“Henry, Patrick, damn your hide, good to have you back,” Elliott said, giving his officers a hearty handshake and a pat on the shoulder. “Terrific landing, Henry. How do you two feel? You look okay. Henry, how do you feel?”
“I’m fine, General, just fine,” Cobb replied. “I’m in adrenaline withdrawal, that’s all. I’m too old for this shit, sir.”
“I think half the base is on an adrenaline high, watching you bring that B-2 in,” Elliott said. “I think the cheer that went up could be heard in China.” He looked at McLanahan and smiled a knowing smile. “You brought back another bent bird, Patrick. This time the commendation will be public — nothing red-jacketed this time. For both of you.”
“I’d be happy if we could just finish this thing and go home,” the navigator said. “So what kind of losses are we looking at?”
“We’ve taken some serious hits,” Elliott admitted. “Sorry to tell you this, but we lost John Cochran’s Megafortress. A BUFF saw them go down. They couldn’t see chutes in the darkness, although they heard plenty of emergency locator beacons. The crew is still listed as missing.” Along with Major Kelvin Carter, Lieutenant Colonel John Cochran was one of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center’s pioneers in the application of the strategic battleship escort concept; they had all worked very closely together for many months. “His was the only HAWC crew to go down. His crew got six confirmed kills, though. Every Megafortress got at least three — an incredibly awesome display.”
“I hope they find him,” Patrick said. “How about the rest?”
Elliott took a deep breath. “Five B-52s, one B-1, one B-2,” he said in a quiet voice, his face hard and somber. “No confirmed KIAs, though.”
“And how goes the war?”
Elliott’s face brightened a bit as he replied, “Preliminary post-strike data is hard to believe — I mean, really hard to believe. It’s too early to tell for sure, but we might have sunk or damaged as many as one-third of the damned Chinese navy’s destroyers. We’ve counted as many as fifteen frigates sunk or severely damaged, and we lost count of all the patrol boats we nailed. Even better, we’ve got reports of several amphibious-assault ships damaged or destroyed in Davao Gulf, and we’re still receiving shortwave radio messages from Samar’s troops broadcasting from the airport. The broadcasts talk about thousands of Chinese Marines dead, a couple hundred captured, and the entire Bangoy Harbor burning from all the dead ships.” He tried not to sound too happy over apparent high Chinese casualties, but from the warrior’s point of view, the first night of battle had gone well for the Air Battle Force.
McLanahan felt a tingle over his entire body when he heard the news — no matter how horrible war was, if there had to be a war, then news of success on the battlefield was always welcome. “So when do we go back out?”
“We may be called in for air operations over Zamboanga and Puerto Princesa,” Elliott replied, “but with only two or three destroyers left for Chinese air defense and fighter control, the bombers should have free rein over Mindanao. We should be able to bring tankers closer to Mindanao, so we can set up real fighter combat air patrols for the bombers and Navy ships — and if that’s true, they won’t need Megafortress escort bombers anymore. I’m sure they won’t use B-2s either, now that most of their big warships and the Mount Apo radar site have been destroyed. HAWC might be out of the battle, I think.
“The Army’s Twenty-fifth Infantry Division might try an invasion to Davao in order to keep the Chinese ground troops from massing on Mindanao,” Elliott added. “But the Chinese Navy got a pretty good thrashing last night, and they know we can do it again — the second round of Tomahawk and bomber attacks began shortly after the first strike package withdrew, and initial indications look like they encountered virtually no resistance even in daylight hours. I hope the politicians in Washington and Beijing get their acts together and call a halt to this thing right now.”
That, Patrick McLanahan agreed, was every warrior’s silent prayer — go and get ready to fight, but hope like hell they don’t have to.
The door to the rooftop helicopter landing pad burst open, and First Vice President Daniel Teguina, surrounded by no fewer than ten bodyguards, rushed through the doorway. While six soldiers spread out to cover each side of the pad, the other four kept Teguina hidden from view, M16 rifles at the ready.
Despite his formidable protection, Teguina looked like the animal being hunted — which in effect he was. He carried with him a suitcase filled with American currency, Filipino bearer bonds, gold bullion, and other various treasures he could find in Arturo Mikaso’s vaults and in government museums — that would help establish him in some Southeast Asia country loyal to China — or perhaps Pakistan, Madagascar, or Sri Lanka — and it would ensure his safety for several years until he thought it safe to return to the Philippines.
A few moments later, a low-flying helicopter could be heard in the distance, swooping out from the south and approaching the palace fast. Teguina was about to rise to his feet in the doorway when automatic gunfire rang out. Teguina cried out, clutching the suitcase, as a bodyguard leaped on top of him to cover him from the assassin’s bullets — or at least that was what Teguina thought, until he heard the bodyguard’s animal-like cry of pain and felt warm blood seep over his neck and chest.
The gunfire abruptly stopped, and someone lifted the bodyguard’s bleeding body free of the ex-President of the Philippines. Teguina turned and was going to rush back down the stairs, but collided into a soldier wearing the dark-green jungle fatigues favored by Jose Samar’s Commonwealth Defense Forces.
“But your helicopter is just arriving, Mr. President,” he heard a voice say. He turned and found General Jose Trujillo Samar himself standing before him. His face and shoulders were still heavily bandaged, and the hair had not started to grow back on his eyebrows or eyelids yet, giving him a horrifying specterlike appearance. He wore jungle fatigues and carried an American-made .45-caliber automatic pistol in his holster, but it was not drawn. Teguina could see all but two of his bodyguards dead on the roof; the rest were on their knees with their hands on top of their heads.
Teguina let the suitcase fall, both as a show of defiance, because he felt guilty by having it in his possession, and because he suddenly did not have the strength to hold it. He placed his hands casually behind his back where Samar would not see them shake, and sneered, “I see your time with your American friends has not helped to improve your looks, Samar.”
“Nor has your time with your Chinese friends improved your integrity,” Samar said. “Where are they, by the way? We saw very few in the city today.”
“I no longer need the Chinese to help me secure my country,” Teguina said. “Your revolution has failed, your followers have been destroyed, your troops have been slaughtered. The people know that I am their President—”
“The people now know that you are a liar, a thief, and a traitor,” Samar said casually. He motioned to a man standing behind him, who was photographing the whole scene with a professional-quality videotape camera. A soldier carried the suitcase over to him and opened it so they could photograph its contents; then the cameraman swung it back and took pictures of Teguina’s shocked, disbelieving expression. “You will be taken into custody and tried by the Parliament and the Supreme Court. I hope they vote to execute you.”