Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  “Aih.” Barguyo waited until it was clear that Cervante was finished before he left. As he walked through the rain back to the high-power microwave weapon, Barguyo was thankful for everything he had, everything that had happened to him.

  The greatest lesson he had learned from Cervante was to soak up everything he could and take advantage of it. The very position he was in now, serving with the New People’s Army to institute a new order, was the greatest example of that lesson. If it had not been for Cervante, Barguyo would still be a waif, wandering the streets of Manila begging for money.

  But in the Huks, each person worked according to his ability, doing what he could to contribute to the cause. That was what Barguyo liked the most—he was given responsibilities based on how well he had performed, not on his age. Anywhere else he would have been a mere go-fer, but here he held positions of importance. He was good at what he did.

  No one questioned Cervante’s orders. Perhaps, thought Barguyo, they are remembering Cervante’s slaughter of the woman and her children at the plantation. That would deter anyone from disobeying his orders.

  The convoy of jeepneys left the clearing, leaving Barguyo and the two other men alone. Barguyo moved to the back of the truck and manned the high-power microwave weapon himself. Stretched out in the back of the truck, a generator supplied power to a box labeled maxwell laboratories: high-energy density capacitor system. From there, an array of thick pipes and other cables wound around to a three-meter dish that pointed straight up. The system was crammed in the back of the two-and-a-half-ton truck, but as Pompano had pointed out, it was made to be transportable.

  Barguyo waited. The diesel generators chugged away. He knew that when he set the weapon off he would hear a sharp crack, but he also knew that if he stayed away from the front of the antenna he would not be harmed.

  It was nearing ten in the morning, but it seemed like dusk. The clouds gave the clearing an ominous appearance, and in the low light things farther away than ten yards lost form. Over the splashing of rain, Barguyo heard the faint whine of jet engines.

  Fifteen miles northeast of Clark AB

  A few miles away from the relative flatlands surrounding Clark, the jungle gradually sloped up to a mountain. A muddy road wound through the foliage, allowing access to the mountainside.

  Emil Oloner sat on his motorcycle on the muddy road and peered across the land toward Clark. Emil sat a good twenty feet below the cloud layer. Above him, cottony wisps swirled by, almost close enough to touch.

  It normally took Emil ten minutes to reach the mountain, and another five to race his motorcycle to the top. He lived for the weekend motorcycle races. But with the rain and mud Emil now cursed the weather, for the muddy journey had taken nearly a half an hour.

  He bent over his small Honda and pulled out a radio. Flipping the side switch, a burst of static came from the speaker. He pressed the “Send” button and spoke in Tagalog. “This is Emil.”

  A moment passed. “Where are you?”

  “In place.”

  “Contact us as soon as you see it.”

  Emil simply clicked off the radio. Of course I will contact you, he thought. Why else would I leave my job to come up here and watch for a plane to crash? The hundred American dollars that had been promised him would come in handy, but he would get the prize only if he spotted the plane before anyone else.

  5,000 feet AGL, ten miles outside of Clark AB

  Instrument flying was one of Bruce’s strong points. It was all too easy to get mixed up in the clouds, have a gut feeling that the plane was flying in a wrong attitude, try to fix the problem, and end up pranging it into the ground. Only by trusting the cockpit instruments—even when you thought they “felt” dead wrong—could a good flyer remain a live flyer.

  The clouds were thick. Bruce couldn’t see the front of the F-15E. The altimeter read five thousand feet, and their airspeed had slowed to two-fifty knots. Charlie read the checklist.

  “Gear down.”

  Bruce let the lever down, lowering the landing gear. “Check.”

  A vibration filled the cockpit as air rushed around the gear. The drag from the landing gear slowed the F-15E down. Bruce couldn’t see the flaps, but moments before he had extended them to full. It seemed like he was hanging everything but the kitchen sink out there on the wing, trying to extend the camber, provide the Strike Eagle with more lift as the fighter slowed down.

  In his helmet Bruce could hear the tower on Clark giving final approval for Air Force Two to land. Bruce had extended the distance between himself and the jumbo jet to three miles. Soon he would hear the tower directions come over his earphones.

  Barguyo heard the noise grow louder. It was a much deeper roar than fighters’ flying out of Clark.

  As the jet grew closer, Barguyo prepared himself. On the rugged control panel, all the instruments were labeled with English words. There were digital controls, lights and dials. But the only things that concerned Barguyo were the green light that indicated weapon readiness and a red button he needed to depress.

  The jet’s engines increased in volume, rolling white noise throughout the jungle. Barguyo looked straight up and could not see anything—still the noise increased. He caressed the red button with his thumb, ready to instantly push it.

  On and on it came … and just when it seemed that the noise had peaked, Barguyo caught a glimpse of the white bottom of a huge jumbo jet.

  Barguyo punched at the button, again and again. Each time he depressed the firing mechanism, the high-power microwave weapon seemed to jump. It made a sharp “crack” sound, but was otherwise unimpressive.

  The jet engines suddenly sounded different—they took on a strange, multi-frequencied pitch.

  Whatever the HPM weapon had done, it seemed to have affected the huge jet. Barguyo glanced at the control panel—it still glowed a bright green. He sat back in the truck and made himself comfortable, but in the distance he heard the roar of another jet. It was much higher in pitch than the first one, more like one of the fighters.

  Setting his mouth, sixteen-year-old Barguyo prepared to strike again.

  POP!

  Bruce’s earphones seemed to rattle with reverberations.

  “What the hell was that?” Bruce scanned the heads-up display. He could have sworn the instruments had jumped, but everything seemed normal.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! The sounds came like a series of drum rolls.

  “I’ve got scrambled readings, Assassin,” said Charlie.

  A voice broke over his headphone. “Air Force Two, we have you diverging from flight path. You are too low and heading away from Clark. I say again—”

  Bruce flipped to “Intercom” only. “See anything?”

  “You kidding?”

  “On radar.”

  “Negatory.” Silence. Then, “I’m getting ghost blips all over the place. It looks like we were hit by some sort of jammer. I’m flipping up my visor to get a better look.”

  Bruce flipped back to the tower frequency. “Tower, Escort One.”

  “Break away, Escort One. Air Force Two is not responding.

  “Air Force Two, come in. Do you read? You are too low and heading away from Clark. Answer, Air Force Two.”

  Bruce hesitated before breaking away from the flight path. Was there anything he could do? Probably not, if Charlie couldn’t pick out the vice president’s plane. The smart thing would be to get above the clouds and wait for directions. Some escort I’m turning out to be, he thought.

  Bruce clicked his mike. “Escort One heading up to twenty thousand.” He flipped over to intercom. “Where are we, Foggy?”

  “One mile from the runway—”

  POP POP POP POP POP POP POP.…

  A staccato of bursts exploded over Bruce’s headphones. Tempered Plexiglas from the heads-up display blew up, then sagged back in crushed plastic. Screams came over the intercom.

  “Foggy!”

  “I can’t get it off—oh God, it doesn’t com
e off!”

  Bruce scanned the instruments; nothing was working. Needle dials were pegged, and none of the digital instruments was on. He tried to pull back on the stick; the F-15E moved sluggishly—he still had hydraulics. Wind seemed to roar in the back, as if a hole had been punched over Charlie’s part of the cockpit. Still the screaming continued.

  “Charlie, are you okay?”

  The screams broke to spastic sobs. “Oh, God, Bruce—it hurts! I can’t see! I can’t get it off!”

  “What? Can’t get what off?”

  “Oh, God! The helmet! Help me … do something … I can’t stand it.” Bruce could imagine him clawing at the helmet, trying to get it off.

  What had happened? Had they been hit by a missile—antiaircraft fire? Was Charlie’s helmet punctured?

  “Do something, Bruce—I can’t last much longer!”

  Bruce flipped to “Guard,” the emergency frequency. “Mayday, mayday! This is Escort One, I have an emergency. Instruments out … I’m going to need some help.”

  Nothing came over the radio, not even static. Bruce flipped through the frequencies. “Mayday, mayday! Can anyone hear me?” Still nothing.

  Bruce pulled back on the stick to gain altitude. His instruments were out. He didn’t know how high he was, where he was going, or how much fuel he had.

  “Please, God, help me!” Charlie’s voice broke into a crying fit.

  Bruce felt short of breath. For the first time in his life, he was afraid he was going to die.

  Clark AB

  “Holy Mother Mary,” muttered Staff Sergeant Whiltree. “Why me? And why now?” She quickly cleared her radar screen and initialized the search sequence. There it was again.

  She keyed her microphone and got a direct line to her supervisor, Chief Master Sergeant Figarno. “Chief, I’ve lost Air Force Two.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but the others seated around her looked up sharply.

  “What?” He appeared at her side, wire from headphones trailing behind him. Ramrod-straight, with jet-black hair and penetrating eyes, Figarno was one of the youngest Chief Master Sergeants in the Air Force.

  Whiltree pointed at the blinking numbers that were diverging away from the main flight path. “Air Force Two is going down and I can’t get them to respond.”

  “What about the escort?”

  “I waved Escort One off—hey, there it is again!” Whiltree and Figarno watched in amazement as the screen blinked. Not once, but seven or eight times in a row. When the blinking had stopped, Escort One was also veering from its designated path. Whiltree immediately started calling over the radio. “Escort One, you are too low and deviating from flight path. Come in, Escort One. Do you copy?”

  They waited for a moment, but nothing came over the airways. Figarno leaned into the screen. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know.” Whiltree wet her lips. “They won’t answer.”

  “What do you mean they won’t answer?”

  “You heard me—Air Force Two and Escort One aren’t transmitting!”

  Figarno’s voice stayed cool. “But is it because of our equipment or theirs? When your screen blinked, did that mean that our gear was knocked out of commission, or theirs?”

  “Let me try something.” She typed rapidly on the keyboard next to the screen. The screen reconfigured and showed a test echo. Whiltree pointed at the blip. “That’s a return signal from Wallace Air Station. It’s not our gear that’s broken.” She switched the screen back to Air Force Two and Escort One.

  Figarno straightened. “All right, keep trying to raise them.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Whiltree turned back to the screen and spoke into her microphone.

  Chief Master Sergeant Figarno strode to a red telephone sitting on a table in the center of the room. He picked up the phone, “This is Figarno. Threatcon Delta Emergency—launch rescue helicopters and patch me into Thirteenth Air Force.”

  Fifteen miles northeast of Clark AB

  The jumbo jet flew beneath the low cloud cover, away from Clark. If Emil had not been watching for the plane he would not have noticed it.

  It appeared to be making a normal approach to a runway, descending at a slow rate with its nose elevated slightly higher than its tail. But the jumbo jet was headed toward no runway; instead, it seemed to be aiming for the old Del Playo rice field. And, even more curiously, the plane’s landing gear was not extended.

  Emil had sat just off-base at the end of the Clark runway many times, drinking San Miguel and watching the lumbering jets scream overhead in a landing. He would laugh with his friends, and they all hoped to someday witness a crash. What a sight that would be! But the planes always seemed to land, and all Emil had to show for his outing would be a ringing in his ears.

  But today … this jumbo jet kept heading to the ground, unwavering in its determination to land in the rice paddy. Emil flicked on the radio.

  “The Del Playo rice paddy—a jumbo jet is about to crash.”

  Emil heard excited voices in the background. “Are you sure? The Del Playo fields?”

  “Of course. But I do not think the plane is going to make it.” Emil dropped the radio to his side. Like a behemoth, the jumbo jet continued to drop in altitude. It kept a constant rate of descent.

  Still a good hundred feet in the air, it overflew the end of the rice paddies. The plane kept coming down, lower and lower, until the bottom of the craft just scraped the top of the jungle.

  Seconds later, the plane’s wings ripped from the body; they tumbled out, spewing a liquid fire from its ends and skipping across the tree tops. The jet’s fuselage started to flip over, but it skidded in the trees and made a gash a quarter of a mile long. The crash seemed to take forever, and Emil reveled in it.

  When the long fuselage finally stopped moving, no flames came from the wreckage. The sound of the crash reverberated over the countryside, reaching Emil a half minute after the plane first hit the tree tops. The wings exploded and burned, two hundred yards on either side of the plane.

  Emil spoke into the radio. “The plane has stopped, north of the fields.”

  But no answer came back.

  Emil stowed the radio and started his motorcycle. He felt elated. After all these years he had finally witnessed a crash. Best of all, he was going to get paid for doing it.

  Clark AB

  The alert siren warbled an ear-splitting shriek. There was no time to think—only react.

  Captains Bob Gould and Richard Head threw down their cards and ran for the doors, knocking over the table.

  Gould managed to shout, “This for real?”

  Head puffed out, “I don’t want to find out,” as he followed right on Gould’s heels.

  The two ran fifty yards through the rain, across the slick asphalt helicopter pad to their MH-60 Black Hawk. The modified attack helicopter looked menacing as they approached, a crouching gargoyle ready to devour anyone who came near.

  Gould swung into the helicopter just as a crew of enlisted men reached the auxiliary power units. Head waved a finger quickly around his head, indicating that the men should crank up the APUs. Seconds later, the engine caught and spat out thick smoke.

  “Bringing up engine one.”

  Gould fumbled for his headphones. “Wait, wait— warm-up!”

  “Hurry up, then!”

  Gould started running through a modified checklist. “Can you get Tower?”

  POP POP POP!

  Head fumbled with the radio equipment, muttered a curse, then tried a backup unit. “No. Radio’s shot.”

  Gould punched on the avionics package. Something flipped, then there was a soft sigh as the lights slowly grew dim. “What in the world?” Gould stared incredulously at the panel. He toggled the power switch. “Look at this!”

  Richard Head reached over and tried the switch himself. “Well, I’ll be dipped.” A quick run-through of the electronics modules confirmed his suspicions. He slouched back in his seat. “All the fly-by-wire stuff is out.”
/>   “All of it?”

  Head checked a few more items. “Yeah. Everything that’s run by solid-state.” Head pulled off his helmet and waved to the men outside in the rain to cut the APU. “I know our stuff is soft, but this is crazy. It’s like someone hit us with a bolt of lightning.”

  The intercom went silent as the lights went out. Vice President Adleman grasped the sides of his chair. His breathing increased.

  The 747 jerked to the right, then straightened. It seemed to straighten, but papers continued to slide off the desk onto the floor. A lamp crashed against the bulkhead, spraying glass.

  Adleman felt helpless.

  Muffled shouts came from outside the chamber.

  Adleman felt the plane suddenly bump. He felt a growing wetness around his crotch; he couldn’t stop from urinating. The plane bumped again, this time harder, and his stomach seemed to fly up into his throat. He closed his eyes, but nothing changed—he was still alone and in the dark, helpless.

  A dozen things ran through his mind, the foremost being that he had lost the chance to become President of the United States.

  Then came faint brushings underneath the plane. It started as a scrape, then quickly crescendoed to a tearing, ripping, jarring, flipping, nauseating sound that seemed to bore right through his body. It went on, slicing and burning up through his senses. Thick acrid smoke, sharp alarms, and screams penetrated his senses.

  The plane seemed to be ripping away. Wetness filled the cabin, splashing him with water, leaves, and branches.

  And then it stopped.

  Silence.

  Adleman thought that everything was quiet until he made out the soft sound of water dripping, then moans of other people.

  Dim light filtered into the aircraft from holes ripped in the side of the craft. He tried to move, but found that one of his legs was jammed in between the safety chair and the desk. He pushed up with his hand and cried out “Help!” but his voice cracked.

  A sharp pain shot through his arm. Adleman tipped back his head and tried to get as comfortable as the pain would let him.