“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 red-covered 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.
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” wallet 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 pockets — and departed.