The people clearly loved their President.
But Teguina listened to the speech and Mikaso’s praise for the United States with growing impatience and disgust. He loathed the Americans and had always resented their presence. As for Mikaso, he owed him nothing. He’d agreed to this hybrid coalition only after he’d realized he didn’t have enough votes to win the presidency himself.
As taped music was played over the PA system, Mikaso,
Stone, and, reluctantly, Teguina, positioned themselves in front of a special set of three flagpoles behind the reviewing stands.
An honor guard stepped onto the stand and positioned themselves around the flagpoles. As Mikaso placed a hand over his heart in tribute, the Philippine flag was lowered a few feet in respect. Then, as “Retreat” was played, the American flag was raised to the top of the staff, then slowly lowered.
“Why is our flag lowered?” Teguina whispered, as if to himself. When no one paid him any attention, he raised his voice: “I ask, why is the Philippine flag lowered first? I do not understand…”
“Silence, Mr. Teguina,” Mikaso whispered.
“Raise the Philippine flag back to the top of the staff,” he said, his voice now carrying clearly over the music. “It is disrespectful for any national flag to be lowered in such a way.”
“We are paying honor to the Americans—”
“Bah!” Teguina spat. “They are foreigners returning home, nothing more.” But he fell silent as the American flag was lowered and the honor guard began folding it into the distinctive triangle. When the flag was folded, the honor guard passed it to General Stone, who stepped to Arturo Mikaso, saluted, and presented it to him.
“With thanks from a grateful nation, Mr. President,” Stone said.
Mikaso smiled. “It will be kept in a place of honor in the capital, General Stone, as a symbol of our friendship and fidelity.”
“Thank you, sir.”
At that, the two men looked skyward as a gentle roar of jet engines began to be heard.
Flying over the base and directly down the mall over the reviewing stand were four flights of four F-4 Phantom fighters, followed by a flight of three B-52 bombers, all no more than two thousand feet above ground — and everyone could clearly see the twelve Harpoon antiship missiles hanging off the wings of each B-52. The audience in the bleachers applauded and cheered; the crowd outside the gate was restlessly cheering and shouting at the impressive display.
But Daniel Teguina decided he had had enough.
This… this American love feast was too much for a native Filipino. He pushed past Stone and Mikaso and quickly lowered the Philippine flag from its pole, unclipped it, and reattached it to the empty center pole where the American flag had just been removed.
“What in God’s name are you doing, Teguina?” Mikaso shouted over the roar of the planes.
Teguina ordered one of his bodyguards to raise the Philippine flag. He turned, glaring at Stone, and said, “We are not going to defer to Americans any longer. This is our land, our skies, our country — and our flag!”
As the flag traveled up the pole, Stone heard one of the most chilling sounds he’d ever experienced — the screams of fury, anger and, ultimately, jubilation coming from the thousands outside the gates. As the Philippine flag reached the top of the pole, the screams reached a deafening, roaring crescendo.
Teguina and Stone stared long and hard at each other, while President Mikaso began babbling apologies for his First Vice President’s behavior.
Thus ended the American presence in the Philippines.
After the ceremonies quickly ended, Rat Stone made his way to the air terminal to supervise the final departure — he still preferred not to call it an evacuation — of American military personnel from Clark Air Base. He couldn’t shake the feeling deep in his gut that this cessation of mutual defense arrangements had happened too quickly, too abruptly. The skirmish just last week in the Spratly Islands was still fresh in his mind. And so was the look in Daniel Teguina’s eyes… it chilled him to the bone.
No, Rat Stone decided, this would not be the last time he would see the Philippines…
The question was when.
“Tell me this is a joke, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan said to Brigadier General John Ormack, “and — with all due respect, of course — I’ll beat your face.
John Ormack, the deputy commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center — nicknamed HAWC, the Air Force’s secret flight-test research center that was a part of the Dreamland complex — didn’t have to look at the wide grin on McLanahan’s face to know that he wasn’t seriously threatening bodily harm to anyone. He could tell by McLanahan’s voice, wavering with pure excitement, that the thirty-nine-year-old radar navigator and flight-test project officer was genuinely thrilled. They were standing in front of the newest, most high-tech aircraft in the world, the B-2 stealth bomber. And best of all, for the next several months, this B-2 — nicknamed the “Black Knight” — belonged to him.
“No joke, Patrick,” Ormack said, putting an arm around McLanahan’s broad shoulders. “Don’t ask me how he did it, but General Elliott got one of the first B-2A test articles assigned to Dreamland. That’s one nice thing about being director of HAWC — Elliott gets to pull strings. This one has been stripped down quite a bit, but it’s a fully operational model — this was the bomber that launched the first SRAM-II attack missile a few months back.”
“But they just made the B-2 operational,” McLanahan pointed out. “They don’t have that many B-2s out there — just one squadron, the 393rd, right?”
Ormack nodded.
“What are we doing with one?” McLanahan asked.
“Knowing Elliott, he put the squeeze on Systems Command to begin more advanced weapons tests on the B-2, in case they begin full-scale deployment. Air Force stopped deployment, as you know, because of budget cutbacks — but, as we both know, General Elliott’s projects aren’t under public scrutiny.”
Ormack went on. “He was pushing the shift from nuclear to conventional warfighting strategy to Congress, just as Air Force did. It was hard for the Air Force to sell the B-2 as a conventional weapons platform — that is, until Elliott spoke up. He wants to turn this B-2 into another Megafortress — a flying battleship. The man managed to convince the powers-that-be to let him use one for advanced testing.
“Of course we need a senior project officer with bomber experience, experience on EB-series strategic-escort concepts, and someone with a warped imagination and a real bulldog-type attitude. Naturally, we thought of you.”
McLanahan was speechless, which made Ormack smile even more. Ormack was an Air Force Academy graduate, medium height, rapidly graying brown hair, lean and wiry, and although he was a command pilot with several thousand hours’ flying time in dozens of different aircraft, he was more at home in a laboratory, flight simulator, or in front of a computer console. All of the young men he worked with were either quiet, studious engineers — everyone called them “geeks” or “computer weenies” — or they were flashy, cocky, swaggering test pilots full of attitude because they had been chosen above 99.99 percent of the rest of the free world’s aviators to work at HAWC.
McLanahan was neither.
He wasn’t an Academy grad, not an engineer, not a test pilot. What McLanahan was was a six-foot blond with an air of understated strength and power; a hardworking, intelligent, well-organized, efficient aviator. The eldest son of Irish immigrants, McLanahan had been born in New York but raised in Sacramento where he attended Air Force ROTC at Cal State and received his commission in 1973. After navigator training at Mather AFB in Sacramento he was assigned to the B-52s of the 320th Bomb Wing there. After uprating to radar navigator, he was again assigned to Mather Air Force Base.