Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  “Umm? Yeah … sure.” Bruce turned back to watch the traffic. He kept to himself the rest of the trip.

  Headquarters, Thirteenth Air Force

  Clark AB

  The Commander of the Thirteenth Air Force reported directly to the Commander of the Pacific Air Forces, which was headquartered at Hickam AFB, Hawaii. Pacific Air Forces were responsible for the security of an area nearly four times the breadth of the United States—twelve thousand miles—a region that spanned seventeen time zones including the Philippine Islands. And with the reopening of Clark, fueled by national strategy change of “pivot to the East,” Thirteenth Air Force was reactivated, and its operational units were augmented by squadrons rotated in from Seymour Johnson, Elmendorf, Eglin and Langley.

  As such, Major General Peter Simone, Commander of the Thirteenth Air Force, was literally on his own. With the exception of a three-star general at Yokota AFB, Japan, and another one at Osan AFB, Korea, Simone was the highest-ranking officer for a thousand miles.

  Discounting fleet operations at the newly reopened Subic Naval Base, just fifty miles down the road.

  But that was Navy, and therefore didn’t matter.

  Simone had short, wirelike hair, dark ebony features, a solid build, and he always had a gleam in his eye and something up his sleeve. As long as you told him the truth and kept him informed, he would support you to the hilt. And that was the secret of his success. His hell-raising instinct was tempered by his charisma. The other generals regarded Simone as their alter ego, the person whom they’d like to be—let down their hair and go crazy. He was the stereotypical, old-school fighter pilot, and he played it for all he could.

  Major General Simone reveled in his autonomy. He ran the base with an iron fist and didn’t put up with anyone’s crap. There was a base commander on Clark, a colonel who served more as a housekeeper than anything else, but he didn’t slow Simone’s stride. Everyone knew who ran the base, who was the most important person on Clark, and everyone knew that if it weren’t for his fighters—his boys and girls out there who strapped themselves into screaming tons of metal—Clark would not have a purpose.

  It was a perfect match. Simone’s last assignment had been as Commandant of Cadets at the Air Force Academy. He had served the shortest time of any Commandant in history—five months—when the usual tour was two years; the impression he had made on the cadets had gotten him booted upstairs to where he couldn’t influence such naive, pliable minds.

  It wasn’t an isolated incident that had led to his “promotion.” It was a combination of events. One time, he had gotten rip-roaring drunk with the senior class and puked at their graduation Dining-In—a formal dinner that was celebrated Air Force-wide; another time he had flown his F-35 over the Academy the day he was supposed to report in—and somehow the afterburners had kicked in and he’d passed Mach 1, sending a sonic boom thundering across the aluminum-and-glass campus, knocking out half the windows. Rather than blame Simone, they had taken the F-35 apart three times before finding a faulty wire to blame for the incident.

  But the final straw was the food fight he had started in Mitchell Hall, the cadet mess hall. The scene had made the papers, and Simone was reassigned to Clark the very next week, with the addition of another star.

  He’d like to think he’d gotten booted upstairs because of his competence and not because of his race, but he didn’t dare question General Newman’s decision on that one.

  So Major General Peter Simone was having his last hurrah, and Clark vibrated with his presence, his aura.

  When a visiting general came, the base straightened up and performed like clockwork. After the general left, the partying went on as before.

  He kept an eye on his boys and girls, just to make sure they didn’t take things too far. His concept of “too far” was activated when they had to fly—there were no compromises in the air. But if the kids wanted to raise a little hell, drink a little beer, and didn’t hurt anyone—well, Simone knew that it would be best in the long run. A happy crew would follow him to hell and back.

  In his headquarters’ office, Simone rocked back and studied the memo given him by his aide, Major Stephanie Hendhold, who waited outside the door.

  “Stephanie?”

  “Yes, sir?” Hendhold appeared at the door.

  “Has anybody else seen this?”

  “Not that I know of, General. Colonel Bolte delivered it to me himself.”

  Simone nodded. “What about the flight line? Did anyone else report this, or see what the hell happened?”

  “Nothing, sir. In fact, Colonel Bolte would not have seen it himself if he hadn’t been waiting for the flight. He wanted to greet every new pilot that ferried in on the planes. He was out on the flight line, watching the ’15s do an overhead when he spotted Maddog Four.” Hendhold shrugged. “Some people on the ground may have spotted it, but there was no way for them to know that it wasn’t an approved pattern.”

  “Approved pattern! Flying a ‘break-in’ upside down?” Simone snorted, then slowly broke into a smile. He squinted at the memo. His eyes had been slowly getting worse for the past few years, but pride prevented him from getting glasses. Especially the black model prescribed by Air Force doctors—“B.C.” glasses, his cadets had called them, for “birth control” glasses: a girl wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of you with them on. A true fighter pilot, Simone classed wire-rimmed flight glasses in the same category.

  Major General Simone made out the pilot’s name. “Bruce Steele. Bring his record … and his backseater’s, too, Charles Fargassa. I want to know something about these clowns before I meet them.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  As Major Hendhold turned to leave, Simone called out, “And knock off after you get them, Stephanie. It’s too late for a young major to be hanging around here.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  Simone rocked back in his chair when his aide had left. Inverted overhead, he thought. These young guys must have brass for balls. He hadn’t seen this much esprit since the Gulf.

  He wasn’t going to intervene at this time—“Lightning” Bolte had done the right thing by disciplining the kid on the spot, and not drawing it out. But it was refreshing to know that there was some untamed spunk out there. As long as it was nurtured, hope remained.

  Major Hendhold laid the personnel folders on her boss’s desk.

  Simone scanned the document. “Steele … So he’s a zoomie, call sign ‘Assassin.’” He looked up. “Do you know this guy?”

  Hendhold narrowed her eyes. The young Major was also a zoomie—an Air Force Academy graduate—and usually had the scuttle on other grads in the area. “Yes, sir. Football player, and one of the better defensive backs the Academy’s ever seen. He has a reputation for being a killer—he put more than one receiver into the hospital—but he’s a hot dog too. Some say Air Force lost that big Notre Dame game three years ago because Steele was trying to beat the all-time interception record.”

  “Would you have him as your wing man?”

  Hendhold didn’t hesitate. “Give me five minutes with him and I’ll let you know, sir.”

  “Okay, thanks, Steph.” He dismissed her with a wave. “Get lost, and have fun.”

  “Good night, General.”

  Simone glanced through the record: Risner Trophy, Top Stick out of Willie, recommend upgrade to Stan Eval—the prestigious Standardization and Evaluation crew, the cream of the crop. He nodded to himself.

  As a general officer, Simone was forbidden from flying the F-15E by himself—he needed an instructor pilot to accompany him. So far he’d flown the pants off the instructor pilots who went up with him. But now there just might be someone who could handle him.

  He thought he was going to like this Bruce Steele.

  Saturday, 2 June

  Bangkok International Airport

  Cervante waited for Kawnlo to speak. The student did not interrupt the teacher, as a journeyman does not hurry a master.

  Th
ey had met twice since Cervante’s initial training—each time in a crowded airport to avoid drawing attention.

  They sat in a small coffee shop, just outside of security. With his small stature, sparse hair, and black glasses, Kawnlo looked far from formidable. He looked to be in his late sixties and seemed quite frail, not at all a dangerous freedom fighter. His fingernails were stylishly long—stylish for a Korean—extending out and curling up and over, at least ten centimeters if they could be stretched unbroken. He carefully smoked a filterless cigarette, allowing the smoke to corkscrew up into his nostrils as he inhaled.

  The airport was jammed with people, all chattering away; dogs barked in the background—it seemed as if an outdoor market had been rolled up and stuffed into the building. Cervante glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until check-in for his flight back to Manila. He had only been with Kawnlo for half an hour, and once Cervante had related the details of the latest Huk raid the older man had simply grown quiet, as if he were deep in thought.

  Cervante ground out his own cigarette as Kawnlo finally spoke.

  “This high-power microwave weapon is very interesting.” Kawnlo spoke low so that Cervante had to strain to hear him.

  Cervante leaned forward and said, “But from the manuals I do not see much use for it. Clearing mine fields, disrupting communications—the only reason I can think the Americans gave the device to the Philippine Constabulary was that its uses are limited. The Americans are even stingy to their own allies,” he said bitterly. “At least the extra supplies will enable us to equip more men. The resistance in the countryside will grow.”

  Kawnlo drew in a lungful of smoke. “Sometimes the obvious answer is the hardest to see.” He stared straight at Cervante.

  Cervante glanced at his watch. Eight minutes. The next flight to Manila was not until tomorrow. He began to grow irritated. “Teacher, you speak the truth, but I do not have the time for games. Is there something I must take back to my people? Are you not pleased with the way I am running the resistance movement?”

  “I am very pleased. You have excelled as a student, and you are ahead of your goals in helping the New People’s Army establish a foothold throughout the countryside.” He nodded. “Yes, you have made considerable progress and have fared well after your training. But the obvious point is what you should do next. There is a time to reconsider your goals, the purpose in what you set out to do. And if the goals change, then you must grasp the moment—seize the day.” He smiled slightly, as if bemused.

  Cervante shivered, thinking of the cold training camp Kawnlo had headed up. “So I must reconsider my goals? Freeing the Filipino people from their shackles to the rich, the government—am I not succeeding?”

  “But now you have the chance to leap ahead. The ammunition and supplies you captured: Instead of enlisting more people, more children to randomly attack your constabulary, why not use what assets you have? Now you are like angry bees attacking a lumbering elephant. This high-power microwave weapon can make you a tiger.

  “Use the supplies to fortify yourself, and use the microwave device to directly attack the Satan that fuels your hatred.”

  “The Americans…?”

  Kawnlo stood. “I am sure that you can think of the appropriate measures to take. Doing so will elevate the stakes, and you must determine if it is worth it.” He smiled. “A teacher can only point the way—it is the student who must climb the mountain.”

  Cervante followed him out of the coffee shop. They were immediately swept along with the crowd. Just before reaching security, they stopped.

  “Six months from this day. Singapore.”

  Cervante nodded as Kawnlo turned away. Cervante trailed behind him, pushing toward security.

  As Cervante followed Kawnlo through the metal-detector, he ignored the bank of video cameras that scanned the crowd.

  ***

  Chapter 4

  Monday, 4 June

  Clark AB

  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 w
ith 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?”