Strike Eagle (13 page)
Major Kathy Yulok managed to relax back in her seat, even through the layers of fabric and webbing that held her pressure suit together. Now, with the mission almost over, with the data collected and transmitted, flying the SR-73 back to Kadena seemed a breeze.
In thirty minutes she would make a low-altitude pass over the runway at Kadena and drop a small canister. The three-letter agencies already had access to the information she had collected, transmitted via satellite to a classified operating location. So the low-altitude flyby was pure “war-ready”—merely an exercise for war if communications were jammed—but it gave her an excuse to fly the bird down low and slow for a change. The film and data tapes would have been picked up and processed by the time she hangared the bird, or taxied the aircraft to the hangar.
The mission had been a milk run, not overflying any unfriendly territory but instead skirting as close to the international border as possible without sending up a missile.
Not that a missile would worry her—she had been shot at before, but the rockets had always flown too slow and were too far away to do any harm.
And as it turned out, flying
next
to another country’s border was practically as good as being directly overhead. With the advanced side-looking diagnostics, over a hundred thousand square miles of territory could be covered in less than an hour.
So, heading back from the South China Sea, Kathy was ready to bring her in and get some rest. Everything looked good; she couldn’t have asked for a better mission. That’s when she spotted the red lights.
She clicked her mike. “Eddie, you copy?”
Major Ed Prsybalwyki answered from the back seat. “That’s a rog. Engine flameout on one and two.”
“That’s what I’ve got.”
Great,
she thought.
Both engines are out.
She reached down and toggled a switch, trying to kick the scramjets back on. No luck. She stretched to look out the window. There was still land below them, but the coastline was heading up fast. “Eddie, you have a fix on our position?”
“Just leaving Taiwan. What do you think?”
She pondered it for a moment. Even though the SR-73 had been in commission for over ten years, most of the technology on the plane was still classified. Landing in a foreign country without copious prior preparation was frowned upon. And that was even when the nation was friendly to the U.S.
Kathy gnawed on her lip. They hadn’t lost much altitude yet, but they were definitely going down. “I’ll keep trying to turn over the engines. They may not catch unless we get back some velocity.”
“So do we circle, cry for help, or what?”
She made up her mind. “Head on home. We’ll be able to take her in if we don’t hit any downdrafts.”
Ed was silent for a moment. “You’re the boss.”
Kathy keyed her mike, switching from intercom to outside radio. With the change in altitude, she had to notify the international air control. “Ah, control, this is Stella Two-Niner at Charlie plus twenty-five thousand. We’ve flamed out and are descending.”
The radio came back instantly; the young man sounded like he was in a panic. “Stella Two-Niner, Taiwan center. Taipei International has a runway over ten thousand feet. Are you declaring an emergency?”
Kathy’s eyebrows rose.
Declare an emergency?
Then she remembered—Charlie plus twenty-five.
She tried to hold back a chuckle as she clicked the mike; the poor guy thought that she was sixty-thousand feet lower than she was. “Ah, negative, Control. We’re heading for Kadena and will try to kick our engines over en route.”
Silence. For a
long
time. Then, “Roger, Stella two-niner. You are cleared for Kadena, altitude your choice.…Ah, please report at intervals.”
“Rog, Control.” Kathy clicked off her mike.
“Ho, ho, ho,” came Eddie, dryly.
“No problem. If you didn’t want excitement in your life, you should have joined the Navy.”
“Very funny. Just keep us out of the water.”
A half hour later they glided safely onto Kadena.
Yokota AFB, Japan
Vice President Adleman pressed his lips together. He bowed slightly at the waist and nodded to the Japanese trade minister, who was still across the room.
He really shouldn’t feel slighted—having the trade minister receive him was very well within the protocol demanded by a Vice-Head of State, especially with the dominance of the Japanese economy and the overwhelming debt that the United States seemed to be unable to shake.
But Vice President Adleman still felt slighted. He had always admired the Japanese culture and felt no animosity over its aggressive fiscal behavior—he only wished the U.S. had the foresight to put some of the practices in use for itself. But Adleman knew that the U.S. could never shake the “Harvard MBA bottom line”: throwing out long-term investments for short-term profits.
The minister’s entourage surrounded the vice president, smiling, bowing and nodding.
A “garden” just outside the receiving room was made up of thousands of rocks, all groomed and set in flowing designs. A slight smell of incense burned in the background; Adleman was impressed by the facilities, especially considering the fact that it was on an American Air Force base.
He accepted a warm cup of sake and put it to his lips.
“Mr. Vice President?” The trade minister steered him away from the crowd without touching his arm. They were left alone.
“Mr. Ieyasu, it is very kind of you to receive me.”
Ieyasu bowed slightly at the waist, but kept eye contact with Adleman; the vice president followed the minister’s lead.
“Mr. Vice President, I am sorry that we do not have very much time together. There are certain, uh,
obligations,
that I must fulfill before the day is out.”
Adleman raised his cup of sake. “I understand, Mr. Minister. My agenda is quite full, I assure you. In the next two days I am scheduled to participate in more functions that I normally do in a week in the United States.”
“It is not often that we are graced with such a distinguished presence.”
“This visit is distinguished only by my hosts.”
Ieyasu bowed slightly. “If I may speak frankly?”
“By all means.”
“Mr. Vice President, it is no secret that this visit is not the most important aspect of your trip.”
So, he’s interested in the Philippine agreement,
thought Adleman.
But I’ll play this out, to make sure
I understand what he really wants.
“An astute observation, Mr. Minister.” Nice, neutral response. Your turn.
“The question of the Philippine lease is a touchy one, and I want to assure you that our country will stand by any decision reached by your country.” He leaned forward and seemed to listen intently.
“I appreciate your concern,” said Adleman. “And I also appreciate your support—I will elicit your advice if there ever should be any to give. The United States has learned, sometimes the hard way, that we do not have a corner on common sense. Or making the right decisions.” Adleman smiled and drank the rest of his sake.
Ieyasu’s eyes widened. “And I, too, appreciate your candor. It is a true mark of maturity, intelligence; and I must compliment you.” He nodded to the rock gardener, tending to the trove of stones. “That seasoned old gardener loves his job so much that he would gladly accept a word of advice on how to improve his art, the way his rocks pour out their message. I am happy to hear that you, too, will not be offended.”
“Not at all. So if I may beg your opinion…?” Adleman left the question hanging, placing the ball in Ieyasu’s court. The man would now not be offended by his request for help.
A change seemed to come over the minister. He spoke in a low voice. “The Philippines represent more of an economic power to us than a military buffer, Mr. Vice President. With the changing winds of politics blowing across Asia, the loss of American bases does not concern us for the old reasons—there are plenty of other areas that you may stage your defensive forces from.”
“We are aware of that. It is the sunk costs that concern us. There is a lot of money wrapped up in the Filipino infrastructure.”
“Sunk costs should never be considered when making an economic decision, Mr. Vice President.” The trade minister smiled up at him. “Demming, one of your management specialists, made that axiom very clear to us.”
Adleman forced a smile. “Please continue.”
Ieyasu half bowed. “I repeat, it is not the military implications that disturb us. It is the economic impact that would send shock waves out from Manila. Today, the Philippine economy is kept at bay, supplying the needs of your military bases, ministering to the need of their own poor countrymen. We are concerned that without an American presence, the Philippines might go the way of an unbridled Korea—a mass dumping of cheap labor onto the world economy. The profits that would be obtained by even a modest effort could only free up more labor.
“This would be disastrous. It would be disastrous for those Filipinos who would not benefit from this unbridled growth, and it would undercut the economy of the Pacific Basin.”
Adleman played with his sake glass. “It is very generous of you to take such interest in another country’s economic welfare, Mr. Minister.”
Ieyasu bowed stiffly, not missing the jab at Japan’s cool concern over the U.S. economy. “It is in
our
interest, Mr. Vice President. Both your country and mine.”
“Then I do appreciate your advice.”
Ieyasu nodded and bowed deeply. “And I thank you for your time. Please, the next time you come to Tokyo, we must plan some time together.”
“I look forward to it.”
An aide appeared at the trade minister’s elbow. Seconds later, after much bowing and nodding, Adleman was once again surrounded by his own staff.
Even though Adleman had been met “only” by the trade minister, he suddenly realized the soaring importance of the event. Adleman might be tapped as President at any moment, depending on what happened to Longmire, and the man responsible for the economic condition of what was now the fourth wealthiest nation on earth had recognized this, as well as the far-reaching implications of his trip.
The gardener looked much more important now than he had an hour earlier.
***
Chapter 11
Wednesday, 20 June
Clark AB
The row of MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopters looked out of place across the ramp from the row of F-15E fighters. The Air Force had acquired the long, low, and sleek Army Black Hawk helicopters after urgings from a particularly cognizant colonel who had come up through the ranks flying choppers—a feat unusual in itself. The HH-3E Jolly Green Giants, the Air Force’s aging but prime rescue helicopters—were growing old and falling apart. The new procurement for the ATH—the Advanced Technology Helicopter—was still years behind schedule.
The MH-60s had only been meant as stopgap, a bridge to the ATH, but as so often happens, they had become the mainstay of the 31st Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron on Clark.
The sky showed the typical June on-off, on-off rain pattern that characterized the island during the monsoon season. As the crew bus approached the flight line, pungent smells of JP-4, the highly flammable jet fuel, washed into the bus. Captain Richard Head grumbled to his copilot, Captain Bob Gould, about the weather as they stepped from the crew bus.
Gould had other things on his mind. “What I don’t understand is that when I decided to go for choppers, all I caught was crap from everybody I knew. I felt like flying helicopters had made me a second-class citizen. People wouldn’t treat me like a ‘real’ pilot. But now I haven’t had to buy a drink since I’ve been here. I’m walking on water, and everyone wants to be my best friend. I know that fixed-wingers view helicopters different from themselves, but I’ve been here a week and I feel like the most popular guy in town.”
Head turned and looked his copilot up and down. He shook his head. “I keep forgetting this is your first helicopter assignment. You’ve spent too many years in Air Training Command.”
“American Toy Company,” corrected Gould. “That’s for all the chicken crap we had to put up with.”
Head muttered, “Okay. You’re new here, so I’ll explain it once.” He nodded to the row of F-15 fighters across the tarmac that made up the two squadrons of the 3rd TFW. “Helicopters are what keeps those dudes alive. If it wasn’t for us, these hotshot fighter jocks wouldn’t try half the stuff they do. Strapping themselves in a few tons of metal, hurtling toward the ground near Mach 1—and in a real war, there will be people shooting back at them. The chances of them pranging it in are pretty high, so what do you think is the only visible way out, a hope that someday if they’re shot down they might survive? Us, bucko. We did it in ‘Nam, then the Gulf, and several times a day in Iraq and Afghanistan. You see, we’re the cavalry, coming to the rescue to pull these guys out of trouble. Without us those hotshots are not going to get out of there, and they are grateful as hell. So what’s wrong with accepting their drinks?”
Gould nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“Let’s just get out of here,” interrupted Head. “Those girls and guys won’t keep waiting all morning.”
Bruce Steele crouched at the edge of the clearing. The hole in the jungle canopy wasn’t more than fifty feet across, but it gave him an unobstructed view of the sky above.
The rain had stopped last night, and for the first time the sun looked like it was trying to break through. Bruce listened intently for the sound of the rescue helicopter.
Charlie stayed back in the jungle, scouting the area for Abuj or any of the “bad guys” that might have been assigned to the E & E team.
Bruce knelt and fumbled in his flight suit. He pulled out a small radio. He switched it on, then back off; a faint hissing came from the speakers. The radio was waterproof, so they would be able to broadcast their position.
He checked his watch; they should be hearing from the rescue chopper any time now. He drew out the antenna and flicked the radio on—nothing but static came out of the speaker.
He knew that they were being watched. They had found few clearings, and the E & E staff probably had all the areas reconnoitered. All the dull green foliage, as well as the absence of real food, had started to get on Bruce’s nerves.
A voice crackled from the radio speaker. “Maddog, Cobra Five. I am running a linear search. Please notify when you hear me.”
Bruce hastily turned down the volume, then brought the radio to his lips. “Cobra Five, Maddog Four. We’ll call when we hear you.”
Bruce melted back into the jungle and waited for the sound of the helicopter. He knew that the Pave Hawk wouldn’t stop crisscrossing the jungle area until Bruce called him. Bruce would then vector the helicopter in on sound alone—the louder the helicopter got, the closer they would be.
He didn’t have to wait long before a faint sound caught his attention.
Bruce strained to hear. As he leaned forward, his boots made a squishing sound. It felt as if his feet were covered with fungus. He had taken off his boots last night to dry off his feet, but had had nothing dry to wipe them with. He’d settled for just airing them out, and ignoring both the smell and the way they looked.
The sound grew louder. Bruce spoke into the radio. “Cobra five, I hear you, and you are getting closer.”
“Rog, Maddog. I will remain on this heading. Notify when sound decreases.”
Bruce didn’t answer, keeping radio contact to a minimum. Charlie brushed up against his shoulder.
“I think we’re still alone.”
“Not for long.”
Charlie listened and nodded. “It’s about time.”
The helicopter made a distinct “whop-whop” sound that grew louder every second.
“Sounds like they’re heading straight for us,” said Bruce. “But then again, how many times have they plucked guys like us out of the jungle?” The sound seemed to be right on top of them, then it lost intensity. “Cobra Five, you are getting away. Come back the way you came—we’re in a clearing about fifty feet across.”
“Rog Maddog four, I have three possible areas in view.”
Bruce nudged Charlie. “Let’s get ready.” They ducked low and sprinted from the edge of the jungle to the center of the clearing. Bruce felt like he was naked without any trees around him.
Seconds passed. Then the dark body of the Pave Hawk flashed over the clearing.
“Cobra Five, we just saw you. Can you back up?”
“Rog. Prepare for hoist.”
The helicopter came back overhead. Even though the craft was well over a hundred feet above the clearing, Bruce could still feel the strong downdraft of the rotor. Moldy leaves flew up in the turbulent air.
Someone’s head poked out from the side of the helicopter. The person quickly moved an arm up and down. A second later, the penetrator, a long rod with a weight on one end and a seat with straps on the other end, came hurtling down from the Cobra. Bruce and Charlie scrambled to get out of the way.
The penetrator bored for the ground, and just before it hit, slowed to a stop. It settled gently onto the jungle floor.
Bruce turned to Charlie. “Go ahead.”
“You first. I outrank you.”
“And I’m the AC.” Bruce shoved Charlie forward, letting his backseater know that the Aircraft Commander still had the last word.
Charlie ran to the seat and quickly strapped in. Once fastened, Bruce spoke into the radio. “Maddog’s ready, Cobra Five.”
Charlie shot up through the air, then disappeared into the helicopter.
Bruce scanned the clearing—it was still empty. If this had been a real pickup, the helicopter probably wouldn’t have found them so quickly. In addition, running out into a clearing was a pretty stupid thing to do, especially with unfriendlies around. But in a peacetime training environment, safety rules supreme, no matter how it affects realism.
The penetrator came back down from the helicopter; Bruce ran out and strapped in. He waved to the people above him—they brought him up like an elevator going all out.
As the clearing drew away below him, a small dark figure stepped from the jungle and watched him go up.
Abuj!
The tiny Negrito had probably had them in his sights all along.
Well, no use worrying about it now—they’ll find out how they did during the out brief tomorrow morning. But before then, he was looking forward to a shower and a belly full of food. And not necessarily in that order.
As he drew close to the helicopter, a hand reached out and pulled him in. A Staff Sergeant helped him unstrap once the penetrator was secured to the craft. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks.”
Charlie sat in the back, covered with a blanket and drinking a cup of steaming liquid. The sergeant flipped Bruce an orange.
“Here ya go, sir. Coffee and hot chocolate in the back if you want it.”
“Thanks.” Bruce hesitated, then pushed for the front. He stuck his head into the cockpit. The pilot and copilot both wore shaded visors on their helmets. The helicopter was not more than a three hundred feet over the tops of the trees. Bruce called out over the roar. “Hey, guys, thanks.”
The copilot turned around. Seeing Bruce, he elbowed the pilot. “Look who’s here.”
The pilot craned his neck around. “Well, well—Assassin, isn’t it?”
Bruce grinned. “Beer’s on me tonight.”
Head turned back to the front. “As it should be.”
Tarlac, P.I.
Cervante nodded as Pompano handed him the box. It was surprisingly light. Cervante held his cigarette in his lips as he set the box on the table.
Light shone from a single oil lamp set in the middle of the table, its flickering glow sending shadows dancing throughout the room. This was one of the drawbacks of living away from power lines, and Cervante had not wanted to start the diesel engines outside the house, to keep from drawing attention to the plantation. It was still light outside, but Cervante had the curtains closed.
He pried open the box with a knife. Ashes fell from his cigarette. Reaching into the box, he picked up a long cylinder that was as fat as a sausage on one end and narrowed to a thin point on the other end. All along the top, tiny sensors studded the cylinder. Cervante lightly bounced the object in his hand. It weighed less than a kilogram and was just under a third of a meter long.
“Nice.” Cervante brought the object closer and turned it around. He took a drag from his cigarette. “Where did you get it?”
Pompano shrugged. “The market.”
Cervante replaced the device. “I mean, where did they get them?”
“The detectors are planted all along the interior of Clark. The Americans constantly replace them. Some stop working, some are run over by their jeeps or horses, some are just missing.”
“How many did you get?”
“Twelve. There has not been a market for the detectors—no one besides the Americans really wants them, or even knows about them. It is my guess that the person I bought them from collected them more out of curiosity than for profit.”
Cervante nodded. He pulled on his smoke. “Who do you get them from?”
Pompano smiled and lightly wagged a finger at Cervante. “Ah, yes. We all have our little secrets, don’t we? What do you say I keep this one to myself, so that the source is not compromised?”
Cervante smiled tightly. “Of course.” The old man had started to put some distance between them, setting up an “insurance policy” so that he would be the only one who had some key information.
It was a smart move—one that Cervante would have made himself. Pompano was proving to be more shrewd than Cervante had initially thought. He made a mental note to withhold some of the sensor locations from Pompano.
Cervante placed the lid back on the top of the box. “What about the receiver? How do these detectors transmit information?”
Pompano moved to a chair and sat. “That was harder to obtain. The devices detect sound to a very low level, and transmit the sounds as soon as they are heard. My, ah,
source,
he learned that the radio signals transmitted by the detectors are coded. A computerized station can unscramble the codes and tell you which detectors are transmitting and where they are located.”
“And where is the station?”
“I said it was harder to obtain.” Pompano paused. “So I decided not to get it and use a simpler method instead.”
Pompano nodded to the box of sonic detectors. “The detectors can be modified to transmit along a wire. I have brought several kilometers of wire that we can lay from each sensor to our plantation. It is an easy way to hook up the detectors, and it works.”
Cervante nodded, remembering the old radios and televisions in the old man’s sari-sari store. Fixing electronic equipment was another talent the old man had to offer. “Crude, but effective. You have come up with a good plan, my friend. How long will it take to modify the sensors?”
A shrug. “Two, three hours. The wire is in the truck. I can start right away.”
Cervante took a final drag from his cigarette. Pompano was beginning to outshine all of the other Huks. As a measure of his respect, Cervante decided then and there that Pompano would
definitely
not learn the locations of all of the sensors.
Cervante ground out his cigarette and stood. He clasped Pompano’s shoulder. “We must move quickly. As soon as you can modify the sensors I will plant them, and we will move to a location outside of the Clark Air Base to start disrupting their flights. The faster we move, the better.”
