warships to think about as well. When the American people learned about this incident, which was bound to happen at any minute, what would they say? Would they expect a military response? Would they understand if the President of the United States still tried to pursue a peaceful solution? “Mr. President, I’m ready to brief you at any time on WINTER HAMMER…”
“General, I can’t consider sending in more bombers and fighters now, ” the President said angrily. “I’m supposed to stand up in front of the American people and deny that we sent bombers to attack the Philippines-and then the press learns of all those bombers sitting over there on Guam? I look bad enough as it is.”
“We can disprove each and every accusation by the Chinese, ” Curtis said. “We can prove we had unarmed reconnaissance planes up there, not bombers, and that the Chinese fighters attacked first. We can also prove that the Ranger was hundreds of miles from the Philippines and no threat to any coastal towns or Chinese positions, and that their antiship missile attack on the fleet was unprovoked.” But the President seemed distant, worried, unreachable. “You don’t have to submit to this blackmail, sir. We’ve got dozens of options. “I know, I know . . . He paused, his gaze scanning his advisers arranged around him, although it was obvious he didn’t notice any of them-it was his way of making tough decisions. He made another glance at Thomas Preston, who was grim-faced but remained silent. The President was alone with his decision: “I know I’m being too cautious, Wilbur, but you’ve got to understand, ” he said, “I need cooperation with the other countries in the region before I commit American troops to fight the Chinese. The world is touchier than a warm bottle of nitroglycerin right now. If I send your bombers and fighters into the Philippines to square off against the Chinese, I need to make sure that the American people realize we’ve exhausted every possible option first. . “We’ve got the authorization you need, sir, ” Curtis said. “Second Vice President Samar.”
“Samar? What does he have to do with this… ?” President Taylor asked. “Samar is a legitimate head of the government, sir, ” Curtis said. “He is also the governor of the Commonwealth of Mindanao, which is virtually a republic of its own. His designated representative has formally requested assistance from the United States. That’s the legal spark we need to move. Danahall sniffed aloud and shook his head. “That’s not even close to the truth, General . “It doesn’t have to be the absolute truth, Dennis, ” Curtis pointed out. “We’re not talking about a court case here-we’re looking for justification to act, and we have it “Unless Samar is dead, ” the Vice President said, “in which case Teguina retains control of the government and becomes de facto governor of Mindanao. “Then we go in and rescue Samar, ” Curtis said. “Ambassador O’Day was given information on how to contact Samarwe Il arrange for a specialzoperations group to go in and get him out so he can make an announcement to the world that he is resisting the Chinese.”
“But we need to be in a better position to react when we get Samar out, sir, ” Curtis said to the President. “Sir, you have to order the Air Battle Force into Guam and the Marines to deploy into the Philippine Sea, and have them prepare for action. If we wait too long, Samar’s militia will collapse and Mindanao will fall-and then nothing short of a nuclear war will dislodge the Chinese from the Philippines.” The President thought about this, scanning the faces around him; then, to General Curtis: “Okay, Wilbur, you got the green light. Get the Air Battle Force moving to Andersen as quickly as possible. You’re also authorized to deploy the Army and Marine Prezpositioned Forces as you outlined earlier, and the destroyers and cruiser you mentioned before can go on standby with their Tomahawk cruise missiles. I want no offensive operations to begin without my specific approval. I want a full briefing on WINTER HAMMER within the hour, here… Paul, get the ‘leadership’ together for the briefing, and try to get as many of the allies notified as possible.”
“And the B-2 bombers that are part of the Air Battle Force. . . ?” The President scowled his displeasure at the question, but replied, “That’s up to you and your people. It’s bad enough I’m ordering bombers and cruise missiles into the area-I might as well get all the protests packed into one order. If the crews have been training with your Air Battle Force and if they know their shit, you’re authorized to send them.” PUJADA PENINSULA, SOUTHEASTERN MINDANAO THE PHILIPPINES SUNDAY, 2 OCTOBER 1994, 0430 HOURS LOCAL The only warmth United States Navy Lieutenant Commander Paul “Cowboy” Bowman had felt in two days came from a tiny burning white fuel tablet about the size of a quarter. He had lit the tablet with a match from a waterproof container, placed the fuel tablet in a small palm-sized aluminum cookstove from his survival kit, then folded a sheet of an old Tagalog-language magazine cover into the shallow pan-he had lost the original metal cup long ago during their mad races through the Mindanao junglesfilled it with brackish water, and set it on the stove. To Second Vice President Jose Trujillo Samar’s surprise, the paper pan did not burn. “Why does the paper not burn, Bowman?” Samar asked. “Dunno, ” Bowman replied. “Too cool, I guess.” He dumped a packet of soup mix into the water and began stirring it with a twig. This whole trip was actually too cool, Bowman thought. The escort mission for the Air Force, the dogfights with the Chinks, getting his ass shot down, splashing down in some unheard-of sea thousands of miles from home and hundreds of miles from his carrier-at night, no less-being chased through the swamps and jungles of the Philippines, running from Chinese infantry patrols, losing his RIO. And to top everything off, here he was with the Second Vice President of the Philippines, a man who was legally the Presi dent of the country, but was, in reality, on the run from his First Vice President. Bowman had been pulled out of the Celebes by a fishing boat and delivered to Samar’s militia. His flight suit was crusted with dried saltwater and mud and he was dog-tired. He’d been unable to sleep before his patrol and had been awake nearly eighteen hours before his sortie, so he was going on almost three days of no sleep, not to mention that his left elbow was probably broken when it hit the cockpit sill on ejection. But that wasn’t the worst part of this excruciating evasion. The worst part of the trip was lying in the sewn-up canvas bag a few feet away from him-the body of Bowman’s RIO, Lieutenant Kenny “Cookin” Miller. Miller’s parachute had apparently not fully opened, and by the time Bowman somehow found him in the dark, warm water, he had either drowned or had died instantly after hitting the water. He had dragged Miller’s battered body into his one-man life raft with him, ignoring the horribly shattered neck and twisted limbs. Bowman and Miller had been together for three cruises, and the two bachelors had lots of shore-leave experiences. They were more than shipmates or fellow crew dogsthey were friends. Bowman was determined not to leave his friend alone, to be eaten by sharks in the Celebes Sea. As long as it was humanly possible, Bowman was going to carry, drag, or push Miller’s body with him. Since being retrieved from the water, Bowman and his grisly companion had been on the move. They had been transferred to two more fishing boats, then between several groups, once being taken to shore. Their ID cards were taken immediately, he was kept tied up and blindfolded, and he was warned that if he disobeyed any order or did anything to arouse suspicion, he would be disposed of without remorse or hesitation. They had traveled uphill for two days, moving only at night or in bad weather; then they moved quickly downhill to the eastern shoreline-the sun was coming up somewhere over Samar’s shoulder right now, in the direction of the sea. They were kept hidden in mud pits, the hollowed-out insides of huge tropical trees, or in rotting grass huts. Food was usually a muddy green banana or some other undigestible piece of fruit, and rainwater. Samar himself had shown up only last night. His militiamen treated him like Caesar. He held several military councils, speaking Tagalog in low whispers. Bowman thought General Jose Samar had to be the most mysterious, enigmatic, unfathomable man he had ever encountered. Here he was, President of the Philippines, the leader of the Commonwealth of Mindanao, a powerful state in its own right, a wealthy plantation owner and industrialist. And what was he doing? Hiding out in the middle of nowhere, wearing filthy fatigues, within minutes or mere yards of getting his head blown off, and leading a group of rebel soldiers around deadly Chinese air and naval patrols. Samar was a born leader, and he looked the part. Tall for a Filipino, light-skinned, broad-shouldered and powerful like a farmer, which he was on his family’s Jolo Island estate before he entered politics. He was an Army Academy graduate and a former armored cavalry officer, advancing in grade to captain before joining Ferdinand Marcos’ secret intelligence organization. He rose to the rank of general in very short order, commanding the ex-Philippine President’s Mindanao intelligence organization. He had reportedly executed and imprisoned thousands of Moslem rebels in the prison at Puerto Princesa in his five years as chief of intelligence. … until he got religion. Somehow, sometime, the teachings of Islam had penetrated that handsome head. Perhaps it was the tortured cries of his victims or their families; perhaps it was his Sulu heritage, which had been influenced for centuries by sailors and traders from the Middle East; perhaps it was Allah or the Prophet speaking to him in his dreams-whatever it was, General Samar became an avowed Moslem warrior. Bowman had heard his Islamic name, but had forgotten it-his men called him “General” or occasionally “Jabal, ” which meant “mountain.” Samar had tried several rebellions against the Marcos regime-all had been put down violently and efficiently, and a huge price had been placed on his head. He learned to live off the land, fleeing from one isolated jungle village to another, always one or two steps ahead of his ex-colleagues in the secret police. His exploits as a hunted criminal and guerrilla soldier against Marcos had earned him a widespread heroic reputation on Mindanao, and many villagers regarded him as a modern-day Robin Hood, if not a god. He was very successful in rallying the Moslem faithful to his side and demonstrating to all Filipinos the cruelty and opprobrium imposed on the
