Strike Eagle

Chapter 4

Zero-dark early: two hours before wheels up.

Bruce blew on his coffee and took another small sip, trying to stay awake. Maps covered the walls of the 3rd ACC Fighter Wing briefing room. Lines and circles made the charts look like a jumble of confusion; the air routes, bombing ranges, restricted areas, and flight patterns were all displayed in a fashion coherent only to an experienced pilot.

The eight pilots and backseaters comprising Maddog Flight surrounded a table, marking out their strategy for the day’s bombing run. A bombing run without bombs, that is — the mission was merely to familiarize the crews with the idiosyncrasies of Crow Valley, the bombing range fifteen miles to the west of Clark.

Once an area dotted with rice paddies, Crow Valley was part of the land thrown in when the Philippine government leased Clark and Subic back to the United States. The valley was now a restricted area, for use by Air Force and Navy pilots to practice laying down their weapons.

Before they flew their F-15s “hot”—loaded down with weapons — Maddog Flight would have to undergo Jungle Survival School. The thought was in the back of Bruce’s mind, but he didn’t let it worry him. Getting back from today’s flight was his first priority. That and staying awake.

“Time hack on my count,” Skipper’s voice broke in. “Five, four, three, two, one—hack.”

Bruce zeroed his watch to coincide with the time Skipper had announced. The entire flight was now calibrated to the Flight Commander’s clock.

The hour-long flight brief was over. The crews headed out to take a final leak before suiting up. Charlie loitered in the briefing room, making sure he was the last to empty his bladder.

Light banter filled the personal equipment room — PE room, as the pilots called it — as the men and women struggled into their equipment. Webbed netting made up survival vests, parachute harness, and jungle gear. Lockers and wooden benches packed the PE room. Posters on the wall displayed Chinese and North Korean aircraft.

Bruce finished snapping on his survival vest and slammed his locker shut. Patting his pockets, he pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. He stuffed his helmet into his flight bag. “Foggy, you ready?”

“Yo.”

They pushed through the locker room and down the hall to the Squadron Duty Desk. Just outside the door and to the right, a dark blue crew bus waited to take the officers to their jets. Charlie peeled off for the bathroom. “Meet you on the bus.”

Bruce grunted, then turned left into the Squadron Duty Area.

At the end of the hall, Major Brad Dubois sat behind an empty desk. Built like a fireplug but not quite as pretty, the major was completely bald. A long whiteboard, filled with grease-penciled names, times, and dates, took up the wall behind him; the board matched aircraft numbers with pilots’ names, dates, and scheduled times of flights. Major Dubois read a paperback book, something with a scantily dressed female and a man in a spacesuit on the cover. Bruce thought he saw the major moving his lips when he read.

“Good morning, Major.”

Dubois looked up. He blinked, but otherwise remained expressionless.

Uh-oh, thought Bruce, I wonder if Neanderthal man speaks English. “Hello, sir, I’m Lieutenant Steele. I’ve just been assigned here. Uh, I’ve come to sign my aircraft out.”

Dubois reached under the desk and pulled out a battered green notebook. The log was dog-eared and covered with markings. “Here.” He shoved it toward Bruce and turned back to his book.

Popping his gum, Bruce waited for the man to look up, say something, or just show some sign that he was alive. When nothing happened, Bruce shrugged and picked up a pen. As he copied down the information about his aircraft from the whiteboard onto the log, Catman came up and joggled his elbow. Bruce rolled his eyes toward Major Dubois, then returned to signing out his plane.

Catman wisely stayed quiet until his turn; Bruce decided not to wait for his friend and instead headed for the bus. As he walked down the hallway, he glanced at some of the murals that covered the walls. An array of fighter aircraft, starting with the old P-51 Mustang, was depicted in various shooting scenes. Bullets flew from the aircraft, usually impacting some hazily drawn enemy plane. Other scenes in the mural showed jets dropping bombs, bridges exploding, and black smoke billowing up from oil tanks.

The planes evolved into other models — an F-4 Phantom, the F-15E, then at the end of the hall, the F-22 and F-35. The aircraft of PACOM. The F-15 may not be the newest fighter on the block, but it would be the best way for delivering air-to-ground munitions for decades to come.

Bruce noted that there was no room for other planes.

The door opened into the early morning air. It was already muggy outside. Filipino weather never varied more than a few degrees, even from night to day.

On the bus, Catman crowded down the aisle after Bruce. “Sleep well tonight, boys and girls. Your Air Force is here to protect you.”

Bruce threw his flight bag on the floor and flopped into the seat directly behind Charlie. “Man, oh man. What do you think Dubois uses on his head — floor wax?”

“Hey, don’t make fun of older men,” protested Catman. “Foggy will get a complex.” He leaned over and pretended to buff the top of Charlie’s head with his knuckles.

“Knock it off, you clowns.”

Bruce found himself popping his gum. The discovery brought back memories of a few nights back — the young Filipino girl and the rush he had felt when he saw her.

He shook off the feeling. He was probably just getting excited about the flight, the first they’d had since coming in. And the girl was just an icon of his freedom. It could have been any girl, any stranger that looked his way, and he probably would have felt the same elation. It was just his subconscious clearing his mind for him.

He chewed his gum faster. So much for self-psychoanalysis, he thought. Let’s get down to business.

Skipper appeared at the front of the bus; he grasped the metal railing with both hands as the bus started off. “Quick change to the radio frequencies, ladies and gents. Listen up. Button 1 is now the squadron frequency, Button 2 is ground control, 3 tower, 4 is first departure and Button 5 is for the bomb run at Crow. That’s just backwards from what we briefed. Any questions?”

“Any reason why they changed it, Skipper?”

“Not enough work for the Colonels — something’s got to keep them busy.”

Bruce reached into his flight bag and pulled out his iPad. He lightly touched the screen and brought up various maps and a list of the radio frequencies. He quickly tapped in the change.

Catman and Robin chattered away. “Hey, what about that Major Dubois? Anybody know if he can talk?”

“Nope. Probably got a command lobotomy once he made field grade, so the wing has put him out to pasture.”

“All right, you clowns,” cautioned Skipper. “Try to pull one over on Dubois and he’ll ream you. Remember he’s the flight scheduler. How’d you like to be flying Christmas Day?”

“Do they have Christmas over here, Skipper? I’d have thought they’d cancel it because of the heat.”

The bus moved onto the taxiway and slowed. They passed by a row of black C-130 transports. The low-slung lifters were the quintessential workhorse of the 1st Special Operations Squadron.

They pulled up the ramp to a line of F-15s; a flight of F-22s lay beyond them. The bus slowed to a stop.

“Twenty minutes,” reminded Skipper.

Bruce spotted his aircraft’s tail number. In the distance, palm trees just off the runway added to the feeling of stifling humidity. He and Charlie approached the fighter, each quiet, each going over what was needed to prepare for the flight.

An older man approached them, dressed in battle fatigue pants and a v-neck T-shirt. Sweat spotted most of the man’s T-shirt, especially around the armpits; he looked to be in his early forties, nearly twice as old as Bruce. The man held out a hand. He nodded to Charlie but spoke to Bruce.

“Lieutenant Steele? I’m Tech Sergeant Noresteader, your crew chief. Welcome to Clark.”

Bruce stopped, dropping his flight bag. “Glad to know you. Call me ‘Assassin’ when the brass isn’t around.”

The man cracked a grin as they shook hands. “My friends call me ‘Mooselips’”

“Okay, Mooselips. Captain Fargassa goes by ‘Foggy’”

“That’s some call sign, Captain.”

“It’s not for the name, it’s—”

Bruce interrupted Charlie’s explanation. “We call him Foggy because no one can understand what the hell he’s talking about.” Bruce tapped his head with a finger. “Professor type. We’d call him ‘Prof,’ but call signs have to be at least two syllables.”

“I think I’m going to enjoy working with you, Captain.”

“Foggy,” corrected Charlie.

“You got the 781?” interrupted Bruce.

“Yeah.” Mooselips wiped a sweaty hand on his fatigues and handed Bruce the maintenance log for the fighter.

Bruce took the notebook and nodded to the waiting craft. “All right. Let’s rock and roll. We’ve got seventeen minutes.”

Charlie picked up his flight bag and headed for the fighter. Once up the stairs, he placed his gear into the cockpit and climbed in. After stowing his flight bag, he began to go over the instruments.

Bruce turned his attention to the maintenance log. He flipped through the pages. “Trouble, or anything I need to be aware of?”

“No, sir.” Mooselips hesitated at Bruce’s raised eyebrows. “Sorry, Assassin.” Bruce went back to reading the log. “I mean, no. There was some preventive maintenance done on the avionics, and engine two leaked some oil during the pressure check, but I’ve been on top of things.”

“Great.” Bruce shut the book and picked up his flight bag. Mooselips took off for the auxiliary power unit while Bruce stowed his gear. Switches checked, he made his way back down the ladder and around the craft, tugging on an aileron, checking fluid levels for himself, before he finally settled into the cockpit for good.

Mooselips hovered over him, clucking like a mother hen, as the enlisted man strapped him in. “That ought to do you, Assassin. Have fun up there for me.”

Bruce pulled on his helmet. “That’s a rog. Catch you in two hours.”

Mooselips scrambled down the ladder. Bruce flexed his gloved hands and pulled back a Nomex sleeve, exposing his watch. One minute to check in. He clicked on intercom and went “hot-mike.”

“How’s it going, Foggy?”

“GPS up. All screens go.”

Bruce clicked his mike twice, informing Charlie that he understood. He quickly surveyed the instruments. All lights glowed a soft green, visible even in the direct sunlight. Directly in front of him, at eye level, rose a Plexiglas screen — the heads-up display, or HUD. Once on, the HUD would display critical flight and targeting information directly in front of his field of view, allowing Bruce to keep his head up.

“Okay, Foggy.” This time Charlie clicked his mike twice.

Bruce listened over the radio, waiting, popping his gum. He glanced at his watch. Ten seconds.

Just as the seconds clicked to zero, Skipper’s voice came over the radio.

“Maddog check.”

“Two.”

“Three.” Catman.

Bruce said, “Four.”

“Button one.”

Bruce switched to the pre-assigned squadron frequency. The rest of the flight was already checking in.

“Check two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Start ’em up.”

On Skipper’s command, Bruce pointed out of the cockpit at Mooselips. Now wearing a set of headphones to muffle the sound, Mooselips punched the auxiliary power unit; black smoke rolled from the unit.

When Mooselips pointed back at him, Bruce kicked on the right engine. A growing white noise rolled in from the back of the craft. Bruce worked overtime on his gum.

Once both engines caught, Bruce checked over the instruments. Oil pressure, fuel, hydraulics, idle RPM — everything looked good.

When Skipper’s command came to pull out, Bruce nodded at Mooselips and gave him a thumbs-up. With their canopies still up, the flight of four F-15Es — eight young officers strapped to their howling metal machines — crept down the taxiway.

And as much as he despised military bullshit, Bruce felt a thrill as Mooselips popped to attention and threw him a salute.

The flight times were all classified.

No more than twenty people in the world knew about their quantum key encryption, the destination, fight plan, or even time of day that the Lockheed SR-73 “Blackbird III” flew its mission. Even the pilots were kept in the dark, notified at the last possible minute so that they could work out their flight plans, coordinate their refueling, and keep their destination secret. The spy plane was a manned version of the SR-72, the unmanned hypersonic follow-on to the SR-71; its very existence was a closely guarded secret.

Which was why no one could figure out how Taco Charlie, a local Japanese restaurant owner, had succeeded in setting up a portable taco stand at the end of the runway, just outside of the Kadena Air Force Base fence, a half hour before the flight was due to take off. The stand was stocked with food for tourists, complete with a crudely lettered sign in English:

It drove the Air Force Office of Special Investigation batty, but there seemed to be no harm done, and it was the standard joke that Taco Charlie was better informed than half of the intelligence services.

What went unnoticed was the presence of Taco Charlie’s nine-year-old great-grandson, Oniksuki. The young boy woke hours before dawn every day to pedal furiously onto the sprawling American base. Once on base, he took off for the military air terminal. There, Oniksuki waited for the morning flight from Japan. Thousands of newspapers — the Pacific Stars and Stripes—were delivered from Japan as the “official” newspaper of the American forces.

Haggling with the local deliverers, Oniksuki could make off with five to ten papers from each person, soon resulting in a cache of fifty to a hundred of the papers. A ten-minute bike ride up a sloping hill put the overburdened boy at the Kadena Officers’ Club, where he would sit and wait in the dark to sell his papers to the American officers.

Despite all the secrecy, the one unchanging requirement that the American doctors forced upon the SR-73 pilots was a high-protein, low-fat meal immediately before a flight. Quite often the arduous missions dictated that the crew overfly “targets” thousands of miles away; the steak-and-egg meals so popular with the astronauts were ideal for the SR-73 pilots, and the Kadena Officers’ Club was the perfect place to prepare the meal. Thus, anyone trying to watch the official in-flight kitchen would immediately be suspicious if they saw an order for steak and eggs come in.

Meanwhile, Oniksuki patiently sold his papers all day long, no one questioning his presence. He knew the SR-73 pilots by sight. For when the pilots turned left instead of right upon entering the Officers’ Club, and headed for the private dining room, then it was time for Oniksuki to put his papers down and pedal to his great-grandfather’s — the Habu was about to take off.

Exactly an hour and a half later, a diesel tractor pulled a long black plane out of the hangar. Airmen scrambled out of the way, splashing in puddles of warm water that dotted the runway. Fuel leaked out of the SR-73 Blackbird III’s fuselage, but no one paid the phenomenon much attention; the high-flying airplane expanded by as much as ten inches in flight because of airframe heating. The SR-73 became fuel tight once it was up to speed.

Once out of the hangar, an auxiliary power unit started the Blackbird’s engines. The APU coughed on, filling the air with heavy black smoke and high-pitched whining. Soon after, the white noise of the Blackbird’s engines overshadowed the whining. One airman disconnected the APU from the Blackbird while another waved two orange-covered flashlights over her head, pointing the way for the plane to follow. Once the plane started to leave, the airman snapped to attention and threw the pilots a salute.

Inside the SR-73, Major Kathy Yulok raised a silver-gloved hand and returned the honorific. She clicked her mike. “Ground control, Stella two-niner up and ready. Request permission to taxi.”

“Roger, Stella two-niner. You are cleared to taxi and take off. Skies are clear, you have a window of five minutes.”

“Thank you, ground control.”

Kathy barely increased the throttles, making the engines climb in response. The SR-73 seemed to jump forward with even the small amount of pressure she applied. The flight had been cleared an hour ago, coordinated through the highest channels. As a result, the SR-73 flight was given a priority billing as far as taxi pads, runway, and even air space. Timing was of the essence, and every routine that Kathy had accomplished, up to starting her preflight meal an hour and a half ago, was orchestrated down to the smallest detail.

There was something sexual about it. Kathy felt the anticipation, the rush that accompanied flying the fastest plane in the world. Growing up an Air Force brat, Kathy had been raised in a fighter pilot home, her father a “Smokin’ Rhino” driver — the nickname for the F-4.

She clicked her mike, toggling the switch to broadcast on the intercom. “Ready, Eddie?”

Her navigator, Major Ed Prsybalwyki, came over the intercom. “That’s a rog. Let’s get up and get tanked.”

She clicked her mike twice, affirming Ed’s comment, then switched over to the tower frequency.

“Tower, this is Stella two-niner. Request permission to take off.”

“Permission granted, Stella two-niner. You are cleared, your heading.”

Kathy eased the throttles forward. The SR-73 started shaking. Based on the airframe of the original SR-71 built a good thirty years before, the hypersonic legacy was state-of-the-art. Some of the SR-73s had recently survived an attempt by the Department of Defense to scuttle the aircraft. Congressionally mandated budget cuts had dictated that the manned spy planes be replaced by other, “national technical means” of verification: spy satellites. But after the great sequestration budget fights, the Air Force had clandestinely squirreled away five of the craft.

Kathy glanced over the instruments one last time. The bubble of the high-altitude helmet cut back on her vision, but she forced her eyes to jump from dial to dial.

“Engines, a hundred and four; fuel, ten thousand pounds; oil, pressure looks good.” She clicked her mike. “Let’s do it.”

Without waiting for a reply, Kathy released the brakes and simultaneously punched the afterburners. Two Pratt & Whitney turbojets, each producing thirty-four thousand pounds of thrust, kicked in. The SR-73 takeoff roll was short, and as soon as they rotated Kathy started searching for the KC-10A Extender — the tanker aircraft that would fill them with enough fuel to reach their first checkpoint.

Kathy pulled a map from the clipboard. The Indian border was going to make this trip a long one.

“Hey, Roger — you got a minute?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Sabine Aquinette motioned with her eyes to the ceiling. “The cage?”

“Yeah.” Roger Epstein rocked forward in his chair. He placed the message he had been reading in a small safe behind him and closed the inner drawer. Shutting the safe’s door, he twirled the knob and yanked the handle. The safe was the standard Government Services Agency issue, with one additional feature: if a combination was not dialed into the safe before opening the inner drawer, a pool of hydrochloric acid was released onto the papers left inside.

It was a feature Roger Epstein had had nightmares about when he first entered the Agency, but now, as Agency Station Chief, the dual-protection mechanism was second nature to him.

Roger followed Sabine Aquinette up the stairs to the third floor. Decorated in Far East decor, the hallway did not reveal the embedded fine copper mesh just under the drywall. The mesh acted as the first line of defense against electromagnetic emanations that might leak from the building.

A Marine sat behind a desk at the top of the stairs. The young man checked the identification badges of both Roger and Sabine — even though they were only two of ten operatives who had access to the floor. Ever since the Moscow debacle, when the United States Marine Corps had compromised its integrity and security with an alleged “sex scandal,” the Marines had played their detail by the book. Roger thought that there probably wasn’t a cockroach here that hadn’t passed Marine scrutiny.

The “Penthouse”—smaller than the lower two floors and basement by a factor of three — housed Agency operations. Communications equipment, crypto gear, computerized files, and a weapons cache dominated most of the Penthouse. The Penthouse was windowless; steel walls as thick as a battleship hull ensured that information would not be compromised. Not even a terrorist bazooka would disrupt activities.

Sitting in one corner of the room, the main feature in the Penthouse was known simply as “the Cage.” Designed by the renowned antiterrorist specialist Jack Ryan, the Cage had been constructed of a hemispherical weave of copper mesh and sonic absorbers. The copper acted as a Faraday cage, isolating the inside against any electromagnetic probes.

The sonic absorbers prevented the Cage from vibrating with the small but detectable sonic vibrations set up by even a whisper. It was the only absolutely secure place in the entire complex. There had been rumors of sexual tête-à-têtes inside the Cage before Roger arrived as Station Chief — the rumors had stopped, but Roger didn’t know whether it was because of his presence or because they had only been rumors.

Once inside, Sabine handed Roger a folder marked eyes only. Roger tore open the envelope. It was a digitized image of two people. The image looked hazy, as if taken from some distance.

Roger looked up abruptly. “Yan Kawnlo.”

“Surprised?”

“Very.” Roger plopped down on a chair. The man in the picture looked like any elderly man, like the person on a crowded bus going downtown. It was in fact the same man who had successfully eluded the most sophisticated surveillance devices in the world. “He hasn’t surfaced since the assassination attempt. How recently was this taken?”

“Last week.” She paused. “Bangkok airport.”

“Bangkok? Oh, oh, oh.” Roger rocked back.

Sabine looked puzzled. “What’s up?”

Roger studied the picture as he spoke. “Before you got here … Kawnlo was involved in an assassination attempt on the Thai President.” It was Sabine’s turn to look surprised. “We kept it quiet, trying to draw Kawnlo out, but he didn’t take the bait. Turned tail and ran back up to the north.” He tossed Sabine the picture. “As far as we can tell he’s been running a terrorist camp, just inside the North Korean border. Brings in men and women and brainwashes them, turns them into fanatics.”

Roger walked around to where Sabine studied the picture. Even after computer reconstruction, the man’s identity defied doubt. The technique was simple enough: most “friendly” air terminals had an array of clandestine video cameras positioned at the international departure points — London, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Bangkok, Rome — the camera images were digitized, then transmitted via satellite to a huge stable of NSA supercomputers. The computers laboriously compared the digitized images with the images of known terrorists and “politically sensitive” individuals, enabling the Agency to track them.

Roger took the picture back. “So Kawnlo was in Bangkok.”

“We assume he took a flight to North Korea.”

“Any idea who the other guy is?’

She shook her head. “Langley is still working on a positive ID. The Kawnlo ID just came in.”

Roger thought for a moment, then headed for the door. “Keep me informed. Let’s hope whoever that guy is, he’s not Kawnlo’s student.”

“You got it.”