Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06

by Fatal Terrain (v1. 1)

  But they did stop in time—the retracted nose of the EB-52 missed the barrier net by less than half the length of the aircraft. Except for test flights, it was the shortest landing any of them had ever made in an EB- 52 bomber—less than 6,000 feet. They used 50 percent less runway than they had ever used before. A “follow-me” truck appeared off their right wingtip, and a ground crewman on the back of the truck beckoned to them with a yellow-lensed flashlight and a hearty wave. Elliott deactivated the thrust reversers, grabbed the steering knob, and gently eased the throttles forward.

  Taxiing inside the cave was like driving through a low-ceiling indoor parking garage with a high-profile vehicle. Everywhere they looked, they saw cheering soldiers, some jumping up and down in happiness as they held their ears against the bone-jarring noise and echo—Elliott and Cheshire mercifully shut down two engines to cut down on the noise. They were directed to a parking spot just off the edge of the runway, just a few hundred feet behind Jon Masters’s DC-10 tanker and satellite launch plane.

  The four bomber crewmen were instantly mobbed the moment they opened the lower hatch and climbed out. The first to greet them were Wendy McLanahan, Jon Masters, Paul White, and Hal Briggs. Wendy hugged her husband so tightly he thought he heard some neck vertebrae snap, but he hugged her just as closely and as tightly. “Patrick, oh God, you should have seen you fly into the cave! ” Wendy exclaimed through tears of relief and joy. “I swear, it was like watching a bat fly into a tiny hole in the wall! I saw the wingtip down, and I thought you weren’t going to make it!”

  After everyone climbed out of the Megafortress, they had a moment to look at the incredible structure. It was an immense underground airfield, with a single 200-foot-wide, 6,000-foot-long runway in the middle of the gigantic structure! On the other side of the runway were a line of about a dozen Taiwanese F-16 fighters—the Taiwanese had actually managed to land F-16 Fighting Falcons in the cave!—along with a few S-70 helicopters and S-2 Tracker turboprop maritime surveillance planes. Patrick McLanahan and Brad Elliott had a grim feeling that those planes represented what was left of the entire Republic of China air force.

  After shutdown, the stunned American crew members were met by several officers and several more armed guards. The senior officer stepped forward, shook their hands excitedly with a broad smile, and said in very practiced English, “Welcome to Kai-Shan, my Flying Tiger friends, welcome. I am Brigadier General Hsiao Jason, commander of this installation. You must be General Elliott, and you are Colonel McLanahan.” Both of them were still too stunned to respond, which pleased Hsiao immensely. “You and your men are suffering from Kai-Shan Psychosis, the inability to do anything but stare up at the ceiling, the instant abandonment of all military courtesies and even coherent speech,” Hsiao said with a smile. “The disease will affect you long after you leave this place, I assure you. Please follow.”

  Indeed, it was hard to keep from staring at the detail of the huge underground facility. The ceiling was geodetic reinforced steel honeycomb, with segments three inches thick widening to six inches toward the ceiling and ventilator openings interspersed throughout—it was like a huge modern subway terminal, only several times larger. Several steel support columns, spaced every thousand feet on either side of the runway, soared into the sky from floor to ceiling, set just a few feet from the edge of the runway. The runway itself was concrete, with arresting wires a few hundred feet from the approach end to stop aircraft equipped with tail hooks—and, Briggs noted, all of the Taiwanese F-16 fighters and S-2 Trackers had tail hooks. Looking out the open mouth of the cave, all they could see were mountains—a straight-in approach to Kai-Shan was not possible.

  “We’ve heard rumors about this place for years,” Wendy McLanahan remarked, “but we never thought it truly existed! ”

  “Kai-Shan has been in operation for about six years,” Hsiao said. “It was originally intended as the underground command center for the Le Shan air defense network system, but an alternate mountain location closer to Taipei was located and used instead. This was then used as an emergency shelter for troops and politicians until the new caverns deeper inside the mountain were excavated. When we realized we had enough space inside for an airfield, the decision was made to convert it. Our first fixed-wing aircraft, an S-2 Tracker, landed inside the mountain three years ago; the first F-16 landed here just a few months ago.”

  Walking across the runway to the south side of the facility was like walking across Grand Central Station or the Toronto Skydome. “We completed this facility late last year, after ten years of construction and ten years of design and development work,” General Hsiao was saying. “The main airbase chamber is almost eight hundred million cubic feet in volume, about half of it natural granite and limestone reinforced with steel and concrete. It is actually a combination of about one hundred smaller caverns, hollowed out and reinforced to make several large caverns. There are approximately two hundred thousand square feet of additional support, housing, and storage space on two levels above and below the airbase chamber. Above your heads is approximately six thousand feet of solid rock.

  “We are capable of accommodating up to twenty F-16-size fighters on this level along the side of the runway, plus another twenty or so belowground, accessible via those elevators there and there,” Hsiao went on. “The complex includes weapon, fuel, and spare parts storage, enough to keep two medium attack squadrons supplied during around-the-clock combat operations for about one week. We can house as many as two thousand air base personnel down here, plus a command and control facility of one hundred, plus barrack two thousand additional troops. We have a twenty-bed hospital, four dining facilities, two laundries, even a movie theater. ”

  “Sir, how in the world ... I mean, how was it possible to keep this facility a secret?” Patrick McLanahan asked as they reached the other side of the chamber, behind the huge steel blast deflectors and into the rock wall itself, to where administrative and mission planning rooms had been set up. “The number of construction crews must’ve been immense. The money, the equipment, the manpower—all of it must have created attention. How was it possible to avoid all scrutiny?”

  “Same way we do it, Patrick—by keeping our mouths shut and kicking anyone’s ass who dares to open theirs,” Brad Elliott said.

  “Precisely,” General Hsiao replied. “The strictest security measures possible were employed. But this side of the island is very sparsely populated, and it attracts little attention. Once the engineers and workers were safely inside, work could be done in total secrecy.”

  “How did you make out during the Chinese attack on Hualien?” Paul White asked.

  “We were safe—Kai-Shan is shielded by the mountains, and our cave shield was in place and is thick enough to withstand a bomb strike, so we received no damage from the nuclear blast,” Hsiao replied. “Our facilities are full of the injured and dying, though. We have cremated nearly a thousand men, women, and children since the attack here at Kai- Shan alone—we know of over eight thousand casualties in Hualien alone, and there are undoubtedly many more that were simply incinerated in the blast. Our revenge will be sweet, my friends.”

  They heard the sound of a start cart outside on the airfield, and General Hsiao ordered the door closed behind them, which muffled the noise considerably. “One of our air patrols is preparing to depart. Shall we watch?”

  The sight was unbelievable. A Taiwanese F-16 fighter, armed with four Sidewinder missiles and a centerline fuel tank, taxied to the very back of the runway. The barrier net had been removed, and the blast fence was diverting the F-16 s engine exhaust almost straight up into a cluster of ventilators. “The engine exhaust is vented outside through several steel plenums and sideways out across the mountains, where it is less likely to be detected by infrared imaging satellites,” Hsiao explained.

  The F-16 ran its engine up to full power, then full afterburner power, and released brakes. It looked very much like an aircraft carrier takeoff— the fighter stayed on t
he deck until reaching the mouth of the cave, then shot off into space. A few minutes later, the barrier net was lowered and an F-16 came in for landing from a patrol. Again it resembled an aircraft carrier landing—the F-16 suddenly appeared at the cave mouth at slow speed, with its nose high in the air; it hit the runway, caught one of the arresting wires, the nose came down hard on the runway, and the fighter screeched to a halt at the end of the arresting wire. Ground crewmen came running out to disconnect the wire from the hook and marshal the fighter to the elevator to take it down to the belowdecks aircraft hangar for servicing.

  “My God,” Nancy Cheshire exclaimed. “What if a plane has to bolter? What if they miss a wire? What if a wire or arresting hook breaks?”

  “Then, if the barrier does not catch them, we will probably all die,” Hsiao Jason said matter-of-factly. He smiled broadly and said, “Actually, my friends, your two planes have been the first fixed-wing aircraft to land at Kai-Shan without using an arresting wire. We were all in fire shelters for the landing of the DC-10. But the landing of the bomber—well, I think we were all up on deck to watch. It was most spectacular, worth dying in a fireball to see.” The American newcomers were all too stunned to respond. “You must be very tired. We have prepared meals and rooms for you and all your troops.”

  “With all due respect, sir, we’d like to get to work and launch our first sortie at dusk,” Patrick McLanahan said.

  “Dusk? You mean, tonight?” General Hsiao exclaimed. “You will be ready to fly tonight? ”

  “With any luck, yes,” Patrick said. “We need assistance from your aircraft maintenance troops to help turn the bomber and to upload the weapons. Can we count on assistance from your flight crews to help in mission planning?”

  “You may count on us for anything you desire,” Hsiao said happily. “You truly are the new Flying Tigers, my friends. In fact, my F-16 flight crews request the honor of accompanying you on your first raid.”

  “That would be excellent, sir,” Patrick said. “We’ll be lightly loaded taking off from here, so we can use some extra firepower. Have your pilots ever done any aerial refueling?”

  “Only in simulators, Colonel McLanahan,” Hsiao said.

  “Well, I’ve heard that doing it for real is easier than the simulator, so your crews will be refueling tonight,” Patrick said. “Our transport jet is configured as a tanker. We have the latest intelligence data—it’s a few hours old, but I think it’ll be useful for tonight. We’ll see about getting our own Sky Masters recon and targeting satellite up in the next day or so. Let’s get to work, everybody. We’ll be launching in about twelve hours.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The general who advances without coveting fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his country and do good service for his sovereign, is the jewel of the kingdom.” —SUN-TZU,

  The Art of War

  BANDAR-ABBASS NAVAL BASE, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN

  TUESDAY, 24 JUNE 1997, 2121 HOURS LOCAL ( 1251 HOURS ET)

  “Here it comes,” the sonar operator aboard the Los Angeles-class nuclear-powered attack submarine USS Miami reported. He flipped open the intercom channel: “Bridge, sonar, target alpha is in the channel, bearing three-one-four, range six thousand yards, speed six knots.”

  The first officer acknowledged the call, then rang the captain in his quarters. “Skipper, the Taregh’s moving.” The captain joined his first officer on the twelve-year-old, 7,000-ton submarine’s bridge a few moments later.

  “Sonar, what d’ya have?” the captain ordered.

  “Positive contact, sir,” the sensor operator said. The WLR-9/12 acoustic emission receiver/processor suite was an extensive computerized system that in effect “pointed” the sensor operator to a particular sound picked up from the myriad of noises from the sea, allowed the sensor operator to scan the suspect, fine-tuned the sound, and attempted to identify it. “Target alphas coming out of Bandar-Abbass, heading south. Shes making noise, probably getting ready to blow her tanks.”

  The captain took a deep breath in anticipation. For the past several weeks, their only assigned target had been staying close to home—but now it was on the move, and that probably spelled trouble. “Target alpha” was the Taregh, which meant “Morning Star”—the Islamic Republic of Iran’s first attack submarine. Purchased from Russia in September 1992, the Taregh had sent the world into a tailspin by introducing yet another advanced weapon system into the hands of an aggressive, fundamentalist Islamic nation in the Persian Gulf.

  Although the Iranians had purchased a second Kilo-class sub from Russia and were threatening to buy more, the threat of Iran filling the Persian Gulf with attack subs, and thereby threatening nearly half of the world’s oil supply, had never come to pass. The Taregh had never ventured far from Bandar-Abbass and had spent most of its time cruising the Strait of Hormuz and the Gulf of Oman between Bandar-Abbass and its as-yet-uncompleted home port of Chah Bahar.

  Since the recent conflict between the United States and Iran, the United States had assigned one nuclear-powered attack sub to monitor the Taregh's whereabouts. Fortunately, the Taregh had proven to be an easy shadowing assignment—while Iran’s aircraft carrier Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini had been busy attacking other Gulf states during the brief naval and air skirmishes in the area, Iran’s attack subs had played no part. The Miami had simply stationed itself in the Strait of Hormuz just outside Bandar-Abbass, concealed by the noise of the hundreds of ships crowding the channel, and waited. While stationed in the Strait, the crew of the Miami had been able to extend its antennas and collect vast amounts of information on the Iranian fleet’s deployment, and occasionally intercept important communications from fleet headquarters. But their primary assignment, the Taregh, had always been a nonplayer, stuck in port except for brief cruises and exercises. During the U.S.-Iran crisis, the United States and its Persian Gulf allies had not been flying anti-submarine patrols over the Strait of Hormuz, Persian Gulf, or Gulf of Oman, which meant that, if it was not shadowed as soon as it left port, the Taregh could sneak out of the Strait and make its way into the Persian Gulf itself, where it would be much harder to detect and track, and it could lay waste to all commercial shipping traffic heading in or out of the Persian Gulf.

  “Looks like we’re going sailing,” the captain announced. He ordered that the ship be made ready to answer bells immediately. Thirty minutes later, the Miami pulled out into the Strait for the first time in almost four weeks.

  Tailing the Taregh was easy as long as it was on the surface. Other vessels got out of its way, so it traveled a straight course, and its large, blunt nose and wide hull meant that it had to churn out a lot of rpms from its big six-bladed propeller just to maintain steerageway. The Taregh was escorted by two tugboats as it left the crowded naval base and headed south toward the center of the Strait of Hormuz; one tugboat eventually dropped away as the channel traffic cleared. The tugboat would also help mask the Miami’s noise. The captain of the Miami ordered the distance increased to 12,000 yards, almost seven miles—the maximum useful range of his passive sonar system.

  The Taregh finally made its dive at the absolute worst place its skipper could pick—at the narrowest and shallowest part of the Strait, between Bandar-Abbass and the eastern tip of Qeshm Island. The shallower water restricted the Miami to less than periscope depth. The Taregh was making minimum steerageway even while submerged, and now it was getting more difficult for the Miami to maintain course at the slower speed. Channel traffic was increasing as well. Qeshm Island was a busy petroleum drilling and refining area, and commercial-vessel traffic was heavy all day and all night in this area. The Miami maintained 12,000 yards’ distance from the Taregh, even when the Iranian attack sub seemed as if it was barely moving.

  It suddenly seemed as if the Taregh was getting a lot of visitors—large, slow-moving vessels flitting nearby, centered generally over the sub. It was unlikely that the Iranian navy would allow onlookers to get within a
mile of one of its subs. “What in hell are those things?” the captain muttered. “Service vessels? Supply vessels?”

  “Shit, it’s going to turn around,” the first officer said, as they waited. “Something on the tub broke, they can’t fix it, and they’re going to turn around and head back to the barn.”

  “We’re not that lucky,” the skipper said. “That’ll cut our patrol time down, that’s for sure. Who the hell knows? We’ll maintain our distance until he starts motoring.”

  They did not have to wait long—soon, the Taregh started to pick up speed, now reaching twelve knots, and the skipper ordered the Miami back on the pursuit. With the steam turbines running at a more comfortable speed, the Miami felt steadier and more seaworthy in the shallow waters, and the skipper even began to relax a bit, although he wouldn’t relax completely until they were safely out of Iranian waters, out of the Strait of Hormuz, and out of this weird, unfriendly water. The warm, dirt-laden, polluted salt water of the Strait of Hormuz always played havoc with sensors, and it was harder to maintain depth and control roll and yaw. But the Taregh was starting to move faster, now above fifteen knots, and the faster they went, the steadier the ol’ Miami—

  “Bridge, helm.”

  The skipper clicked open the intercom: “Bridge, go.”

  “We’ve got a problem. Recommend emergency stop.”

  “All stop,” the skipper said immediately—when the quartermaster at the helm suggests an emergency maneuver, you make it and sort out the problem later. “I hope it’s your imagination. On my way.” He arrived at the sub’s helm station as fast as he could. Both diving plane helmsmen had their arms extended full out, and they appeared to be struggling with the airplane-like control wheels; the quartermaster standing between them was watching the navigation and performance instruments, while technicians were checking the hydraulic, pneumatic, and electrical panels. “What in hell’s going on?”