“Your sub was caught in the immediate vicinity, and reports said the PLAN recovered pieces of torpedoes used by your navy,” McLanahan pointed out. “It could be a well-planned ruse — or it could have been an attack by your submarine.”
“Our submarine did not fire on the carrier,” Kuo insisted. “Yes, we were shadowing the carrier, but we did not attack. ”
“Can you prove it?”
“The Communists covered their tracks very effectively by sinking the submarine instead of capturing it,” Kuo said. “We cannot prove our contention — just as it is difficult for you to prove that your frigates were fired upon by underwater-launched rocket torpedoes. The faked attack against your frigates, in which you were involved? Pure genius, if I may say so. Setting off the underwater-launched rocket torpedoes at the same time a passenger ferry cruises near the area, a ferry equipped with radio emitters to make it appear like a warship? The sheer imagination of the plan must be applauded, do you not agree?”
“I agree,” McLanahan said. It was the only possible explanation, and one that he had suspected right from the start. “So this leaves us alone, isolated, and with China holding all the cards. They’ve got the world believing both Taiwan and the United States are trying to provoke a war— and in trying to defend themselves, they seem to be given tacit permission to use nuclear weapons.”
“After Taiwan, the South China Sea and Spratly Islands will fall to the Communists — as you have stated, Colonel, they will be allowed to defend their new conquests with nuclear weapons,” Kuo said grimly. “The entire world will be in danger if the Communists are allowed to control access to the South China Sea.” He paused, looking first at Elliott, then McLanahan. “We were praying for a miracle, that your amazing EB- 52 Megafortresses might be able to come to our defense once again.”
“There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of us getting those planes back into action,” Elliott said. “It would take a small army to move those Navy security policemen. And even then, we’d have no place to take them.”
McLanahan had been quiet for several long moments, but now he was looking at Kuo and Elliott, a glimmer of an idea in his eyes. “We can get them off Guam,” he said.
“You and what army, Muck?” Elliott asked.
“Getting past the marshals and Navy security is the easy part,” McLanahan said with a sly smile. “But if we fly the Megafortresses back to the States, they’ll be ground up into asphalt filler in a matter of days, and we’ll be in front of a federal court judge fighting for own freedom and the survival of our company. We need a base of operations. Sky Masters, Inc., has a support base on Saipan, and he has pretty good connections with the sultan of Brunei, who would probably be happier than hell to have the Megafortresses based in his country.”
“If you are able to get your aircraft off Guam with weapons and support personnel, I have a base you can use,” Ambassador Kuo said proudly. “We have skilled aircraft technicians, a good supply of fuel and ordnance, and very good security.”
“A base on Taiwan?” McLanahan asked. Kuo bowed in assent with great enthusiasm. “With all due respect, sir, Taiwan has been hit pretty hard. It might be too dangerous.”
“It would be, as you might say, the last place anyone would look for your EB-52 Megafortresses,” Ambassador Kuo said with an unabashed grin. “Please, Colonel McLanahan, let me explain…”
The “six-pack” crew truck pulled up to the first hangar on the north side of the aircraft parking apron, and was immediately surrounded by U.S. Marines in green-and-black battle dress uniforms carrying M-16 rifles slung over their shoulders. As Patrick and Wendy McLanahan, Brad Elliott, Nancy Cheshire, and Jon Masters stepped out of the big pickup truck and began unloading their gear, a Navy officer in a clean, neatly pressed white tropical uniform met up with them, accompanied by a security guard wearing black fatigues with “U.S. MARSHAL” in yellow across his chest.
“A little late to be out working, isn’t it, Mr. McLanahan?” the Navy officer asked. He glared at Brad Elliott, obviously surprised to see him up and about. Elliott gave him his best mischievous grin in return.
“Not if we want to depart by tomorrow night,” Patrick replied. The rest of his crew tried to carry their gear past the Marine guards, but were stopped by a raised hand from the Navy officer. Patrick put his bags down at his side. “Is there a problem, Commander Willis?”
U.S. Navy Commander Eldon Willis pointed at the bags of flight gear, and the federal marshal and a Marine guard began searching them. Willis was the commander of security forces at Agana Naval Base on Guam, sent up to Andersen Air Force Base to personally supervise the security on the EB-52 Megafortresses ordered by Admiral George Balboa, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Willis took this assignment very seriously and knew that it might be a path to getting an assignment for the Chief of Naval Operations or even for Balboa. “I didn’t expect you out here tonight, Mr. McLanahan.” He turned to Elliott. “And I certainly did not expect you either, General. I hope you’re feeling better, sir.” He used the words “sir” and “General,” but it was obvious that Willis offered no sign of respect to the retired Air Force three-star.
“Peachy, Willis, just peachy,” Elliott said, with his maddening grin. Willis gave him a sneer along with a slight bow.
In the meantime, the guards finished their inspections. “Tech orders and checklists, Commander,” the marshal reported. “No flying gear.”
The Navy security officer nodded, disappointed that they hadn’t found anything a little more incriminating. “I hope you weren’t planning on running engines tonight,” Willis said.
“That’s precisely what we had in mind,” Patrick said. “We’re going to tow all the planes over to the north apron, then run ’em one by one.”
“The DC-10 tanker too,” Jon Masters said. “We’ll do the final checkout on it tonight, then start loading up tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t advised about any of the planes being towed outside,” Willis said pointedly. “My orders are to not allow any activities that were not approved in advance.”
“What do you think we’re going to do out here, Commander — steal our own planes?” McLanahan asked with a boyish disarming smile. “Look, Commander, either we depart on schedule tomorrow night or my company loses millions when you guys chop up these planes. We’re running a little behind with maintenance glitches. All we need is to run engines for a few minutes. It’s too much of a hassle to clear out the hangars to run engines inside, so it would be better if we could—”
“Denied, Mr. McLanahan,” Willis said sternly. “No clearance, no activity.”
McLanahan stepped a bit closer to Willis and said in a low, somewhat emotional voice, “Hey, Commander, would it kill you to extend a little professional courtesy to me? I am officially retired from the service, despite what you might have heard about me. How long have you been in the Navy?”
“That is hardly the topic of conversation here.”
“I was in for sixteen years,” McLanahan said. “Yes, I took the early out — actually, I was strongly induced to accept it, or else I would have stayed in. I was on the 0–6 list, and I was just a couple months from pinning on. I understand you’ve been selected for 0–6, and you pin on next week?” No reaction from Willis. “That’s great. I wish the Air Force had that frocking policy, pinning on your new rank as soon as you’re selected for promotion. You Navy guys get the best of everything.”