Sky Masters

by Dale Brown

massed numbers of fighters. They would have to contend with the naval

  threats, too. The odds were looking worse every minute. "The Chinese

  have at least a hundred fighters in the area, half of which have the

  endurance for long overwater patrols, " Elliott continued. "The Chinese

  can effectively layer their defenses-warships, fighters, warships,

  fighters, then warships, in the target area. If they take Samar

  International Airport near Davao and start using it as a forward staging

  base, it definitely means no AWACS or tankers-and it may mean no Air

  Battle Force over Mindanao."

  "You got any good news on that screen, General?" McLanahan asked wryly.

  "Sort of. The New People's Army and the Chinese lost a big battle for

  the city of Cotabato, here on Moro Gulf. We think the Chinese wanted to

  use the airport there to stage fighters to support their upcoming

  assault on Davao. Samar's guerrillas held out-for a while. But it was

  long enough, because they demolished the airfield before they were

  driven out by Chinese air raids. Pretty clever how they did it,

  too-instead of just cratering the runway, which would have made it easy

  for Chinese engineers to repair, they stripped out sections of runway,

  buried stolen bombs in it, then cemented trucks over the bombs. It's

  going to take the Chinese two or three days to repair the runway and

  another few days to make it a usable staging base."

  "So what do we do, then?" McLanahan asked. "This is what might be

  called a target-rich environment. What's first?"

  "General Stone and the Joint Task Force still haven't decided, " Elliott

  replied. "They have a general outline to work with, but they'll wait

  for the latest satellite data from Washington before going ahead with a

  frag order. If Jon Masters' setup was working, we'd be done by now-it

  only takes a few minutes to build a frag order from PACER SKY data. We

  get flight plans, data cartridges, computer tapes, charts, briefing

  boards, even slides from his system here. Now we have to program all

  this stuff by hand." McLanahan saw Masters on the master console.

  "Masters, how are you doing?"

  "Cool, Mac, my man, real cool, " Masters said. Masters was dressed in

  white shorts, a flowered Hawaiian shirt, and sneakers with no socks-it

  looked as if he had just returned from Tarague Beach, Andersen Air Force

  Base's recreation area. "Brad, we got ten more minutes until the data

  comes in... "Is it back on-line, Doctor Masters?"

  "Not quite, " Masters admitted. "But, hey, you gotta think positive.

  Everything looks good so far. Say, Mac, you ready to kick some Chinese

  butt out there tonight?" Patrick stared, not believing what he had just

  heard. "Excuse me, Doctor?"

  "Yeah, man, you're gonna clean up, " Masters enthused. "We got

  spectacular photos and data, and we've got ingress and egress routes

  scoped out so well that the Chinks won't even know you've just kicked

  their sloped asses "I don't think we better-"

  "Hey, loosen up, " Masters said, taking a big swallow from his

  ever-present squeeze bottle of Pepsi. "Just sit back in that big B-2

  cockpit of yours, put on some tunes, turn on the BNS, and send Uncle

  Cheung's squids to the bottom of the Celebes Sea. You can come back and

  we'll check out the Japanese babes out on Tumon Beach . . Patrick

  noticed General Elliott take a step toward Masters, but Patrick was

  already moving by then. Without another word, Patrick had taken

  Masters' skinny left arm in his big left hand and had pulled the young

  scientist up out of his chair and out of the battle staff area. "Hey,

  Mac, I can't leave the board quite yet. The adjacent office near the

  Command Post was unoccupied and unlocked, so McLanahan took Masters

  right inside, closed the door behind him, and deposited him

  unceremoniously onto the worn Naugahyde sofa. "Let's get something

  straight, Doctor. First, the name is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick

  McLanahan. Second, you've got a big mouth." Masters stared at the

  looming, six-foot blond pilot. He looked a lot bigger standing over him

  than he had a moment ago. "Look, Colonel, I know you're a little

  nervous about-"

  "You don't know jack-shit, including when to keep your mouth shut about

  classified material and when to conduct yourself in an appropriate

  manner Masters smiled weakly. "Hey, who are you, Dirty Harry?" He

  tried to rise, but McLanahan pushed him back down. "Get this straight,

  Doctor. While you're in this command post, you'll not wear shorts or

  sneakers, you'll address the senior officer in the room as 'sir' or by

  their rank, not their first name, and you'll keep your bigoted comments

  to yourself. You're supposed to be a professional, so start acting like

  one." McLanahan looked at his watch. "You've got about ten minutes

  before your satellite data comes in-that's plenty of time for you to go

  back to your barracks and change."

  "Hey, man, you're not my father, " Masters complained. "Get off your

  Clint Eastwood act and off my case. McLanahan leaned over the couch,

  putting his face within an inch of Masters' own. They were but eight

  years apart in age, but worlds apart in experience. McLanahan looked

  directly into Masters' eyes. "I shouldn't have to be on your case,

  Doctor. But if you'd open your eyes, you might learn a thing or two

  about what's going on here." Masters cleared his throat and tried to

  look away from McLanahan, but couldn't. "Hey, " he said calmly, "I know

  what's going on. I know the weapons you're going to use, the routes

  you'll fly. I wrote the friggin' scenarios, for Godssake."

  "You may have, " McLanahan said, moving back a bit from Masters, "but

  you don't know anything about combat. About what it's like to be in a

  war machine facing your own mortality. Have General Elliott or Ormack

  or Cobb tell you sometime about combat, about life in the cockpit.

  "Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before-your secret society, your

  brotherhood of aviators. Brad-General Elliott-and his B-52s during

  Vietnam, out at that Arc Light Memorial, he tried to get into it, but he

  couldn't explain it. He says, 'You gotta be there." Stone, Jarrel, and

  all the others, even you-you've all been in combat before. But you

  treat it like a game, so why shouldn't I?" McLanahan bristled. He

  pulled out his dog tags from under his flight suit. "A game? What are

  these, Doctor? Tell me." Masters rolled his eyes. This was boring.

  "Dog tags. Next."

  "You're partially right. Out here, Doctor, we have them for more than

  ornaments on a key ring. See how one is on the neck chain and one's a

  small chain all by itself? There's a reason for that. One they bring

  back to headquarters to prove you were killed in action-f they find your

  body, that is. The other they keep on the body, usually clamped shut in

  your mouth." He pulled out his water bottle from his left leg pocket.

  "You see this? Emergency water supply in case I lose my survival kit

  after ejection-this could be the only fresh water for a thousand miles

  if I have to punch out over the Philippine Sea." He ripped off his unit

  patches and name ta
g from their Velcro strips on his flight suit.

  "Patches Velcroed on and removed before we take off in case we get shot

  down and captured-so the enemy won't know what unit we're from. Some

  chaplain will come around and collect them before we go out to our

  planes. They'll check if we made out a will, check to see if they know

  who our next of kin are. "Take a look at that data you're generating

  sometime, Masters. Those ships your satellites are locating represent

  hundreds of sailors whose job it is to find and destroy me. There are

  thousands of sailors out there waiting for us-"

  "But we know where they are . . . we know who they are. . "We know

  where they are because men risked their lives to get that data, "

  McLanahan said. "A man died getting us those pictures... "Well, once

  the NIRTSat comes back on-line, that won't happen again "It doesn't

  matter, my friend. Combat isn't a series of preprogrammed parameters on

  a computer monitor-it's men and women who are scared, and brave, and

  angry, and who feel hopeless. It's not a clear-cut engagement. Anything

  can happen. You gotta realize that the people around you don't think in

  absolutes, because they know that anything can happen... "Maybe in wars

  past that was true, " Masters offered. "When the enemy was a mystery,

  when you couldn't see over the horizon or through the fog or under the

  ocean, maybe it wasn't so clear-cut. But things are different now.

  Hell, you know more than anyone else how different it is-you fly the

  most advanced warplane in the friggin' universe! We know exactly where

  the bad guys are. Once the NIRTSats are working again, I can steer your

  weapons, I can warn you of danger, I can tell you exactly how many

  weapons you need to win, and I can tell you how long it will take you to

  achieve any objective. "Then tell me this, Doctor Masters, " McLanahan

  said, affixing his steel-blue eyes on the scientist and letting his

  glare bore into him: "Tell me who's going to die out there." Masters

  opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it suddenly, thought a

  moment, then replied, "I estimate your losses at less than five percent

  for the duration of this conflict . "No, I didn't ask you how many. I

  asked who."

  "Well, how the fuck am I supposed to know who? If you follow the plan

  and put your weapons on target, no one should die. "You said should die,

  Doctor. That means that even if everything turns out perfectly, someone

  may still die. Right?" Masters shrugged. "Well, it's very unlikely,

  but-anything can happen."

  "You're damned right it can. Now tell me how to deal with that. Tell me

  how a highly trained professional pilot or navigator can climb into a

  bomber or fighter and fly into the teeth of the enemy and know that even

  if everything goes perfectly, he may still end up at the bottom of the

  sea, and I'll let you act like a cocky little punk peacock all you want

  in my command post. Until then you will give this campaign and the

  people who fight it-all the people who fight it, the combatants on both

  sides-the proper respect." Masters was finally silent. McLanahan backed

  away from Masters, allowing him to get up, but Masters stayed where he

  was. "So what you're saying is-you're scared, " Masters said after a few

  long moments. He looked at McLanahan, and when the officer didn't reply

  for several seconds, Masters' eyes opened wide in surprise. "You're

  scared? You? But you're the-"

  "Yeah, yeah, I know, " Patrick said. "I'm supposed to be the best. But

  it's bullshit. I know my shit, and I'm lucky. That doesn't make me

  invincible, and it doesn't give you or anyone the right to think this is

  going to be easy-for any of us. Nothing is cut and dried. Nothing is

  certain. We know our equipment, know our procedures, but when you go

  into combat we learn not to trust it. We trust ourselves. We look to

  ourselves to find the strength to get through the mission." Masters

  rose and stood before McLanahan, afraid to look into the Air Force

  officer's face but respectful enough to want to be able to do it. "I

  never realized that, Patrick. Really. I always thought, 'Well, the

  gear's in place, everything's running, so everything's going to be

  okay." I guess... well, I don't work with people that much. I'm really

  so used to dealing with computers and machines. McLanahan shrugged.

  "Hell, listen to me. A few years ago I never gave a shit much about

  people either. I wasn't exactly what you'd call a team player. I did

  my job and went home. I hate to say it, but we were a lot alike back

  then." Masters smiled at that. "Oh yeah? Dirty Harry was laid-back and

  mellow? You drank beer and chased girls and got stupid?" It was

  McLanahan's turn to smile this time. He remembered the B-52 crew

  parties back in California, the weekends rafting down the American

  River-one big twelve-person raft for crew dogs, wives, and girlfriends;

  another slightly smaller raft for the numerous ice chests full of

  six-packs-the bar-hopping in Old Sacramento till two in the morning, the

  ski trips to Lake Tahoe when they'd get back to base just minutes before

  show time for a training mission. "All the damned time, Jon."

  "What happened to you?" McLanahan's smile vanished, and all his fond

  recollections of life back home exploded in a bright yellow fireball

  called reality. He put his dog tags back under his shirt and put his

  water flask back in its pocket. The pungent odor of jet exhaust and the

  roar of a plane on its takeoff run invaded the office, and the horrors

  of another impossible mission thousands of miles away flooded back into

  his consciousness once again. "Combat, " was all he said, and he turned

  and walked away. CHINESE DESTROYER HAIFRNG TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILES

  SOUTHEAST OF THE CITY OF DAVAO MINDANAO, THE PHILIPPINES MONDAY, 10

  OCTOBER 1994, 2351 HOURS LOCAL had been hanging around for so long now,

  big, slow, and I gt~~~~p~~~g, that they had humorously dubbed it

  Syensheng Tz, Old Gas. They could see the thing easily, almost a hundred

  miles away and at high altitude-a single, unescorted, vulnerable B-52

  bomber. It was cruising westward at a leisurely four hundred and twenty

  nautical miles per hour. Although it was definitely getting closer, on

  its present course it would pass well out of HQ-9 1 missile range of the

  Chinese People's Liberation Army Navy missile destroyer Kaifeng. It was

  obviously giving the Chinese ships a wide berth. Even so, if the

  aircraft carried antiship missiles, it was still a substantial threat:

  it was within Harpoon missile range of the destroyer, yet outside the

  range of the destroyer's missiles, and there were no fighters nearby

  that could reach it. The commander of the destroyer Kazfeng, a

  Luda-class destroyer with over three hundred men on board, wanted very

  close tabs kept on this intruder. "CIC, bridge, status of that B-52, "

  the commander of the Kazjeng requested. "Bridge, CIC, air target one

  still at seventy-eight-nauticalmiles range, altitude ten thousand

  meters, speed four-twozero knots, offset range six-zero nautical miles.

  No detectable radar transmissions from aircraft.
It is within Harpoon

  missile range at this time."

  "Copy." The commander was carefully trying not to let his frustration

  and impatience show. American B-52s had been flying these "ferret"

  missions for many days now, passing just inside missile range of the

  destroyer's missiles, then hightailing it out when missile-guidance

  signals were aimed at it. It was always one bomber, always at thirty

  thousand feet, always challenging in this same location. It stayed high

  and relatively slow-very nonthreatening despite being within extreme

  range of Harpoon antiship missiles it might be carrying. It was

  obviously collecting intelligence information-it was probably crammed

  with sensors and recorders, hoping to intercept radio messages or

  analyze missile fire control radar signals... ... or it was crammed

  with antiship missiles, ready to strike. "Comm, bridge, any response

  from that plane about our airdefense warnings?"

  "None, sir, " the communications officer replied. Kafeng, as well as

  other ships in the South Philippines Task Force commanded by Admiral Yin

  Po L'un, had been warning all aircraft to stay away from this area for

  days now. The area over the Celebes Sea had been a very well used

  airway for travelers heading to Brunei, Malaysia, Indonesia, and

  Singapore through Samar International Airport, but the People's

  Liberation Army Air Force had refused all access to the region, and air

  traffic to and from Manila was tightly controlled. All air traffic was

  forced to fly farther south through the sparsely populated islands of

  northern Indonesia. Philippines supply routes in the South China Sea

  were virtually isolated. But with the nuclear explosion near Palawan

  and the extreme danger of radiation poisoning and contamination, these

  areas were being studiously avoided anyhow. The American Air Battle

  Force, however, was obviously ignoring all warnings. "CIC, bridge,

  position of our fighter coverage. "Sir, Liang-Two flight of eight J-7

  fighters are over Nenusa Archipelago, one hundred eleven kilometers

  northwest of the B-52. They are less than ten minutes from bingo fuel