Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  Cervante rummaged through the crates. Every new find heightened his elation: ammunition, food packets, medical supplies.

  Finally, he pulled out a thick manual. Written in English with large print, the title read:

  User’s Manual for United States Army Battlefield High-Power Microwave

  Situation Room, White House

  The Cabinet secretaries stood as President Longmire hobbled in, escorted by his nurse. The President entered with his head bent. Clear tubes emanated from his nostril and a bottle of oxygen trailed behind him.

  Vice President Adleman watched from the oval table, reaching out a hand as the President approached. Once strong hands grasped the vice president’s. Adleman spoke in a low voice. “Are you all right?”

  President Longmire waved Adleman aside as he sat. “Let’s get on with it.” Then, wearily, “Take it, will you, Cyndi? Go ahead and start.”

  A tall, dark-haired woman nodded to the President as she pushed back her chair and stood. Wearing a dark suit with skirt, white blouse and subdued jewelry, Cyndi Fount strode to the front of the chamber and waited in front of the wall-sized monitor. She seemed to command respect, with a no-nonsense presence and an unsmiling face. As Director of the CIA, Cyndi had ruled the Agency with an iron fist, turning the Ivy League Mafia with their numerous escapades into one of the most efficiently run government organizations.

  Vice President Robert Adleman leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers, waiting for the President to return Cyndi’s glance. He studied the CIA Director: quiet, efficient, slim—no, lithe was the word. The word seemed to convey a willowiness, an exotic character.

  The President waved a feeble hand. “Go on, Cyndi.”

  A slide appeared on the TV monitor; a drawing of an eagle’s head with the words central intelligence agency blocked in blue filled the screen.

  “Mr. President, no changes in status since yesterday.” The screen behind her flashed with locations, numbers, and mnemonics, listing local operations and operatives. She ran through a quick update of the usual hot spots of activity.

  Adleman continued to tap his fingers as Cyndi spoke in clipped sentences.

  There were no surprises here. He had seen a “talking paper” on the briefings just a half hour earlier, and skimmed through the presentations to be given by Intelligence, Defense, and State. He made a point of staying on top of everything. He strived to anticipate the direction that events would take and have a contingency ready just in case. His enthusiasm was infectious, and his staff was ready to follow him off a cliff if necessary—and not because of his good looks or his longish blond hair. Rather, he radiated charisma, fueled by a seemingly boundless supply of energy.

  He quickly reviewed his events scheduled for that day. Church socials, supermarket openings, and press interviews weren’t the most exciting activities, but he was grooming an image, one of competence and élan to get the job done. Everything would fall into place with sufficient exuberance. It was a sure mark of presidential material to look beyond the mundane duties of the Vice-Presidency, and strive to excel in those same mundane responsibilities.

  Adleman almost missed Cyndi’s concluding remarks, but her inflection pulled him out of his thoughts.

  “Although the last item isn’t part of the Agency’s agenda, I feel that it has a propensity to affect our operatives and thus deserves your attention.”

  President Longmire coughed violently, expelling fluid. His nurse hastily wiped up the majority of the spittle. He wheezed and motioned for the CIA Director to continue.

  Adleman raised his eyebrows at the exchange. The President’s health had worsened lately, contrary to the glowing reports given to the press. Adleman pressed his lips together as Cyndi concluded her briefing.

  “The lease extension to cover our military bases in the Philippines runs out at the end of the next calendar year. The extension was originally granted a few years after we re-opened Clark Field and Subic Naval Station, but there has been no progress since then on a permanent treaty. The administration has being going round and round on this for years, and—”

  “Mr. President, Ms. Fount is correct. This is a matter for State,” interrupted Francis Acht, “and not the CIA.”

  Adleman bit his lip at the exchange. Like everyone else in the room, he thought that Secretary Acht was an egotistical boor—but the man knew his stuff and would win any altercation. Many despised his demeanor yet respected his insight.

  Longmire spoke quietly, plunging the room into silence so his words could be understood. “Please continue, Cyndi.”

  Acht promptly shut his mouth. The CIA Director continued without breaking stride.

  “The United States has been debating the Philippine question for several years now, Mr. President. We have reason to believe that the leases will not be extended. The Filipinos will play hardball, just as they did when they kicked us out in the ’90s. I don’t have to go into the implications of the importance of the lease—losing the Philippines as a staging area will not only result in degrading our ability to project naval and air power, but will adversely affect our intelligence operations in the Far East. That is my concern.”

  Acht tapped a pencil on the table. The sound echoed around the chamber and focused attention on the Secretary of State. “It more than threatens our military options in the Far East, Mr. President. It affects the entire Pacific Rim, the security of a hemisphere. If something happens in the South China Sea, especially with the way the Chinese have been so territorial, it’s not a sure bet that we will come out on top. Maintaining our bases there is a critical necessity—the threat to the U.S. would probably not be an immediate military one, but something just as drastic, and probably not even geopolitical, but economic.

  “The Pacific Rim is following Japan’s lead, jockeying to dominate world economy,” said Acht warily. “Aside from China, Malaysia, Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, New Guinea, and even Australia have all jumped on the bandwagon. Without a strong U.S. presence in the Philippine Islands, we would lose our economic foothold and become a mere player—and an outsider.” He paused. “I concur with Ms. Fount’s concern, but for a farther-reaching reason. As for how to do it,” he shrugged, “I haven’t a clue. We can’t even keep our fighter aircraft there now for more than a few months at a time.”

  Silence; then, over wheezing: “What do you propose, Cyndi?”

  “Immediate Cabinet-level negotiations. Negotiations in good faith and at a high level, to let the Filipinos know that we take them seriously.”

  Vice President Adleman interrupted. “She’s got a good point, Mr. President. The usual channels have been stalled for years. We’ve tried shipping more military aid to the Philippine forces—the PC, or Philippine Constabulary, they call it—in an attempt to free the logjam. Fifty million dollars over the last year.”

  Another voice spoke up, that of General Newman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “That’s an increase of twenty million, if you remember, Mr. President—the House upped the ante.”

  Secretary Acht swung his attention to the general. “Was that for new weapons, Dave?”

  General Newman shook his head. “No, Sir. Mostly supplies—ammunition, rifles, that sort of thing. The only new item we sent them was an HPM weapon—high-power microwave.”

  Adleman’s eyebrows rose. “Why did we give them an HPM device?”

  “We’ve had them in the field for years now. Besides, HPMs are only good against a certain class of targets—electronics, mines. And they’re relatively short-ranged; the type we sent them isn’t effective past five hundred yards. The Philippine Constabulary will only be able to use them to detonate land mines, but it still impresses the hell out of the Filipinos. It’s a psychological coup: They are convinced we’re giving them our state-of-the-art equipment, and in return they’ve given us leeway on extending the leases of our bases.”

  Acht nodded. “Good move, if it works.”

  President Longmire paused. “Cyndi, you said the negotiations should
proceed at the Cabinet level.…” He moved his head and squinted at Adleman. “Bob, what do you think?”

  Adleman straightened; his mind clicked into high gear, assimilating events from the past few days. “She’s right, Mr. President. Decisive negotiations—and I’d go even higher: I’m probably the one that should sign the deal. We should push this now, take the bull by the horns and demonstrate to the Philippine government that this is one of our top priorities. Regardless of what we’ve said in public, the bases are too important to lose. Sending anyone below me to open the talks would be a slap in their face.”

  The Secretary of State placed his elbows on the table and extended his hands. “No high-level emissary has negotiated with the Philippines since Madame Aquino’s visit decades ago. Even our negotiation of reopening Clark and Subic was at the assistant secretary level. Properly briefed, Mr. Adleman could use his position to tilt the scales in our favor, wrap up a new treaty, and ensure our foothold in the Far East until the end of the century.”

  Longmire coughed again. He motioned with his hand to Adleman. “Bob, have Francis’ people get you up to speed on the lease arrangements. Let’s get you out there within three weeks.”

  He turned to General Newman, weakly. “How does that fit with the aid the Philippine Constabulary is getting, Dave?”

  “They’ve got more than enough to last them, Sir.” He cracked a grin. “Bullets, rifles, blankets—you name it. And like I said, there’s nothing for them to use the HPM weapon against, anyway.”

  Camp John Hay

  Bagio, Philippine Islands

  The Philippine Constabulary officer tapped a pencil on his desk. The damned Huks, he thought. How do they keep doing this? But he knew the answer—information was the most abundant commodity on the black market. They had stolen one truck—ten percent of the total convoy. And from only one convoy out of ten. Which meant the Huks now had one percent of the total military aid given by the U.S. government.

  The amount was miniscule, and a greater percentage of the aid would be missing during the next year from pilfering. The only missing item that disturbed the officer was the high-power microwave weapon. It was one out of five that the U.S. had sent.

  The officer knew the percentages. And he also knew what had happened to the last officer who had commanded a unit that the Huks had raided.

  He didn’t want to be a scapegoat.

  He stopped tapping his pencil. The PC Commandant would never learn of the missing truck. Men were constantly being killed during PC exercises, so that could be explained … even though seventeen dead men was an unusually high number.

  What the PC commander didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  ***

  Chapter 1

  Friday, 1 June

  Clark Air Base

  Republic of the Philippine Islands

  Clear and minus thirty degrees outside the cockpit window, thirty-five thousand feet above the ocean. Blue sky diffused into a mottled green where the jungle lay on the horizon. Five miles below them the Pacific Ocean looked like tiny ripples on a broad landscape of blue-green flatness, the clouds fluffy wisps. Strung out over a three-mile line flew five aircraft, four of them fighters, following a lumbering KC-10.

  First Lieutenant Bruce Steele craned his neck around the cockpit of his aging F-15E Strike Eagle. It may have been one of the oldest fighters in the inventory, but it still packed more punch on air-to-ground than the F-22 and F-35 combined.

  Miniature color TV monitors were inlaid next to switches, buttons, and other instruments on the crowded cockpit panel. A heads-up display jutted up directly in front of him. Cockpit gray clashed against the rest of the color-filled outside world. He felt like he was flying a high-tech video game.

  Bruce spotted the other aircraft by their contrails, dense white plumes of water vapor spewed from the engines. Just visible two hundred miles in front of him rose a volcanic hill, protruding thousands of feet above the surrounding jungle but still miles beneath the fighters. A voice came over his headphones.

  “Maddog, Lead. Estimate ‘feet dry’ in twenty miles. Prepare to descend. Remain in loose route.”

  Bruce squinted out the cockpit to where the ocean ended. The “feet dry” warning confirmed Bruce’s estimate that they’d soon fly over land. His helmet filled with the sounds of the other fighters confirming his orders. One after another the clipped replies came:

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  Bruce clicked his mike. “Four.”

  The lead aircraft kicked off a message to the Air Force version of the giant DC-10, the KC-10 tanker that had escorted them across the “pond,” as the Pacific Ocean was affectionately called. The dual-seated F-15E had a cruising range of more than twenty-eight hundred miles and could certainly make the hop over part of the pond—from Anderson AFB in Guam, where they had left some eight hours ago.

  But Murphy’s Law reigned supreme in the Air Force: if something was going to go wrong, then it usually did. So rather than have the fighters cross the long stretch of deep water alone, a KC-10 tanker accompanied the crafts and kept them refueled.

  As the flight began to descend from its cruising altitude, Bruce heard the voice of his navigator and backseater, Charlie Fargassa.

  “I got a lock on the TACAN, ’sassin.” Charlie pronounced Bruce’s call sign “Assassin” in two syllables.

  Bruce went “hot-mike”: he flipped the mike to transmit within the fighter only. “That’s a rog. Ready to stretch those legs?”

  “You said it. I could piss for a week.”

  Bruce grinned. For the last eight hours he had been forced to use a “piddle pack” to urinate. Besides being inconvenient and uncomfortable, the device made Bruce nervous—he didn’t like the possibility of loose liquid in the cockpit.

  Charlie was another matter. The older man—by all of six years—refused to use the piddle pack, and instead opted to grit his teeth and bear it. When the Wing Commander back at Luke Air Force Base had made the equipment mandatory, Charlie steadfastly refused to be “plugged in.”

  Charlie needed a little needling, just to drive the point home. “Twenty more minutes. Can you handle it, Foggy?”

  Again, silence. Then weakly, “That’s a rog, Assassin.”

  Bruce nearly gagged trying not to laugh. It felt good to be heading into a new place, a new environment. Damn good.

  Bruce was on top of the world. And passing through thirty thousand feet, that was literally true.

  He absently rubbed his left ring finger, feeling the absence of his wedding band. Wearing rings while flying was strictly against regulations, and good common sense. If Bruce had to start rummaging through the cockpit, or suddenly flip switches, there was a chance his ring would catch on a protrusion or allow electrical arcing. If he were lucky, he’d only tear some skin away. For the unlucky, entire fingers could be lost.

  But it wasn’t merely the missing wedding ring that felt strange; it was knowing that he would never put it back on.

  The divorce had been finalized the day before he left Luke for the trip to Clark. Ashley. The memory still hurt—the times they had together and the promise of what was to come. You would think that after ten years together, including two years of marriage, you would learn something about the other person. No surprises, nothing major, but just pleasant, gentle discoveries …

  The day he last saw her she looked just like she had ten years before, in high school. She had followed him to the Air Force Academy, waiting those long four years until he graduated and even through their wedding during June Week.…Can you ever know anyone completely?

  The memory still tore at him. Even the uncontested divorce, an Arizona “quickie” designed to numb the pain. He hadn’t seen her since that night.…

  Bruce pulled himself out of his memories, for he knew that they could become a fixation causing him to tune everything else out. And that was a cardinal sin when flying.

  There were too many new things to experience, new relationsh
ips to build. A fleeting thought of his father crossed his mind. It had been years since he had really spoken with him, and now he was going to be so close; maybe this was the opportunity to start over. Subic wasn’t too far away.…

  Now over land, the fighters were left on their own. The KC-10 had peeled off when they had started to descend, winging its way up to Kadena AFB in Okinawa. The officers on the tanker had several more hours of flight time left, but at least they could get up and stretch—you could nearly play football inside the giant, wide-body aircraft. Cots for sleeping, a small kitchen—all the comforts of home. And a real toilet to boot.

  Shaking his right hand to relieve cramping, Bruce grasped the throttle and clicked the mike switch.

  “Foggy, you still awake?”

  “Who do you think is minding the store when you’re off on Mars?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Charlie snorted. “Check altimeter, Assassin.”

  Bruce scanned the multi-display console. He was surprised to see that the flight had descended to less than twenty thousand feet. The descent had been that smooth.

  Bruce normally allowed Charlie to fly the fighter whenever times were slow. Takeoffs, landings, and dogfights didn’t qualify as slow, but then again Charlie had a pretty good feel for the craft. Besides, he could never tell when Charlie might have to come through for him and fly the airplane back home.

  It had happened before; it would happen again.

  “Sorry, Foggy. Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “S’all right, keeps my mind off the bathroom.”

  They were interrupted by the radio.

  “Let’s tighten it up, Maddog. Move in to fingertip.”

  “Twenty miles, Skipper. We’ve been cleared to break on initial to an overhead pattern.”

  “Roger that. Welcome to Clark, girls and boys.”

  Charlie read the checklist over the intercom, checking off items as they prepared for landing. The words came as clipped, short sentences, checking over the range of items in the craft.