Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (45 page)

 
          
“Point
Charlie... now,” the copilot said, resting his hand on the gear handle.
“Glideslope alive.” When the glideslope needle on the HSI reached five degrees
above center, Shen ordered the copilot to lower the landing gear. “Gear down,”
the copilot repeated, as he put the handle down. A red light in the handle
illuminated, meaning the gear was unlocked, and the three gear-position
indicators moved from up to black and white stripes, indicating the gear was in
an intermediate position. “Gear moving ...” One by one the gear indicators
showed down, and seconds later the red light in the gear handle went out.
“Three down and locked, red light out,” the copilot said. He reached over and
moved an indicator bug on the altimeter. “Decision height, two-forty.”

 
          
“Roger,”
Shen said. He lowered the nose, reduced power, and transitioned smoothly onto
the glideslope. There was a pretty good crosswind from the west, and Shen
banked left to center the localizer needle.

 
          
“Transport
One-Five, contact tower,” they heard on the radio. Right on time. The
transmission was a bit scratchy—a storm was brewing, Shen thought, a big
thunderstorm. Hopefully they’d be on the ground well before it reached the
airfield.

 
          
“One-Five
going to tower,” the copilot acknowledged, then switched channels and
announced, “Matsu Tower, Transport One-Five point Charlie inbound on the ILS.”

 
          
There
was a scratchy, barely readable “Roger, One-Five,” then a garbled “Clear to
land,” and the copilot acknowledged the clearance and reported the clearance to
Shen as he set up the ground control frequency. The ground spotters had issued
the landing clearance early, considering the cloud cover—maybe it wasn’t as
thick as it looked from up here, Shen thought.

 
          
Needles
centered perfectly, airspeed right on the dot—this approach was going well. A
bit more crosswind correction, left wing down... “Two thousand to go,” the
copilot said.

 
          
“Engines
look good,” the engineer, sitting behind the copilot, said. He looked at the
forward instrument panel, triple-checking the indications prior to landing.
“Gear, flaps, lights, all check.” He made a quick announcement on intercom to
the passengers in the back, ordering them to check that their seat belts were
on. “Before-landing check complete.”

           
Bit more left—there, needles
centered again, right on the glideslope. The Doppler was not locked on—it
commonly did not lock on over water—but even without it he knew he had some
pretty hellacious west winds. No sweat, he could handle it.

 
          
“One
thousand above,” the copilot said.

 
          
“Doppler’s
OTL,” the flight engineer said, meaning “out to lunch,” “mag compass . . . it’s
OTL too.” The flight engineer quickly checked the engine and flight systems,
looking for any sign of trouble.

 
          
“Looking
good, a little hot,” the copilot said. Shen was right on the glideslope, so he
pulled the throttles back slightly to get back on the proper airspeed. That
should be his last correction, he reminded himself—any more corrections this
close to the airfield and he’d be “chasing” the ILS needles, which would
porpoise him all over the sky. Nice, easy, small corrections from here on out.
“Five hundred to decision height.”

 
          
Shen
completed another scan, ran his eyes over the engine instruments—all OK, all
needles pointing in roughly the same direction—then back to the HSI—right on
the glidepath—then quickly up to the mag compass above the center of the
windscreen . . .

 
          
.
. . and it read sixty degrees differently than the inbound course to Matsu
Airport. A sharp thrill of panic clutched at Shen’s throat. The ILS needles
were perfectly centered, the DME (Distance Measuring Equipment) put them at the
proper position on the approach—but they were sixty degrees off course! If the
ILS was wrong and the gyro and mag compasses were correct, they were far, far
off course—into Red China’s airspace. “What in hell’s going on with the heading?”
Shen shouted. “I’m centered up, but the compass says we’re way west.”

 
          
“My
VOR’s centered up, too,” the copilot said. He quickly punched the buttons on
the audio panel. “I’ve got good idents on the ILS, VOR, and NDB. DME’s okay
...”

 
          
“Electrical
and vacuum systems okay,” the engineer said.

 
          
“The
tower’s got us, they cleared us for landing—if we were off course, they’d have
said something,” the copilot said. “The gyros must be screwed up.”

 
          
“But
the gyro compass and mag compasses are both reading the same,” Shen shouted,
the fear rising in his voice. He suddenly jammed the throttles to full power
and raised the nose, trying to stop the descent on the “glideslope.”

           
“Damn it, we’ve been MIJIed!” MIJI
stood for Meaconing, Interference, Jamming, and Intrusion, a common enemy
tactic to disrupt communications or air traffic by playing havoc with radios
and radar signals; oftentimes it was done just to confuse, but sometimes it was
done to force a pilot into unintentionally violating enemy airspace. On the
radio, Shen said excitedly, “Matsu Tower, Transport One-Five, executing missed
approach procedures, proceeding to holding point Tango, acknowledge.” No
response. “Matsu Tower, Transport One-Five, how do you copy? We are executing
missed approach. We suspect enemy MlJIing in effect. Acknowledge! ”

 
          
“Transport
One-Five, Matsu Tower, cancel missed approach, we have you on the glidepath.
You are cleared to land, winds three-three- zero at seven knots, if you can
hear me, ident, please.”

 
          
The
copilot automatically hit his
ident
button,
which would electronically draw a highlight box around the data block for his
aircraft on the tower controller’s radarscope. “Matsu Tower, Transport One-Five
is executing a security missed approach, we are in the turn, acknowledge, over!
” The radio was still scratchy, as if they were still a long distance away from
the base . . .

 
          
.
. . and seconds later, the C-130 popped through the clouds—and the windscreen
was filled with the lights of the city of Lang-Ch’i, just a few miles ahead,
and farther ahead on the horizon was the mass of lights of the city of Fu-Chou,
less than twenty miles away. Shen realized they were well within Chinese
airspace—they were practically over Chinese soil!

 
          
“Transport
One-Five, ident received,” the voice said. “Continue inbound, do not turn. Be
advised, still clear to land. Acknowledge with an ident.”

 
          
The
copilot was about to automatically hit the
ident
button again, but Shen hit his hand away. “Don’t touch that! Something is
not right,” he said. “Set
emer
in
the IFF, get on
guard
channel, and
notify someone that we are being MlJIed. We’re flying over Chinese airspace! ”
“What in God’s name is happening?” the copilot breathed, as Shen started a
steep right bank turn to the east.

           
“I do not know,” Shen said. “We can
do nothing but the proper procedures. We shall go to point Tango and attempt
to—”

 
          
Suddenly
the entire aircraft shuddered and dropped several feet, as if it had hit a
sudden wave of turbulence, sharp and hard enough to disengage the autopilot. “I
have the aircraft!” Shen shouted, grasping the control yoke and rolling
wings-level. “Check instruments! ”

 
          
The
engineer quickly scanned the engine instruments. “All systems okay,” he
responded.

 
          
“Everything
looks okay,” the copilot agreed. “Clear to reengage the autopilot.”

 
          
“I
will hand-fly it,” Shen said, “until we get everything straightened out. I will
fly the mag compass until we get everything sorted out. Get on squadron common
channel and—”

 
          
“Hey!
” the copilot shouted. He pointed out the windscreen in horror, then looked at
his pilot. “Is that... is that Matsu?”

 
          
Shen
stopped and stared out the window; his copilot followed his gaze, then gaped in
amazement as well. Half of the island seemed to be on fire. Smoke billowed from
hundreds of burning buildings, the northern half of the island was completely
obscured in black smoke—even the ocean seemed to be on fire. “What is it?
What’s happened?”

 
          
“They
are attacking,” Shen said woodenly. “The Communists ... this entire thing was a
diversion. The Communists must’ve launched a rocket attack on the island,
thinking that we were attacking them! Gear up! Let’s head back to Sungshan,
fast! ”

 
          
The
radios were a completely indecipherable babble of voices, so the crew forgot
about reporting their position and prayed that their coded transponder would
still be showing to Taiwanese air defense forces while they turned away from
Matsu. Everyone on the flight deck was riveted to the left-side cockpit windows
as they turned eastbound away from the air base. “Fighters are airborne,” Shen
said. “At least we have fighter coverage. We should ...” And then he froze, his
mouth turning dust-dry: “Those are not Taiwanese fighters! Those are Communist
fighter planes! ” Soon, those fighters were swarming over the C-130, and
moments later it was sent crashing down into the sea.

 
          
It
turned out to be a very well-coordinated attack—a missile bombardment from
shore-based batteries from Lang-Ch’i Army Base on the mainland, followed
moments later by a wave of fighter-bombers from Yixu Air Base. Captain Shen,
his crew, and his aircraft were only a small part of the casualties of the
Chinese attack on the entire Matsu island chain. Within hours, the Matsu
Islands were completely defenseless.

 
          
NEAR QUEMOY ISLAND, OFF THE COAST OF
MAINLAND CHINA THURSDAY, 19 JUNE 1997, 0800 HOURS LOCAL (WEDNESDAY, 18 JUNE,
2000 HOURS ET)

           
“Headbanger Two reporting on
station,” Nancy Cheshire radioed on the secure satellite net.

 
          
“James Daniel
copies, Headbanger,” came
the reply. Just ten miles north of the EB-52 Megafortress, flying 15,000 feet
above the Formosa Strait, was a small task force of two American Oliver Hazard
Perry-class guided missile frigates, the
Duncan,
a Naval Reserve Fleet ship with eighty Naval Reservists on board, and the lead
vessel in this task force, the
James
Daniel;
they had been moved into the area of the recent skirmish between
the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy and the Quemoy flotilla of the
Republic of Chinas navy. The American task forces nominal orders was to stand
by and render any possible assistance if requested by both China and Taiwan, as
salvage and recovery vessels from their respective countries tried to recover
whatever was left of their stricken vessels; their actual mission was to show
the American flag and try to prevent a re-eruption of hostilities between the
two Chinas. But even though there was very little rescue or recovery work being
done by anyone, the frigates—and now the EB-52 Megafortress—were on patrol,
ready for action.

 
          
The
crew of the Megafortress was very quiet, except for the intense but hushed
coaching going on in the back of the crew cabin. Extra seats had been bolted
into the deck beside the offensive and defensive operator’s consoles, and
Patrick McLanahan and the crew DSO, Megafortress veteran Air Force officer
Major Robert Atkins, were seated in the jump seats giving instruction on using
the sophisticated electronic attack, surveillance, and defensive systems to
newcomers Air Force Captain Jeff Denton in the OSO’s seat, and Navy Lieutenant
Ashley Bruno in the DSO’s seat.

 
          
“There—is
that Xiamen’s long-range surveillance radar?” Bruno asked, pointing at the
large threat display.

 
          
“Don’t
ask me—ask the computer,” Atkins said, acting his part as the patient but demanding
instructor. “You’ve got a full-up system, so use it.” Atkins had joined the
Megafortress program almost at its inception, recruited from the handful of
4.0-grade-point-average-or-better
Air
Force
Academy
graduates who had also graduated high in
their Undergraduate Pilot Training classes. Atkins was the best of the best—a
straight-A student in electrical engineering from the Zoo, in the top 20
percent of his UPT class, who had managed to earn a master’s degree in business
administration while a FAIP (First Assignment Instructor Pilot). He had been
recruited personally by Wendy Tork McLanahan, the director of the
Megafortress’s advanced electronic warfare suite design team at HAWC, and he
had remained there for several years, refining the high-tech electronic
detection, analysis, countermeasure, and counterattack systems on the
Megafortress “flying battleship.”