Power Curve (25 page)

A few workers followed his progress, but most ignored him as a policeman spoke into his radio, warning the Secret Service a “possible” might be approaching the White House. Part of the security apparatus surrounding the president started to move, focusing on the lone individual. Two other teams assumed he was a distraction, a feint for the real threat, and turned their attention elsewhere. An observer on the roof of the Treasury building on the east side of the White House followed his progress with a high-powered set of binoculars. When the possible approached Lafayette’s statue in the southeast corner of the park, the
observer radioed the sniper, who was carefully hidden from view, and ordered him into position.

The man stopped and gazed at the statue for a moment before turning to face Pennsylvania Avenue. Across the street, the White House was a mass of shadows and light in the early morning sun. The man stood there, not moving and gazed at the White House.

Ben, Liz Gordon’s cameraman, found her in the press secretary’s office drinking coffee with the secretary and five other reporters. He motioned her outside. “There’s some crazy Indian who just turned himself into a statue in Lafayette Park. The network wants a news update with him in the background.”

“We might as well,” Gordon replied. “Nothing is happening around here.” She retrieved her coat and scarf from her cubicle and followed Ben to the park. A small group of people were standing around the man, shifting from foot to foot, trying to keep warm. Ben moved around until he had the man, the statue, and the people framed in his viewfinder.

Gordon raised her head and looked into the lens of the Betacam. Behind her, the White House, fresh snow, and morning light created a sensational backdrop. “On this beautiful, crisp winter morning, the crisis in the East China Sea enters the second week as the White House reels with indecision. The Pentagon has adopted a wait-and-see strategy while it positions the aircraft carriers
Nimitz
and
Reagan
within striking distance of Okinawa. But for now, President Turner has chosen to pursue a diplomatic solution through the State Department. But the question most are asking is, Can the Japanese government survive this crisis if the United States does not directly intervene?

“Meanwhile, Madeline Turner is pursuing her dream of tax reform with the same intensity as Lyndon Baines Johnson when he created his version of the Great Society. But perhaps this lone sentinel standing in Lafayette Park”—Ben zoomed in on the man—“best captures the moment as we all wait to see what will develop.”

“That’s a good one,” Ben said as he lowered his camera. Behind Gordon, the man shrugged off his blanket back
to reveal a flat round drum. Ben raised his camera, framed the man in the viewfinder, and hit the record button. The sentinel stared at the White House, not really seeing it, and struck the drum once with a padded drumstick. The single note died away as the sound echoed across Pennsylvania Avenue.

Okinawa, Japan

I
t was Monday, January 21, the tenth day since the crisis started and the seventh day of the blockade, when Martini walked through the commissary with the Support Group commander. The people standing in line either scowled at them or turned away as they passed. “We’re out of fresh milk products,” the colonel told him. “We need more airlift, or it’s going to get very tight in three weeks, four at the most.”

“I thought we had more stockpiled,” Martini said.

“Our estimates on consumption rates were wrong, and we’ve got problems with selling food on the black market. But there’s also hoarding, and a lot of people are giving food to the Okinawans.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Martini said. “Start rationing and crack down.”

“The real answer, sir—”

“I know what the real answer is,” Martini growled. “We need to implement NEO and get them out of here.” He barreled out of the commissary and drove around his base. A semblance of life had returned and the schools were open, but many children were absent, at home with a parent awaiting the evacuation order. Frustrated, he spun the steering wheel and headed for the command post. He had to build a fire under someone and start moving people
off island. He keyed his radio. “Have Major Ryan meet me in the command post ASAP.”

His vice commander was waiting in the command post with more bad news. “Sir, the local authorities are reporting food riots in Naha, and we’ve got a demonstration building at the main gate. It’s serious this time. I don’t think our cops can handle it.”

Martini dropped into his chair in the Battle Cab and phoned the Marine brigade commander at nearby Camp Lester. “Jake, I’ve got a demonstration building at my front gate.” He explained the problem and listened for a few moments before hanging up. “The Marines are sending a company to back up our Security Police. Position some of them close to the gate but keep them out of sight. We’ll present a show of force if they mass for a breakthrough.”

“What happens if they get on base?” a colonel asked.

Martini’s fingers drummed the table. “Don’t forget we’re dealing with Japanese. They like to play by the rules.” He turned to the base map on the wall behind him. “We’ll treat it as a parade and block off Douglas Boulevard with vehicles, the Marines, whatever we got. We’ll let ’em march through the gate and down Douglas until they reach Kuter Boulevard. Then it’s a right turn down Kuter.”

“And right out gate 2,” his vice commander added. “But what if they don’t play it our way?”

Ryan walked into the Battle Cab as Martini’s fingers drummed the table. The doctor could feel the tension as everyone waited for Martini’s answer. “What’s happening?” he asked Pete Townly.

“We got a demonstration at the main gate. It may get ugly.”

“If they start to loot or get on the flight line,” Martini said, “the Security Police and the Marines are authorized to use deadly force.”

Ryan could not credit what he was hearing.
You bloody bastard!
he thought.
There’s got to be another answer
.

“Major Ryan,” Martini said, “I’ve been told not to put dependents or civilians at risk. However, in my judgment, keeping people on Okinawa is becoming more dangerous
than flying them out For reasons beyond comprehension, CINC PAC has not declared NEO. But a C-141 is due in, and rather than let it fly out empty, I’m asking for volunteers who want to leave.”

“I’ll volunteer,” Townly called from behind Ryan.

“Not you, asshole,” Martini grumbled. “Dependents and civilians only. Major Ryan, see if you can find 200 volunteers who want to leave. And Townly, since you want to be part of the action, you make sure they know the risks before they volunteer. OK, get cracking and make it happen.”

Ryan and Townly beat a hasty retreat out of the command post. “How dangerous is it?” Ryan asked.

“Well, we’re averaging fourteen flights a day, and no one has shot at them—yet.”

Ryan shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s so, so”—he hunted for the right word—“so cavalier with other people’s lives. How can he do this?”

“Who’s going to tell him no,” Townly answered. “Besides, there’s a lot of people who want to get out of here and are willing to risk it.”

Martini watched the two officers leave the command post. “I want an AWACS on station before the C-141 launches. When it does take off, I want four F-15s on runway alert. Any aircraft scrambling off Kumejima and heading towards the 141 is dog meat.”

“Why did you do that?” Ryan asked Townly. They were sitting in a car as the C-141 StarLifter taxied out with its load of 223 passengers.

The Intelligence officer jotted down the time—7:50
P.M.
“Why did I have all the passengers sign consent forms?” he asked. Ryan nodded. “CYA,” Townly said. “Cover your ass in case something happens. I had them acknowledge in writing they’d been briefed on the risks and were volunteers. If this turns into a piece of shit, there will be more politicians and lawyers breathing down our throats than you ever knew existed.” He snapped a rubber band around the forms and dropped them in his briefcase. “Let’s watch the takeoff from Habu Hill.”

Ryan drove around Perimeter Road and pulled into the
parking lot on top of the low hill overlooking the runway. “Isn’t that an AWACS?” he asked, pointing at a gray E-3 Sentry lifting off the departure end of the runway. The highly modified Boeing 707 with its thirty-foot saucer-shaped antenna rotating slowly above the fuselage was an airborne warning and command system aircraft. The C-141 was still lumbering down the taxiway with its load of evacuees. The two officers watched as the C-141 taxied into place on the runway and held, awaiting a release time. “Somehow,” Ryan said, his stomach churning, “I feel that I’m personally responsible for those people.”

“We’re all responsible,” Townly told him. “I’m the guy doing the threat estimates the general is relying on.”

Fifteen minutes after the AWACS had taken off, the cargo plane rolled down the runway and lifted into the clear night air. Pour F-15s taxied out of their hardened shelters. “Martini didn’t say anything about escorting the 141,” Ryan said. They waited in silence as the fighters went through an end-of-runway check and taxied into position on the runway. But they didn’t take off. “What the hell is going on?” Ryan muttered.

“It looks like they’re on runway alert in case the AWACS calls for help,” Townly explained. “Let’s go to the command post and find out.” Ryan slipped the car in gear, and they pulled out of the parking lot. Behind them, the four F-15s were taking off in full afterburner, zooming into the night sky. “Shit!” Townly shouted. “Go!”

The MCC, mission crew commander, on board the AWACS hovered behind her weapons controller, directing the four fighters that had just taken off from Kadena. She was standing in the weapons pit of the main cabin, her headset plugged into a long extension cord so she could roam behind the various radar consoles and pull the mission together. “What are we dealing with?” she asked.

“It looks like eighteen J-8s so far,” the weapons controller answered. The air surveillance officer at the rear bank of consoles had tagged up the fighter aircraft as they launched from Kumejima. The J-8 was a Chinese-developed variant of the old Soviet MiG-21. But with two engines, an improved fire control system, provided by the
United States, and a combat range of 500 mites, it was a worrisome threat. She told the senior director to order more F-15s scrambled off Kadena as she studied the scope and weighed her options. The next four or five minutes were going to be critical.

“Major,” the air surveillance officer said over the intercom, “they formed up like a pack of wolves and are heading for the C-141.”

She keyed her intercom. “Retrograde now,” she ordered. “Vector the 141 northeast at mil power. We’ll turn with him.” The AWACS was 40 miles north of the C-141 as the two aircraft turned away from the bandits. The pilots on both aircraft firewalled the throttles and nosed over into long-range, high-speed descents, trading altitude for speed and running away from the bandits.

Again, the MCC ran the numbers, deciding how to commit the F-15s. Thankfully, she had a clearer picture now. The eighteen bandits were definitely going after the C-141 and were in a 60-mile tail chase, forming the base of an inverted triangle. The four F-15s were south of the bandits and the C-141, forming the apex of the triangle. She checked the relative speeds and mentally did the math. The bandits had a 250-knot overtake on the cargo plane, which meant it would take them fourteen minutes to close the gap. To get that speed, the J-8s had to be in afterburner, which quadrupled their fuel consumption. She felt better. The J-8s might have enough fuel to catch the C-141, but they would never make it back to Kumejima. Unless they were on a one-way mission. “Split the F-15s,” she ordered. “Two fly cover for the 141 and engage the other two.”

The weapons controller did not hesitate and radioed the F-15s. “Knife I and 2, you are paired against eighteen bandits, Snap two-eight-five degrees, range 45 nautical miles. Knife 3 and 4, rendezvous on the 141 and escort.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Knife 3 replied, his disappointment obvious.

“Knife I has multiple targets on the nose at 42 miles,” the flight lead for the two fighters radioed.

“That is your target,” the weapons controller said. “You are cleared to engage, repeat, cleared to engage.”

“Cleared to engage,” Knife I replied, his words machine-gun quick. “Two, take spacing.”

The mission crew commander watched the scope as two F-15s split apart and headed for the bandits while the other two raced after the C-141. The senior director told her that twelve more F-15s were launching from Kadena and four more were taxiing out for runway alert She told the weapons controller to sequence them into the flight behind the first two F-15s, which were now closing into AMRAAM missile range on the bandits. “The poor bastards,” she muttered to herself. She wasn’t talking about the F-15s.

On cue, Knives I and 2 radioed simultaneously, “FOX ONE.” Their voices were a chorus of destruction as four of the air-to-air missiles streaked into the bandits. As the AMRAAM was a launch-and-leave missile, the F-15s were free to maneuver and could employ their AIM-9 Sidewinders from totally different aspects before they merged with the bandits. Again, the missile launch calls came almost in unison, “FOX TWO!” The MCC calculated when she would have to disengage the first two F-15s so the second wave of F-15s could enter the fight. “Tallyho!” Knife I radioed. He had a visual on at least one bandit. “It’s a J-8. FOX THREE.” He was using his gun. The radar scopes on board the AW ACS turned into a furball as the two F-15s merged with bandits.

Because it was dark, Knives I and 2 made no attempt to turn on the bandits and enter a dogfight. They blew on through to reposition for another attack. The scopes on board the AWACS started to clear, and the bandits were all over the sky. But the MCC could only count thirteen of the red inverted Vs that symbolized the bandits. The first two F-15s had given a good account of themselves and were repositioning to reattack. “Knife I and 2,” the weapons controller radioed, “twelve friendlies are inbound, four minutes out.”

“This will be one pass, haul ass,” Knife I replied.

Again the two F-15s attacked, but this rime on widely separated targets. Whatever cohesion or direction the bandits had was totally lost and not one was still heading in the direction of the C-141. Knives I and 2 repeated the deadly ballet and called off. Only this time, there were
only ten red inverted Vs on the radar scopes. “We may have an ace,” the senior controller told the MCC.

“Start pairing up the second wave,” the MCC said, determined to kill as many bandits as possible.

“Holy shit!” the weapons controller yelled over the intercom. One of the bandits had turned toward the C-141. He mashed the transmit button under his right foot. “Knife 3 and 4, you have a bandit on the deck at Mach 2, two-three-five degrees, 38 miles, on you. Kill, repeat, kill.”

The two F-15s escorting the C-141 acknowledged the call and turned into the lone bandit streaking toward the C-141. “At Mach 2,” the weapons controller said, “it ain’t a J-8.” The Chinese had snuck one of the Su-27 Flankers from the
Chairman Mao
onto Kumejima and hidden it among the J-8s going after the C-141. “It’s a damn good thing you covered the 141,” the weapons controller told the MCC.

The MCC could only listen as Knives 3 and 4 ran a head-on intercept into the Flanker. The lead F-15 locked it up on radar and fired an AMRAAM. But nothing happened. The Flanker’s electronic countermeasures systems had defeated the AMRAAM, and they were still converging at over 2,000 miles per hour. “FOX TWO,” Knife 3 transmitted when he fired a Sidewinder missile. Six seconds later, Knife 4 repeated the call and two of the deadly infrared-guided missiles were headed for the Flanker. The Chinese pilot saw the rocket plume of the first Sidewinder in the night and pulled up as he chopped his throttles. He rolled, buried the nose, and jammed the throttles full forward. The Sidewinder passed by overhead, missing him by over 500 feet. The second Sidewinder flew up his left intake and exploded.

“Vector the 141 for Yokota,” the MCC said. Again, the AWACS crew made it happen as the second wave of F-15s sequenced into the fight in flights of two, and the cargo plane headed north to safety. The MCC noted the time of the engagement in her log and wrote the words “turkey shoot” in the remarks section.

Ryan followed Martini and Townly into the Twelfth Fighter Squadron for the mission debrief. The building
was alive with shouts and laughter as the squadron celebrated their victory. The number 15 had been spray painted on a wall by some well-meaning tagger. Ryan pushed through the crowd, talking to the pilots. One of the female crew chiefs pressed against him and grabbed his buttocks as she planted a wet kiss on his lips. Her face was flushed with triumph. “It was my jet!” she shouted. “We got five!” Ryan smiled at her and tried to find Martini. He saw Townly duck into a briefing room and followed him.