Sky Masters

Epilogue

Escorted by two aides and two soldiers, High General Chin Po Zihong marched through the halls to the offices of the Premier of the People’s Republic of China. He was quickly escorted by the Premier’s protocol staff to the main conference room and asked to enter immediately.

At least two hundred heads swung toward him as he entered: it was as if the entire Communist Party of China were assembled in that room. Cheung was alone at the head of the conference table; the seat normally reserved for him at Cheung’s left was taken by Cheung’s Home Minister. There was no way Chin could reach his usual seat — and, after decades of studying and developing military tactics, it was obvious that it was precisely what Cheung had in mind. He stepped quickly over to the end of the long conference table directly opposite Cheung, and the bureaucrats and politicians of the Party closed in around the table.

General Chin bowed deeply from the waist. “Comrade Premier, I am reporting as ordered.”

“Do you have a status report for me, General?” Cheung asked in a surprisingly strong, loud voice.

“Yes, Comrade Premier…” He stopped, realizing Cheung couldn’t hear him, and raised his voice: “Yes, Comrade Premier. But I would prefer the briefing to be given… privately.”

“Please give your report now, Comrade General,” Cheung said.

“But sir, some of these men are not cleared for—”

“They are authorized, General. Please give your report.”

This was not a military briefing, Chin realized coldly — this was an inquisition. Obviously word of the battle of Davao had already reached the Premier — there was no use in trying to withhold any information now.

“Comrade Premier. First, I regret to inform you that the honorable commander of the People’s Liberation Army Navy South Philippines Task Force, Admiral Yin Po L’un, is no longer in command of the people’s forces near Mindanao. Until a suitable replacement has been designated, I have placed Admiral Lower Class Sun Ji Guoming, the Admiral’s Chief of Staff, in charge of all forces in the south Philippines. Admiral Yin… died an honorable death while engaging enemy forces in the course of his duties to the people.”

“Very tragic,” Cheung said. “He will be remembered as a loyal servant to the people of the republic.”

That of course was the proper response — in China, as in Japan and other Asian cultures, death by suicide was as acceptable a form of death as any other cause, even in this so-called enlightened society run by the Communists. Cheung, however, did not seem too upset by the news, although by his facial and body expressions Chin deduced that the Premier did not know about Yin’s sudden departure.

“The operation to capture Davao and the airport there is progressing; however, the American bomber attacks on our naval and Marine forces have been severe. Along with air-launched antiship missiles and long-range cruise missiles, the Americans reportedly used fuel-air explosives against Marine landing craft and soldiers entrenched on the beach — these weapons are many times more powerful than conventional explosives and create a devastating shock wave and fireball, very much like a nuclear explosion.” His words did not have the effect he desired — he was hoping the words “nuclear explosion” would inflame this audience a bit. They did not. “A second wave of attacks is now under way. Admiral Lower Class Sun reports that he is organizing antiaircraft defenses and can soon mount a defense of the people’s warships.

“I have a plan of action to counter the American bomber attacks that I would like to submit — to the Premier’s Cabinet and senior Party members — for your approval.”

“General Chin,” the Foreign Minister, Zhou Ti Yanbing, chimed in, “would it be possible for your forces to safely disengage and withdraw to… Puerto Princesa, on the island of Palawan, or perhaps even to Nansha Dao?”

“Disengage? Withdraw?” General Chin gasped. “Why would we withdraw? We—”

“—still have the advantage? Will capture Davao and Samar Airport without further serious loss of life? Will have a cursed navy after this conflict is over?” Zhou asked.

“We have weapons that we have not yet brought to bear,” Chin said. “We sought to control this conflict, to use ground forces and conventional weapons only. The Americans escalated the conflict by employing B-1 and B-2 bombers, Tomahawk cruise missiles fired from battleships and submarines, and with such terror weapons as fuel-air explosives. We should step up our efforts as well. I have outlined a plan where we may—”

“The conquest of Mindanao and our support for a puppet like Teguina is not worth a war with America or the loss of another capital warship,” Zhou said angrily. “I ask you again, General — can our forces safely withdraw to Puerto Princesa or Nansha Dao?”

“Do not speak to me of withdrawal!” Chin shouted. “You politicians can organize a retreat far better than I.” And Chin did something he thought he would never do to a living premier — he turned his back and left.

“If you leave now, General Chin, you leave as the former commander of the People’s Liberation Army,” Foreign Minister Zhou said. “The Politburo has already decided to open a dialogue with the Americans for an orderly withdrawal. You can be part of the process — or you can retire from your post and be done with it.”

Chin froze, then turned back to face the assembly before him. In a loud, clear voice, he said, “I command the most powerful army in the universe. I will lead them into battle — I will not lead them in capitulation.”

“You have already led them to defeat, General, you and Admiral Yin,” Premier Cheung said. “Will you not lead them in reconstruction and retraining as well? You can leave here known in history as the man who had a fleet destroyed in the Philippines — or you can be known as the man who led the People’s Liberation Army into the twenty-first century. The choice is yours.”

He knew that he should not accept this, Chin told himself. The honorable thing would be to leave this place and do as Yin did — put a gun to his head or a knife to his stomach and kill himself…

But he did not leave; instead, he stepped toward the conference table and seated himself.

No one was more surprised than he when the assembled politicians applauded.

If these idiots ever found out, Chin thought grimly to himself, that I ordered Yin to use nuclear weapons to destroy Davao, they would certainly not be applauding — they would be calling for my execution. Sun and the rest of Yin’s surviving flag staff would have to be bribed, exiled, or killed to ensure their silence, but that was an easy matter. General Chin Po Zihong’s power, his authority, were still safe… and with the blissfully ignorant best wishes of the government raining down upon him, Chin began to plot his revenge on Jose Trujillo Samar and on the Americans who had razed his forces so badly.

Yes, revenge…

It was daylight by the time Patrick McLanahan and Henry Cobb crawled out of their damaged B-2 stealth bomber into the already warm, humid tropical air. It seemed ten times stickier than usual — but to the two crew members, it felt like heaven.

The flight back from the Philippines was quiet, despite the damage they had sustained. The autopilot, electronic flight-control computers, and electronic stability systems were useless, and the mission commander’s side controls were inoperable, so the two crewmen took turns in the pilot’s seat — McClanahan flew the straight and level portions while Cobb napped, and Cobb flew the air-refueling hookups that they received every thirty minutes because of fuel leakage and the long overwater legs. The crew then spent another hour orbiting Guam while two-seat F-16 fighters with engineers and maintenance crews on board examined the damage to the flight controls and landing gear. Exhausted but riding yet another adrenaline rush, Cobb overrode all suggestions to eject and attempts to get more opinions from Stateside, and he made a picture-perfect landing at Andersen’s left runway. Somehow the damaged left landing gear held, and the Black Knight bomber was shut down at the north end of the runway, surrounded by fire crews.

Although McLanahan and Cobb climbed out of the plane on their own power, because of the observed damage to the Black Knight they were settled into gurneys and transported to a massive green tent set up near the flight line that acted as a triage center for returning crews. Doctors found Henry Cobb’s pulse and blood pressure sky-high, so he was ordered into a separate tent where crews that were well enough could be debriefed by intelligence officers while under a doctor’s care; that was when General Elliott found him and McLanahan shortly after he was taken there.

“Henry, Patrick, damn your hide, good to have you back,” Elliott said, giving his officers a hearty handshake and a pat on the shoulder. “Terrific landing, Henry. How do you two feel? You look okay. Henry, how do you feel?”

“I’m fine, General, just fine,” Cobb replied. “I’m in adrenaline withdrawal, that’s all. I’m too old for this shit, sir.”

“I think half the base is on an adrenaline high, watching you bring that B-2 in,” Elliott said. “I think the cheer that went up could be heard in China.” He looked at McLanahan and smiled a knowing smile. “You brought back another bent bird, Patrick. This time the commendation will be public — nothing red-jacketed this time. For both of you.”

“I’d be happy if we could just finish this thing and go home,” the navigator said. “So what kind of losses are we looking at?”

“We’ve taken some serious hits,” Elliott admitted. “Sorry to tell you this, but we lost John Cochran’s Megafortress. A BUFF saw them go down. They couldn’t see chutes in the darkness, although they heard plenty of emergency locator beacons. The crew is still listed as missing.” Along with Major Kelvin Carter, Lieutenant Colonel John Cochran was one of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center’s pioneers in the application of the strategic battleship escort concept; they had all worked very closely together for many months. “His was the only HAWC crew to go down. His crew got six confirmed kills, though. Every Megafortress got at least three — an incredibly awesome display.”

“I hope they find him,” Patrick said. “How about the rest?”

Elliott took a deep breath. “Five B-52s, one B-1, one B-2,” he said in a quiet voice, his face hard and somber. “No confirmed KIAs, though.”

“And how goes the war?”

Elliott’s face brightened a bit as he replied, “Preliminary post-strike data is hard to believe — I mean, really hard to believe. It’s too early to tell for sure, but we might have sunk or damaged as many as one-third of the damned Chinese navy’s destroyers. We’ve counted as many as fifteen frigates sunk or severely damaged, and we lost count of all the patrol boats we nailed. Even better, we’ve got reports of several amphibious-assault ships damaged or destroyed in Davao Gulf, and we’re still receiving shortwave radio messages from Samar’s troops broadcasting from the airport. The broadcasts talk about thousands of Chinese Marines dead, a couple hundred captured, and the entire Bangoy Harbor burning from all the dead ships.” He tried not to sound too happy over apparent high Chinese casualties, but from the warrior’s point of view, the first night of battle had gone well for the Air Battle Force.

McLanahan felt a tingle over his entire body when he heard the news — no matter how horrible war was, if there had to be a war, then news of success on the battlefield was always welcome. “So when do we go back out?”

“We may be called in for air operations over Zamboanga and Puerto Princesa,” Elliott replied, “but with only two or three destroyers left for Chinese air defense and fighter control, the bombers should have free rein over Mindanao. We should be able to bring tankers closer to Mindanao, so we can set up real fighter combat air patrols for the bombers and Navy ships — and if that’s true, they won’t need Megafortress escort bombers anymore. I’m sure they won’t use B-2s either, now that most of their big warships and the Mount Apo radar site have been destroyed. HAWC might be out of the battle, I think.

“The Army’s Twenty-fifth Infantry Division might try an invasion to Davao in order to keep the Chinese ground troops from massing on Mindanao,” Elliott added. “But the Chinese Navy got a pretty good thrashing last night, and they know we can do it again — the second round of Tomahawk and bomber attacks began shortly after the first strike package withdrew, and initial indications look like they encountered virtually no resistance even in daylight hours. I hope the politicians in Washington and Beijing get their acts together and call a halt to this thing right now.”

That, Patrick McLanahan agreed, was every warrior’s silent prayer — go and get ready to fight, but hope like hell they don’t have to.

The door to the rooftop helicopter landing pad burst open, and First Vice President Daniel Teguina, surrounded by no fewer than ten bodyguards, rushed through the doorway. While six soldiers spread out to cover each side of the pad, the other four kept Teguina hidden from view, M16 rifles at the ready.

Despite his formidable protection, Teguina looked like the animal being hunted — which in effect he was. He carried with him a suitcase filled with American currency, Filipino bearer bonds, gold bullion, and other various treasures he could find in Arturo Mikaso’s vaults and in government museums — that would help establish him in some Southeast Asia country loyal to China — or perhaps Pakistan, Madagascar, or Sri Lanka — and it would ensure his safety for several years until he thought it safe to return to the Philippines.

A few moments later, a low-flying helicopter could be heard in the distance, swooping out from the south and approaching the palace fast. Teguina was about to rise to his feet in the doorway when automatic gunfire rang out. Teguina cried out, clutching the suitcase, as a bodyguard leaped on top of him to cover him from the assassin’s bullets — or at least that was what Teguina thought, until he heard the bodyguard’s animal-like cry of pain and felt warm blood seep over his neck and chest.

The gunfire abruptly stopped, and someone lifted the bodyguard’s bleeding body free of the ex-President of the Philippines. Teguina turned and was going to rush back down the stairs, but collided into a soldier wearing the dark-green jungle fatigues favored by Jose Samar’s Commonwealth Defense Forces.

“But your helicopter is just arriving, Mr. President,” he heard a voice say. He turned and found General Jose Trujillo Samar himself standing before him. His face and shoulders were still heavily bandaged, and the hair had not started to grow back on his eyebrows or eyelids yet, giving him a horrifying specterlike appearance. He wore jungle fatigues and carried an American-made .45-caliber automatic pistol in his holster, but it was not drawn. Teguina could see all but two of his bodyguards dead on the roof; the rest were on their knees with their hands on top of their heads.

Teguina let the suitcase fall, both as a show of defiance, because he felt guilty by having it in his possession, and because he suddenly did not have the strength to hold it. He placed his hands casually behind his back where Samar would not see them shake, and sneered, “I see your time with your American friends has not helped to improve your looks, Samar.”

“Nor has your time with your Chinese friends improved your integrity,” Samar said. “Where are they, by the way? We saw very few in the city today.”

“I no longer need the Chinese to help me secure my country,” Teguina said. “Your revolution has failed, your followers have been destroyed, your troops have been slaughtered. The people know that I am their President—”

“The people now know that you are a liar, a thief, and a traitor,” Samar said casually. He motioned to a man standing behind him, who was photographing the whole scene with a professional-quality videotape camera. A soldier carried the suitcase over to him and opened it so they could photograph its contents; then the cameraman swung it back and took pictures of Teguina’s shocked, disbelieving expression. “You will be taken into custody and tried by the Parliament and the Supreme Court. I hope they vote to execute you.”

“And do you expect to preside over the trial yourself?” Teguina asked mockingly. “You are hated in this country. The people blame you for all that has happened. You as President of the Philippines will ensure civil unrest and political hatred for the next generation — you will tear this country apart far worse than I ever could. If I am sentenced to die on the gallows of Marikina Cathedral, I will certainly see you there beside me.”

“I will let the people and the Parliament decide that,” Samar said. “And I will not preside over your trial — the President will.”

Teguina’s smile vanished, and he looked at Samar’s face in complete confusion. “The… President? But if you will not preside—”

Samar turned to watch as the helicopter that had been safely orbiting the rooftop now began its descent. When it landed, the left side opened…

… and out stepped Arturo Mikaso.

Teguina could not believe his eyes. His jaw dropped open in complete surprise as Mikaso stepped toward him. “Hello, Daniel,” the Philippine President said. “Thank you for allowing us the use of your getaway helicopter.”

Teguina also noticed that a Chinese Army officer and two American military officers also stepped out of the same helicopter. “What… what kind of conspiracy is this?” he stammered.

“No conspiracy, Daniel,” Mikaso said. “The Chinese military has always said that they are in the Philippines to support the legitimate government against rebels who wish to seize power. Well, I am the legitimate government, and you are a traitor. They now support my government, along with the American military. Now that the Filipino military is firmly behind me once more, their services are no longer required, and they have advised us that they are departing immediately — as are the Americans.”

“But… but I thought you were dead!”

“You mean, you thought I had been executed,” Mikaso corrected him. “I have learned that the Chinese dislike the stain of honor that goes with executing a head of state. They shot me all right — but it was only a superficial wound. Then they put me in protective custody — a prison in any sense of the word, but I think a far better fate than one that you had in store for me.” He nodded to the Commonwealth Defense Force guards. “Take the First Vice President into custody. I have already advised the Speaker of the Parliament of this action; he will meet you at Government House with a copy of my warrant sworn out against Teguina.”

After Teguina was led away, Mikaso and Samar stood and faced each other. Samar wore an expressionless visage; Mikaso a slight smile. “So, General Samar. Are you happy to see me as well?”

“Why did you stay in custody so long?” Samar asked bitterly. “The country has suffered much because of your silence.”

“I had little choice in the matter, Jose,” Mikaso explained. “While I was recuperating, the Chinese were trying to decide which way the wind was blowing before really killing me. If they had not seen what kind of fool Teguina was, I would be six feet under a dungheap in Manchuria by now.” He sighed, looking across to the surrounding skyscrapers and tropical trees of Manila, then added, “The country needed to experience a little suffering, Jose,” Mikaso said. “There will always be those who think that armed struggle and revolution will accomplish more than democracy. I think the people had a taste of what happens when democracy is not allowed to work. If democracy fails, the will of whoever has the biggest or the best guns prevails. That means death and destruction on a massive scale.”

Mikaso’s smile did not dim one bit as he continued. “You were once a proponent of such a struggle not too long ago, General — in fact, I believe the Chinese would have gladly followed you if you decided to lead the nation in revolt. Could it be that the fearsome jungle fighter Jose Trujillo Samar believes in democracy after all?”

Samar shrugged, his features still hard-looking and dark despite his hairless face. “Times change, politics change, politics change… but I do not.”

“We shall see,” Mikaso said. “We… shall… see.” He turned to face the two American and the Chinese military officers. “So. Should we now expel all foreign military forces from our country, Jose?”

“Part of the problem in this country was that we excluded some but invited others,” Samar said. “Our country is still too poor to hope we can survive by isolating ourselves from all contact with the outside world — perhaps we should try opening our ports to all foreign military vessels. If the Americans have use of port facilities for their military fleets, why not the Chinese, or the Vietnamese, or the Russians? Is one society more or less corrupting than another?”

“Interesting idea,” Mikaso said. “Interesting…

“I know, I know — you did not expect it of me,” Samar said. “I am just a poor dumb soldier, forced to dress like a politician.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

“If I could control what others thought of me, it would be different,” Samar said. There was a rather long and comfortable pause between the two men; then: “What will you do with Teguina? Will you push for the gallows?”

“Good question, Jose. What would you do?”

Samar adopted a faraway glance. “I’ve seen enough death in this country,” he said. “Frankly, I do not think that fool Teguina had a chance in hell of succeeding — he is too greedy and self-serving to lead a country in revolution…”

“Are you?”

Samar gave Mikaso an irritated glance. “You speak like some kind of amateur psychiatrist, Mr. President, answering questions with questions.” He ignored Mikaso’s question and concluded, “I don’t think such blind idiocy deserves the gallows. The prison at Puerto Princesa would be an appropriate home for him for the rest of his life.”

“Good answer,” Mikaso said. He took a deep breath, expelled it, and said, “I have decided to advise the Parliament tomorrow morning that I will step down as President and that you serve out the remainder of my term. What do you think of that, Jose?”

Without eyebrows, it was hard to tell if Samar reacted at all to the announcement with anything that might be considered surprise. With characteristic calm, he nodded at Mikaso and said with just a hint of a smile, “I approve of your decision, Mr. President.”

“Attention to orders,” Colonel Michael Krieg, General Richard “Rat Killer” Stone’s aide, began. “Citation to accompany the award of the Air Force Distinguished Flying Cross to Patrick S. McLanahan.”

General Stone stood in front of Patrick McLanahan in the Rose Garden of the White House. Just a few steps away was the President of the United States, the Vice President, and just about every other Cabinet member, important Congressmen, and a host of other dignitaries. Aligned along the front steps of the White House were twelve crew members — one B-52 crew from Fairchild AFB in Washington state, one B-1 crew from Dyess AFB in Texas, and Cobb and McLanahan — selected to receive the prestigious DFC in a White House ceremony. All members of the Air Battle Force had received Joint Service Commendation Medals, and many had received Bronze Stars for their roles in the Philippine conflict.

“Lieutenant Colonel Patrick S. McLanahan distinguished himself by meritorious service as Mission Commander, B-2A, from 1 October 1994 to 2 November 1994. During this period, the outstanding professional skill, exceptional leadership, and selfless efforts of Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan aided significantly in the successful battle against invading People’s Republic of China forces in the Republic of the Philippines.”

Anyone who knew about individual citations, as Patrick did, would know that the unit designation had been purposely omitted from his award citation — even though this award was unclassified (he had received the Air Force Cross, the highest Air Force award except for the Medal of Honor, after the Old Dog mission, but was prohibited from wearing the ribbon), the citation still had to be doctored to keep secret the fact that Patrick worked at a secret flight-test facility.

“Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan flew in two combat sorties during the Philippine campaign: the first, while unarmed and carrying only reconnaissance equipment, Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan flew his B-2 bomber over heavily defended airspace close to enemy warships to gather intelligence data vital to the successful execution of the campaign. The second mission, flown only twenty-four hours later, Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan destroyed several enemy warships and a key air-defense radar site in enemy-held territory, was hit by enemy fire several times, yet helped his aircraft commander to bring their crippled aircraft back and landed safely. The distinctive accomplishments of Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan reflect great credit upon himself and the United States Air Force.”

General Stone pinned the medal onto Patrick’s uniform, stepped back, and saluted; Patrick returned the salute, then shook hands. “Thank you, sir,” Patrick said.

“I think it’s time for you to get out of Dreamland, Patrick,” Stone said. “There’s a job at SAC headquarters waiting for you. Just say the word.”

“I appreciate that,” Patrick replied, “but as long as General Elliott is at HAWC, that’s where I want to be.”

Stone smiled knowingly and gave a short laugh. “Yep, he does have that effect on people. Good luck, Patrick.”

A short reception was held in the West Wing afterward, and it was then that Patrick noticed that Jon Masters had disappeared. After inquiring with one of Paul Cesare’s secretaries, he was escorted by a Secret Service agent downstairs to the White House Situation Room, where he found Jon Masters and Brad Elliott watching a newly installed PACER SKY satellite terminal from the Situation Room conference table.

Patrick was not surprised to see that the screen was focused on the south Philippines near Zamboanga. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Something happening out there…?”

“No, it’s going along pretty smoothly,” Elliott replied. “Looks like PACAF air patrols are flying out of Zamboanga already. We’ve got the Wisconsin battle group in the Sulu Sea, too.”

“It was pretty hairy out there,” Patrick admitted. “I’m glad the thing defused so quickly. But why are you guys down here?”

“Jon wanted to take a look…”

“At your satellite terminal?”

“No,” Masters said. “At the Philippines; at the planes.” He paused for a few moments, then added: “You know something, Patrick: I’ll never look at this stuff the same way again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I always used to see icons… pictures… nothing but computer-processed data on those screens,” Jon said. “I worried more about the quality of the image, how long it’s been since the data was updated, the readability — and the profits. You know, the usual…

“But now… I see the pilots, crew chiefs, sailors, husbands and fathers out there. I think of how far they are from home. I wonder if they’ve got enough water, or if they’ve been up for a long time, or if they’ve been able to call home or gotten a letter from home — and I worry. I don’t think I’ve worried about anything or anybody in ten years. I think about how dangerous it is to be flying at night — hell, I never used to know, or care, about what time of day it was out there. I never used to think about those icons, never realized that each symbol represented so many Americans fighting and dying in a strange land.”

He looked at the screen, then at McLanahan and Elliott with a faint smile and said, “It’s like what you said back at the Arc Light Memorial on Guam, General, looking at that old B-52: I only saw the machine out there, but you saw the men. I didn’t understand you then, but I think I understand now.”

“I think you do too, Jon,” Brad Elliott said. “And you know what? I don’t think you’ll ever be the same.” Masters nodded, knowing Elliott was right.

McLanahan knew it, too…