Power Curve (12 page)

“What do you mean by ‘what’s left of our credibility’?” Turner asked.

Kennett stood and walked to the window. “Most nations believe we are retreating into isolationism, concerned with domestic issues at the expense of our international obligations.” He paused for effect. “And I agree.”

The boy has a terminal case of stupids
, Shaw thought.
Maddy won’t stand for that kind of talk. He’ll talk himself right into a hangin
’.

“What do you suggest I do?” Turner asked. The tone
of her voice was flat and noncommittal, totally devoid of emotion.

“Take the Beijing Pact away from the Chinese,” Kennett replied, “and scare the hell out of South Korea.”

“Easily said,” Shaw mumbled.

A smile flickered across Kennett’s mouth. “When you’re losing—leak. First, date and release Murchison’s and Rawlings’s letters of resignation. Then leak the ‘real’ reason, the Beijing Pact, to the press. But do it quick, in time for the evening news. If we do it soon enough,
60 Minutes
might even have time to jump on it.”

“Too obvious,” Shaw said. “It’ll backfire in our faces.”

Kennett shook his head. “Not if I know Murchison. He’ll try to justify the role he played in the agreement, claiming it was a significant step toward world peace and security, the high point of Roberts’s short administration. No reporter will take that at face value and will figure Murchison is trying to make himself look good. So when some reporter comes to us for verification, we tell the truth. We found out about the pact long after the fact—too late to do anything about it. The reporter figures that Murchison is using the press to save what’s left of his reputation, and we end up looking like the good guys. Meanwhile, the CIA slips the South Koreans a copy of the Beijing Pact. They won’t be too hot to sign on the dotted line when they see China is slicing them off like Taiwan.”

Shaw begrudgingly admitted he was in the presence of a master. He laughed. “And we Mau-Mau the Chinese.”

“You’ll need more than that to discourage the Chinese,” Bender said. They all looked at him. “The Chinese practice
Realpolitik
with a vengeance. Everything they do is based on calculations of power and national interest. Right now they believe we are a paper tiger, so why should they change direction when all we do is talk? We need to send them a message that we mean business.”

“And how do you suggest I do that, Robert?” Turner asked.

Well, well, Mr. General
, Shaw thought.
You stepped in it this time
.

“Talk to Dr. Elkins and General Overmeyer about your military options,” Bender answered.

“Such as?” Turner asked.

“You can increase the state and stage of alert on the Pacific Rim,” Bender replied. “Or you can increase the DEFCON here. Or start joint military exercises with Japan.”

“Thank you, Robert,” Turner said. “That will be all.” The room was silent until he left. “Whose line were we hearing there?” she asked.

“Probably Overmeyer’s,” Shaw told her. “The chairman hates you and thinks you haven’t got a clue.”

“Really?” Turner replied, her anger flaring. Then it was gone. “Well, I have a clue for him. There is no way that I will take this country into a war over this issue.”

“Madam President,” Kennett said, “I agree with General Bender and think you should explore all available options. But do it through the NSC. The secretary of defense is a member and Overmeyer is an advisor. They will be heard.” It was time for the meeting with the National Security Council.

“Patrick,” Turner said, “find a reporter—one who is not known as being friendly.”

“I’ve got just the one,” Shaw assured her. He escorted Turner and Kennett to the Cabinet Room where the NSC was meeting. Then he ambled back to his office.
Liz Gordon will be most appreciative
, he thought.
And yes indeed, Mr. General Robert Bender is going to learn about fucking with old Patrick
. It was going to be a good Sunday after all.

Okinawa, Japan

B
rigadier General David Martini glared at the message, then at Lieutenant Colonel Peter Townly, the chief of his Intelligence section. “I’m getting sick and tired of these messages, Pete. Especially at oh-dark-thirty early Monday morning.”

“It’s not my fault,” Townly declared. “I just decode them.”

“So why do they want us”—Martini read from the message—“to ‘immediately commence an unannounced wartime readiness exercise to last five days’? What the hell is going on?”

“Best guess? For some reason, the NMCC”—National Military Command Center—“wants to send a message to the Chinese. We’re the messenger.”

Martini smothered what he really wanted to say about sending messages. “Why the Chinese?”

Townly thought for a moment. “Why the secrecy and the backdoor communications? Tasking for an exercise should have come out of Headquarters PACAF”—Pacific Air Forces—“at Hickam. Look at the addresses on the message. Besides CINC PACAF and CINC PAC, you’re the only other recipient. Sorry, General, but the NMCC wants us to get someone’s attention. And the only someone I can think of are the Chinese.”

“According to the DIA’s latest Intel summary,” Martini said, “all is sweetness and light with the Chinese.”

“That was the official line, sir. Have you seen the Sunday news from the States?” Martini had but said nothing. “Well,” the lieutenant colonel explained, “Liz Gordon on CNC broke the story about the sellout of Taiwan. Needless to say, the press has gone into a feeding frenzy. I think this is all related.”

Martini was far from being slow and had come to the same conclusion for the same reasons long before Townly. But at four o’clock in the morning, he wanted confirmation that his brain was awake. He worked the problem. Whatever message Washington wanted to send to the Chinese, it was very low key and guaranteed not to upset them. “What do you think of this so-called message we’re supposed to be sending, Pete?” Now he was testing his intelligence officer, getting his measure.

“One wing in the forward area conducting an unannounced wartime readiness exercise? Not much, sir.”

Martini humphed and reread the decoded message. “Well, this is about as official as marching orders can get.” He walked out of the Intelligence vault and into the command post, which was in the same building. He made his way to the Control Cab overlooking the main floor. “This is an exercise,” he told the on-duty controller. “Condition Scarlet has just been declared.” The controller gulped. Condition Scarlet meant an attack was expected within six hours. She turned to the communications console in front of her and started the alert.

Between telephone calls, she said, “I’ll have to notify PACAF when the exercise started.”

Martini glanced at the master clock on the wall. “Make it fifteen minutes ago, 0400 local time. We’re already behind the power curve.” He stomped out of the command post because there was little he could do until the battle staff reported in.

“Thanks a bunch, General,” the controller muttered.

Outside, Martini headed for the Security Police shack to see if his cops could meet their post out and have the base fully guarded within ninety minutes. A chief master sergeant was already on duty when he arrived, and the
police were streaming through the armory, checking out their weapons. They were off to a good start. His next stop was Munitions. The first dollies with Mark-82 500-pound bombs and AIM-9 air-to-air missiles were already moving toward the flight line for a weapons loadout.

He drove slowly down the flight line, past the hardened shelters that housed his F-15Es. Not too much action yet, but he could sense the building momentum. He stopped and got out of his staff car when he saw Master Sergeant Ralph Contreraz. “How’s it going?” he asked.

Contreraz didn’t immediately answer. “I’ll have six of my jets uploaded and ready to launch in three hours. We should be able to generate six more aircraft two hours later. We’ll need another three hours to generate the last six. The other two are down for maintenance.” Martini grunted, not totally satisfied with the answer. But he knew Contreraz was giving him a rock hard commitment. “My people live all over the island,” Contreraz explained. “It takes time for them all to get here.”

Martini’s personal radio squawked at him. He was needed in the command post. “Make it happen,” Martini told Contreraz. He drove to the command post, which was now alive with people arriving in various states of sleep.

The major in charge of the command post met him at the entry point. “Sir, you’ve got a call from CINC PACAF on the secure line. I’ve chased everyone out of the Battle Cab, and you can take it in there.” The Battle Cab was the glassed-in commanders booth overlooking the main floor of the command post opposite the Control Cab.

Martini sat down and took a deep breath before turning the key to the secure telephone to activate its encryption circuits. CINC PACAF, the commander in chief of Pacific Air Forces, was his immediate boss and responsible for the air arm of U.S. Pacific Unified Defense Command. “Martini here,” he said.

The tinny distortion of the secure telephone did little to modify the anger of the four-star general on the other end. “Mafia, I just came out of a meeting with CINC PAC.” CINC PAC was the admiral in command of Pacific Unified Defense Command and CINC PACAF’s boss. “The Chinese and South Koreans are getting ready to sign a mutual
defense treaty today and want to embarrass the White House.”

“That won’t be hard to do,” Martini replied.

The general ignored him. “We need to send them a message to cease and desist that type of crap. But the only overt response we’re allowed to make is your readiness exercise. The president doesn’t want to ‘antagonize the Chinese and make the situation worse.’ She’s going to pursue it through the State Department.”

“That will impress the Chinese,” Martini said.

“In a pig’s ass. I want you to pull out all the stops on this exercise. Stir up the locals, get the media looking at you. Let the Chinese know we’re still out there and looking at them.”

“And I’m to do all this in five days?”

“Give it your best shot.” The line went dead. Martini had his unofficial marching orders.

Lieutenant Colonel Pete Townly saw him lay down the phone and stuck his head through the Battle Cab’s door. “Going for broke on the exercise?”

Martini glared at the Intelligence officer. “Townly, go do something productive and quit harassing my ass.”
I’m going to have to get that son of a bitch promoted
, he thought.

Laurie Bender was feeling grubby and hadn’t taken a shower in three days. Her pilot, Chris Leland, had a distinct aroma about him, and she suspected that she was fairly ripe herself. “When are they gonna let up?” Chris moaned.

“The rumor mill says today is the last day of the exercise,” she replied. Martini had deliberately spread the rumor as he escalated the exercise to its climax.

“God, I hope so. Can you believe it? Living in a hardened shelter with an F-15? If I ever see another MRE, I’ll puke.” An MRE, meal ready to eat, was the replacement for the old C-ration and lived up to its reputation as “meal rejected by Ethiopians.”

Laurie wandered over to the big blast doors that had been rolled back for the fuel truck that was refueling their jet. The sound of gunfire echoed down the ramp. “Intrud
ers!” Laurie shouted. They had been through this exercise before. She helped the pumper disconnect the fuel hose while Chris ran for the door controls. The gunfire was drawing closer. A shadowy figure darted behind the aircraft bunker across from them. It was a sergeant from the Japanese Self-Defense Force base at Naha on the southern end of the island. The Japanese had entered the exercise on day 2 and had thrown a series of intruders at the base, adding to the realism of the exercise and testing the base’s defenses.

The pumper drove the truck into the bunker as the big doors slowly rolled closed. Just before they were sealed in, a blue hand grenade rolled through the gap. Laurie threw herself on the dummy grenade. “Ka-blooie!” she shouted. She looked up, smiling. “I’m dead.”

A sharp rap at the entrance door on the left side of the shelter echoed through the revetment. “Exercise team!” a voice shouted. Chris opened the door and two umpires, an American captain and a Japanese lieutenant, stepped through. Martini was right behind them. He was haggard with fatigue.

“Status,” Martini snapped.

“Captain Bender threw herself on the grenade,” Chris told him.

The two umpires conferred and decided that she had saved the other personnel in the shelter and the aircraft from damage. But she was dead. “Great,” Laurie said, thinking about the shower that was waiting for her.

Martini picked up the blue practice grenade. “It looks like a dud to me,” he growled. “I’m undeading you. We’re surging for a max effort and going to launch everything we got.”

“Ending with a bang?” Laurie quipped.

“The biggest one we can manage,” Martini said. Then he was gone.

“Shouldn’t the general be in the command post?” Laurie asked. “Not out on the line.”

The captain on the exercise team shook his head. “Only if he’s alive. General Martini exercised out half of the commanders on base. He was the first to go.”

“Who’s running the show?” Chris asked.

“The second echelon,” the captain answered. “The general has the dead guys out haunting the base, seeing how their troops are doing. He’s leading the pack and has been all over the place kicking butt and taking names. He fired a major in the motor pool for not dispersing his vehicles. He’s an absolute madman.”

“It has been most instructive,” the Japanese lieutenant said. The two officers left, closing the door behind them.

“Beagle One, this is Dogpatch. You’re scrambled to high CAP Alpha-Three, angels two-four.”

Chris acknowledged the call from the command post. “Beagle One scrambling now.” He disconnected the long cord that plugged them into a land line to the command post. He pulled the handle for the jet fuel starter, and a high-pitched shriek filled the bunker as the right engine came to life.

“This should be it,” Laurie told him as she lowered the canopy.

“Where the hell is Alpha-Three,” he asked. Laurie called up the moving map display on her number 2 scope. Alpha-Three was a CAP (combat air patrol) point north of the island. Their job was to climb to 24,000 feet, orbit at the CAP, and shoot down any hostile aircraft that came their way. “Where the hell is our wingman?” he asked. Normally, two aircraft manned a CAP and another aircraft should have been scrambled with them.

“Probably exercised out by the umpires,” Laurie said. They taxied for runway 5 right maintaining radio silence, barely able to see the taxi path in the fading light. A sergeant guided them past a fuel truck parked on the taxiway. A large red tag indicated it had been destroyed in a simulated air raid. “I got to admit,” she said, “this exercise has been a real ballbuster.”

They halted at the end of the runway check area and a team of two crew chiefs and two weapons specialists materialized out of a dugout for the EOR check. The crew chiefs gave the aircraft one last inspection, checking for hydraulic leaks, cut tires, or loose panels. A weapons specialist ran out from under the aircraft holding up the safety streamers from the practice air-to-air missile they were
carrying. He gave them a thumbs-up: They were good to go. A green light flashed at them from the glass cupola on top of the small trailer that served as the backup for the main control tower. They taxied onto the right runway of Kadena’s two parallel runways, and the runway lights flashed on so they could take off. Chris stroked the afterburners and they climbed into the darkening sky.

“So what the hell do we do now?” Chris asked.

“Go to the CAP point and hold until we hit bingo fuel or get recalled. There is no way we’ll be hit with a stresser this late in the exercise. The boss knows we’re all tired and wants to end it with us all in one piece.”

She was wrong and Vice Squad, a Marine ground-controlled intercept radar site, immediately paired them against a bogie, an unknown aircraft. The F-15’s APG-70 radar did its magic, and they easily found the aircraft 50 miles to the north of their position. Chris turned into the aircraft to close for an intercept. Almost immediately, they were called off. “Damn,” he muttered. “I hate turning JP-5 into noise.”

“It was an airliner anyway,” Laurie told him. They were required to stay well clear of all commercial traffic.

They returned to their CAP point, entered a race track pattern, and bored holes in the sky for another hour. “Damn!” Chris moaned. “I think we’re the only jet still up here.”

Laurie shared his frustration. “Let’s talk to Dogpatch and find out what’s happening.” She switched radio frequency to the command post and made the call. “Dogpatch, Beagle One.”

“Go ahead, Beagle One.”

“When can we expect recovery?”

“Beagle One, be advised the runways are closed for an emergency.”

“Both runways?” Chris protested.

Dogpatch sensed the pilot’s frustration and answered, “The nose gear of a KC-135 collapsed on landing, and the aircraft skidded across the grass onto the other runway. We’re clearing the debris now and runway 5 left should be open shortly.”

“This one sounds for real,” Laurie told her pilot.

“Shit!”

Seventy minutes later they finally received clearance to recover at home plate. Chris nosed the Strike Eagle over into a high-speed descent and pushed the airspeed up against the Mach. It was a classic case of get-home-itis. “We got all the time in the world,” Laurie cautioned. “Let’s do it right.”

“No pro-blem-o,” Chris answered. He throttled back and called the tower for clearance.

“You’re cleared for an overhead recovery, report initial,” the tower answered. Ahead of them they could see the base lit up like a Christmas tree.

“What the fuck,” he muttered. “How long has the fuckin’ exercise been over?” He overflew the point four miles short of the runway and made the radio call. “Beagle One, initial now.”

“Report the break,” the tower answered. It was developing into a standard overhead recovery where the aircraft overflew the end of the runway at 1,500 feet and pitched out, circling to land.