by Dale Brown
“So what happens when that bandit smokes that RC-135? There’s eighteen guys on that thing.” He was right-he had no choice. “Shit. We’re going after the solo. Basket, Bullet Six, vector to the solo inbound.”
“Bullet Six, bandit at your twelve to one o’clock, eleven miles, five thousand below you, airspeed six hundred thirty.” Penrose shoved his throttles to full military power, anxious to get within missile-firing range but not enough to risk using afterburners and getting himself in a low-fuel situation-he fully intended to go back and see to Cowboy after dealing with the lone bandit. “Lion Tamer, what’s with the radar? Can’t you get it going?” “Keeps resetting. I’m recycling it . This is going from bad to worse, Penrose thought. On interplane, he asked, “Cowboy, how goes it?”
“We got one in the kill zone, ” Penrose and Watson heard on the interplane frequency. “Looks like the other guy’s bugging out-he’s out of it. Thirty seconds and I’m back with you. “Don’t get cocky, ” Penrose said. “Shoot and clear. Basket, dammit, keep an eye out for Seven’s trailer.” “Basket copies. Second bandit on Bullet Seven is two o’clock, eleven miles, accelerating, descending. Bullet Six, your bandit is twelve o’clock, ten miles. Your bandit is twenty-five miles from Flashlight and closing. Watson manually slewed the IRSTS along the bearing given by the AWACS controller and finally found the Chinese fighter, a tiny green dot on his screen. He hit the “Lock” button, and a big square superimposed itself on the dot; a second later as the IRSTS refined its aiming and stabilized its gyro platform, the square compressed to slightly larger than the dot, and a stream of tracking figures appeared on the screen. Watson slaved one AIM-9R Sidewinder missile to the IRSTS boresight, and Penrose heard a low, menacing growl as the missile’s seeker head locked on. “Got the Chink on IR, Razor, ” Watson said. “Select a Sidewinder and nail this bugger. “Bullet Seven, second bandit climbing through your altitude, two o’clock, twelve miles . . “Bullet Six, fox two . . .” Penrose shot one Sidewinder, decided against selecting his last one-Cowboy might need the extra missile. The tiny missile raced ahead, obliterating the IR sensor in the sudden glare, but the missile tracked straight and true this time and they were rewarded by a huge ball of fire far ahead of them. “Bullet Six, splash two.” “Good shooting, Razor, ” Penrose heard Bowman reply in between deep grunts-Bowman was performing his anti-G force grunts called M-maneuvers. He was obviously right in the middle of a hard-turning battle, but the cocky sonofabitch still found time to chatter on the radios. “Bullet Seven, fox one. . . die, sucker, die!”
“Bullet Seven, warning, second bandit four o’clock, high, eight miles, descending behind you… “Cowboy, dammit, get out of there!” Penrose shouted. “Cowboy, extend, extend!”
“Bullet Seven, starboard turn to evade . . . Bullet Seven, extend… Bullet Seven heading zero-nine-zero, thirty degrees starboard to extend… Bullet Seven, check altitude… Bullet Seven, if you are in a spin, release your controls . . . Bullet Seven, if you are in a spin, release your controls and lower your landing gear. . . Bullet Seven, Bullet Seven, altitude warning . . . Bullet Seven only, Bullet Seven only, eject, eject, eject. . .” No use. Penrose never got another transmission from Bowman. “Basket, this is Six, vector to Bullet Seven’s last position.” Penrose could hear the panic, the gut-wrenching anxiety, in the controller’s voice. “Er . . . Bullet Six, lone bandit at your nine o’clock, forty miles, he’s northwest-bound at six hundred knots, altitude ten thousand and descending. Appears to be withdrawing. No other bandits detected. Say your bingo.”
“I said, I want a vector to Seven’s last known position, dam”No ELT, no transmissions. . . Six, say your fuel.” Penrose finally curbed his anger long enough to check his fuel-he was well past bingo, and with a damaged carrier and his tankers more than a hundred miles away, he was in emergency fuel conditions now. “Basket, Six requests you vector a KA-6 over here, because I’m not moving from this spot until I make sure there’s no ELT or distress calls. You better call Sterett or Ffe or somebody over here to investigate, because I’m staying right here until we find Cowboy.”
“Bullet Six… Six, all group vessels involved at this time.” The controller sounded as if he were trying to think of some detached, official-sounding terminology to tell Penrose that no one was likely to come and search for wreckage or survivors. Penrose suddenly remembered the Ranger and knew they weren t going to send any big ships anywhere near this area for a long time-the Chinese held it too tightly. “Shamu rendezvousing with Basket and Flashlight for recovery. Orders from home plate, return and prepare for divert recovery. Acknowledge.” The battle was over. The Chinese lost four plus damaged a carrier, the Americans lost two. Penrose felt as if he had been beaten up by an entire street gang. Who won this one? Who the hell won this one? NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C. %30 SEPTEMBER 1994, 1319 HOURS LOCAL (1 OCTOBER, 0219 GUAM TIME) The National Military Command Center, located three stories beneath the inner ring of the Pentagon, was a large, sophisticated command post where members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, their senior staff officers, and members of the National Command Authority and National Security Council could monitor crisis developments anywhere in the world, receive real-time satellite imagery, and speak directly with anyone from foreign leaders to theater commanders to individual crew members via secure, high-tech worldwide communications gear. The place was much like the Strategic Air Command’s underground command center, with uliratight electronic and physical security, several huge wall-size, fullcolor monitors, banks of telephones, a secure code room, and a huge support staff-except this was where national military strategy and command decisions were made and disseminated, not received and executed. A gallery above the main floor allowed high-ranking visitors to view the proceedings; a few persons were up there now. Most of the J-Staff and several other members of the Joint Chiefs were already present in the NMCC when General Wilbur Curtis trotted in and took his place in the front row center seat. Beside him, sitting in the seat reserved for the highestranking civilian present-usually Frank Kellogg, the President’s National Security Advisor, or even Thomas Preston, the Secretary of Defense himself-was Paul Cesare, the President’s Chief of Staff. Curtis gave him a brief nod but ignored him as he clicked on the microphone at his seat. He didn’t care for Cesare. Never had. Shortly after Curtis had been dismissed from the last Situation Room ineeting on this crisis, he’d phoned Cesare, trying to get in to see the President alone, to privately make the case for more fighters to accompany the carriers as well as deploying the Air Battle Force. He’d gotten nothing from Cesare but a chilly “The issue is closed.” He was Machiavellian and ruthless. He’d play either side of the fence as long as it was the side the President was on, and mow down anyone who got in his way. Curtis more than disliked him, he couldn’t stand him. “Curtis here. Situation report, please.” Navy Captain Rebecca Rodgers’ voice came over the NMCC’s loudspeaker: “Good afternoon, sir, Captain Rodgers here. This briefing is classified Top Secret, no foreign nationals, sensitive intelligence sources and methods involved. The command center is secure, with the gallery sound-isolated. Briefing contents describe a priority-two incident.” She paused for a moment in case Curtis wanted to configure the NMCC any differently. He did not, and she went on. Damn, Curtis thought, here it comes. “About fifteen minutes ago the aircraft carrier Ranger, her escorts, several Navy fighters, and an Air Force reconnaissance plane were attacked by Chinese land-based fighters and bombers south of the Philippines.” There was considerable murmuring among the assembled. Several of the Joint Chiefs shifted in their seats, bracing themselves for more. Paul Cesare sat there shaking his head, not believing what he’d just heard. Well, Wilbur Curtis thought, the shit’s hitting the fan a lot faster than anyone expected. And with the President’s Chief of Staff sitting right here, the news was going to travel faster than Curtis could respond. He needed to have a list of options prepared for the National Command Authority literally before the President knew about the cris
is. Without a plan of action, the entire JCS might seem like a bunch of bumbling idiots. If things got out of control now, Curtis would be lucky to remain JCS chairman for the rest of the day. “Wait one, Captain.” Curtis turned to Cesare. “Mr. Cesare, what exactly are you doing here?” Curtis expected an argument out of the President’s big aide-Cesare certainly had the security clearance and the need to know” for everything that went on in the NMCCbut to his surprise, Cesare was acting rather stunned, and not just from the news he had just heard. ……. I was notified that a group of senators was going to meet with the Secretary of Defense at one o’clock, ” he replied. “Something to do with the Philippine crises and the Chinese… our military options, something like that. These senators want to keep the President from committing any troops at all to Southeast Asia-they’re afraid we might be starting another Vietnam conflict, or World War Three. They’re pressing Secretary Preston-which means the President-into withdrawing all forces from the Philippines. Preston’s trying to walk a balancing act, but he thought the meeting here was at least a little further away from… the public eye and the press. . . than on the Hill or at Defense.” Curtis couldn’t believe it. Once again the White House was pulling the Pentagon into a political mudfight. It was typical. God, how he hated politics. He turned to Cesare. “That’s all well and fine, Mr. Cesare, but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” ……. well, gathering information. So that, um, the President can make an informed response when the senators press him.” Admiral Cunningham, the Chief of Naval Operations, discreetly cleared his throat behind him. Curtis could feel the gaze of his JCS colleagues and staffers on him, silently urging him to deal with the emergency at hand-Cesare would have to wait. “I’ll provide you with whatever you need later, Mr. Cesare, but for this situation, your place is up in the gallery.”
“I’d really prefer to sit here and-“
“Mr. Cesare-“
“General-” Curtis motioned to the NMCC’s senior security policeman, Army Command Sergeant Major Jefferson, who stepped over immediately in front of Cesare. “Jake, please see that Mr. Cesare finds his way upstairs to the gallery with the other visitors, and double-check everyone’s credentials up there.” Cesare rose to his feet. “The President will expect a full report. “He’ll get more than that, ” Curtis said. He turned to his communications officer beside him. “Get the President on the line, priority two.” Priority codes issued from the Pentagon were in numbers of non-nuclear threats and colors for nuclear ones; ‘one” was the highest conventional code, associated with major military or terrorist actions against the continental United States, its bases or territories. “Two” was reserved for major attacks against American overseas bases, embassies, deployed vessels, or nonembassy citizens; and so on. Priority “red” was reserved for an all-out nuclear attack on the United States and was never used in simulations or exercises. Curtis then turned back to Cesare with a hint of a smile. This was Curtis’ game now. Have a nice day, Mr. Cesare. Sergeant Jefferson will show you upstairs.” Curtis motioned to the door with his head, and the guard motioned to the door and escorted Cesare out. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff turned his attention back to the big screens and computer monitors before him, but the information Cesare had parted with lingered. The surveillance operation in the Philippines blows up right when there’s a major congressional push to pull out. What the hell else could go wrong? When Cesare was safely gone, Curtis double-checked to be sure the intercom was shut off in the gallery-the ranking person in the command center could restrict all information dissemination, no matter what the other person’s security clearanceand said, “Continue, Captain Rodgers. Casualty and damage report, start with Ranger.”
“Current casualty report: forty-seven dead, two hundred injured.” A ripple of anger and dismay spread throughout the room. Curtis felt sick. “Ranger is still afloat, heading to the port city of Manado in Indonesia at minimum speed, escorted by destroyers Hewitt and Ffe and cruiser Bunker Hill. Wounded have been airlifted to Manado as well.” A chart of the area was put up immediately on one of the large computer monitors when a foreign city or nation was mentioned, so Curtis and his staff could get a look at the area in question. Curtis found his mouth going dry, his pulse quickening. Forty-seven dead… “Aegis cruiser Bunker Hill damaged during action, ” Rodgers continued, “but sustained no casualties and only minor injuries. It is fully combat-capable and is assisting Ranger.”
“Action approved, ” Curtis said. Dammit, the Bunker Hill too. Two major warships damaged, with more casualties in one day than practically the entire 1991 Persian Gulf crisis. “Wait one. Wasn’t there another ship with Ranger? Another cruiser?”
“Yes, sir. USS Sterett is en route to the Celebes Sea to attempt to recover two F-14 fighters downed in action with Chinese fighter-bombers. The Tomcat crews are listed as missing in action.” Two fighters? Jesus, four aviators. How many more were going to be lost? “Goddammit, Captain, give us the casualties all at once. Are there any more?”
“No, sir. American casualties only on Ranger and two Tomcats.” “Thank you, ” Curtis said, taking a deep breath. “Hold on that last action by Sterett. Can Ranger provide any air support for Sterett?” “Not at this time, sir, ” Rodgers replied. “Ranger unable to launch or recover aircraft. Admiral Walheim advised that he does not suggest sending any heavy Air Force aircraft within six hundred miles of Zamboanga on Mindanao due to heavy Chinese fighter and antiair naval activity. He is trying to organize a fighter patrol using carrier-based tankers that were stranded from Ranger…”
“How can he rearm his fighters if they can’t use Ranger?”
“His fighters received permission to land in Indonesia along with the medical helicopters, ” Rodgers replied. “Admiral Walheim has organized land-based rearming for the fighters by transferring stores from Ranger by helicopter to Ratulangi Airport near Manado, Indonesia, but he has not yet received permission from the Indonesian government to allow those helicopters to land or to conduct offensive operations from Indonesia. In addition, the Indonesian government has requested that the armed aircraft not depart Ratulangi until their status has been confirmed.” Pretty fast thinking, Curtis thought-Walheim, another youngster commanding his first carrier battle group, was already devising ways to continue the fight even without a carrier deck. An X marked the spot on the chart where the fighters went down-about three to four hundred miles from Manado. Admiral Cunningham asked, “How many fighters are stranded off Ranger, Captain?”
“Six F-14 Tomcats, two KA-6 tankers, one E-2C Hawkeye, ” Rodgers replied. “Weapons include total of four Phoenix missiles, fifteen Sparrow missiles, ten Sidewinder missiles, and full ammunition loads.” Cunningham nodded thoughtfully and said to Curtis, “Depending on fuel availability, Walheim can mount a credible air-defense operation from Ratulangi for a rescue operation if they could get full cooperation from the Indonesian government.”
“It’s unlikely, considering all the shit that’s going on, ” Curtis said, “but we’ve got to find out.” To Rodgers, Curtis said, “I want to talk with the State Department ASAP. Danahall himself if he’s available, otherwise his Pacific deputy.”
“Admiral Walheim suggested going ahead with search and rescue efforts anyway; a lone vessel broadcasting that it is part of a rescue effort might be allowed to proceed.”
“The STRATFOR can organize a cover counter-air operation from Andersen, ” General Falmouth, the Air Force Chief of Staff, suggested. “PACAF has a number of fighters on Guam we can use . . “Action denied, ” Curtis replied. “I want Sterett to stay out of the Celebes and outside six hundred miles from Zamboanga until I talk directly with State and Admiral Walheim. No vessels enter the Celebes without support. He thought of the four Tomcat naval aviators that were down, but he also knew the result of a damaged plane slamming into the sea from thousands of feet in the sky-unless someone saw parachutes, there were probably no survivors, and certainly there was no reason to risk hundreds of lives on Sterett
to save four men. As much as Curtis hated to admit it, a rescue operation now was out of the question. “Continue. Status of the Air Force aircraft?”
“Minor injuries sustained during escape maneuvers when the crew thought they were under attack, ” Rodgers said. “The RC- 135 refueled inflight and safely recovered at Andersen Air Force Base on Guam. The E-3C AWACS plane and the KC-10 are still on station in the southern Philippine Sea north of Manado between the Philippines and Indonesia; the AWACS plane is keeping an eye on Chinese fighter activity and attempting to locate the two downed aircraft. They have four of the six Tomcat fighters with them for air cover; the other two Tomcats landed in Indonesia with the medevac helicopters. They estimate they can stay on station until daybreak, then they must withdraw for aircraft servicing.” Curtis checked the row of world clocks below the NMCC’s “big board”It was almost two-thirty in the morning Guam time. “I want the AWACS plane back on Guam by sunrise, ” Curtis said. “Have them stay long enough to cover any naval flight operations in progress, but I don’t want any heavy American military aircraft airborne during daylight hours, with or without escorts.” He then thought of Dr. Jon Masters’ satellite system-what the hell did he call them, NIRTSats?-and said, “I want to talk with General Stone on Guam immediately.”
“Yes, sir. Curtis turned to Cunningham. “We got a satellite system up there that can find a Chevy in a parking lot full of Fords, on a cloudy night, from four hundred miles in space-now’s the time to use it.”
“Amen to that, ” Cunningham said. “Sir, the Independence carrier group should be notified of the incident and briefed on their actions. I’d like to set up the two-hundred-mile exclusion zone and put fire-first provisions in the ROEs.” “Two-hundred-mile exclusion zone approved, ” Curtis said. “Fire-first provisions only for aircraft on antiship cruise-missile profiles. Any other actions have to come through the NCA. “Get a full report from Admiral Walheim on Ranger, then brief me ASAP on what we need to send to Manado to assist our troops in Indonesia; I need a laundry list for the State Department. Find out what ships are available to replace Ranger-including submarines. I want to be able to take control of those waters as quickly as I can.” Cunningham turned to his communications console to begin issuing his orders. The orange light on his console illuminated, and Curtis donned a headset and plugged it into the phone jack. “Curtis here.”
