from the blue’ theory of strategic warfare has been dead for almost a decade.”

Curtis could see this was going to be a long, difficult meeting.

“Sir, we were following the OPLAN — the operations plan — established and authorized by you in case of an emergency of this magnitude. DEFCON Three is a very secure posture right now. We’re—”

“If there was no apparent attack in progress, then you had time to notify me and let me make the decision,” the President interrupted. “That’s what I expect. We will need to change the OPLAN after this to rectify it.”

“Yes, sir,” Curtis acknowledged.

“What else have you got for me, General?”

Curtis cleared his throat. “Our strategic forces are in full readiness, so if this is some sort of prelude to an all-out attack against the United States, we’re ready, sir.” Curtis glanced at the Navy captain seated near the door, keeping the “football.”

The President disliked having the football around — he had once told the press that he likened it to the Grim Reaper, with scythe in hand, following him everywhere he went — but in this he had no choice.

“Well,” Taylor grumbled, “I guess the question of whether this is a prelude or not will be answered once we have more information, won’t it, General? This PACER SKY thing saw who launched the missile, didn’t it?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Curtis replied. “The NIRTSat — part of the PACER SKY program — saw the nuclear explosion, but we’re trying to keep a lid on that. As you know, we’ve been monitoring the situation between the Chinese and the Philippines since that original skirmish. But because of our past association with the Philippines, we didn’t want it to appear as if we were monitoring anyone — or feeding anyone intelligence information. Still, we do know, thanks to PACER SKY, exactly which ships were in the area. SAC analysts have concluded that only the Chinese could have launched the weapon.”

“Well, then, that brings us to the bigger picture, doesn’t it?” the President said. “I’ve been briefed on the shit going down in the Philippines for some time. And you people tell me the Communists are running rampant in the outlying provinces and that if Mikaso kicks the damned bucket we could lose all ties to the Philippines — our stopover and resupply privileges, our radar sites, our listening posts, our practice bombing ranges. I was also briefed on the skirmish a few months ago between the Chinese and the Philippines, but it was characterized as nothing more than a little tiff. When a fucking nuclear bomb goes off, gentlemen, it’s not just a little tiff. Now what the hell is going on here? Is it the start of a major war, an illegal test by some country, or an accident?”

Director of Central Intelligence Kenneth Wayne said, “An accident, sir, seems the only plausible explanation. The Chinese Navy could certainly overtake the Philippine Navy without having to resort to nuclear weapons. Also, we’ve detected only one explosion, which tells us there was no nuclear exchange. Of course,” the CIA director said, lighting a pipe, “it also could have been a military response by the Chinese, but a response by… say, a lone wolf, and not necessarily the Chinese government itself.”

“Lone wolf?” the President asked, raising his eyebrows. “You mean some nutjob in command of a ship?”

The CIA director shrugged his shoulders. “Entirely possible. Not a nutjob, per se, but simply a commander who panicked. But I’d put my money on it being a simple accident.”

“JCS doesn’t agree with the DCI’s estimation, sir,” Curtis said. The look the President, as well as Wayne, gave him could have chilled a polar bear. “We don’t discount the DCI’s theory, but we have evidence of another possibility that I feel it would be more prudent to act upon.” The President had a very slight — but very noticeable — exasperated frown — he didn’t like being told that he was wrong. He rolled his hand as if to say, “Get on with it.” Curtis said, “My staff feels that this attack may be a prelude to an all-out attack and invasion of the Philippines by China…” Everyone in the room sat up. Voices started coming at Curtis and at President Taylor all at once.

“Ridiculous…”

“Totally off the mark…”

“They’d never try it…”

Curtis pressed on. “All I have is speculation, sir, but we’re forgetting China has long historical claims to many of the Philippine Islands and the fact that ethnic Chinese make up a great majority of the Philippine population. Couple that with someone like Daniel Teguina, who has strong Communist ties, and you’ve got the makings of a real land-grab.” Voices of dissent were heard from the CIA director, the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Advisor. The President cleared his throat — loudly. All heads turned to him. “Look, we can speculate all we want, but without any information, speculation’s not going to do us a damned bit of good.” He turned to the DCI. “No word from Manila yet? Or Mikaso?”

“All lines are still jammed, sir. Satellite and HF networks are still down.”

This got a grunt from the President. “And what about China? Have we heard what they think about all this?”

DCI Kenneth Wayne said, “We’ve got calls in to everyone, sir, including Premier Cheung.”

The President turned to Tom Preston, his Secretary of Defense. Preston had been silent so far. “Thomas, what do you think?”

“Well, this is an extremely vulnerable region, sir. And we’ve lost a lot of influence there since… leaving. So I think we’ve got to do at least an on-site military inspection. A task force sent from Hawaii or Japan would be sufficient and,” in partial acknowledgment to Curtis, he added, “would deter any possible aggression, if that were going to happen.”

“Uh-huh.” The President nodded. “We do have ships patrolling the area all the time, right? So we send a few in, check it out, keep them on station for a while, and get the CIA in as well. Meanwhile I can sell everyone — for the time being — on this being an accident.”

“Excuse me, sir, but there are several standard OPLAN responses that should be implemented, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff have a few plans we’d like to offer as suggested responses,” Curtis interjected.

“You don’t think just a few ships — say, sending one carrier group — are enough?” the President asked. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Sir, the nuclear blast itself is cause enough for concern. But a single twenty-kiloton nuclear device detonated in the middle of one carrier battle group would destroy everyone and everything within five miles, including an aircraft carrier.

“This is why the standard OPLAN calls for the deployment of at least three carrier battle groups to the region, along with a Marine Expeditionary Force, the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division of the Army Western Command, and the Air Force First Air Battle Wing. They would deploy afloat or from Okinawa or Andersen Air Force Base on Guam, as appropriate. It is especially important these days since we have no… military forces in the Philippines. Even if we don’t use three, at least two carrier battle groups would be more appropriate.

“The only two carrier battle groups available are two fossil-fueled carriers, Independence and Ranger. Ranger still does not have Hornet fighter-bombers because of her accelerated decommissioning schedule, but Independence is fully combat-ready. Two nuclear carriers, Nimitz and Abraham Lincoln, are both in the Indian Ocean at the present time, but that’s several days’ steaming time to get back to the South China Sea. We recommend that the Marines’ landing-support carrier Belleau Wood and her support ships be deployed with the task force; they can carry about two thousand Marines and about thirty helicopters. They can split between the two carrier groups as necessary.” Curtis saw the President’s eyes when he mentioned the Marines, and he added quickly, “It’s routine to send a Marine Expeditionary Unit with such a task force, and if we’re dealing with the Philippines it might be necessary.”

The President still had that pained look in his eyes, but Curtis continued nonetheless:

“Because the two carrier groups have fewer air-to-ground attack planes, it was suggested to augment the task force by forming the First Air Battle Wing at Andersen Air Force Base on Guam to—”

“The First — what? What the hell is that?” the President asked with irritation.

“The First Air Battle Wing is the new Rapid Deployment Force air combat group, sir,” Curtis explained. “According to the current strategic force operations plan under DEFCON Three, the First Air Battle Wing is formed upon alert notification and deployed to one of three locations — Loring Air Force Base in Maine, Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, or Andersen on Guam. From these three operating locations, the Air Battle Force can strike at any spot on the globe within twelve hours.”

“Who’s in this Air Battle Wing?”

“The wing is a collection of strike aircraft, mostly heavy bombers — B-52s, B-1Bs, F-111G, and F-15E bombers — plus tankers, fighters, and cargo planes,” Curtis replied. “The Air Battle Force has its own fighter escorts, its own reconnaissance and intelligence aircraft, and its own defense-suppression aircraft — it’s a single self-contained combat unit that can operate from remote areas over long distances on very short notice. It—”

“Let me get this straight,” the President said, an exasperated edge in his voice. “You want to send in two aircraft carrier battle groups — that’s over twelve thousand men if I’m not mistaken — plus two thousand Marines, plus all these B-52s and other combat aircraft?” He said the words “B-fifty-two” as if he were uttering a curse. “Do you know something about this operation I don’t?”

“Sir, the Joint Chiefs feel it’s vital to act quickly, decisively, and with enough firepower into the area very quickly. The carriers can’t get into the area for several days—”

“Enough, General,” the President said. “I am not going to send all those men and all that firepower into that area without first knowing what I might get myself into. You can understand that, right?” He did not wait for a response. “You said it would take a couple of days to get a couple of naval units into the area? Fine. I’ll buy that.

“I’ll authorize two carrier battle groups — not three — to head toward the area where the explosion was detected. They are to take no military action unless I specifically authorize it. Those ships are authorized to protect themselves to the fullest extent. I’ll also authorize a small patrol to investigate — no more than three surface ships. Deploy radar aircraft as you see fit. But I don’t want any massive armada steaming off the Philippine coast — they’ll think it’s a damned invasion.

“As for the Air Battle thing, that’s out of the question,” the President continued. “I know the Air Force has been trying to downplay the nuclear role of the B-52 and show the world that the mere presence of the thing doesn’t constitute the end of the world — I believe they call it ‘desensitization’ — but we’re not going to provoke the goddamned Chinese into a full-scale conflict. God only knows where it would lead…”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Curtis replied.

“And another thing,” the President added. “I’m allowing you to deploy these two groups against my better judgment. Frankly I’d prefer only one group.”

“One last request,” Curtis added quickly.

“Yes?” The President sighed.

“I realize you don’t want the Air Battle Force involved yet, but I would like permission to deploy the STRATFOR—”

“The what?”

Curtis knew that the President knew what he was talking about. “The Strategic Force. The advance team for the Air Battle Force. I’d like to deploy them for reconnaissance operations in the area.”

“And what would you do with the STRATFOR if you got it?” the President asked warily.

“We’d conduct long-range reconnaissance and probe missions from Guam, using E-3C radar planes, RC-135 reconnaissance planes, and EC-135 communications planes — General Tyler of SAC has a team standing by ready to go. The STRATFOR also takes officers and engineers from the Air Battle Force to help set up support facilities — this is especially important now that we have aircraft like the B-2 bomber in inventory.”

The President mulled this over. “Uh huh. And then what? What’d be next?”

Curtis pressed on. “Then, if the situation warranted, and you, of course, felt the time was appropriate, we’d deploy the First Air Battle Wing. This is important because they’d be an integrated force of bombers, fighters, and support aircraft to protect the naval forces and clear a path for further operations.”

The President looked indecisive and exasperated. He turned to Defense Secretary Tom Preston. “What is it exactly that you want to do, Thomas?”

“Just what General Curtis is recommending: send in the STRATFOR to Guam. SAC will back it up with the Pacific Tanker Task Force, which will provide air refueling support for the deployment.”

“Uh huh.” The President nodded, still not entirely convinced, but leaning toward a yes.

“Oh… and, Mr. President?” General Curtis said. “CINCSAC is recommending, and I agree, for Major General Richard Stone to be the STRATFOR commander — he’s an ex-SAC division commander and was the former base commander at Clark. He knows the Philippines like the back of his hand. General Stone will make his recommendations to Pacific Air Forces and Pacific Command on the type of response necessary and they make recommendations to you. Once approval is granted from you through Pacific Command, the STRATFOR will form the Air Battle Force.”

The President paused for a few moments, then nodded his head. “All right, General — I have my doubts, but let’s do it. Send in the two carrier groups only, put the Marines on standby, and send out the STRATFOR to Guam to help check things out. We’ll wait on whether to send your Air Battle Force until we find out what in hell the Chinese are up to. Got all that?”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Curtis replied, and quickly added, “There are a few more items—”

President Lloyd Taylor had had enough, but he said, “Yes, General, make it quick…

“CINCPAC has requested an increased ‘safe zone’ around his fleet assets in the region…”

“Sink — who?"

“Sorry, sir… Admiral Stoval. Commander in Chief, Pacific Forces. He’ll be in overall charge of operations in the South China Sea; he is asking permission to order the fleet that is sent down there to engage unidentified or hostile vessels or aircraft out to a range of two hundred miles instead of the usual one hundred miles.”

“Why does he need that?” President Taylor grumbled.

“Sir, if it was a Fei Lung-9 missile that was launched from a Chinese ship, the missile has a range in excess of one hundred miles and is supersonic, which makes the task of shooting it down very difficult. With a nuclear warhead, the kill radius of the missile is that much greater. The commanders in the area will want to keep all unidentified aircraft as far away as possible from their ships and to provide air cover for the reconnaissance planes,” Curtis said. “They all operate no closer than two hundred miles from Philippine waters…”

“Air cover? I said no air operations!” the President snapped.

“This would be for the STRATFOR reconnaissance jets, sir,” Curtis explained. “Those jets — the AW ACS, the EC-135, and the RC-135 are unarmed recon planes. We have to provide air cover for them if they’re operating so close to the Chinese forces…”

“I thought you said this would be a simple operation, General…”

“Sir, for safety’s sake, each STRATFOR aircraft should have a minimum of eight fighters with it at all times…”

“Eight fighters!” the President exploded. “And how many aircraft will you send from the STRATFOR?”

“Four, sir,” Curtis replied.

“You want thirty-six aircraft involved in a ‘simple’ reconnaissance mission? That’s out of the question. If I saw that many planes near my ships, I know I’d be angry. Good God, man, don’t you get it? I’m trying to avoid a fucking war! We’re sending in all this force and we don’t even know what the hell is going on!”

“Our aircraft need that kind of protection…”

“Do it with less,” the President ordered. “If you can’t protect the reconnaissance aircraft with two fighters each, you can’t send them in — we’ll rely on satellite data to gather intelligence information instead.”

Curtis paused for a moment, then said, “I’ll confer with General Falmouth…”

“Yes, yes, fine,” the President said, waving his hand as if dismissing a bothersome insect. “Do what you want, just make sure you cover those planes with two jets each. I don’t care how you do it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And, Curtis?” the President added, pointing his index finger at the General. “If this thing blows up in our face… if this puts my ass in a sling? Guess what? Your ass is going to be in a sling.”

And with that, Curtis was dismissed. Other aides and staffers were already being buzzed into the Situation Room before Curtis reached the door. Curtis’ aide, Colonel Andrew Wyatt, met the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the corridor next to the Marines guard desk. He fell in beside Curtis as they headed for the elevator.

“Well, how’d it go?”

“Don’t ask,” Curtis said as Wyatt punched the elevator call button.

“That bad?” Wyatt asked.

Curtis said nothing. Instead he was too busy thinking about what was going on halfway around the world…

Admiral Yin Po L’un awoke to find himself lying on a very soft bed under clean white sheets. Through blurred eyes, he saw several nurses — Filipino nurses, he soon realized — surrounding his bed. One of them, after realizing that he was awake, ran off out of sight.

“Who… who are you?” Yin asked in Chinese. The nurses looked at each other, then turned back toward him and shook their heads, replying something in English that obviously meant they did not understand him. But a nurse bent forward to wipe sweat and mucus from his face and eyes, and he was able to see—

— several Filipino soldiers marching into the room, with M-16 rifles slung on their shoulders. So. He was a prisoner of the wretched Philippine Army, or worse, the damned Americans. Even though he saw no American-looking faces, he assumed he would be turned over to them soon.

Presently, a physician in a white lab coat appeared before him, along with, to his great surprise, the senior ship’s doctor from the Hong Lung, a Vietnamese immigrant named Commander Tran Phu Ko. Finally, a man who appeared to be an officer stood at the foot of the bed, bowing slightly at the neck when he noticed Yin looking at him.

Commander Tran bowed to Admiral Yin. “Thank the gods you are well, Comrade Admiral.”

Yin struggled to rise to a sitting position, and Tran helped him. “Report, Doctor. Who are these men? What is the status of the ship? What of the crew?”

“The men are well, Admiral,” Tran replied. “Many casualties, but we can speak of that later. The ship is damaged but safe. It is secured in Ulugan Bay, not far from here. Several other ships of our task force are there as well.”

Ulugan Bay. Palawan Province, the Philippines. So they were prisoners…

Tran motioned toward the officer at the foot of the bed. “This is General Robert Munoz di Silva, commander of the provincial defense force,” he said. “He is our… host. He speaks no Chinese. I know English, sir; I can interpret for you.”

“Ask him then if we are his prisoners,” Yin said, “and what sort of treatment my crew and myself can expect from them.”

Tran looked puzzled, then relieved. “No, sir, you do not understand…”

“Ask him,” Yin ordered.

Tran was about to speak once again, but, at a stern glance from Yin, bowed and relayed the question in broken, hesitant English. But obviously General di Silva understood, because the pig-faced bastard threw back his head and laughed out loud, right in Admiral Yin’s face!

Then, to Yin’s complete surprise, the Philippine General walked over to Yin and kissed him on both cheeks! Yin stared at the man, flabbergasted, while General di Silva babbled on enthusiastically about something or other.

Yin shook his head warily. They must have given him morphine. Or worse. Something was wrong here.

Dr. Tran read his thoughts: “You do not understand, Comrade Admiral. We are not prisoners of General di Silva — we are their liberators and allies.”

“What?” Yin asked, sitting up straight. “What are you saying? Their liberators? But—”

“According to General di Silva, he no longer considers his force to be part of the Philippine military,” Tran said. “He and his men have been secretly opposed to the capitalist pro-American government in Manila for over forty years. They’ve been waiting for such an opportunity to strike out at the puppet of the Americans. He is asking for our help in supporting his movement and assisting him and his fellow Communists in severing ties with the rest of the Philippines and establishing a pro-Communist state here on Palawan.” With that, they watched in complete surprise as di Silva stripped off his blue and gold epaulets of the Philippine Integrated National Police and tossed them over his shoulder. A few of the nurses and doctors who had filled the room looked ashen at the demonstration, but most of the others were smiling broadly, some even applauding.

But Admiral Yin couldn’t believe his eyes. Although he knew a potential enemy would go to extreme lengths to confuse a prisoner into cooperating or giving up information, this di Silva seemed sincere. Could they have drugged him? Was this all some kind of grand hoax…? “Doctor, ask him what is happening. Ask him if we have been drugged. Tell him I wish to be released immediately and reunited with my crew.”

Commander Tran had to raise his voice a bit over the impromptu celebration there in the room, but eventually he communicated the Admiral’s question and received a reply: “Sir, he says he is empowered to release all of us and our vessels if we so desire,” the physician translated, “but he wishes to say that the revolution has begun and that you are the catalyst for constructive change in Palawan, and perhaps all the Philippines, for all true Communists. He is prepared to offer us protection until we are well enough to function, then he pledges that his loyal forces will rally behind us to free Palawan and create a powerful, respected Communist nation.” Di Silva spoke again, and Tran added, “General di Silva is putting you in command of his provincial defense force, sir. You may order him and his men to do as you please. But he asks that you accept the challenge. It would be a dishonor for you and the Republic of China not to…”

Admiral Yin Po L’un’s head was reeling in confusion. This… this was too strange. It had to be a trick of some kind. But what? This charade was different than any other kind of interrogation or con scheme he’d ever heard of — it didn’t make sense. At least to him. A foreign militia commander laying down his weapons before a prisoner, then asking the prisoner to take over? It was absurd.

Yin sat back in the bed, trying to absorb it all. Maybe they had given him drugs and weren’t admitting to it. But what would be the purpose of this… acting?

For a moment everyone in the room simply stared at him. As if waiting for his word…

He wanted to shake his head, to think clearly. And yet he was thinking clearly. And this proposition was bizarre. He took a deep breath. His head hurt, but otherwise he seemed fine. Maybe a bruise or two, but nothing seemed seriously out of joint or injured.

So if he was okay…

Then was this real?

What if it was?

This di Silva character didn’t look insane — perhaps he was who he said he was, and he really meant what he said. If so… what an opportunity! To occupy a strategic province of the Philippines without firing a shot — the horrible effects of the nuclear detonation notwithstanding — was the decades-long goal of the People’s Republic of China. It was even better if the Chinese were invited to occupy the islands! It would forever end the domination of the United States in the Pacific; China would have complete strategic control of the South China Sea and most of the eastern Pacific. The Russians, the Japanese, the Indonesians, the Vietnamese, even the Americans — they would all have to step aside…

And Admiral Yin Po L’un would be a hero.

But it was crazy. Absolutely crazy. This popinjay who called himself a general had to be insane — wasn’t the entire country filled with so-called revolutionaries, peasants who would carry the revolution’s flag long enough to get a betterlooking woman or a few extra dollars before heading off into the jungle? It would be an insult to throw in with this character.

“Tell him I wish to have my officers taken to the Hong Lung immediately,” Admiral Yin ordered at Tran. “I request that the men be returned to their ships as soon as possible. Tell him we fully support his revolution, but my first responsibility is to the members of my flotilla. Humor him. Tell him anything as long as we are freed and helped back to the ship.”

Tran nodded and began to speak with di Silva, slowly at first, but soon he was rambling on and on, his speech becoming less formal and more flowery — he really seemed to be laying it on thicker and thicker, and di Silva was eating it up. A few moments later, with di Silva wearing a firm but rather dejected expression, the two men were bowing deeply and smiling to each other.

“General di Silva says he admires your sense of duty,” Tran reported with a sense of relief. “He has agreed to help us back to the ship and organize the surviving officers.”

Yin put on his best smile and extended a hand, and di Silva accepted as if Yin had just offered him the Crown Jewels. “Tell him he should be held up as a shining example of the great leaders of Communism — and any other drivel you think he will be impressed by,” Yin said impatiently. “Then ask him to bring the senior officers in here immediately so that I can organize—”

There was a sudden flurry of voices coming from the hallway, and a wave of people pushed their way into Yin’s room. Several of them had small automatic weapons and wore earpieces — Secret Service agents, most likely, or Presidential Guards, Yin thought. Well, the Chinese Admiral thought, he was right all along; his room was bugged, and as soon as the Philippine intelligence agents realized that he was not going to cooperate and try to enlist the aid of the Philippine General in trying to escape or overthrow the country, he was going to be captured like any other enemy of the state and hauled away to prison…

The wall of onlookers and guards parted suddenly, revealing a tall, young, handsome man with fair features, a thin dark mustache, and carefully coiffured dark hair. Doctors and nurses were staring at him as if they were looking at a god from Heaven, while the security guards were now gently pushing them away. General di Silva spoke at length to the man, who seemed to be very good friends with him.

The man then stepped up to Yin’s bed, his hands crossed before him, smiled pleasantly at Commander Tran, then said in rather good Chinese, “Welcome, Admiral.”

Yin was clearly impressed. “Thank you, sir. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am First Vice President of the Republic of the Philippines, Daniel Francisco Teguina. Admiral Yin Po L’un, I welcome you to Palawan.”

The First Vice President! Yin exclaimed to himself. Well, things were getting very interesting — if he was who he claimed. “So. Am I to be your prisoner, Comrade Vice President?”

“No,” Teguina replied, struggling through Yin’s sentence and struggling to compose a reply. “You are my guest and are to be welcomed.”

“As a conquering hero?”

Teguina made a sideways glance at the receding wall of people around the bed — none were within hearing range, and probably did not understand Chinese in any case — then at di Silva, and then back at Yin. “If you have the strength, Admiral, we will speak of it,” Teguina replied.

“I will speak of nothing until I am reunited with my officers and receive report from them on the status of the men under my command,” Yin said. His words were obviously too much for Teguina, who shook his head, and Yin motioned for Tran to translate.

“You will have what you wish, Admiral Yin,” Teguina said. He smiled evenly. “Then, we will speak of the future of the Philippines — and of our future.”