Strike Eagle
Colonel Doug Beason, USAF (ret)
Strike Eagle
Col. Doug Beason
AIR FORCE TWO WAS MISSING!
When last contacted, Air Force Two, with the vice president of the United States aboard, was flying high over the Philippine jungle.
On board was not only the vice president, but the “football” that gave him the power to initiate nuclear war. For in Washington, D.C., the U.S. President lay dying.
At the newly reconstituted Clark Air Base, the orders went out: Air Force Two, aloft or downed, had to be found. The vice president, alive or dead, had to be brought back.
The hunt was on. The race against time and the ultimate terror had begun … in an action-packed military thriller of supersonic suspense and explosive excitement—
***
Smashwords Edition – 2014
WordFire Press
wordfirepress.com
ISBN: 978-1-61475-135-9
Copyright © 2014 Doug Beason
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover design by Kevin J. Anderson
and
Art Director Kevin J. Anderson
Cover artwork images by Shutterstock
Book Design by RuneWright, LLC
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Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
Published by
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WordFire, Inc.
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Electronic Version by Baen Books
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***
Dedication
To those that have lived in the Philippines
***
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author realizes that the Air Force bases and some of the organizations depicted herein are real, but the people and incidents connected with these locations are entirely fictional. The opinions expressed herein, explicit or implied, are purely those of the author and do not reflect the views of the United States, the Department of Defense, or the United States Air Force.
When this novel was first published, the author had never been involved in or had access to, either officially or unofficially, any aspect of high power microwaves beyond the basic physics research stage such as that published in numerous scientific journals. This novel is based on pure speculation, gleaned from material assimilated from Aviation Week, and Space Technology and Defense News.
***
Acknowledgments
To Kevin J. Anderson and Michael Berch, Esq. for their editorial insight and suggestions; Colonel Terry “Moose” Millard, Lieutenant Colonel “Mongo” Monahan, Major Dave Harris and the 1550th Combat Crew Training Wing, Major Wayne Crist and the 3rd TFW, Captain Jim Beason, and Alan Gould for their technical details; Richard Curtis and John Sibersack for making this happen; Billy Joel’s “Storm Front,” for inspiration; and Tamara, Amanda and Cindy—as always—for being there and putting up with me.
***
Principal Characters
The Family
First Lieutenant (1Lt) Bruce Steele, USAF (ASSASSIN)
Ashley Woodman—Bruce’s ex-wife
Joe Steele—Bruce’s father
Cheryl Steele—his mother
Fred Steele—his (deceased) younger brother
The Boys and Girls
Captain Charlie Fargassa (FOGGY)—Bruce’s backseater
CATMAN (1Lt Ed Holstrom)—F-15E pilot, Maddog 3
ROBIN (2Lt Steve Garcioni)—CATMAN’s backseater
SKIPPER (Capt Thorin A. Olsen)—”Maddog” Flight Commander, Maddog 1
PANTHER (Capt Enriqueta Y. Bonita)—SKIPPER’S backseater
REVLON (Capt Heather Rheinquist)—F-15E pilot, Maddog 2
DIGGER (1Lt Lucius Brown)—REVLON’s backseater
Clark Air Base (reopened after U.S. departure in 1991)
Lt. Col McConnell—Squadron Commander, 333rd Fighter Squadron
Ms. Hosteader—Housing counselor
Capt. Richard Head—MH-60G helicopter pilot (FOX 1)
Capt. Bob Gould—MH-60G co-pilot
Tech. Sgt. “Mooselips” Noresteader—Bruce’s crew chief
Principal Characters
CMSGT Grune—Instructor, Jungle Survival School
Abuj Qyantrolo—Negrito jungle survival instructor
SSgt “Zaz” Zazbrewski—MH-60G flight engineer
SSgt Hank McCormack—MH-60G gunner
SSgt Sal Flores—MH-60G gunner
Maj Gen Peter Simone—Commander, Thirteenth Air Force
Major Stephanie Hendhold—his aide
Col William F. Bolte (LIGHTNING)—Commander, 4th Fighter Wing
Michele Bolte—his wife
Nanette Bolte—his daughter
SSgt Evette Whiltree—Air Traffic Controller
CMSGT Figarno—her supervisor
Major Brad Dubois—4th Fighter Wing Flight Scheduler
TSgt Merkowitz—Gate Guard
Col Ben Lutler—Commander, 353rd Special Operations Group
Juanita Sanchez—Major General Simone’s secretary
Other Locations
Major Kathy Yulok—SR-73 pilot, Kadena AFB, Okinawa
Major Ed Prsybalwyki—SR-73 co-pilot, Kadena AFB, Okinawa
Admiral Greshan, USN—Fleet Admiral 7th Fleet, Yokosuka, Japan
Gen Westschloe—Commander, Pacific Air Forces, Hickam AFB, HI
Chaplain (Commander) White, USN—Base Chaplain, Subic Bay
Taco Charlie—Okinawan restaurant owner
Oniksuki—Taco Charlie’s grandson
Sabine Aquinette—Agency operative, South Korea
Roger Epstein—Agency Station Chief, South Korea
Yan Kawnlo—North Korean terrorist
Minister Ieyasu—Japanese Minister of Trade
Col Alan Merke—Division Vice-Commander, Kadena AFB
President Rizular—President of the P.I.
Col Pat Wingate—Aircraft Commander, Air Force Two
Colonel Rader—Deputy for Operations, 313th Air Division, Kadena AFB, Okinawa
Angeles City
Yolanda Sicat
Pompano Sicat—her father
Lucila Sicat—his deceased wife
Cervante Escindo—New People’s Army (NPA, or “Huk”) cell leader
Barguyo—Huk terrorist
Edgar—Huk terrorist
Julio—Huk terrorist
Tanila—Bruce’s father’s girlfriend
Emil Oloner—black market runner
Washington, D.C.
Lucius K. Longmire—President of the U.S. (MAVERICK)
Robert E. Adleman—vice president of the U.S. (LONESTAR)
LtCol Merke, USAF—VP Adleman’s aide
Harley Dubois—Secret Service agent
Cyndi Fount—Director, CIA
Francis Woodrow Acht—Secretary
of State
Jerry Weinstein—Chairman, National Democratic Party
Ensign Julia Clounch—President’s nurse
Captain (Dr.) Barnett—Commanding Officer, Bethesda Hospital
Ebert Zeringue—Secretary of Defense
General David Newman, USAF—Chief of Staff, Joint Chiefs of Staff
Juan Salazar—White House Press Secretary
Mr. Kelt—State Department Philippine Specialist
***
Prologue
Fifteen miles south of Bagio City, Philippine Islands
Cervante watched the road, waiting for the convoy, and wondered what it felt like to die.
Lying on a tightly braided grass mat, he had wedged himself far enough back from the crest to make himself invisible from below. Propped in front of him, between the roots of a towering tree, his AK-47 had a direct line of shot to any point on the road. It was the only direction that Cervante could see for more than two feet without being smothered by the dense jungle.
A fine mist filled the air, pushing the humidity up so high he thought he would have to pull out a machete and chop his way through it. Broad leaves collected the mist, pooling the liquid into thimble-sized drops before the weight of the water became too great for the leaf to hold. Thousands of such leaves filled the jungle; together, they produced a symphony of random drips. Birds chattered high up in the trees, adding to the cacophony. Cervante couldn’t hear any other sounds as he waited for the convoy.
He shifted his weight on the mat. An array of grenades hanging from his belt poked him in the thigh; he wiggled to push them out of the way, and soon was comfortable again.
Water drenched Cervante, but he had grown used to it as he waited for the precise moment to strike, as if he were the feared habu, the stealthy jungle snake that struck without warning.
A faint sound caught his attention. It came from below, channeled down the foliage-canopied road like a whistle blast through a pipe. Cervante grew alert. The birds stopped chirping, leaving only the eerie sound of splashing water.
He crept forward by pulling himself on his elbows. As he gripped the AK-47, he swung the automatic rifle back and forth across the road, ensuring latitude in his view. The sound grew louder: the unmistakable roar of trucks, the groaning of diesel engines as they chugged up the mountain road. The road narrowed to one lane just around the bend. He knew the drivers would be using parabolic mirrors, set by the curve, to see if any vehicles would be approaching from the opposite direction.
Cervante could not hear his compatriots, but he knew that around him three dozen men were preparing for the attack. The fine wires that led to patches on the road, plastique, were the sole signs of the men’s presence.
Cervante wished he had situated himself closer to the young man Barguyo—a boy no older than fourteen—who would throw the switch and detonate the explosives when the armored personnel carrier appeared; but Cervante had too many items to take care of, and not enough of himself to go around.
It was the hardest lesson he had to learn: assigning responsibilities to the Huks and allowing them to work alone. It was a far cry from the way things used to be, but their ability to strike bigger targets, penetrate deeper into the establishment, had increased tremendously.
Cervante was no longer a one-man operation, and the lessons pounded into him in the training camps north of the South Korean border would meet its first big test today. If the Huks were going to survive and turn things around, it had to start now. They had to strike the Philippine Constabulary at the very heart of its operation and steal the weapons that had been tapped to ferret out the Huks.
Cervante could now make out the sounds of individual vehicles. The engine running at high gear had to be the jeep that preceded the convoy. It would be well ahead of the main body, and it should soon pass. The deeper roar came from troop and supply trucks, belching black smoke and grinding their gears in an attempt to climb the four-thousand-foot rise to Bagio City. Cervante wiggled to his side and pulled up five grenades. He left three hanging on his belt, in case the group had to flee back into the jungle and use the explosives for a makeshift booby trap.
Seconds passed. Cervante blinked away perspiration that dripped into his eyes. It sounded as if the jeep were right on top of them.…
The vehicle pulled around the bend. Five men sat in the overloaded jeep, rifles held loosely. All but the driver smoked cigarettes. The jeep took the corner recklessly, eliciting wild laughter from the passengers. The soldiers knew they were near their base. It was just the state of mind Cervante had hoped for: If the convoy’s commanding officers were jocular, then the troops would be in a similar vein.
When the jeep disappeared from view, Cervante’s grip on his rifle tightened. The humidity continued to bear down on him; sweat rolled off his nose, but aside from an occasional wipe to remove the perspiration, Cervante focused on the road. Waiting.
A puff of black smoke gave the first troop truck away. As it rounded the curve, the driver honked its horn to warn approaching vehicles of its presence. The truck lurched; a grinding sound came from the vehicle as the driver shifted to a lower gear. There would be more trucks, and Cervante had to wait for the precise one—too soon, and the convoy would combine forces and flush the Huks out; too late, and the convoy would speed up to outrun the ambush.
Another truck passed, full of PC—the Filipino Philippine Constabulary troops, heading for their home base.
Cervante counted the tenth truck before he decided. The driver had just put his cigarette back in his mouth and expelled a cloud of smoke when Cervante pulled the trigger.
The windshield shattered into a thousand pieces. Gunfire erupted everywhere, enveloping the once peaceful jungle in a barrage of white noise.
The truck veered wildly and flipped off the side of the road. It barreled through the brush and disappeared. Screams came from all around. The next truck did not have a chance to slow down. Blasts of gunfire peppered the air. The truck somehow managed to weave along the narrow road, then drove into the side of the mountain.
Cervante rammed a new cartridge of bullets into the AK-47, throwing the spent package to the side. He continued to pump bullets at the next truck. Soldiers leapt from the truck and scurried down the hillside; those who stopped to take aim at Cervante’s unseen companions were mowed down in a barrage.
Nothing came from up the road—the small PC contingent that had turned back to assist had encountered gunfire from the Huks stationed on the hill.
Cervante waited for a full ten heartbeats before yelling the order to search the vehicle, but an armored personnel carrier crept around the bend. Bullets ricocheted off the vehicle. Cervante wet his lips. He hoped that the boy Barguyo would not hurry, would wait until the precise moment.…
The APC stayed in its lowest gear, grinding up the steep roadway and firing bursts from an exterior gun mount. As the vehicle crept over the wires in the road, the plastique exploded. The APC lifted slightly off the ground, then stopped moving.
Cervante struggled to his feet, pulling the AK-47 up with him. He flung himself down the slope and raced to the APC. Smoke billowed from underneath the vehicle. Muffled screams came from the APC’s interior. As Cervante moved to the vehicle, Huks started pouring out from the jungle. The men clutched various types of rifles and ranged in age from preteen to late middle-aged.
Cervante pulled a grenade from his side. He snapped at the men still coming from the jungle. “Quickly, the supply truck!” He pointed with the grenade to the truck that had careened into the side of the hill.
Dropping his rifle, Cervante scrambled on top of the armored vehicle. He tried to open the APC hatch, but when the access did not give, he pushed his foot against the lever and kicked; the hatch barely creaked open. He pulled the grenade pin with his teeth.
A voice wailed from the vehicle in Tagalog: “Mother Maria, please help me!”
Cervante tossed the grenade into the APC, then leaped to the ground, running. When he was thirty fee
t from the APC, a muffled explosion rocked the area; the screaming inside the vehicle stopped.
A horn beeped down the road.
Seconds later, a truck driven by a Huk sympathizer roared into view. The old man driving the truck slammed on his brakes at the sight of the smoking armored personnel carrier. Cervante motioned at the man.
“Pompano! Get as close to the truck as you can.”
As Pompano crept forward, Cervante huffed up to the supply vehicle.
Two Huks threw wooden crates from the truck. Some cracked open, spilling bullets and rifles. Pompano positioned his truck, and a line of men quickly filled it with crates.
Cervante pulled himself inside the PC supply truck and made a quick scan for anything they should take. Several large crates caught his eye. He felt his pulse quicken at the prospect of finding some heat-seeking missiles. As he scrambled over the jumble of crates, he made out stenciled lettering written in English:
United States Army
Battlefield High-Power Microwave Weapon
Caution: Capacitors May Carry High Voltage!
The boy Barguyo stuck his head in the back of the truck: “Hurry, we are ready!”
Cervante pulled himself up. The gunshots grew louder. The Huks had taken nearly all the supplies … yet this “high-power microwave” device intrigued him. He snapped out, “Quickly, get me some help—we must take this with us.”
Moments later, Cervante was sitting in the rear with his comrades. Their spirits were high, and understandably so: they had commandeered bullets, rifles, and enough supplies to last the band of Huks six months. The truck bounced as it sped down the winding mountain road.