by Dale Brown
outlined earlier, and the destroyers and cruiser you mentioned before
can go on standby with their Tomahawk cruise missiles. I want no
offensive operations to begin without my specific approval. I want a
full briefing on WINTER HAMMER within the hour, here... Paul, get the
'leadership' together for the briefing, and try to get as many of the
allies notified as possible."
"And the B-2 bombers that are part of the Air Battle Force. . . ?" The
President scowled his displeasure at the question, but replied, "That's
up to you and your people. It's bad enough I'm ordering bombers and
cruise missiles into the area-I might as well get all the protests
packed into one order. If the crews have been training with your Air
Battle Force and if they know their shit, you're authorized to send
them." PUJADA PENINSULA, SOUTHEASTERN MINDANAO THE PHILIPPINES SUNDAY, 2
OCTOBER 1994, 0430 HOURS LOCAL The only warmth United States Navy
Lieutenant Commander Paul "Cowboy" Bowman had felt in two days came from
a tiny burning white fuel tablet about the size of a quarter. He had
lit the tablet with a match from a waterproof container, placed the fuel
tablet in a small palm-sized aluminum cookstove from his survival kit,
then folded a sheet of an old Tagalog-language magazine cover into the
shallow pan-he had lost the original metal cup long ago during their mad
races through the Mindanao junglesfilled it with brackish water, and set
it on the stove. To Second Vice President Jose Trujillo Samar's
surprise, the paper pan did not burn. "Why does the paper not burn,
Bowman?" Samar asked. "Dunno, " Bowman replied. "Too cool, I guess."
He dumped a packet of soup mix into the water and began stirring it with
a twig. This whole trip was actually too cool, Bowman thought. The
escort mission for the Air Force, the dogfights with the Chinks, getting
his ass shot down, splashing down in some unheard-of sea thousands of
miles from home and hundreds of miles from his carrier-at night, no
less-being chased through the swamps and jungles of the Philippines,
running from Chinese infantry patrols, losing his RIO. And to top
everything off, here he was with the Second Vice President of the
Philippines, a man who was legally the Presi dent of the country, but
was, in reality, on the run from his First Vice President. Bowman had
been pulled out of the Celebes by a fishing boat and delivered to
Samar's militia. His flight suit was crusted with dried saltwater and
mud and he was dog-tired. He'd been unable to sleep before his patrol
and had been awake nearly eighteen hours before his sortie, so he was
going on almost three days of no sleep, not to mention that his left
elbow was probably broken when it hit the cockpit sill on ejection. But
that wasn't the worst part of this excruciating evasion. The worst part
of the trip was lying in the sewn-up canvas bag a few feet away from
him-the body of Bowman's RIO, Lieutenant Kenny "Cookin" Miller. Miller's
parachute had apparently not fully opened, and by the time Bowman
somehow found him in the dark, warm water, he had either drowned or had
died instantly after hitting the water. He had dragged Miller's
battered body into his one-man life raft with him, ignoring the horribly
shattered neck and twisted limbs. Bowman and Miller had been together
for three cruises, and the two bachelors had lots of shore-leave
experiences. They were more than shipmates or fellow crew dogsthey were
friends. Bowman was determined not to leave his friend alone, to be
eaten by sharks in the Celebes Sea. As long as it was humanly possible,
Bowman was going to carry, drag, or push Miller's body with him. Since
being retrieved from the water, Bowman and his grisly companion had been
on the move. They had been transferred to two more fishing boats, then
between several groups, once being taken to shore. Their ID cards were
taken immediately, he was kept tied up and blindfolded, and he was
warned that if he disobeyed any order or did anything to arouse
suspicion, he would be disposed of without remorse or hesitation. They
had traveled uphill for two days, moving only at night or in bad
weather; then they moved quickly downhill to the eastern shoreline-the
sun was coming up somewhere over Samar's shoulder right now, in the
direction of the sea. They were kept hidden in mud pits, the
hollowed-out insides of huge tropical trees, or in rotting grass huts.
Food was usually a muddy green banana or some other undigestible piece
of fruit, and rainwater. Samar himself had shown up only last night. His
militiamen treated him like Caesar. He held several military councils,
speaking Tagalog in low whispers. Bowman thought General Jose Samar had
to be the most mysterious, enigmatic, unfathomable man he had ever
encountered. Here he was, President of the Philippines, the leader of
the Commonwealth of Mindanao, a powerful state in its own right, a
wealthy plantation owner and industrialist. And what was he doing?
Hiding out in the middle of nowhere, wearing filthy fatigues, within
minutes or mere yards of getting his head blown off, and leading a group
of rebel soldiers around deadly Chinese air and naval patrols. Samar was
a born leader, and he looked the part. Tall for a Filipino,
light-skinned, broad-shouldered and powerful like a farmer, which he was
on his family's Jolo Island estate before he entered politics. He was
an Army Academy graduate and a former armored cavalry officer, advancing
in grade to captain before joining Ferdinand Marcos' secret intelligence
organization. He rose to the rank of general in very short order,
commanding the ex-Philippine President's Mindanao intelligence
organization. He had reportedly executed and imprisoned thousands of
Moslem rebels in the prison at Puerto Princesa in his five years as
chief of intelligence. ... until he got religion. Somehow, sometime,
the teachings of Islam had penetrated that handsome head. Perhaps it
was the tortured cries of his victims or their families; perhaps it was
his Sulu heritage, which had been influenced for centuries by sailors
and traders from the Middle East; perhaps it was Allah or the Prophet
speaking to him in his dreams-whatever it was, General Samar became an
avowed Moslem warrior. Bowman had heard his Islamic name, but had
forgotten it-his men called him "General" or occasionally "Jabal, "
which meant "mountain." Samar had tried several rebellions against the
Marcos regime-all had been put down violently and efficiently, and a
huge price had been placed on his head. He learned to live off the
land, fleeing from one isolated jungle village to another, always one or
two steps ahead of his ex-colleagues in the secret police. His exploits
as a hunted criminal and guerrilla soldier against Marcos had earned him
a widespread heroic reputation on Mindanao, and many villagers regarded
him as a modern-day Robin Hood, if not a god. He was very successful in
rallying the Moslem faithful to his side and demonstrating to all
Filipinos the cruelty and opprobrium imposed on the Filipino people by
the Marcos regime. Samar was more than ready to continue the battle with
Aquino and Mikaso of the new ruling UNIDO party, and he did stage
several raids against army barracks in Cagayan de Oro and Davao, but
times were changing. The Philippines were immersed in abject poverty,
the Communists were veering out of control, and foreign investment was
slipping away. To keep the republic from destroying itself from within,
Corazon Aquino had held out her hand in peace to the two main warring
factions, and Samar eagerly accepted it. In return for peace, and to
prevent Mindanao from splitting off from the rest of the Philippines,
Samar, once considered no greater than a dirty rodent in the wild
jungles of Mindanao, became the Second Vice President of the
Philippines, constitutionally third in line of succession for the
presidency. Five provinces in central and eastern Mindanao-Cotabato,
Davao, Bukidnon, Agusan, and Surigao-became one free state, with its own
legislature and militia, and Samar became its first governor. Now this
man was suddenly on the run again. He was as surprised as everyone by
the Chinese invasion, and by the time he rallied his forces it was too
late to save Zamboanga and Cotabato. But Davao had to be saved. The
water in the paper pan began to boil-the paper would burn if he let it
boil too long. Bowman took a sip. It was terribly salty, with a
pungent, slimy aftertaste that stuck to the back of his mouth and tongue
like grease, but the warm liquid in his belly made the naval aviator
feel a million times better. "Try some, General?" he asked Samar. The
rebel leader shook his head. "I have tasted your American emergency
rations-I lived on it for several months once. I have had my fill." Even
though the man was smiling, the tone of voice described a very
unpleasant experience. It was Samar who had ordered Bowman to be untied
and for him to be allowed to use the items in his survival kit. "What
are you going to do with me... us?" Bowman asked Samar. "I do not
know, " Samar said. "It may not matter in any case. We may all be
captured at sunrise. The Chinese are all around us. "Then why don't you
run?" Bowman said. "Head back for the hills and the jungle. I know
we're near the coast-I can hide out until help arrives."
"Help does not appear to be at hand, " Samar said. "We took an awful
chance coming here, and we have failed." He turned to Bowman and said,
"You must leave your crewman here."
"No way... "He will slow us down. The jungle will be too thick..."
"I'm not leaving him." Samar shoved a raised hand in his face to silence
him, then stomped on Bowman's aluminum cookstove to extinguish the fire.
Bowman heard nothing, but after six years of flying F-14s off aircraft
carriers, he wouldn't be surprised if his hearing had deteriorated. He
moved to his feet and went over to hoist Miller onto his back, but two
of Samar's troops restrained him and snapped handcuffs on his wrists,
binding his hands in front of his body. "You can't do this, Samar. "Be
silent." He raised his rifle, scanning the skies to the east... then
stopped. Bowman followed his gaze. Far off on the horizon, toward the
northeast, three specks, arranged in a tight diamond formation, were
highlighted against the dawning sky. "Chinese patrol helicopters. Pray
they haven't found us . . The diamond formation was heading south,
about a mile offshore, but the specs suddenly began to wheel right
toward the coastline. "Damn. They must have triangulated our radio
transmissions..."
"Radio transmissions. "Silence. Stay here." Samar hurried off into the
thicket toward his perimeter guards. He returned ten seconds later.
"Three men are running north to create a diversion. The rest say they
will fight. I wanted you to know that. There's an inlet about three
hundred meters away; we must reach it before the helicopters arrive. Run
for your life." Samar wheeled and dashed into the thicket, keeping as
many trees as possible between him and the oncoming helicopters. Bowman
followed close behind but was immediately passed by four of Samar's
soldiers. Soon Bowman lost sight of the five men and could do nothing
else but trust his hearing to tell which direction they were heading. It
seemed they had been running only for a few seconds when suddenly a
ripple of explosions behind him threw Bowman to the slimy jungle floor.
Two of the helicopters were shredding the forests with rocket fire; the
third was hovering offshore, scanning the trees for the rebel soldiers.
Bowman heard animal-like screams from the jungle as the Chinese rockets
found their targets-the three rebel soldiers that were acting as decoys.
Bowman struggled to his feet. He was about to run when a dark figure
body-tackled him to the ground. "Stay down!" Samar cried. He pressed
something into Bowman's hands-it was his PRC-23D survival radio from his
survival kit. "Use this when the time comes "Wait! What are you "Start
crawling toward the heavy jungle. Stay as hidden as you can-they are
using infrared scanners to find us." The third helicopter had started
toward shore, bearing down on them-it was less than a half-mile away . A
burst of rifle fire opened up to their right. "No!" Samar screamed in
Tagalog. "Don't shoot!" But it was too late. Samar's soldiers had
started to fire their rifles at the third helicopter, which was exactly
what its pilots were waiting for. The chopper banked hard left, and a
pod-mounted machine gun chattered to life, spitting a long tongue of
flame at each one-second burst. "Our only hope is to get back into the
heavy forest, " Samar said in English. "Run away from the sunrise. When
you hear the rotors, find a mud pit or wet thicket and hide in it. When
the sound goes away, run again. The chopper's fuel must be getting low,
so we may have enough time." He was suddenly on his feet, dragging
Bowman with him. "Now! Run!" Bowman had taken one step when he heard
rotors. He found a patch of mud and dived onto it, but it was not deep
enough to cover him. Samar was nowhere to be seen. He rolled to his
back just in time to see one helicopter fly overhead and one hover
nearby, less than a hundred yards away-the first two choppers had
returned. It was close enough for Bowman to see the chopper's infrared
scanner ball under the nose and an outrigger on each side holding a
torpedo-shaped weapon pod. It had him... There was nowhere to run
anymore. There was a scream from somewhere off to Bowman's left, some
sort of battle cry, and a long staccato ripple of automatic rifle fire.
Several sparks flew off the nose of the chopper, and it suddenly
nose-dived almost straight down into the jungle not fifty yards away.
Bowman needed no more encouragementhe turned around and raced as hard as
he could away from the stricken chopper. But he could not escape. Bowman
heard a short pwoooosh, and a split second later a terrific explosion
erupted in the first level of jungle canopy only twenty feet overhead
and a few yards ahead. The dimly lit jungle suddenly turned bright
yellow, his head felt as if it had exploded,
and he felt himself
cartwheel several feet away from the concussion. He opened his eyes. The
chepper was just a few dozen yards away, nose aimed right at him. Its
rotors were whipping the foliage around as if they were in a hurricane,
but Bowman could not hear or feel anything. The chopper was translating,
lining up the blunt muzzle of the weapon pods directly on him. When he
tried to move his arms or legs, nothing worked. His vision was
blurring, growing dimmer, everything was going dark.... With the target
flitting over the jungle, it would have made a difficult shot-not
impossible, but very difficult-but the chopper suddenly stopped,
obviously lining up for the kill, and now it made an easy target. Marine
Corps Captain Fred Collins swung the nose of his MV-22A Sea Hammer
tilt-rotor aircraft a bit farther left to line up the aiming "donut" of
his Stinger missile system on the infrared image of the Chinese patrol
helicopter, then waited until he heard the familiar "growl" in his
headset, indicating that one of his heat-seeking missiles had locked on.
He lifted the protective cover off the safety release, pressed the
release with his right thumb, got a "Ready Shoot" indication on his
integrated helmet display system, then pulled the trigger with his right
index finger. "Fox two, Able ZeroSeven." From less than a half-mile
away, the kill was quick and spectacular. The Stinger missile flew
directly into the unbaffied, unprotected engine exhaust of the Chinese
Zhishengji-9 combat patrol helicopter, turning both engines and its fuel
tanks into balloons of fire. The orange and yellow balloons seemed to
hold the helicopter in midair for several seconds, but soon it dropped
straight down and crashed into the jungle. "Splash one chopper, "
Collins radioed. "Where's the other two?"
"Lost contact with bandit two, " replied the controller aboard an Air
Force E-3A Sentry radar plane from Andersen Air Force Base. "Bandit
three is at your nine o'clock position, same altitude, range six miles,
airspeed niner-zero and accelerating, turning south. He appears to be
extending."
"I'm coming up on bingo fuel, Basket, " Collins said. "I either chase
him or continue with the pickup. I can't do both. Where's he now?"
