Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 (52 page)

           
“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 sonofa- bitch 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, dammit . . .”

           
“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
Fife
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 ultratight electronic and
physical security, several huge wall-size, full- color 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 highest-ranking 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 meeting 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 crisis. 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 NMCC— but to his surprise,
Cesare was acting rather stunned, and not just from the news he had just heard.
“Um ... 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.”

           
“Uh . . . 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 clearance—and 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
Fife
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 Hawk- eye,” Rodgers replied. “Weapons include total of four
Phoenix
missiles, fifteen Sparrow missiles, ten
Sidewinder missiles, and full ammunition loads.”