by Dale Brown
“I see two areas of concern for this operation, sir, ” Captain Sun replied. “Both relate to the remote possibility of counterattack from American or ASEAN forces. “First, our close air support and fighter aircraft must launch from Zamboanga Airport-Cotabato Airport is still not secure enough for aircraft operations because of rebel activity. This means our fighters must fly four hundred kilometers one-way to reach Davao Gulf, and almost six hundred kilometers to intercept bombers carrying antiship missiles capable of hitting our warships in Davao Gulf. With the return trip and combat reserves, this leaves almost no loiter time for all our aircraft.”
“Why was a plan not developed to secure the airport at Cotabato?” Yin asked angrily. “It was a major part of our invasion operation. You had several days and plenty of support, Captain-why am I now being told it is not safe to use this airport?”
“Sir, as I mentioned before to you, we depleted the reserve forces of Group Two to dangerous levels during the assault on Cotabato, ” Sun replied. “As you know, we had to abandon our patrols of most of the Sulu Archipelago and create the hundred-kilometer safe zone around Zamboanga to form the invasion fleet for the Cotabato operation. It was barely enough for the job. We have taken the airport at Cotabato, but the staff and I agree that it is not wise to count on using it for the Davao operation. It is suitable as a landing base, and our aircraft recovering there can be refueled, but. . “Can we not rearm our fighters and attack planes there as well?” Sun shook his head reluctantly. “We deemed it too danger ous to ship massive amounts of rockets, bombs, and missiles to Cotabato, sir, ” he replied. “Fuel trucks and bladders make poor targets for guerrillas with mortars or RPGs, but bomb dumps or parked cargo aircraft make convenient and inviting targets. Guerrilla attacks are too frequent “Curse you, I should have been advised of all this sooner!” Yin exploded. He waved his hand irritably at Sun. “Continue, Captain. What other difficulties do you envision?” Sun swallowed hard before continuing: he had previously briefed Admiral Yin on the problems with air cover if Cotabato was not secured, and now he was being blamed for not telling him; he had also briefed Yin on the next topic, and it appeared likely that Yin was going to forget about being advised of this as well. “Sir, with the destroyers moving to the north Davao Gulf and their escorts taking their positions to support the landing, we have decreased our air coverage of the eastern Celebes Sea to a dangerous level, ” Sun said. “What air attacks are you concerned about, Captain?” Yin asked. “The American aircraft carrier is out of position, it cannot launch its strike aircraft, and no other carriers are within range… “The land-based bombers are our biggest threat, sir, ” Sun replied. “The American Air Battle Force has been on the island of Guam ready to strike…”
“The Americans will not use the heavy bombers against us, ” Yin said. “Our intelligence reports stated that the American President did not even want those bombers there. Besides, you reported that the Americans had only a handful of bombers there, less than thirty-is that not so . . ?”
“The count is accurate, sir, ” Sun acknowledged, “but each can carry a number of Harpoon antiship missiles and bombs…”
“They have to get close enough to use them first, ” Yin snapped. “Even one of our small patrol boats can destroy a Harpoon missile in flight. And the closer those bombers come to Davao during the invasion, the more effective our antiaircraft guns become.” Sun paused momentarily. Yin seemed to have an answer for everything. Sun did not dispute his commander’s thoughts, but he was being extraordinarily confident of his own fleet’s power and recklessly unconcerned about the American Air Force’s power. I agree with you, sir, ” Sun said slowly, “but I think it would be wise to augment our air-defense preparations by moving the Hong Lung and some of its antiair-equipped escorts to the eastern Celebes Sea area. That would give us four ships with surface-to-air missiles and four more ships with large-caliber radar-guided antiaircraft guns. Zamboanga is secure-our presence is not needed here.” Yin thought about the suggestion, and he liked it-Sun would make a fine fleet commander one day. The Hong Lung was one of the most powerful ships in the world, well suited for both antiair as well as antiship operations. It was also a very potent weapon for simple show-of-force, but since Yin liked to keep his warships mostly out of sight of the local population, it wasn’t doing much good as a weapon of intimidation in Zamboanga. His shore setups here were in place and operating well-it was time the Hong Lung, the Red Dragon, got back into the fight. “An excellent suggestion, Captain, ” Yin said. “I want one vessel to remain here, positioned so residents of the city can see it clearly; the rest of the Fleet Master will accompany the ong Lung to the battle area. Choose your escorts and alert the fleet: we sail immediately for the eastern Celebes Sea.” Sun looked much more pleased-it was obvious he disagreed with Yin’s estimation of the American air threat-and he owed to acknowledge the order. “If there is nothing else, ublish the orders and proceed.” His flag staff stood, bowed, nd exited the office. Yin was alone in his office for several minutes when his xecutive officer knocked. “Sir, you have a visitor: Philippine resident Daniel Teguina. He is requesting a short meeting with you in private.” Yin had to struggle to maintain his composure. What in hell oes Teguina want with me… ? Since the coup, Teguina had ealt exclusively with the People’s Liberation Army Supreme ommander, High General Chin Po Zihong, on any military atters; otherwise he dealt with Dong Sen Kim, the ambassa dor to the Philippines, or to the Foreign Minister directly. Just a few weeks earlier, Teguina would have gladly kissed Yin’s feet if he had helped him with his coup-now that the coup was completed, Teguina was actually starting to believe the myth about China just assisting Teguina to defeat the “rebels” and save his country. “Tell him I’m too… never mind. I’ll meet him. Have this room cleaned and coffee and pastries served. . . and put his flags back, too, his stupid Aguinaldo flag and the Sulu flag. And make sure our conversation is recorded and the video cameras ar derision if the coup fails. Accompanied by a heavily armed Marine guard, Admiral Yin made his way to the quarterdeck and onto the receiving area. He was kept waiting as several escort vessels made their way toward the Chinese destroyer, under the careful scrutiny of deck-gun crews. An honor guard was quickly assembled, and several crewmen were positioned on the port rail, standing at parade rest, as Teguina’s liaison craft approached. Teguina’s boat was stopped several times and inspected before being allowed to dock at the Hong Lung’s boarding platform, and the new Philippine President started up the stairs. The honor guard snapped to attention, and a broadcast was made on the public address system announcing the arrival of the Philippine President. Yin forced himself to raise a hand to the brim of his cap in salute. Teguina ignored the Chinese colors and Yin’s salute. “I must speak with you immediately, Admiral, ” Teguina said without preamble. “By all means, Mr. President, ” Yin’s interpreter replied. He quickly translated both Teguina’s words and his own hasty reply for the Admiral, and Yin scowled darkly as he followed Teguina through the quarterdeck doors. A few moments later they were in Yin’s flag briefing room. “The Admiral wishes to extend his warmest greeting to the President of the Democratic Federation of Aguinaldo, ” Yin’s interpreter said in English. “The Admiral considers it a great honor that you have come for a visit and wishes to offer you… Teguina started talking, a long, completely unintelligible diatribe. The interpreter tried to tell Yin what the man was saying but was stopped by a sudden outburst of anger as Teguina angrily spit out his words. “He said he wants an explanation of why the Chinese government has made an alliance with Vietnam for the Spratly Islands, ” the interpreter finally said. “He is angry that his country has lost all rights to the Spratly Islands to the Vietnamese.”
“What is he talking about?” Yin asked angrily. “We did not make a deal with Vietnam for anything!”
“Mr. Teguina says that Vietnam abstained in a recent vote of the Association of South East Asian Nations, ” the interpreter said, “and the rumor that was passed to the Agu
inaldo government was that the Chinese government made a deal with Vietnam to give them rights to the Spratly Islands in exchange for blocking a key vote.” Yin was about to rebuff the accusation, but the words died in his throat. That had to be the reason why he had heard the tremendous outcry from the ASEAN nations concerning the Chinese invasion, yet nothing had been done-because two nations, Thailand and Vietnam, abstained. High General Chin Po Zihong must have lost a key argument in Beijing if he allowed the Nansha Dao-what the world called the Spratly Islands-to fall back into Vietnam’s hands… Chin would never have allowed that to happen unless his voice was firmly stilled by Premier Cheung. “I assure you, ” Yin calmly told Teguina, “that our alliance is firm and there is no duplicity involved. The vote to censure us was defeated in ASEAN because the members believe in what we’re doing, not because of any back-room deals, especially with the reprehensible Vietnamese government…” But Teguina didn’t seem to be waiting for the interpreter to finish; he began lashing out more accusations. “He is saying that his alliance is ruined, that the Chinese are out to get him, that he can trust no one… “Calm yourself, Mr. President, ” Yin said via the interpreter. “We will brief you on our preparations for assisting your forces to retake Davao, and we will give you a tour of our flagship. You may even speak to our officers. They will all tell you that they fully support your government in this struggle.” That seemed to mollify Teguina a little, and he allowed himself to be escorted out of Yin’s office to the Battle staff briefing area. But as they were leaving, with Teguina well out of earshot, Yin grabbed Captain Sun and hissed, “Get headquarters’ political section on the line immediately. I want to find out about the ASEAN vote and the status of Nansha Dao. Do it immediately.” THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE SATURDAY, 8 OCTOBER 1994, 0627 HOURS LOCAL The President of the United States had extended his hand to greet United Nations ambassador Deborah O’Day as she walked into the Oval Office, but by some sort of sudden urge he found himself giving her a cordial hug. “Welcome back home, Deborah, ” the President said, guiding her to a chair. Secretary of State Danahall, Secretary of Defense Preston, Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Curtis, and several members of the House and Senate armed services committees stayed on their feet until O’Day was seated, then took their place around her. “You’ve had a hell of an ordeal, haven’t you?” “Dealing with the ASEAN representatives and the Chinese delegation has been tougher than getting kidnapped by Samar’s rebels, ” O’Day admitted. She extended a hand, and her aide placed a leather-jacketed folder into it. “Mr. President, I’ve been given a communique by the Chinese government, a reply to your last message requesting withdrawal from the Philippines. “I take it by your tone that it’s not good news.”
“I haven’t read the letter itself, sir, but the Chinese ambassador was not cordial. I think it’s bad news.” The President took the folder, broke the seal, initialed the original Chinese-language version of the letter and placed it aside, then read the United Nations and State Department translations. “Just as we thought, ” Taylor said wearily. “China rejects our demands for an immediate withdrawal. They say they are in the Philippines with the permission and full sanction of the Philippine government, and the American involvement there is illegal meddling in the internal affairs of another government. They say they do not know the whereabouts of Arturo Mikaso and said we should make inquiries with the Filipino government as to his status, but as far as they are concerned Daniel Teguina is in charge and Jose Trujillo Samar has no authority in the government. “They regret the attacks on our aircraft and warships, but in the current unstable world climate such interference should have been anticipated and therefore we should carry as much of the blame for the loss as they . “Bullshit, ” Curtis murmured. “They further regard the deployment of heavy bombers and carrier battle groups around the Philippines as an extremely hostile act and they will use any and all means at their disposal to protect their citizens and property.” The President tossed the communique aside and regarded the advisers around him. “Well? Thoughts?”
“Samar’s rebels come under attack in less than five hours, sir, ” O’Day said. She glanced at Wilbur Curtis. “Is that right, General?”
“Yes, it is, ” Curtis said. He referred to the pile of mounted satellite photos on the coffee table before him-the photos taken from the B-2 and U-2 reconnaissance flights. “It may have begun already. Chinese warships were in position to bombard Davao by sundown. When their landing craft get into position, they’ll start the invasion.”
“Five hours? So you’re saying it’s too late ~”
“No, sir, I’m not, ” Curtis said. “As we discussed in the tactics briefing, the Chinese troops are most vulnerable while they’re still in their troop transports. They’ve already begun unloading troops along the Buoyan peninsula east of Mount Apo to secure the coastal towns, but the main force still hasn’t landed in Davao yet-Samar’s rebels are mining the straits and inlets, trying to slow the convoys up. We still have time to stop them.” The President nodded to Curtis. “Thank you, General.” To Secretary of Defense Preston, he asked, “Thomas? What do you have for me?”
“Only my wish that we wait and bring the Lincoln and Nimitz carrier battle groups, and the Wisconsin surface action group, forward into position first, ” Preston replied. “But I know if we still desire to support Samar and his Islamic rebels that we must act quickly.” The President seemed to consider his words for a moment. “Thank you.” He continued around the room, getting last thoughts from Danahall and the congressional leadership. A few voiced hesitation, but all seemed to want to act. From the front of his desk, the President withdrew a redcovered folder and opened it. Below large dark letters that read Top Secret were the words Executive Order 94-21, Air Operations, Strike, Island of Mindanao, Republic of the Philippines. Without any further hesitation, the President signed the order and several copies, then replaced it in the folder and resealed it. Wilbur Curtis was on the phone thirty seconds later to the National Military Command Center. ANDERSEN AFB, GUAM SUNDAY, 9 OCTOBER 1994, 1915 HOURS LOCAL (SATURDAY, 8 OCTOBER, 0815 WASHINGTON TIME) Patrick McLanahan awoke thirty minutes before his alarm rang. Two hours before the first daily standby situation briefing-he needed rest, but he knew his mind was not going to let him have any more. His bedroom was a maintenance office on the top floor of hangar building number 509, on Andersen’s expansive north parking ramp, which he shared with his aircraft commander, Major Henry Cobb. Down below them in the huge hangar were two very unusual machines-Patrick’s B-2A Black Knight stealth bomber and an EB-52C Megafortress strategic escort aircraft-the same Megafortress that had “saved” their tails from the F-23 Wildcat fighters during General Jarrel’s training sorties three weeks ago in Powder River Run. The hangar also housed all the other flight, maintenance, and support crews for the HAWC aircraft, as well as a full squadron of heavily armed security police. Careful not to disturb his aircraft commander, Patrick pulled on his flight suit, picked up his socks and boots from their place under his canvas folding cot, and tried to tiptoe out. “Up already, Colonel?” Cobb said from his cot. “Yep. Sorry to wake you.” “You didn’t. I never went to sleep.” Cobb threw off the sheet covering him and swung his feet onto the floor. “Never slept in a hangar before. Don’t think I want to again after this.”
“Amen, ” Patrick said. “The smell really gets you after a while. I started to have… bad dreams.” He wasn’t going to say what those dreams were like or what mission he was flying in his dreams. He got the same dreams every time he was exposed to kerosene-like fumes-a morning long ago and far away… a tiny snow-covered fighter base at Anadyr, Siberia, in the Soviet Union, when he pumped thousands of gallons of kerosene into a B-52 by hand in subzero weather so they could take off again before the Soviet Army found them. David Luger had sacrificed himself to make sure they could escape, driving a fuel truck into a machine gun emplacement-and Patrick relived that horrible moment every night after smelling jet-fuel fumes. He would probably do so for the rest of
his life. Henry Cobb hadn’t heard all the stories about the Old Dog mission-he had of course met all the survivors of that mission, most of whom worked-some called it “exiled”-at the HAWC, and he had seen the first Megafortress itself after Ormack and McLanahan flew it from Alaska back to Dreamland-but he could guess that it was some event in that mission that starred in McLanahan’s bad dreams. Both men quickly washed up in the lavatory down the hall, then returned to their rooms to dress. Despite the warm, muggy afternoon, they donned thin, fire-resistant long underwear and thick padded socks under their flight suits. Under the long underwear were regular cotton briefs and T-shirts. They wore metal military dog tags next to their skin so they wouldn’t rattle or fly loose during ejection. Many crew members laced dog tags into their boots as well, because many times lower body parts survived aerial combat better than upper body parts. They both carried survival knives in ankle sheaths, lightweight composite-bladed knives with both straight and serrated edges, a built-in magnetic compass in the butt cap, and a watertight compartment in the handle that carried waterproof matches, fishing line, sunscreen, a small signal mirror, and a tiny first-aid and survival booklet. In thigh pockets they carried another knife, this one attached to their flight suits by a six-foot-long cord-this knife was a legal switchblade knife with a hook blade for cutting parachute risers. The thigh pocket also contained a vial with earplugs, which were often mistaken by curious nonflyers for suicide pills. They carried no wallets, at least not the same ones they carried normally. Into a specially prepared nylon “sortie” wal- let they placed their military identification cards, some cash, credit cards, and traveler’s checks-these were many times more valuable than the “blood chits” used to buy assistance during earlier wars. During the intelligence briefing before a mission, they would receive “pointee-talkee” native language cards and small escape.and-evasion maps of the area, which both went into the sortie wallet. Just about every pocket in a flight suit contained something, usually personal survival items devised after years of experience. In his ankle pockets, Patrick carried fireproof Nomex flying gloves, extra pencils, and a large plastic Ziplok bag containing a hip flask filled with water and a small vial with water purification tablets. Cobb took a small Bible, a flask of some unidentifiable liquid, and included an unusual multipurpose tool that fit neatly inside his sortie wallet. They packed up their charts, flight manuals, and other documents in a Nomex flying bag, picked up a lightweight nylon flying jacket-which had its own assortment of survival articles in its pocketsand departed. While they were up on the upper-floor “catwalk” in the hangar, they had a good opportunity to look at the EB-52C escort bomber that was in the hangar with their B-2. Unlike the B-2, where there was little activity, the technicians and munitions maintenance crews were swarming around the Megafortress like worker bees in a hive. It had to be the weirdest plane-and the most deadly looking plane-either of them had ever seen. The long, sleek, pointed nose was canted down in taxi position, with the aerodynamically raked windscreens looking Oriental and menacing. The dorsal SAR synthetic aperture radar radome, which ran from just aft of the crew compartment and ended in a neat fairing that blended back into the fuselage and the diagonal stabilators near the aft end, made the Megafortress seem broad-shouldered and evil, like some warlock’s hunchbacked assistant. The pointed aerodynamic tip tanks, two on each wingtip, looked like twin stilettos challenging all corners, like lowered lances held by charging knights on horseback. Short low-drag pylons mounted between the inboard engine nacelles and the ebony fuselage on each side held six AIM-I 20 Scorpion air-to-air missiles, their red ground-safety streamers still visible. Faired under the wings were sensor pods that contained laser target designators, infrared scanners, telescopic cameras for long-range air-target identification, and millimeter-wave radars to scan for large metallic objects hidden by trees or fog that normally could not be picked up by other sensors, such as tanks and armored vehicles. This was one of the older Megafortress escort bombers-it still had the older, conventional metal wings that drooped so far down that the wingtips were only a few feet above the ground and had to be supported by pogo wheels. The new Megafortress wings were made of composite materials and wouldn’t sag one inch, even fully loaded with fuel and weapons. Other weapons were just being uploaded, and Henry Cobb, who had had little experience with the Megafortress project, could only shake his head in amazement. The forward section of the bomb bay contained two four-round clip-in racks that held AGM-136 TACIT RAINBOW antiradar cruise missiles. The aft bomb bay contained a Common Strategy Rotary Launcher filled with smooth, oblong-bodied missiles-eight TV-guided AGM-84E SLAMs, or Standoff Land Attack Missiles. “Looks like the Megafortresses are getting loaded for bear, ” Cobb remarked. They could also see the loading procedures for the Stinger airmine rockets in the tail launcher. Watching this Megafortress getting ready for combat made McLanahan feel strange-a crashing wave of deja vu was descending on him. The hangar in a remote location, the weapons loaded and ready, the plane fueled and ready to go-it was horribly like the last time he had taken a B-52 into combat all those years ago. But that wasn’t his bird now. He had a new one, a bigger, darker, more lethal one-the B-2 Black Knight, modified like the EB-52 to be a strategic escort bomber. All of the B-2’s weapons were internal, and the sophisticated sensors were buried within the wing leading edges or in the sensor bay in the nose under the crew compartment. The reconnaissance pods were gone, to be replaced by rotary launchers that would carry much more lethal warloads than cameras and radars. The B-2’s ground crew had just arrived for the pre-takeoff inspection, and since the two crewmen were awake at least an hour before they intended, they had time to look over their Black Knight before reporting to the briefing room. They found little changed. The maintenance crews were going through a normal pre-flight as if the plane were going on another training sortie-they were less than four hours from takeoff and no weapons had been uploaded yet. “Where are the missiles?” Cobb asked McLanahan. “I thought we were loading up on Harpoons or SLAMs for this run. “Won’t know what we’ll be doing for at least another two hours yet, ” Patrick replied. “We don’t know yet if we’re going after ships, or radars, or ground targets-it could be anything. Once the Joint Battle Staff decides, it’ll take them just a few minutes to snap those launchers and bomb racks in and do a ground check. They can probably do it while other planes are launching.” They completed a casual walkaround inspection, chatting with the maintenance crews along the way. It was apparent that each and every one of them was just as apprehensive, just as nervous, just as concerned for what was happening on Andersen Air Force Base and in the rest of the Pacific as Cobb and McLanahan. One of the munitions maintenance men stopped inspecting a SLAM missile seeker head when McLanahan greeted him. “Think we’ll be flying tonight, sir?” the man asked. The “we” was not just a demonstrative-ground crews were just as emotionally and professionally tied to their aircraft as the flight crews. When McLanahan’s B-2 rolled down the runway, a hundred other minds and hearts were right in there with him. “Wish I could tell you, Paul, ” Patrick said. “They tell us to be ready, that’s all.” The man stepped closer to McLanahan, as if afraid to ask the question that had obviously been nagging at his consciousness: “Are you scared, sir?” he asked in a low voice. Patrick looked back at the man with a touch of astonishment at the question. Before he could reply, however, some other technician had pulled the man away. “That’s McLanahan, you butthead. He’s the best there is, ” Patrick heard the second tech tell him. “He’s too good to get scared.” None of the other crew chiefs dared to speak with the two aviators. Cobb and McLanahan finished their inspection, checked in with the security guard, who inspected their bags before allowing them to leave, and then the two B-2 crew members stepped out of the hangar into the twilight. Unlike the controlled, calm tension inside hangar 509, outside it was sheer bedlam. The ramp space in front of the hangars was the only clear space as far as either man could see-the rest of the base was filled with aircraft of ever
y possible description, and the access roads and taxiways were clogged with maintenance and support vehicles. The north ramp to their far right was choked full of cargo aircraft-C-141 Starlifters, C-5 Galaxys, and C-130 Hercules planes, all surrounded by cargo-handling equipment offloading their precious pallets of spare parts, personnel, weapons, and other supplies. Like a line of ants along a crack in a sidewalk, there was a steady stream of forklift trucks, tractor-trailers, flatbed trucks, and “mules” carrying supplies from the aircraft to the inspection and distribution warehouses. Every few minutes, another cargo plane would arrive on one of the Andersen AFB’s twin parallel runways, taxi off to a waiting area, then be met by a “Follow-Me” truck which would direct it to another parking spot. Empty cargo planes that had crews with duty day hours remaining went to a refueling pit on the south side of the base and were immediately marshaled to the end of the runway for takeoff; planes that were not due to take off until later were directed to waiting areas along the northeast side of the base, at the edge of the steep cliffs of Pati Point. West of the north ramp, near the north end of the east runway, were the parking spots for the aerial refueling tankers. These were perhaps the most important aircraft on Guam. The KC-135 Stratotanker, KC-10 Extender, and KC-130 Hercules tankers provided the only means for most of the Air Battle Force’s aircraft to conduct strike operations from Guam-indeed, most of the aircraft there could not have arrived without the tankers supplying them fuel. Tankers were airborne almost continually in support of flight operations, and several tankers were on “strip alert” status to respond to emergency requests of fuel. The tankers also acted as cargo aircraft themselves-one KC-10 tanker could deploy all of the support personnel, equipment, and spare parts for six F-16 fighters from Hawaii to Guam, and refuel those six planes, all on the same trip. Directly ahead of the hangars were the parking spots for the air-defense fighters. Only half of the Air Battle Force’s twenty F- 155 and fifteen F- 1 6s were parked there, because the rest were either flying escort missions with the “ferret” bombers or were on air-defense alert on the south parking apron. Four F-15s and six F-16s were fueled, armed, and ready to respond should the Chinese attempt an air raid on Andersen Air Force Base itself. The complement included four F-23 Advance Tactical Fighters, deployed for the first time out of the fifty states. A few of the F- 145 stranded from the stricken aircraft carrier USS Ranger were also parked there. Each fighter carried relatively few weapons, only two radar guided and two heat-seeking missiles total: the most prominent store on each fighter was the huge seven-hundred-gallon centerline fuel tank. When flying from Guam, where alternate landing bases were hundreds of miles apart, fuel was a very precious commodity. The incredible offensive power of these fighters was severely limited by fuel availability-if one aerial refueling tanker failed to launch or could not transfer fuel, it could take dozens of fighters out of the battle. Cobb and McLanahan waited near a group of soldiers until a civilian contractor-hired “Guam Bomb” jeepney bus, its body rusting and its broken leaf springs squeaking with every movement, trundled by, then stepped on board-the bus was so full it looked as if the fat native Chamorro driver had to sit sideways to let riders on. The sea of men and machines on Guam was simply amazing-it seemed every patch of sandy lawn, every square foot of concrete or asphalt, every empty space was occupied by a vehicle or aircraft. Lines were everywhere-lines to the chow hall, lines to maintenance or radio trucks, lines in front of water trucks. Traffic crisscrossed the streets and access roads, ignoring security-police whistles and traffic guards-being a pedestrian on the flight line was a definite health risk. The cloying, stupefying smells of burning jet fuel, hydraulic fluid, sweat, mildew-and, yes, fear-were everywhere. The noise was deafening and inescapable-even with earplugs or ear protectors, the screams of jet engines, auxiliary power carts, honking horns, yelling men and women, and public address speakers could not be reduced. The bus had no windows, so those without ear protectors stuck fingers in their ears to blot out the din of the parking ramp. McLanahan had never felt so insignificant. He had participated in lots of aircraft generation exercises, when his unit’s fleet of bombers and tankers was fueled and armed in preparation for a strategic war, but this was at least twenty times greater in magnitude than he had ever seen before. Even during Air Battle Force generation exercises at Ellsworth Air Force Base-which, even in these few days since arriving on Guam, seemed a billion miles away and years ago-things seemed to go in a smooth, orderly fashion: here, it was like some kind of controlled riot, or like the world’s largest exhibition hall with thousands of participants milling around from building to aircraft and back again. Parked south of the air-defense fighters and on the other side of base operations were the support aircraft. They had one E-3C Sentry Airborne Warning and Control System radar plane, one EC- 1 35L radio relay plane, and one Rc- 1 35X reconnaissance plane parked there; an E-3 and another EC135 were already airborne, participating in intelligence and “ferret” flights near the Philippines-obviously Masters’ NIRTSats were still down. There were also three EF-1 11A Raven electronic countermeasure aircraft, two Navy EA-6 electronic warfare aircraft, another U-2R spy plane like the one that was shot down near the Philippines, and a Navy E-2 Hawkeye radar plane from the Ranger. A few small “liaison” jets and supply helicopters were parked in front of base operations-these were fast transport jets that flitted all across the Mariana Islands, carrying urgent supplies or staff officers from base to base. On the other side of the support planes was the “Christmas tree” parking area for the alert fighters and tankers, situated so they could quickly and easily take off in case of emergency. Barely visible across and in between the runways were the parking areas for the strike aircraft, surrounded by twelvefoot-high corrugated steel revetments to protect each other from damage should a bomb go off on one parking area. The smaller fighter-bombers-the F- 1 5E Strike Eagles, the F-4 Phantoms, and the F-1 1 1G bombers, along with a few Navy A-6 Intruder bombers, were in the infield parking spots between the parallel runways, while the “heavies”-the B-52, B- 1, and B-2 bombers-were on the west parking areas. Construction crews had built huge shelters for the three B-2 Black Knights to protect them as much as possible, not only from the elements-with their nonmetallic composite construction, the B-2s were more resilient to the harsh tropical climate and corroding effects of salt air than the other planesbut from the prying eyes of spy satellites and newsmen. Although the B-2 had been operational for some years and was no longer the oddity it first was when it was unveiled in 1989, it still attracted a lot of undue attention. Just beyond the aircraft parking areas to the west, McLanahan could just barely make out the Patriot air-defense-missile canisters poking just above the treeline, already erected and ready to fire in case of an air attack. Air defense of Andersen, as well as the Seventh Fleet combat groups, Okinawa, and the other island bases supporting the Philippines operation, was a very important consideration. The primary concern was attack from submarine-launched weapons. The Chinese Navy operated six Wuhan-class cruisemissile submarines that fired antiship missiles with ranges varying from twenty to one hundred nautical miles; these missiles were thought to have a secondary land-attack role by programming the missile’s autopilot to impact a selected set of geographical coordinates. Navy and Air Force radar planes were used to scan the skies around Andersen for any low-flying aircraft, while Navy ships and antisubmarine aircraft patrolled for signs of submarines. The Patriot missile was somewhat effective against low-flying cruise missiles, and even the F-16 fighters with their AIM-120C Scorpion missiles were fairly effective at chasing down subsonic cruise missiles. China also possessed four sea-launched ballistic nuclear missile submarines, all of which had been deployed into the Pacific and were thought to be a threat to all American forces. These submarines were being located and shadowed as best as could be expected-the diesel-powered submarines were hundreds of times quieter submerged than their nuclear-powered counterparts-but the feeling was that if the fight escalated to a nuclear exchange, the weapons being used in t
his battle would be quickly supplanted by the full strategic nuclear might of the United States anyway. The two B-2 crew members edged their way through the crush of bodies off the jeepney at the headquarters building and stepped inside, feeling the uncomfortable chill as the building’s heavy-duty air conditioning instantly turned the thin layer of sweat over their bodies to ice. McLanahan went immediately to the command post, waiting patiently as his ID was checked by the security guards and a metal detector was swept over his body-he had to unstrap his survival knife and keep it with the guards. He went and checked in at the room where the PACER SKY satellite system had been installed. “Patrick?” a surprised General Brad Elliott asked as the young navigator-bombardier walked in. Elliott checked his watch. “You’re early-about an hour and a half early.” The veteran aviator looked at McLanahan’s hardened, concerned, somewhat distracted eyes. “Couldn’t sleep, eh?” Patrick shook his head. “Henry either.”
