Sky Masters

9

The National Military Command Center, located three stories beneath the inner ring of the Pentagon, was a large, sophisticated command post where members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, their senior staff officers, and members of the National Command Authority and National Security Council could monitor crisis developments anywhere in the world, receive real-time satellite imagery, and speak directly with anyone from foreign leaders to theater commanders to individual crew members via secure, high-tech worldwide communications gear. The place was much like the Strategic Air Command’s underground command center, with ultratight electronic and physical security, several huge wall-size, full-color monitors, banks of telephones, a secure code room, and a huge support staff — except this was where national military strategy and command decisions were made and disseminated, not received and executed. A gallery above the main floor allowed high-ranking visitors to view the proceedings; a few persons were up there now.

Most of the J-Staff and several other members of the Joint Chiefs were already present in the NMCC when General Wilbur Curtis trotted in and took his place in the front row center seat. Beside him, sitting in the seat reserved for the highest-ranking civilian present — usually Frank Kellogg, the President’s National Security Advisor, or even Thomas Preston, the Secretary of Defense himself — was Paul Cesare, the President’s Chief of Staff. Curtis gave him a brief nod but ignored him as he clicked on the microphone at his seat. He didn’t care for Cesare. Never had. Shortly after Curtis had been dismissed from the last Situation Room meeting on this crisis, he’d phoned Cesare, trying to get in to see the President alone, to privately make the case for more fighters to accompany the carriers as well as deploying the Air Battle Force. He’d gotten nothing from Cesare but a chilly “The issue is closed.” He was Machiavellian and ruthless. He’d play either side of the fence as long as it was the side the President was on, and mow down anyone who got in his way. Curtis more than disliked him, he couldn’t stand him. “Curtis here. Situation report, please.”

Navy Captain Rebecca Rodgers’ voice came over the NMCC’s loudspeaker: “Good afternoon, sir, Captain Rodgers here. This briefing is classified Top Secret, no foreign nationals, sensitive intelligence sources and methods involved. The command center is secure, with the gallery sound-isolated. Briefing contents describe a priority-two incident.” She paused for a moment in case Curtis wanted to configure the NMCC any differently. He did not, and she went on.

Damn, Curtis thought, here it comes…

“About fifteen minutes ago the aircraft carrier Ranger, her escorts, several Navy fighters, and an Air Force reconnaissance plane were attacked by Chinese land-based fighters and bombers south of the Philippines.”

There was considerable murmuring among the assembled. Several of the Joint Chiefs shifted in their seats, bracing themselves for more. Paul Cesare sat there shaking his head, not believing what he’d just heard.

Well, Wilbur Curtis thought, the shit’s hitting the fan a lot faster than anyone expected. And with the President’s Chief of Staff sitting right here, the news was going to travel faster than Curtis could respond. He needed to have a list of options prepared for the National Command Authority literally before the President knew about the crisis. Without a plan of action, the entire JCS might seem like a bunch of bumbling idiots. If things got out of control now, Curtis would be lucky to remain JCS chairman for the rest of the day. “Wait one, Captain.” Curtis turned to Cesare. “Mr. Cesare, what exactly are you doing here?”

Curtis expected an argument out of the President’s big aide — Cesare certainly had the security clearance and the “need to know” for everything that went on in the NMCC — but to his surprise, Cesare was acting rather stunned, and not just from the news he had just heard. “Um… I was notified that a group of senators was going to meet with the Secretary of Defense at one o’clock,” he replied. “Something to do with the Philippine crises and the Chinese… our military options, something like that. These senators want to keep the President from committing any troops at all to Southeast Asia — they’re afraid we might be starting another Vietnam conflict, or World War Three. They’re pressing Secretary Preston — which means the President — into withdrawing all forces from the Philippines. Preston’s trying to walk a balancing act, but he thought the meeting here was at least a little further away from… the public eye and the press… than on the Hill or at Defense.”

Curtis couldn’t believe it. Once again the White House was pulling the Pentagon into a political mudfight. It was typical. God, how he hated politics. He turned to Cesare. “That’s all well and fine, Mr. Cesare, but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Uh… well, gathering information. So that, um, the President can make an informed response when the senators press him.”

Admiral Cunningham, the Chief of Naval Operations, discreetly cleared his throat behind him. Curtis could feel the gaze of his JCS colleagues and staffers on him, silently urging him to deal with the emergency at hand — Cesare would have to wait. “I’ll provide you with whatever you need later, Mr. Cesare, but for this situation, your place is up in the gallery.”

“I’d really prefer to sit here and—”

“Mr. Cesare—”

“General—”

Curtis motioned to the NMCC’s senior security policeman, Army Command Sergeant Major Jefferson, who stepped over immediately in front of Cesare. “Jake, please see that Mr. Cesare finds his way upstairs to the gallery with the other visitors, and double-check everyone’s credentials up there.”

Cesare rose to his feet. “The President will expect a full report…”

“He’ll get more than that,” Curtis said. He turned to his communications officer beside him. “Get the President on the line, priority two.” Priority codes issued from the Pentagon were in numbers of non-nuclear threats and colors for nuclear ones; “one” was the highest conventional code, associated with major military or terrorist actions against the continental United States, its bases or territories. “Two” was reserved for major attacks against American overseas bases, embassies, deployed vessels, or nonembassy citizens; and so on. Priority “red” was reserved for an all-out nuclear attack on the United States and was never used in simulations or exercises.

Curtis then turned back to Cesare with a hint of a smile. This was Curtis’ game now. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cesare. Sergeant Jefferson will show you upstairs.” Curtis motioned to the door with his head, and the guard motioned to the door and escorted Cesare out.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff turned his attention back to the big screens and computer monitors before him, but the information Cesare had parted with lingered. The surveillance operation in the Philippines blows up right when there’s a major congressional push to pull out. What the hell else could go wrong?

When Cesare was safely gone, Curtis double-checked to be sure the intercom was shut off in the gallery — the ranking person in the command center could restrict all information dissemination, no matter what the other person’s security clearance — and said, “Continue, Captain Rodgers. Casualty and damage report, start with Ranger.”

“Current casualty report: forty-seven dead, two hundred injured.” A ripple of anger and dismay spread throughout the room. Curtis felt sick. ‘Ranger is still afloat, heading to the port city of Manado in Indonesia at minimum speed, escorted by destroyers Hewitt and Fife and cruiser Bunker Hill. Wounded have been airlifted to Manado as well.”

A chart of the area was put up immediately on one of the large computer monitors when a foreign city or nation was mentioned, so Curtis and his staff could get a look at the area in question. Curtis found his mouth going dry, his pulse quickening. Forty-seven dead…

“Aegis cruiser Bunker Hill damaged during action,” Rodgers continued, “but sustained no casualties and only minor injuries. It is fully combat-capable and is assisting Ranger.”

“Action approved,” Curtis said. Dammit, the Bunker Hill too. Two major warships damaged, with more casualties in one day than practically the entire 1991 Persian Gulf crisis. “Wait one. Wasn’t there another ship with Ranger? Another cruiser?”

“Yes, sir. USS Sterett is en route to the Celebes Sea to attempt to recover two F-14 fighters downed in action with Chinese fighter-bombers. The Tomcat crews are listed as missing in action.”

Two fighters? Jesus, four aviators. How many more were going to be lost? “Goddammit, Captain, give us the casualties all at once. Are there any more?”

“No, sir. American casualties only on Ranger and two Tomcats.”

“Thank you,” Curtis said, taking a deep breath. “Hold on that last action by Sterett. Can Ranger provide any air support for Sterett?”

“Not at this time, sir,” Rodgers replied. “Ranger unable to launch or recover aircraft. Admiral Walheim advised that he does not suggest sending any heavy Air Force aircraft within six hundred miles of Zamboanga on Mindanao due to heavy Chinese fighter and antiair naval activity. He is trying to organize a fighter patrol using carrier-based tankers that were stranded from Ranger…”

“How can he rearm his fighters if they can’t use Ranger?”

“His fighters received permission to land in Indonesia along with the medical helicopters,” Rodgers replied. “Admiral Walheim has organized land-based rearming for the fighters by transferring stores from Ranger by helicopter to Ratulangi Airport near Manado, Indonesia, but he has not yet received permission from the Indonesian government to allow those helicopters to land or to conduct offensive operations from Indonesia. In addition, the Indonesian government has requested that the armed aircraft not depart Ratulangi until their status has been confirmed.”

Pretty fast thinking, Curtis thought — Walheim, another youngster commanding his first carrier battle group, was already devising ways to continue the fight even without a carrier deck. An X marked the spot on the chart where the fighters went down — about three to four hundred miles from Manado.

Admiral Cunningham asked, “How many fighters are stranded off Ranger, Captain?”

“Six F-14 Tomcats, two KA-6 tankers, one E-2C Hawkeye,” Rodgers replied. “Weapons include total of four Phoenix missiles, fifteen Sparrow missiles, ten Sidewinder missiles, and full ammunition loads.”

Cunningham nodded thoughtfully and said to Curtis, “Depending on fuel availability, Walheim can mount a credible air-defense operation from Ratulangi for a rescue operation if they could get full cooperation from the Indonesian government.”

“It’s unlikely, considering all the shit that’s going on,” Curtis said, “but we’ve got to find out.” To Rodgers, Curtis said, “I want to talk with the State Department ASAP. Danahall himself if he’s available, otherwise his Pacific deputy.”

“Admiral Walheim suggested going ahead with search and rescue efforts anyway; a lone vessel broadcasting that it is part of a rescue effort might be allowed to proceed.”

“The STRATFOR can organize a cover counter-air operation from Andersen,” General Falmouth, the Air Force Chief of Staff, suggested. “PACAF has a number of fighters on Guam we can use…”

“Action denied,” Curtis replied. “I want Sterett to stay out of the Celebes and outside six hundred miles from Zamboanga until I talk directly with State and Admiral Walheim. No vessels enter the Celebes without support.” He thought of the four Tomcat naval aviators that were down, but he also knew the result of a damaged plane slamming into the sea from thousands of feet in the sky — unless someone saw parachutes, there were probably no survivors, and certainly there was no reason to risk hundreds of lives on Sterett to save four men. As much as Curtis hated to admit it, a rescue operation now was out of the question. “Continue. Status of the Air Force aircraft?”

“Minor injuries sustained during escape maneuvers when the crew thought they were under attack,” Rodgers said. “The RC-135 refueled inflight and safely recovered at Andersen Air Force Base on Guam. The E-3C AWACS plane and the KC-10 are still on station in the southern Philippine

Sea north of Manado between the Philippines and Indonesia; the AWACS plane is keeping an eye on Chinese fighter activity and attempting to locate the two downed aircraft. They have four of the six Tomcat fighters with them for air cover; the other two Tomcats landed in Indonesia with the medevac helicopters. They estimate they can stay on station until daybreak, then they must withdraw for aircraft servicing.”

Curtis checked the row of world clocks below the NMCC’s ‘‘big board” — it was almost two-thirty in the morning Guam time. “I want the AWACS plane back on Guam by sunrise,” Curtis said. ‘‘Have them stay long enough to cover any naval flight operations in progress, but I don’t want any heavy American military aircraft airborne during daylight hours, with or without escorts.” He then thought of Dr. Jon Masters’ satellite system — what the hell did he call them, NIRTSats? — and said, “I want to talk with General Stone on Guam immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Curtis turned to Cunningham. “We got a satellite system up there that can find a Chevy in a parking lot full of Fords, on a cloudy night, from four hundred miles in space — now’s the time to use it.”

“Amen to that,” Cunningham said. “Sir, the Independence carrier group should be notified of the incident and briefed on their actions. I’d like to set up the two-hundred-mile exclusion zone and put fire-first provisions in the ROEs.”

“Two-hundred-mile exclusion zone approved,” Curtis said. “Fire-first provisions only for aircraft on antiship cruise-missile profiles. Any other actions have to come through the NCA.

“Get a full report from Admiral Walheim on Ranger, then brief me ASAP on what we need to send to Manado to assist our troops in Indonesia; I need a laundry list for the State Department. Find out what ships are available to replace Ranger — including submarines. I want to be able to take control of those waters as quickly as I can.” Cunningham turned to his communications console to begin issuing his orders.

The orange fight on his console illuminated, and Curtis donned a headset and plugged it into the phone jack. “Curtis here.”

“Hold for the President, please.” A moment later: “Yes, Wilbur, what’s going on?”

“Mr. President, we have an incident pear the Philippines. The aircraft carrier Ranger was hit by a Chinese air-launched cruise missile and damaged with loss of life. Two Navy fighter planes were shot down as well.”

“Oh, no…” the President murmured, obviously not wishing his feelings to be heard by others with him. He was speaking on a scrambled cellular phone, but from the background noise Curtis heard, it sounded as if he were at a luncheon and were still right at the table. “I’ll be out of here in ten minutes. Ask ‘laddie’ to come up and see me when he can.” The line went dead.

Curtis could not help but smile at the casual, almost backwoods code words the President liked to use during conversations like this: “laddie” was this month’s code word for the National Security Council, whom he wanted assembled in the White House Situation Room immediately. To his communications officer, Curtis said, “Call the White House communication office and get the NSC in the Situation Room ASAP.”

The phone fine began to come alive at that moment, and Curtis motioned for someone to get him a glass of water as he settled in. Two or three calls to get a better picture of the situation, then formulate a plan of action during the car ride to the White House. It was as it always was: he was cut out of the loop for most of the really important policy decisions, but when the shit hit the fan, he was expected to have all the answers. Well, he told himself, he was going to have all the answers when the National Security Council met.

The next call came from Guam: “General Stone here, sir.”

“Rat, got a report for me?”

“The Ranger got jumped by B-6 bombers and Q-5 or B-7 fighters, sir,” Stone replied. The exhaustion in his voice was obvious, even over the scrambled satellite link. “We didn’t see them coming until about a hundred and fifty miles out. We had the radar planes bug out, and we thought the Navy fighters turned them away, but they weren’t after the radar planes — they were going after ships right away. Only two of the first flight of six were armed for air defense; the other four were carrying two each C601 missiles as well as heatseeking air-to-airs…”

“Are you sure they were 601s?”

“Pretty sure, judging by the flight profile and the damage they caused. They were a hell of a lot bigger than C801s or Exocets.”

“No evidence of… special warheads?” It was possible that the C601 missiles were carrying nuclear warheads but they simply failed to go off.

Curtis could hear a genuine sigh of relief even through the static-charged transmission: “No, thank God.” The alternative, as Curtis well knew, could have been much worse. In 1946, during secret tests code-named OPERATION CROSSROADS, the Navy wanted to see the effects of a twenty-kiloton nuclear blast on an aircraft carrier. CV-3 USS Saratoga was towed out to Bikini Atoll and the device set off five hundred yards away. The blast of that one warhead threw the forty-thousand-ton aircraft carrier nearly fifty feet out of the water, pushed it sideways nearly a half-mile, crushed its seventeen-inch armor plating and caved in the flight deck, then sank it in seven hours. Ranger would have suffered much the same fate.

“We got pictures of the aircraft on the ground in Zamboanga after the attack — they were B-6 bombers all right,” Stone continued, shaking Curtis out of his reverie. “The Chinese put their top-of-the-line maritime-attack plane in Zamboanga. Each one had two C601 missiles and two PL-7 or PL-9 missiles. No definite ID on the fighters — only the B-7, F-8, or the A-5 with air refueling have the legs these guys had to go after Ranger from that distance. We also got pictures of Y-8 reconnaissance planes and PS-5 antisubmarine-warfare planes out there.”

The Chinese were moving a major naval air force into the south Philippines, Curtis decided. With this force they could seal off the entire area and conduct bombing raids on the government bases on Mindanao. Curtis asked, “Do they own the Celebes Sea, Rat Killer?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Stone replied. “Air, land, sea, everything. We gotta go in hard if we want to have access.” Curtis knew what that meant — no more fucking soft probes, no more RC-135s no matter how many escorts they had. Sending Sterett into the Celebes Sea now would be a big mistake. “I copy. Looks like Doctor Masters’ gadgets are going to be the only intel we get for a while.”

“He’s giving us some great poop, sir,” Stone said. “His gadgets are working just fine. I’ve already transmitted some pictures to you via Offutt; they should be in your hands very soon. You should have some more detailed shots of the Chinese positions in Zamboanga within a couple hours.”

“Good. I meet with the boss in thirty minutes; he’s going to want to see them. What else have you got for me?”

“With Masters’ gear set up here, General Harbaugh from Third Air Division, General Houston from Fifteenth Air Force, and I have already played out a couple strike scenarios for the south Philippines,” Stone replied. “We’re definitely going to need the Air Battle Force — and then some — to dislodge our Oriental buddies.”

“What kind of scenarios have you come up with?” Curtis asked. “Can you send me some of your data?”

“I sent the scenarios to you along with the photos,” Stone said. “It’ll make interesting reading for you. Masters practically duplicated the entire Air War College and Naval Postgraduate School war-gaming computer models right here in my command post, complete with up-to-the-minute intelligence data, and we’ve built and revised data tapes for the B-52’s Offensive Avionics System suite and for the B-1’s AP-1750 strike computers for the Air Battle Force aircraft. We’ve fought the battle of Mindanao three times already.” Curtis remembered the old saying, “Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer,” but he asked anyway: “Who won?”

“It depends, sir,” Stone replied. “Exactly how bad do we want the Chinese out of the Philippines?”

“What I want is to send a ship into the Celebes to search for the downed crews from the Tomcats we lost. I also want to get the Navy back in there just to tell the Chinese they can’t lock us out. I need some air cover. The Navy planes are grounded for now.”

“Sorry, sir. Don’t think we can help,” Stone said. “We’ve only got seven F-15 fighters on station — we’d need at least twenty to cover a rescue operation. None are modified for air-to-surface ops.”

Curtis swore to himself. With Ranger out of the fight, they were really stuck for both offensive and defensive punch. It would take time to send in another carrier group, and that would allow the Chinese to fortify their own sea and land forces.

What they needed was real offensive and defensive power. They needed the Air Battle Force in there — right now.

“You told me the carrier battle groups could protect themselves, General,” the President began. “One hit, and now we’ve got sixty dead and hundreds more injured.”

All eyes of the members of the National Security Council swung toward him.

… All but Thomas Preston. The Secretary of Defense believed that this confrontation was inevitable, but he obviously saw it not as the beginning of the end of tensions in the Philippines, but the beginning of dangerous hostilities. Like looking down the barrel of a nuclear-loaded gun. Curtis rarely agreed with him, but this time he very well may be right

“Sir, there was a malfunction of one SM-2 Aegis missile during the cruiser Bunker Hilts response,” Curtis explained. Thirteen more men had died of their injuries in the past thirty minutes alone; thirty more were given no better than a fifty-fifty chance of survival. It was hard for Curtis to formulate an objective, detached analysis of why and how so many men had died. He was numb, but pressed on: “Bunker Hill had positive control of the situation until the time of the mishap. Admiral Walheim’s antiair-warfare deputy, who was in command of the engagement from Bunker Hilts CIC, terminated all the rest of the missile launches that, in all probability, would have destroyed the last incoming missiles. Control of antiair functions transferred to the cruiser Sterett, and the switch was made smoothly, but Sterett couldn’t put enough firepower in the air to stop all the missiles.”

“What about inner defenses? Didn’t Ranger have any guns to protect itself?”

“Ranger's fighters shot down one of the aircraft carrying the antiship missiles and took shots at the missiles themselves, but F-14 Tomcats are not really designed for chasing down cruise missiles, especially with enemy fighters in the area. Ranger itself had two operational short-range RAM launchers — heat-seeking missiles mounted on a steerable box launcher — plus two Phalanx automatic Gatling-gun defense systems, but although both systems were functioning neither could hit the incoming missiles. We’re investigating.”

“We also lost two fighters. Why?”

Curtis bristled at the notion that he was responsible for explaining the vagaries of aerial combat, but he explained. “Sir, the fighters faced multiple enemy aircraft at all times — at no time did we have better than a one-on-two match-up. The fighters were responsible not only for protecting themselves and their ship, but the Air Force aircraft as well…”

“But why did we have such poor odds?” the Vice President, Kevin Martindale, asked. “Why did we have only eight fighters airborne? We should have had sixteen or twenty…”

There was a hushed tension in the room; Martindale followed the furtive glances of those around him to the President. “We authorized only two escorts per aircraft,” Taylor explained to the Vice President. Everyone could tell that the President’s admission was a stab wound for him. “They were talking about thirty-plus fighter escorts up there…”

“Sir, our objective from the beginning was not to get into a big furball with dozens of aircraft in this area,” Curtis explained. “If we had huge waves of fighters up there, it might’ve looked like an invasion force. Besides, we had no way of knowing the Chinese would not only send fighters to chase down our recon planes, but launch antiship missiles as well…”

“I should have known.” The President sighed. “I should have erred on the side of protecting our troops…”

“Perhaps it would have been better to have more fighters up initially,” Curtis allowed, “but our aircraft were in international airspace and outside the established Philippine air-defense zone at all times. Our reconnaissance plane came no closer than forty miles to a Chinese vessel that was fifty miles offshore — well within the law. Our aircraft broadcast identification signals, they were in constant contact with international overwater flight-following agencies, and they used no type of jammers whatsoever. The Ranger was over three hundred miles away and never entered the Celebes Sea. We behaved as nonthreatening as we possibly could…

“It seems that we underestimated the Chinese, then,” Thomas Preston said. “This is no mere foray they’re involved in — this is a major military operation. They are prepared to defend their positions with everything they have and do whatever it takes — including attacking a United States aircraft carrier.”

“And that should not be tolerated,” General Curtis added. “They’re professing their innocence and at the same time blasting away at our reconnaissance aircraft and carriers—”

“Hold on, hold on, Wilbur,” the President interrupted. “I understand your anger — believe me, I share it. I need to hear some more options first before I consider a military response.” He turned to Secretary of State Danahall. “Dennis, you said you had something for us on the ASEAN meeting?”

“Yes, sir,” Danahall replied. “The Association of South East Asian Nations concluded its emergency session in Singapore yesterday. We’ve got Deborah O’Day over there as our observer.” Curtis glanced quickly at Thomas Preston and detected a slight edge in his expression. O’Day was once Preston’s Assistant Secretary of Defense for the Pacific — one of a multitude of positions she held in two White House administrations — and had been fired from that post for her outspoken advocacy of expanded involvement in Pacific affairs in general and specifically her opposition to the U.S. pullout of the Philippines. Curtis could imagine the reception O’Day got from the predominantly Moslem and generally anti-female men.

“Miss O’Day reports,” Danahall continued, “that the vote to bring sanctions against China was defeated in the ASEAN assembly.”

“What?” the President asked, alarmed. “But they can’t… The Chinese are tearing up the Philippines and ASEAN isn’t going to do anything about it…?”

“That’s not all, sir,” Danahall said. “After the meeting, O’Day was briefly kidnapped…”

The room crackled with tension.

“Kidnapped!” The President found himself sitting straight up. “Jesus, is she all right? What happened…?”

“She’s all right, sir. Not a scratch. Her assailant says he was sent by Second Vice President Samar to officially request military assistance from the United States — and O’Day reports that Samar had delivered a warning not to enter the Celebes Sea region because the Chinese Fleet Admiral was ready to attack.” He held up a sheet of paper. “Here’s her communique from the embassy in Singapore, dated sixteen hours before the attack began.”

The President scanned the communique quickly, then returned to his chair stiff with shock. He turned to Preston, then to Curtis. “Did you know about this?”

“Yes, sir,” Preston replied. “I immediately issued a message to Admiral Walheim about the warning, but we gave this warning little credence at the time.”

“Why?”

“Because the Ranger group was never scheduled to enter the Celebes Sea in the first place, per your orders,” Preston explained. “I decided to go ahead with the aerial surveillance, since the risk was far less and because we needed the ‘eyes’ up there to see what the Chinese were doing. We never expected the Chinese to attack our reconnaissance aircraft, let alone the Ranger carrier group.” Preston looked decidedly uncomfortable, then added, “Miss O’Day has had a… uh, reputation for sensationalizing a situation, sir. I’m afraid I have to admit I gave her warning little credibility. It sounded like a fanatical tirade by a Filipino guerrilla soldier…”

“We did everything we could do to protect the fleet, sir,” Curtis said. “The proper warnings were issued, the commanders in the field knew the situation…”

“I take full responsibility, sir,” Preston said uneasily. “I should have brought the matter to your attention immediately.”

The President stared at Preston but his eyes seemed dead. After a moment he shook his head and waved a hand at Preston. “It’s not your fault, Thomas. If you had told me that the Chinese were ready to attack the fleet, I would’ve said you were crazy and told you to continue as planned.” He paused, then said, “All right. We’ve got several dozen dead sailors, a damaged aircraft carrier, and apparently a live Filipino vice president asking for our assistance. What do we do about it?”

“JCS has devised an operation that we think can send a clear message to China, sir…”

The President was obviously still hesitating. That single nuclear explosion, a relatively small burst that occurred ten thousand miles away, was hamstringing this President, casting doubts that only served to increase his anger and frustration — like Reagan’s inner torment about the American hostages held in Lebanon, the nuclear explosion and the fear of an escalating conflict between the United States and China was plunging the President into indecision.

“Sir, I’ve got to reiterate this point: every day we hesitate in sending offensive forces into Guam and put them into a position to act, the worse our situation will be. We will reach a point where we will be unable to respond at all to stop China. It’s even more important to send the Air Battle Force in right now,” Curtis continued, “because they now become the only offensive weapon we have against the Chinese in the Philippines, except submarines and long-range cruise missiles.” He referred to a wall map of the area as he spoke: “We won’t risk sending any more warships into the Celebes Sea, and the South China Sea region and the seas within the Philippines are too dangerous or shallow. China controls the south, west, and north sides of the Philippines, and they control the South China Sea itself.

“However, they do not control the east side of the Philippines, and that’s their weakness. Air strikes from either carrier-based or land-based bombers can come in from the east and strike at Chinese positions…

“Using Doctor Masters’ computer systems on Guam as well as the reconnaissance data from both the RC-135 flight and his lightweight satellites, the STRATFOR has developed several strike options designed to achieve an entire range of results. The plans require using the Air Battle Force. Without Ranger or another carrier group available, we simply don’t have the counter-air defensive capability on Guam right now. The Air Battle Force is the only unit we can send on short notice that has the firepower we need.

“In short, I think Masters has developed a workable plan for dealing with the Chinese in the south Philippines. We see a pretty good chance of success, even with anticipated Chinese reinforcements in the Celebes. The primary plan is relatively small, controlled, and does not directly involve any carrier battle groups or any Marine Expeditionary Units. Masters’ war-game computer calls the plan Operation WINTER HAMMER…”

“Winter?” Vice President Martindale retorted. “You’re going to wait until winter to do something?” The Vice President was not known for being too swift.

“The name was simply a random combination of words made by his war-gaming computer, and its use is strictly internal. We can pick a different name for media purposes if you wish…”

“Just let me know what you’re proposing to send over there,” the President said irritably. “How much equipment, how many men.”

“The first Air Battle Wing, which is the only one currently organized,” Curtis replied, “consists of eighteen B-52 bombers, ten F-111G bombers, twenty F-15B, C, and E-model fighters, twelve F-4 fighters, three KC-10 tankers, six KC-135 tankers, one E-3C AWACS plane, one RC-135 radar plane, one EC-135 airborne command post, three C-5 cargo planes, and ten C-141 cargo planes. It totals about two thousand men and women. The current force includes three B-2 stealth bombers as well, which have been training for use with the Air Battle Force. We also have the use of the destroyers Hewitt and Fife and the cruiser Sterett, which were part of the Ranger battle group; the two destroyers carry Tomahawk cruise missiles that can go in ahead of the bombers and take out seaborne radars and large vessels. The Second Air Battle Wing has about twice as many troops and equipment, but can’t be assembled for another thirty to sixty days.

“According to our intelligence figures, the Chinese have approximately ten thousand troops in Zamboanga itself, plus another five thousand afloat in the Celebes,” Curtis continued, “including a full Marine regiment on Mindanao and another afloat.

“They have the equivalent of three surface action groups in the Celebes, which is twelve capital warships including submarines in each group. We have mapped out at least twenty different possible surface-to-air missile sites surrounding the Celebes. They have closed off or actively patrol all sea-lanes and all air routes around the southern Philippines for a radius of a thousand miles from Zamboanga.

“In addition, they have another twenty thousand troops, thirty more ships, and at least a hundred more aircraft in Puerto Princesa, only five hundred miles away. And this is only a quarter of what they have sent to Luzon: Clark Air Base and Subic Bay Naval Base both have as many Chinese troops and machines there as the United States once had there at the height of the Vietnam War—”

“Wait a minute,” the President said in complete surprise. “You want to take on fifteen thousand Chinese troops with only two thousand men? That’s it?”

“Sir, numbers don’t make the difference here,” Curtis explained. “The Air Battle Force has the striking power of two, perhaps three aircraft-carrier battle groups, and they have speed and flexibility that the carriers themselves don’t. We have the air power to force the Chinese out of Zamboanga and perhaps out of the south Philippines altogether. We need to activate this unit as soon as possible. I recommend to you that we activate the Air Battle Force and deploy them to Guam. Once they’re there, we can present a more detailed plan to you.”

“I object to General Curtis characterizing this group as the ultimate solution to this problem,” Preston said. “I am very much in support of the Air Battle Force concept, but General Curtis is fantasizing, sir.” To Curtis he said, “I’m on your side, Wilbur. I believe in the work you’ve done. The Air Battle Force concept is great, and you’ve implemented it superbly. No one is questioning it or you. But we have to be more realistic or optimistic — we have to be ultraconservative. We’ve been surprised so many times in this conflict that we have to increase our requirements that much more to compose a credible picture.” To the President he said, “We can build a fighting force to take the Philippines, sir, but do you want to pay the price to do it?”

“The Air Battle Force doesn’t fight alone, Thomas,” Curtis said, “WINTER HAMMER includes the Wisconsin battle group. Six ships, led by the battleship Wisconsin, are at Pearl Harbor ready to go. This group has trained with the Air Battle Force in maritime operations, so when you do decide to send the ABF, they’ll operate well together. In the meantime they can act as an escort for the Ranger when they’re ready to pull out of Indonesia, and they can monitor ship and submarine activity in the Celebes from long range. They also carry Tomahawk cruise missiles, which will be important if we do start hostilities with the Chinese.

“The task force also includes the Second Marine Prepositioning Force based on Mariana Island near Guam. One amphibious assault carrier, one tank landing ship, two escorts, two support ships, twenty helicopters, thirty armored vehicles, five thousand Marines and naval personnel. Half of the force is there now — the other half deployed by air from Hawaii, pick up their ships on Mariana, then embark to their standby positions in the Philippine Sea. It will take at least five days for this group to arrive on station. We send a flight of P-3 Orion sub hunters from Japan or Guam with them until they get some air support from shore or from a carrier group.”

“An invasion force,” the President said. “You’re recommending a full-scale invasion…”

A telephone in front of the President buzzed; Cesare picked it up and listened, then replaced it on its cradle. “Press release from the Chinese government, coming in from the wire services,” he told the President. “Communications is sending down a copy.”

A few moments later a Secret Service agent on duty arrived and passed a computer printout to Cesare, who remained standing as he read it to the National Security Council:

“ ‘The Chinese government is claiming that an American military strike force was detected and intercepted over the Celebes Sea,’” Cesare read. “ ‘The strike force, composed they say of several large subsonic bombers believed to be B-52 bombers from the island of Guam, was escorted by fighters from an aircraft carrier. They claim the Philippine government requested that the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Air Force, some of whom were stationed at military bases in the southern Philippines at the request of the Philippine government, help defend them.’

“ ‘The Chinese claim they launched a small defense force of fighters, which managed to drive the bombers away. They claim four Chinese fighters were downed and two American fighters were shot down…’ ” Cesare read ahead, then added, “ ‘No mention of the strike against the Ranger, except that American warships also threatened several Filipino coastal towns with bombers and rocket attacks, and that an unarmed Chinese supply ship carrying medicine and food to Filipino refugees in western Mindanao came under attack by an American bomber. They go on to charge that the United States is trying to retake the Philippines by force and blames us again for the nuclear-weapon detonation near Palawan and for threatening the world with thermonuclear chaos.’ ”

“Those bastards,” the President grumbled angrily. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to Curtis: “We did not have any B-52s involved in this mission over the Celebes Sea, did we, General?”

“Absolutely not, sir. We have no bombers of any size stationed in Diego Garcia, Australia, Japan, or anywhere west of Guam…”

“Could it have been someone else? The Australians? Brunei? Vietnam? Australia has F-111 bombers, right…?”

“Unlikely, sir. Our AWACS radar plane picked up no other aircraft in the area…”

“What about ground forces? It wasn’t a Marine or special operations attack? Anything like that?”

“Nothing authorized by me or any of my staff, sir,” Curtis said. His mind began running through a multitude of other possibilities — mercenaries, a rogue combat unit, perhaps even the downed Tomcat crews blowing things up to mask their escape — but he quickly discarded each one. “Sir, it’s an obvious propaganda story. When the CIA investigates the story, they’ll discover it wasn’t a bomber attack — they’ll probably find there was no attack at all. The Chinese released the story because of its propaganda value — they want to be the first to complain, because it shifts blame on the other party.”

The President had also discarded all other possibilities, for his face became darker and angrier by the second. “Those bastards,” he muttered. “They attack our unarmed reconnaissance aircraft and an aircraft carrier, then claim we’re trying to start a war. And even if we admit that the Ranger was attacked by Chinese antiship missiles, it makes us look even worse — we’re going to get blamed for trying to start a war, then criticized for not doing a good job of it. Bastards…”

The President fell silent, as did the rest of the Council. This was the turning point, Curtis thought grimly: this was the point at which all presidents facing a conflict had to decide whether to explore more peaceful, less hazardous options, or go ahead with preparing for battle. Like his famous relative, this President wanted to avoid a conflict — he would do almost anything to avoid going to war, or even doing something that might threaten war. It was simply not in his nature.

But he had sixty dead sailors and two damaged warships to think about as well. When the American people learned about this incident, which was bound to happen at any minute, what would they say? Would they expect a military response? Would they understand if the President of the United States still tried to pursue a peaceful solution?

“Mr. President, I’m ready to brief you at any time on WINTER HAMMER…”

“General, I can’t consider sending in more bombers and fighters now,” the President said angrily. “I’m supposed to stand up in front of the American people and deny that we sent bombers to attack the Philippines — and then the press learns of all those bombers sitting over there on Guam? I look bad enough as it is.”

“We can disprove each and every accusation by the Chinese,” Curtis said. “We can prove we had unarmed reconnaissance planes up there, not bombers, and that the Chinese fighters attacked first. We can also prove that the Ranger was hundreds of miles from the Philippines and no threat to any coastal towns or Chinese positions, and that their antiship missile attack on the fleet was unprovoked.” But the President seemed distant, worried, unreachable. “You don’t have to submit to this blackmail, sir. We’ve got dozens of options…”

“I know, I know… He paused, his gaze scanning his advisers arranged around him, although it was obvious he didn’t notice any of them — it was his way of making tough decisions. He made another glance at Thomas Preston, who was grim-faced but remained silent. The President was alone with his decision:

“I know I’m being too cautious, Wilbur, but you’ve got to understand,” he said, “I need cooperation with the other countries in the region before I commit American troops to fight the Chinese. The world is touchier than a warm bottle of nitroglycerin right now. If I send your bombers and fighters into the Philippines to square off against the Chinese, I need to make sure that the American people realize we’ve exhausted every possible option first…”

“We’ve got the authorization you need, sir,” Curtis said. “Second Vice President Samar.”

“Samar? What does he have to do with this….?” President Taylor asked…

“Samar is a legitimate head of the government, sir,” Curtis said. “He is also the governor of the Commonwealth of Mindanao, which is virtually a republic of its own. His designated representative has formally requested assistance from the United States. That’s the legal spark we need to move.” Danahall sniffed aloud and shook his head. “That’s not even close to the truth, General…”

“It doesn’t have to be the absolute truth, Dennis,” Curtis pointed out. “We’re not talking about a court case here — we’re looking for justification to act, and we have it…”

“Unless Samar is dead,” the Vice President said, “in which case Teguina retains control of the government and becomes de facto governor of Mindanao…”

“Then we go in and rescue Samar,” Curtis said. “Ambassador O’Day was given information on how to contact Samar — we’ll arrange for a special-operations group to go in and get him out so he can make an announcement to the world that he is resisting the Chinese.”

“But we need to be in a better position to react when we get Samar out, sir,” Curtis said to the President. “Sir, you have to order the Air Battle Force into Guam and the Marines to deploy into the Philippine Sea, and have them prepare for action. If we wait too long, Samar’s militia will collapse and Mindanao will fall — and then nothing short of a nuclear war will dislodge the Chinese from the Philippines.”

The President thought about this, scanning the. faces around him; then, to General Curtis: “Okay, Wilbur, you got the green light. Get the Air Battle Force moving to Andersen as quickly as possible. You’re also authorized to deploy the Army and Marine Pre-positioned Forces as you outlined earlier, and the destroyers and cruiser you mentioned before can go on standby with their Tomahawk cruise missiles. I want no offensive operations to begin without my specific approval. I want a full briefing on WINTER HAMMER within the hour, here… Paul, get the ‘leadership’ together for the briefing, and try to get as many of the allies notified as possible.”

“And the B-2 bombers that are part of the Air Battle Force…?”

The President scowled his displeasure at the question, but replied, “That’s up to you and your people. It’s bad enough I’m ordering bombers and cruise missiles into the area — I might as well get all the protests packed into one order. If the crews have been training with your Air Battle Force and if they know their shit, you’re authorized to send them.”

The only warmth United States Navy Lieutenant Commander Paul “Cowboy” Bowman had felt in two days came from a tiny burning white fuel tablet about the size of a quarter. He had lit the tablet with a match from a waterproof container, placed the fuel tablet in a small palm-sized aluminum cookstove from his survival kit, then folded a sheet of an old Tagalog-language magazine cover into the shallow pan — he had lost the original metal cup long ago during their mad races through the Mindanao jungles — filled it with brackish water, and set it on the stove.

To Second Vice President Jose Trujillo Samar’s surprise, the paper pan did not burn. “Why does the paper not burn, Bowman?” Samar asked.

“Dunno,” Bowman replied. “Too cool, I guess.” He dumped a packet of soup mix into the water and began stirring it with a twig. This whole trip was actually too cool, Bowman thought. The escort mission for the Air Force, the dogfights with the Chinks, getting his ass shot down, splashing down in some unheard-of sea thousands of miles from home and hundreds of miles from his carrier — at night, no less — being chased through the swamps and jungles of the Philippines, running from Chinese infantry patrols, losing his RIO.

And to top everything off, here he was with the Second Vice President of the Philippines, a man who was legally the President of the country, but was, in reality, on the run from his First Vice President.

Bowman had been pulled out of the Celebes by a fishing boat and delivered to Samar’s militia. His flight suit was crusted with dried saltwater and mud and he was dog-tired. He’d been unable to sleep before his patrol and had been awake nearly eighteen hours before his sortie, so he was going on almost three days of no sleep, not to mention that his left elbow was probably broken when it hit the cockpit sill on ejection. But that wasn’t the worst part of this excruciating evasion. The worst part of the trip was lying in the sewn-up canvas bag a few feet away from him — the body of Bowman’s RIO, Lieutenant Kenny “Cookin” Miller. Miller’s parachute had apparently not fully opened, and by the time Bowman somehow found him in the dark, warm water, he had either drowned or had died instantly after hitting the water. He had dragged Miller’s battered body into his one-man life raft with him, ignoring the horribly shattered neck and twisted limbs.

Bowman and Miller had been together for three cruises, and the two bachelors had lots of shore-leave experiences. They were more than shipmates or fellow crew dogs — they were friends. Bowman was determined not to leave his friend alone, to be eaten by sharks in the Celebes Sea. As long as it was humanly possible, Bowman was going to carry, drag, or push Miller’s body with him.

Since being retrieved from the water, Bowman and his grisly companion had been on the move. They had been transferred to two more fishing boats, then between several groups, once being taken to shore. Their ID cards were taken immediately, he was kept tied up and blindfolded, and he was warned that if he disobeyed any order or did anything to arouse suspicion, he would be disposed of without remorse or hesitation. They had traveled uphill for two days, moving only at night or in bad weather; then they moved quickly downhill to the eastern shoreline — the sun was coming up somewhere over Samar’s shoulder right now, in the direction of the sea. They were kept hidden in mud pits, the hollowed-out insides of huge tropical trees, or in rotting grass huts. Food was usually a muddy green banana or some other undigestible piece of fruit, and rainwater.

Samar himself had shown up only last night. His militiamen treated him like Caesar. He held several military councils, speaking Tagalog in low whispers.

Bowman thought General Jose Samar had to be the most mysterious, enigmatic, unfathomable man he had ever encountered. Here he was, President of the Philippines, the leader of the Commonwealth of Mindanao, a powerful state in its own right, a wealthy plantation owner and industrialist. And what was he doing? Hiding out in the middle of nowhere, wearing filthy fatigues, within minutes or mere yards of getting his head blown off, and leading a group of rebel soldiers around deadly Chinese air and naval patrols.

Samar was a born leader, and he looked the part. Tall for a Filipino, light-skinned, broad-shouldered and powerful like a farmer, which he was on his family’s Jolo Island estate before he entered politics. He was an Army Academy graduate and a former armored cavalry officer, advancing in grade to captain before joining Ferdinand Marcos’ secret intelligence organization. He rose to the rank of general in very short order, commanding the ex-Philippine President’s Mindanao intelligence organization. He had reportedly executed and imprisoned thousands of Moslem rebels in the prison at Puerto Princesa in his five years as chief of intelligence…

… until he got religion. Somehow, sometime, the teachings of Islam had penetrated that handsome head. Perhaps it was the tortured cries of his victims or their families; perhaps it was his Sulu heritage, which had been influenced for centuries by sailors and traders from the Middle East; perhaps it was Allah or the Prophet speaking to him in his dreams — whatever it was, General Samar became an avowed Moslem warrior. Bowman had heard his Islamic name, but had forgotten it — his men called him “General” or occasionally “Jabal,” which meant “mountain.”

Samar had tried several rebellions against the Marcos regime — all had been put down violently and efficiently, and a huge price had been placed on his head. He learned to live off the land, fleeing from one isolated jungle village to another, always one or two steps ahead of his ex-colleagues in the secret police. His exploits as a hunted criminal and guerrilla soldier against Marcos had earned him a widespread heroic reputation on Mindanao, and many villagers regarded him as a modern-day Robin Hood, if not a god. He was very successful in rallying the Moslem faithful to his side and demonstrating to all Filipinos the cruelty and opprobrium imposed on the Filipino people by the Marcos regime.

Samar was more than ready to continue the battle with Aquino and Mikaso of the new ruling UNIDO party, and he did stage several raids against army barracks in Cagayan de Oro and Davao, but times were changing. The Philippines were immersed in abject poverty, the Communists were veering out of control, and foreign investment was slipping away. To keep the republic from destroying itself from within, Corazon Aquino had held out her hand in peace to the two main warring factions, and Samar eagerly accepted it. In return for peace, and to prevent Mindanao from splitting off from the rest of the Philippines, Samar, once considered no greater than a dirty rodent in the wild jungles of Mindanao, became the Second Vice President of the Philippines, constitutionally third in line of succession for the presidency. Five provinces in central and eastern Mindanao — Cotabato, Davao, Bukidnon, Agusan, and Surigao — became one free state, with its own legislature and militia, and Samar became its first governor.

Now this man was suddenly on the run again. He was as surprised as everyone by the Chinese invasion, and by the time he rallied his forces it was too late to save Zamboanga and Cotabato. But Davao had to be saved.

The water in the paper pan began to boil — the paper would burn if he let it boil too long. Bowman took a sip. It was terribly salty, with a pungent, slimy aftertaste that stuck to the back of his mouth and tongue like grease, but the warm liquid in his belly made the naval aviator feel a million times better. “Try some, General?” he asked Samar.

The rebel leader shook his head. “I have tasted your American emergency rations — I lived on it for several months once. I have had my fill.” Even though the man was smiling, the tone of voice described a very unpleasant experience.

It was Samar who had ordered Bowman to be untied and for him to be allowed to use the items in his survival kit.

“What are you going to do with me… us?” Bowman asked Samar.

“I do not know,” Samar said. “It may not matter in any case. We may all be captured at sunrise. The Chinese are all around us.”

“Then why don’t you run?” Bowman said. “Head back for the hills and the jungle. I know we’re near the coast — I can hide out until help arrives.”

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

“No way…”

“He will slow us down. The jungle will be too thick…”

“I’m not leaving him.”

Samar shoved a raised hand in his face to silence him, then stomped on Bowman’s aluminum cookstove to extinguish the fire. Bowman heard nothing, but after six years of flying F-14s off aircraft carriers, he wouldn’t be surprised if his hearing had deteriorated. He moved to his feet and went over to hoist Miller onto his back, but two of Samar’s troops restrained him and snapped handcuffs on his wrists, binding his hands in front of his body. “You can’t do this, Samar…”

“Be silent.” He raised his rifle, scanning the skies to the east… then stopped. Bowman followed his gaze. Far off on the horizon, toward the northeast, three specks, arranged in a tight diamond formation, were highlighted against the dawning sky. “Chinese patrol helicopters. Pray they haven’t found us…”

The diamond formation was heading south, about a mile offshore, but the specs suddenly began to wheel right toward the coastline.

“Damn. They must have triangulated our radio transmissions…”

“Radio transmissions…?”

“Silence. Stay here.” Samar hurried off into the thicket toward his perimeter guards. He returned ten seconds later. “Three men are running north to create a diversion. The rest say they will fight. I wanted you to know that. There’s an inlet about three hundred meters away; we must reach it before the helicopters arrive. Run for your life.” Samar wheeled and dashed into the thicket, keeping as many trees as possible between him and the oncoming helicopters. Bowman followed close behind but was immediately passed by four of Samar’s soldiers. Soon Bowman lost sight of the five men and could do nothing else but trust his hearing to tell which direction they were heading.

It seemed they had been running only for a few seconds when suddenly a ripple of explosions behind him threw Bowman to the slimy jungle floor. Two of the helicopters were shredding the forests with rocket fire; the third was hovering offshore, scanning the trees for the rebel soldiers. Bowman heard animal-like screams from the jungle as the Chinese rockets found their targets — the three rebel soldiers that were acting as decoys.

Bowman struggled to his feet. He was about to run when a dark figure body-tackled him to the ground. “Stay down!” Samar cried. He pressed something into Bowman’s hands — it was his PRC-23D survival radio from his survival kit. “Use this when the time comes—”

“Wait! What are you—”

“Start crawling toward the heavy jungle. Stay as hidden as you can — they are using infrared scanners to find us.” The third helicopter had started toward shore, bearing down on them — it was less than a half-mile away…

A burst of rifle fire opened up to their right. “No!” Samar screamed in Tagalog. “Don’t shoot!” But it was too late. Samar’s soldiers had started to fire their rifles at the third helicopter, which was exactly what its pilots were waiting for. The chopper banked hard left, and a pod-mounted machine gun chattered to life, spitting a long tongue of flame at each one-second burst.

“Our only hope is to get back into the heavy forest,” Samar said in English. “Run away from the sunrise. When you hear the rotors, find a mud pit or wet thicket and hide in it. When the sound goes away, run again. The chopper’s fuel must be getting low, so we may have enough time.” He was suddenly on his feet, dragging Bowman with him. “Now! Run!”

Bowman had taken one step when he heard rotors. He found a patch of mud and dived onto it, but it was not deep enough to cover him. Samar was nowhere to be seen. He rolled to his back just in time to see one helicopter fly overhead and one hover nearby, less than a hundred yards away — the first two choppers had returned. It was close enough for Bowman to see the chopper’s infrared scanner ball under the nose and an outrigger on each side holding a torpedo-shaped weapon pod.

It had him…

There was nowhere to run anymore…

There was a scream from somewhere off to Bowman’s left, some sort of battle cry, and a long staccato ripple of automatic rifle fire. Several sparks flew off the nose of the chopper, and it suddenly nose-dived almost straight down into the jungle not fifty yards away. Bowman needed no more encouragement — he turned around and raced as hard as he could away from the stricken chopper.

But he could not escape. Bowman heard a short pwoooosh, and a split second later a terrific explosion erupted in the first level of jungle canopy only twenty feet overhead and a few yards ahead. The dimly lit jungle suddenly turned bright yellow, his head felt as if it had exploded, and he felt himself cartwheel several feet away from the concussion.

He opened his eyes. The chopper was just a few dozen yards away, nose aimed right at him. Its rotors were whipping the foliage around as if they were in a hurricane, but Bowman could not hear or feel anything. The chopper was translating, lining up the blunt muzzle of the weapon pods directly on him. When he tried to move his arms or legs, nothing worked. His vision was blurring, growing dimmer, everything was going dark…

With the target flitting over the jungle, it would have made a difficult shot — not impossible, but very difficult — but the chopper suddenly stopped, obviously lining up for the kill, and now it made an easy target. Marine Corps Captain Fred Collins swung the nose of his MV-22A Sea Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft a bit farther left to line up the aiming “donut” of his Stinger missile system on the infrared image of the Chinese patrol helicopter, then waited until he heard the familiar “growl” in his headset, indicating that one of his heat-seeking missiles had locked on. He lifted the protective cover off the safety release, pressed the release with his right thumb, got a “Ready Shoot” indication on his integrated helmet display system, then pulled the trigger with his right index finger. “Fox two, Able Zero-Seven.”

From less than a half-mile away, the kill was quick and spectacular. The Stinger missile flew directly into the unbaffled, unprotected engine exhaust of the Chinese Zhishengji-9 combat patrol helicopter, turning both engines and its fuel tanks into balloons of fire. The orange and yellow balloons seemed to hold the helicopter in midair for several seconds, but soon it dropped straight down and crashed into the jungle.

“Splash one chopper,” Collins radioed. “Where’s the other two?”

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

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

“Bandit three now heading southwest, your ten o’clock position, eight miles, airspeed one-zero-zero knots, altitude three thousand. Appears to be buggin’ out.”

Collins knew that the guys could turn and re-attack quickly, but he had no choice — he was too far away to pursue. “All right, Basket, I’m staying. Give me a heads-up if he comes back. Switching to Guard channel.” To his copilot in the Sea Hammer’s left seat, Collins said, “You got the aircraft.” The copilot shook the control stick to acknowledge the order, and Collins released the controls. “Start an orbit over the area. I’ll see if I can find him on the FLIR.”

Collins’ copilot climbed to five hundred feet, stabilized, then began a slow orbit over the area. Collins activated the AN/AAQ-16 FLIR, or Forward Looking Infrared, sensor ball, which presented a thermal image of the forest below in his helmet-mounted sights. At the same time he keyed the microphone button: “Bullet, this is Able Zero-Seven on Guard. Bullet, if you read me, give me a tone on Rescue one. Over.”

A few seconds later, Collins heard, “Able Zero-Seven, this is Bullet on Guard. I read you loud and clear.” The DF direction-finder read southwest. The accent was strange, the voice clipped and precise — too precise. There Was also a lot of background noise. It could be his own rotors… or it could be someone else.

Collins said, “Bullet, go to Rescue One and hold down for ten. Over.”

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

“Bullet, go to Rescue One. Over.”

“Able Zero-Seven, I am injured. I cannot work my radio. Land on the shoreline. I am just a few meters inland. Hurry. Over.”

The DF readout still read southwest — but that could mean a hundred yards southwest or ten miles southwest. The Navy pilot was not following orders because he was panicking — or because it wasn’t a Navy pilot talking. The term “meters” worried Collins, but more military guys were using metric measurements like meters and “klicks,” so that wasn’t a definite giveaway. On the Guard emergency channel, Collins said, “Stand by, Bullet.” To his copilot, Collins said, “Swing west a few miles. Let’s see if we can triangulate this DF steer.” The MV-22 swung west away from the coastline, keeping as close to the treetops as possible.

“Able Zero-Seven, this is Bullet, come in. Come in, Able.”

Bowman was groggy but awake. He had a pounding headache and completely washed-out vision. He felt paralyzed, and when he tried to move, a red-hot wave of pain rolled up and down his back. Same for his left arm — it wasn’t just his elbow anymore, the entire arm felt broken. His wrists were still handcuffed together and the survival radio was gone…

No, not gone. He could hear faint voices coming from somewhere. Fighting through the pain in his back and arm, he scratched his fingers across the mud and foliage toward the sound. Just as he thought he was going to pass out from the pain, his fingers brushed the thick rubber of the short antenna. A spark of hope shot through his pain-tortured brain, and he was able to grab the radio and drag it to his body.

“Stand by, Bullet,” Bowman heard. “Bullet, switch to Rescue One, if able. Over.”

“Unable to switch. Help me. Land on the shoreline. I will find you.”

Able… that was the call sign of the Navy rescue choppers on Ranger on the day that Bowman was shot down. The PJs finally found him! But who was he talking to? There was another Bullet crew member out here? Who was he talking to? Miller? Was Cookin’ alive? He couldn’t believe it — Miller had really made it!

But he suddenly realized that wasn’t right. Miller was dead. The voice on the radio didn’t sound American — it sounded too smooth, too practiced. It had to be Chinese! The Chinese were trying to coaX the Navy rescue bird into landing. No downed aircrewman would ever do that — a downed aircrewman’s responsibility was to first get himself located, then follow instructions from the rescue bird. He was not supposed to issue orders.

Bowman’s radio was set to the Guard channel. On the PRC-23D radio, there was a four-position rotary dial: full clockwise, toward the side with the antenna, was Guard, one click counterclockwise was Off, one more click was Rescue One, and one more was Rescue Two. With trembling fingers, Bowman depressed the rotary dial and twisted the knob once to the Off position; then, with a tremendous effort, twisted the dial to Rescue One and depressed a rubber switch on the side of the unit…

The DF readout on radio number one was moving slightly south. “Few more miles,” Collins said to his copilot, “and we can plot out his position…”

Suddenly, radio number two came alive with a distinctive Piiinng! Piiinng! Piiinng! Piiinng! tone. The DF readout on the second channel pointed directly east. “I got a tone on Rescue One!” Collins shouted. “Coming from the area we just left!”

“That guy on Guard must be an eavesdropper,” the copilot said.

“I almost fell for it, too. Follow the DF steer from Rescue One.” Collins switched from Guard channel to Rescue One. “Bullet on Rescue One, I copy your tone. Give me a tone when we fly overhead.”

They were about sixty seconds on the new heading toward the east when Collins said, “I think I have something down there. PJs, stand by.” In the rear of the MV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft were four pararescue jumpers, or PJs, two sitting on the port and starboard cargo doors, wearing rappelling gear.

Collins tracked the warm spot below him with the FLIR.

Just before the object was directly beneath them, they heard another series of tones on Rescue One. The copilot flew past the spot, but Collins continued to track the warm spot and hit a button on the AN/AYK-14 mission computer, which would store the latitude and longitude of the spot they flew over.

“Bullet, this is Able Zero-Seven, authenticate Victor-Kilo. Victor-Kilo.” No response. “Bullet, this is Able, I say again, authenticate Victor-Kilo. Over.”

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

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

“Bullet…. authenticates.… Poppa Zero… Poppa-Zero…”

“He didn’t give the whole response,” the copilot said.

“Close enough for me,” Collins said.

“But you don’t know…”

“I’m taking the chance. I’ve got the aircraft.” Collins took the controls, gave them a shake to verify transfer of control, then banked sharply to the left and lined up on the object he was tracking on the FLIR. When he was pointing at it, he moved a switch on the power quadrant, which rotated the twin rotor nacelles on the wingtips of the MV-22 vertically and transformed the Sea Hammer aircraft from an airplane to a helicopter. He maneuvered the big cargo-plane-tumed-helicopter into a hover, then translated slightly sideways until he found a clearing beneath the airplane. On interphone, he said, “PJs, our boy’s off the nose, about thirty yards. No complete ID, but I don’t see a weapon and he’s alone. Out.”

Using their rappelling gear, the PJs edged off the Sea Hammer and slid to the ground. Unslinging their rifles, they took a bearing from the MV-22 and proceeded toward the subject. A few cautious minutes later, they found Bowman.

“Able, this is PJ One, I got him. Looks like one of our boys.” The rescue technician quickly searched Bowman for hidden explosives or booby traps as the second PJ stood a safe distance away, guarding the area. “Move in position.” Collins edged the Sea Hammer aircraft forward, and the crewmen in the cargo hold lowered a rescue hoist with a forest-penetrator device down to the men on the ground. He unfolded the petal-like seats on the forest penetrator, lifted Bowman up, and secured him into the seat. Bowman had enough strength to wrap his arms around the rescue device and do as he was told.

“Samar… Samar. Don’t forget Samar…” Bowman told the PJ. It was hard to hear over the roar of the MV-22 overhead, but the first PJ caught a snippet of Bowman’s words.

“He seems to be saying Sammy something,” the PJ said on a helmet radio to Collins. “There might be someone else nearby.”

“We don’t have time to search for anybody else,” Collins’ copilot said. “We’re past bingo already.”

Collins was using the FLIR scanner to search the area around the rescue site. Suddenly he stopped. “I got someone else,” he said. “Thirty yards to the right. He’s not moving. Check it out. Hoist Robby on board.” The first PJ on the ground climbed onto another seat on the forest penetrator, strapped himself on, then pushed Bowman’s head down and wrapped his arms around him as the cargo hold crew hoisted them up through the foliage. The second PJ began moving toward the second object, taking directions from Collins, using the gradually brightening morning skies to find cover until he was close enough.

The crew in the cargo hold of the MV-22 dragged Bowman inside and wrapped him in a blanket. One PJ shined a flashlight in his face, then compared the face to a sheet of ID-card photographs of downed crewmen from the Saratoga. “He matches,” the PJ shouted on interphone. “Bowman. Bullet Seven’s pilot.”

Collins let out a sigh of relief. “Dammit, I don’t believe it. We got one. The other guy might be his RIO.”

The second PJ on the ground reached the body. “He looks like a Filipino… wait. He’s wearing general’s stars. No name tag, but he’s got two stars on his collar.”

Collins maneuvered closer to his ground crewman. “General’s stars… a general? Named Sammy? Sammy… Samar? Holy shit, that might be General Samar, the fucking Vice President! Get him on board! Hurry!”

The Philippine national anthem played in the background. The television transmission showed a sign written in English, Tagalog, and Chinese, telling the viewer to stand by for an important message from the Philippine government. After two minutes, the scene dissolved, to be replaced by the grim face of Second Vice President General Jose Trujiilo Samar. Most of his hair was burned off, and one eye was swollen shut — he had refused to wear any bandages, however, because he was afraid his countrymen might not recognize him, and because he wanted all the world to see what the Chinese military had done to him. He was wearing his uniform, freshly cleaned and starched, which hid a tightly wrapped separated shoulder and burns across most of his upper torso.

“My fellow Filipinos and all others who can hear my voice. I am Jose Samar, Second Vice President of the Republic of the Philippines. I am speaking to you from a control room aboard the American aircraft carrier USS Ranger, which is en route to Guam after being viciously attacked by Chinese warplanes three days ago. This message is being broadcast to you at six o’clock A.M. on the third of October, Manila time, via Philippine TV channels two and three, on the Voice of America, the British Broadcasting Channel shortwave channel seventeen, and on other international radio and television channels.

“As you can see, I am injured but alive. I was rescued on the second of October from the island of Mindanao by American Marines shortly after being attacked and nearly killed by patrols from the People’s Republic of China. The Chinese patrols killed several of my militiamen while we were engaged in rescue operations, trying to save the life of an American Navy pilot shot down by Chinese fighter planes several days ago.

“I am speaking to you today to tell you that, as the governor of the Commonwealth of Mindanao and Second Vice President of the Republic of the Philippines, that the People’s Republic of China is engaged in a full-scale military invasion of my country. Do not be deceived by stories of cooperation with the Philippine government. The Chinese are believed to have murdered President Arturo Mikaso. Chinese warships have taken the Commonwealth cities of Puerto Princesa, Zamboanga, Cotabato, and Cagayan de Oro, and they are preparing to launch an all-out assault on the Commonwealth of Mindanao capital city of Davao. The Chinese are not liberators, nor are they assisting any legitimate Philippine government officials. They are invaders. They are moving large-scale military forces into my country with the intent of permanently occupying and annexing the Philippines. The Chinese invaders have attacked and killed Philippine citizens and have also attacked unarmed American reconnaissance planes.

“I am hereby urging all nations to impose economic and political sanctions on the People’s Republic of China for their illegal invasion, and to do everything in their power to help remove all Chinese military forces from my country. As Second Vice President and the only legitimate government leader of the Philippines, I hereby proclaim all incursions into the Philippines by the People’s Republic of China to be illegal, and I formally order the People’s Republic of China to remove all personnel, warships, and aircraft from our territories immediately.

“My authority may be challenged by the Communist government in Manila, led by the murderer Daniel Teguina. Teguina has called me a traitor and a rebel, but it was he who conspired to assassinate President Mikaso, allow the Chinese Army to invade the country, and take power for himself behind the brutal arm of the Red Chinese. His allegations are unfounded, but only the Supreme Court and the Parliament of the Republic of the Philippines can decide our guilt or innocence.

“But in the Commonwealth of Mindanao my authority is absolute, and I am still in command despite my injuries. My militia forces have denied the Chinese complete access to Cotabato Airport, we have continually routed them from the Cabagan, Davao, and Pulangi river valleys, and we have prepared a strong defense and a few surprises for them in Davao if they try to invade us there. This will be the greatest battle in Philippine history since World War Two. But we cannot hold off the Chinese hordes alone.

“I am therefore formally requesting military and economic assistance from the government of the United States in helping me to repel the Chinese invaders. I hereby authorize the American government full overflight, landing rights, and sailing rights into all Philippine and Commonwealth territories, and hereby grant full authority to conduct military, security, safety, and other operations in my country. I also authorize the President of the United States and his designated representatives, civil and military, to act with full presidential authority in the Commonwealth of Mindanao, including full authority for all defense matters, and I order my state militia to obey all orders of the President of the United States or his theater commanders as if those orders were my own. If I die of my injuries or am killed by hostile forces, my orders here stated will remain in force until my state is returned to peace, with all foreign powers removed.

“I hope that all loyal Filipinos hear my words. These are my standing orders to all loyal Filipinos:

“All active, reserve, national guard, inactive reserve, and former militia members under the age of sixty are ordered to active duty immediately. Report only to a district or city militia commander; do not report to a federal, National People’s Party, or New People’s Army official, or to anyone you do not know personally. If it is not possible to contact a militia commander, attempt to travel to Davao and report to a militia outpost.

“To all other citizens of Mindanao: Do not report for work. Do not surrender your weapons to anyone under any circumstances; keep them hidden. Report movements of Chinese or New People’s Army troops, or anyone you suspect of aiding or informing to the Chinese or NPA, to a militia member known to you. My militiamen will attempt to contact all residents of Davao, Samal, Panabo, Santo Tomas, and other towns on the Davao Gulf and take your women and children out of any known battle areas.

“If your town is under attack or is threatened, move toward the coast as quickly as you can. Do not move toward Davao, as you might move into the middle of a battle area, trapped between opposing forces. Avoid Chinese or NPA troops; travel on secondary or back roads, at night if possible. If you can travel by boat, do so only at night, stay hidden near the coastline, and avoid all large coastal towns. Do not assist any Chinese or federal government representatives or military personnel. If you are forced to assist them, do so to save your own life, but escape when it is safe to do so and resist to the best of your ability. Provide aid and comfort to any of my militia members known to you.

“Above all, pray for the strength and courage we will need to resist the Chinese invaders. As long as I live, I will do everything in my powers to remove the foreign invaders from our homeland. May God give me, and you, my loyal brothers and sisters, the strength to continue fighting until our country is once again free.

“This transmission will be recorded and repeated several times daily. Do not give up the fight. Allah akbar. God is great. Good luck.” The opening sign reappeared, along with the national anthem, and then Samar began to repeat the message, this time in Tagalog, the native language of the Philippines.

“What do you mean, it’s down?” Brad Elliott asked. He kicked off the sheets, and his one good foot was hitting the floor milliseconds later as he readjusted the phone.

“Sorry, General, but that’s what it looks like,” Jon Masters said over the phone. “Carter-Seven didn’t download its last sensor pass over Mindanao. We’re checking on it right now, but I think our ground equipment is malfunctioning. I can’t poll the satellites.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Five minutes later, Major General Stone and Lieutenant General Elliott were racing for the command post. They found half of the back panels off the control consoles, the large-screen high-definition computer monitor was blank, and technicians scrambling everywhere. In the midst of it all was Jon Masters, wearing cut-off jeans and a flowered Hawaiian shirt, with his ever-present squeeze bottle of Pepsi in hand.

“Doctor Masters, what’s happening…?”

“We’re finishing our checks, Brad,” Masters replied. “It’s no problem. We’ll have the birds back on-line in no time.”

“You mean we lost both of them…?”

“It’s only temporary…”

“Can you launch another one?” Stone asked. “Do you have a backup?”

Masters wore an uncomfortably pained expression. “Ahhh… I might have a problem there, Dick,” Masters said. “I have the launch aircraft here, but I didn’t bring a spare booster or payload. They’re all back in Arkansas.”

“Big deal. Fly back to Arkansas and launch another one,” Stone snapped. “The EB-52s from HAWC will be here in less than fourteen hours, and the First Air Battle Wing will be here in less than eighteen…”

“You see, I got a problem back home,” Masters said. “My board of directors voted not to approve any more launches until our other contractual obligations are—”

“Doctor Masters, you have a contract with the United States Fucking Government!” Stone exploded. “I don’t want excuses, I want your butt back on that plane of yours so we can get another satellite up there. Now you either get me one or I’ll fry your ass.”

“That’s not necessary, General,” Masters said, totally unperturbed. “I can have the satellite back up shortly. Not one NIRTSat has ever failed, and this will not be the first, I promise you. Now let me get back to work.” He did not wait for a reply, but turned and left Stone with a drop-dead apoplectic look on his face.

Brigadier General Thomas Harbaugh, commander of the Strategic Air Command’s Third Air Division, the headquarters responsible for all SAC’s air operations in the Pacific, and the senior member of the Strategic Air Command’s STRATFOR team for Pacific operations, had joined Stone in the command post. To Harbaugh, Stone said, “Tom, we just lost the NIRTSat system. Masters doesn’t know when it’ll be back up. I need some current intel of Mindanao, and I need it now.”

“I can call DIA and Space Command and get a KH-11 or LACROSSE satellite overflight,” Harbaugh said, “and you should get the photos by the time your birds start arriving here.”

“Hop on it,” Stone said. “But I want to discuss aircraft overflights as well. Unless we get Masters’ system on-line again, getting satellite imagery from Washington out here is too long for a naval battle. Besides, I want a few probes of the Chinese defenses. Let’s go over the Air Battle Force plans for ‘ferret’ flights; I want several packages put together to hand to General Jarrel when his birds start arriving.”

The officers in charge of each weapon squadron of the First Air Battle Wing were assembled in the Strategic Warfare Center briefing auditorium; the room was secured, the building closed down, and the doors guarded as the meeting began.

“Orders are as follows, ladies and gentlemen,” General Jarrel began. “By order of the President, all elements of the First Air Battle Wing have been directed to deploy immediately to Andersen Air Force Base, Guam, and prepare for air operations under the direction of Pacific Air Forces and Pacific Command. Commander, First Air Battle Wing, will be myself, who will report to Major General Richard Stone, Chief, Strategic Forces deployed, Andersen Air Force Base, Guam, immediately upon arrival. Major General Stone becomes the overall Joint Task Force Commander effective immediately. First Air Battle Wing commander is dual-hatted as Joint Task Force Air Commander. The orders outline a few Marine Corps air units involved in the operation, along with naval air operations commanders. Rear Admiral Conner Walheim becomes Joint Naval Forces Commander. Joint Task Force Ground Forces Commander is Army Brigadier General Joseph Towle.” Jarrel folded the message form and stuck it in a flight-suit pocket. “No other details were given in the message, but that’s all we need to get going.

“I have distributed copies of the list of today’s nonflying crews and airframes; it composes about half of the force located here at Ellsworth, including eight B-52s, four B-1s, ten KC-135s, two KC-10s, all twelve of our F-4Ds and Fs, ten F-15s, and six C-141s. That’s about all Andersen can handle at one time anyway.

“Crew rest is hereby waived for these crew members. They will pick up pre-planned mission packages, brief, and prepare for departure within six hours.” There was a rustle of surprise throughout the audience — they had planned and discussed a rapid deployment of a large number of aircraft such as this, but it had never been done before. “The bombers, KC-135 tankers, and some of the cargo aircraft will deploy nonstop to Andersen; the fighters and KC-10s will get crew rest at Hickam before proceeding.

“All bomber aircraft will be fully loaded in ferry configuration; you have the list of stores they will carry. Deploying to Guam with weapons on board is always tricky because of the high fuel load needed for divert reserves, but we’ll have lots of tankers to support us, so we will load the bombers to get as close to max landing weight as possible with normal IFR fuel reserves…”

“Why was this decided, sir?” one of the squadron commanders asked. “Andersen has weapons — why not load up on gas and supplies and upload the weapons once they arrive on Guam?”

“I want those bombers ready to fight the minute they arrive at Andersen,” Jarrel replied. “My orders state that we are on combat alert as of right now, and the less time we spend getting ready for a mission after arriving on Guam, the more flexibility we’ll have. We could be tasked for strike operations while the Wing is en route, so I want to be ready — our crews better be ready to get a few hours’ sleep, mission plan, brief, pull the pins on the weapons, and go. If necessary, they will land, get their mission packets, pull the pins, do a hot refueling, and take off immediately.

“The remaining aircraft at Ellsworth will deploy after six hours’ crew rest under the same system — bombers go direct with weapons in ferry configuration, fighters RON at Hickam. Our OPLAN specifies eighty percent of the First Air Battle Wing on the ramp at Andersen within twenty-four hours. I think we can do better: I think we can have eighty percent of the Wing flying in combat in twenty-four hours. That is my goal. I know this is our first actual combat deployment, and we’re bound to be inventing procedures as we go along, but this staff has practiced these procedures now for several months, so I think we can do it. Questions?” No reply. “Next meeting in one hour; that should be our last meeting before we start launching planes. I expect the first group to be ready to go by then. Let’s get to it, ladies and gentlemen — move!”

Jarrel watched as the members of the First Air Battle Wing rapidly filed out of the auditorium. He knew the danger these men and women were facing, and he didn’t envy them. His own father had been killed in action in Korea in 1953, and he had flown over five hundred combat sorties as an F-5 and A-7 pilot during two tours in Vietnam. He’d seen a lot of battle, a lot of death.

No, he didn’t envy them at all. But they had a job to do, just as he did. He turned and headed back to his office. “God be with them,” he said to no one but himself.