Dale Brown - Sky Masters

“Well, how the fuck am I supposed to know who? If you follow the plan and put your weapons on target, no one should die. “You said should die, Doctor. That means that even if everything turns out perfectly, someone may still die. Right?” Masters shrugged. “Well, it’s very unlikely, but-anything can happen.”

“You’re damned right it can. Now tell me how to deal with that. Tell me how a highly trained professional pilot or navigator can climb into a bomber or fighter and fly into the teeth of the enemy and know that even if everything goes perfectly, he may still end up at the bottom of the sea, and I’ll let you act like a cocky little punk peacock all you want in my command post. Until then you will give this campaign and the people who fight it-all the people who fight it, the combatants on both sides-the proper respect.” Masters was finally silent. McLanahan backed away from Masters, allowing him to get up, but Masters stayed where he was. “So what you’re saying is-you’re scared, ” Masters said after a few long moments. He looked at McLanahan, and when the officer didn’t reply for several seconds, Masters’ eyes opened wide in surprise. “You’re scared? You? But you’re the-“

“Yeah, yeah, I know, ” Patrick said. “I’m supposed to be the best. But it’s bullshit. I know my shit, and I’m lucky. That doesn’t make me invincible, and it doesn’t give you or anyone the right to think this is going to be easy-for any of us. Nothing is cut and dried. Nothing is certain. We know our equipment, know our procedures, but when you go into combat we learn not to trust it. We trust ourselves. We look to ourselves to find the strength to get through the mission.” Masters rose and stood before McLanahan, afraid to look into the Air Force officer’s face but respectful enough to want to be able to do it. “I never realized that, Patrick. Really. I always thought, ‘Well, the gear’s in place, everything’s running, so everything’s going to be okay.” I guess… well, I don’t work with people that much. I’m really so used to dealing with computers and machines. McLanahan shrugged. “Hell, listen to me. A few years ago I never gave a shit much about people either. I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a team player. I did my job and went home. I hate to say it, but we were a lot alike back then.” Masters smiled at that. “Oh yeah? Dirty Harry was laid-back and mellow? You drank beer and chased girls and got stupid?” It was McLanahan’s turn to smile this time. He remembered the B-52 crew parties back in California, the weekends rafting down the American River-one big twelve-person raft for crew dogs, wives, and girlfriends; another slightly smaller raft for the numerous ice chests full of six-packs-the bar-hopping in Old Sacramento till two in the morning, the ski trips to Lake Tahoe when they’d get back to base just minutes before show time for a training mission. “All the damned time, Jon.”

“What happened to you?” McLanahan’s smile vanished, and all his fond recollections of life back home exploded in a bright yellow fireball called reality. He put his dog tags back under his shirt and put his water flask back in its pocket. The pungent odor of jet exhaust and the roar of a plane on its takeoff run invaded the office, and the horrors of another impossible mission thousands of miles away flooded back into his consciousness once again. “Combat, ” was all he said, and he turned and walked away. CHINESE DESTROYER HAIFRNG TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILES SOUTHEAST OF THE CITY OF DAVAO MINDANAO, THE PHILIPPINES MONDAY, 10 OCTOBER 1994, 2351 HOURS LOCAL had been hanging around for so long now, big, slow, and I gt~~~~p~~~g, that they had humorously dubbed it Syensheng Tz, Old Gas. They could see the thing easily, almost a hundred miles away and at high altitude-a single, unescorted, vulnerable B-52 bomber. It was cruising westward at a leisurely four hundred and twenty nautical miles per hour. Although it was definitely getting closer, on its present course it would pass well out of HQ-9 1 missile range of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy missile destroyer Kaifeng. It was obviously giving the Chinese ships a wide berth. Even so, if the aircraft carried antiship missiles, it was still a substantial threat: it was within Harpoon missile range of the destroyer, yet outside the range of the destroyer’s missiles, and there were no fighters nearby that could reach it. The commander of the destroyer Kazfeng, a Luda-class destroyer with over three hundred men on board, wanted very close tabs kept on this intruder. “CIC, bridge, status of that B-52, ” the commander of the Kazjeng requested. “Bridge, CIC, air target one still at seventy-eight-nauticalmiles range, altitude ten thousand meters, speed four-twozero knots, offset range six-zero nautical miles. No detectable radar transmissions from aircraft. It is within Harpoon missile range at this time.”

“Copy.” The commander was carefully trying not to let his frustration and impatience show. American B-52s had been flying these “ferret” missions for many days now, passing just inside missile range of the destroyer’s missiles, then hightailing it out when missile-guidance signals were aimed at it. It was always one bomber, always at thirty thousand feet, always challenging in this same location. It stayed high and relatively slow-very nonthreatening despite being within extreme range of Harpoon antiship missiles it might be carrying. It was obviously collecting intelligence information-it was probably crammed with sensors and recorders, hoping to intercept radio messages or analyze missile fire control radar signals… … or it was crammed with antiship missiles, ready to strike. “Comm, bridge, any response from that plane about our airdefense warnings?”

“None, sir, ” the communications officer replied. Kafeng, as well as other ships in the South Philippines Task Force commanded by Admiral Yin Po L’un, had been warning all aircraft to stay away from this area for days now. The area over the Celebes Sea had been a very well used airway for travelers heading to Brunei, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Singapore through Samar International Airport, but the People’s Liberation Army Air Force had refused all access to the region, and air traffic to and from Manila was tightly controlled. All air traffic was forced to fly farther south through the sparsely populated islands of northern Indonesia. Philippines supply routes in the South China Sea were virtually isolated. But with the nuclear explosion near Palawan and the extreme danger of radiation poisoning and contamination, these areas were being studiously avoided anyhow. The American Air Battle Force, however, was obviously ignoring all warnings. “CIC, bridge, position of our fighter coverage. “Sir, Liang-Two flight of eight J-7 fighters are over Nenusa Archipelago, one hundred eleven kilometers northwest of the B-52. They are less than ten minutes from bingo fuel and have already received permission to return to Zamboanga for refueling. Sichuan-One-Zero flight of four Q-5 fighters are three hundred kilometers northwest of the B-52, headed southeast to take over for Liang-Two flight.” Damned sparse fighter coverage, Kafeng ‘s commander thought to himself. Because that bomber was a “ferret, ” running away at the first sign of trouble, they were not giving it as much fighter attention as they should. Well, that was going to stop right here and now. “CIC, bridge, chase that damned plane out of here, ” Kaifeng ‘s commander ordered. At this point chasing “Old Gas” out of antiship-missile range was more important than revealing radar frequencies. “Hit them with the fire-control radar.” That was usually plenty to make the B-52 turn and run. “Yes, sir, ” the combat information officer responded. “Shall I recall Liang-Two flight to provide air cover?”