Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 17

“You set?” Bird Dog asked as he tucked his kneeboard in over the preloading button on his G-suit. Sudden acceleration would depress the button and activate the suit before it could react automatically. One more thing that could go wrong, something in the back of his mind noted, another little mechanism for killing pilots: gray out and unconsciousness brought on by high G-forces.

I might not even know, if it was bad enough. Be in the drink in seconds if I passed out. Cold seawater, hot jet engines, big explosion. It’d be fast, anyway. God, at least don’t let me stay conscious. Don’t let me have to watch it.

An involuntary tremor shook him, and he pushed the thoughts away. This was no time to be thinking about the dangers he faced every day, not while sitting on the cat. Keep your mind in the cockpit, idiot. That’s what kills more pilots than anything else — getting distracted at just the wrong minute and forgetting to fly the aircraft. Look at Gator. He’s done this a million more times than you have, and you don’t see him sweating the load.

Bird Dog glanced in the mirror and saw the RIO give one last tug on his harness. Ice-blue eyes, framed by the flight helmet and the face mask, met his. Gator gave him a thumbs-up.

“Ready now,” Gator answered.

Bird Dog snapped off a salute at the handler and pressed his head and back hard against the back of the seat. Seconds later, he felt the first slight motion of the Tomcat. The steam piston rammed forward to the bow of the ship, accelerating the F-14 to 145 knots in six seconds. Catapulted off the carrier at just above stall speeds, the Tomcat clawed for airspeed and attitude, but settled for just staying airborne.

“Always a miracle,” Gator said, taking a deep breath.

“I haven’t let you down yet, have I?” Bird Dog asked, trying for a light note in his voice.

“First time’s the last time. So you know where we’re heading?” Gator asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“You think I wasn’t paying attention at the brief? South.”

“South is the right answer, my man. You get the nose pointed that way, I’ll give you a vector.”

Bird Dog winced as he thought back to the one time he hadn’t managed to keep the aircraft pointed in the right direction. Then he forced the thought away and resolved to keep his head in the cockpit. His RIO hadn’t taken a slam at him. It was Bird Dog’s mind that was the problem.

“Sure you trust me that much?” Bird Dog replied lightly. “Awful tough task for a pilot, figuring out which way’s south.”

“I think you’re up to that part of it. Okay, come left to 187. That ought to put us dead on course for it. No, it’s the other part that bothers me. The part about why.”

“Now who was nodding off during the brief?” Bird Dog ribbed. “I thought they covered that fairly well. With all these islands going boom, we’re supposed to go watch and see if this one does. A real challenge for a multimillion-dollar aircraft.”

Bird Dog heard the RIO fidgeting in his seat and glanced in the small rearview mirror. “Hey! You hear me?” Bird Dog asked.

“I heard you. I heard the brief, too.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Aw, come on, Gator! Don’t make me play Twenty Questions with you!”

“It’s nothing, Bird Dog. Nothing firm, anyway. It’s just that I don’t entirely believe that that’s why we’re going out to circle a bunch of rocks. Think about it. We’re headed directly away from everything that’s happened in the last couple of days. Seems strange, that’s all.”

“Well, why else would we be going out there?”

“I’m not entirely sure. And that’s what bothers me. If it were really pictures of rocks blowing up, you’d send a TARPS bird to take pictures. Or an S-3. Or a helo. Or something that could go low and slow and get evidence. Not an F-14 with a combat load. And not on this type of cyclic ops. You notice that, Bird Dog? We’re on flex deck ops, massive alert five birds, and no CAP in the one area we ought to be interested in. Now why do you suppose that is?”

“Hadn’t thought about it, really. I didn’t see my name posted for alert, and that’s all that I looked for.”

“Well, doesn’t it strike you as unusual? For the next four days, we’re going to be operating at very specific hours on very specific missions. And this in the middle of some weird shit going on out here. I don’t know, Bird Dog, it’s just not making sense to me.”

“Me, neither, now that you mention it.” And I’m not sure I really care, except for the alert part of it. Sitting on the flight deck for hours, all I see is Alvarez. Every time the engine turns over, every time some idiot plane captain gets near me, I see it again.”

“At least we’re getting one of the flights today,” Gator said. “Better than sitting on the deck.”

Bird Dog looked in the mirror again and saw the RIO looking back, a speculative gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah. Gotta love that,” Bird Dog said finally.

“There goes the first flight,” Tombstone said, watching the plat camera.

“Think it will work?” Batman asked.

“It should. Lab Rat came up with a damned fine plan. Shit, remind me not to call him that anymore.”

“Noted.”

“The way this op is planned,” Tombstone continued, “it’s the Chinese that are going to be running the maze, not us. They’re going to see a lot of American air activity to the south, around the furthest away rocks that are part of this island chain. We’re hoping it’s going to get their curiosity up. At the very least, we’re acting exactly the opposite of what they probably expect. One way or another, that ought to provoke some sort of response from them.”

“With an unarmed E-2 up overhead, I hope it’s not an armed response,” Batman said.

“Me, too,” Tombstone said soberly. “We’re taking a chance, I know. But look at the facts. They haven’t fired at our aircraft up to now-“

“-just our ships, and an occasional shot at an S-3,” Batman interrupted.

“-and the shot at the Vincennes might have been kicked off by the Vincennes playing grab-ass with her fire control radar. We have some strong indications that they’re doing targeting exercises, data links between the fighters and the submarines, but no real indications that they’re prepared to forcibly eject us from the South China Sea.”

“Not that they could,” Batman added.

“The fastest way to get us out of here is going to be to apply political pressure on the United States. And you’re right about the force part of it. Even if they wanted to, I doubt that they could do much more than make life uncomfortable for us for a few days. Not much matches the firepower we carry with us.”

“So we try to avoid cooperating with their plan and force them to tip their hand to their neighbors?” Batman asked. “Shit, Stoney, doesn’t sound like much fun to me!”

“It’s not. Particularly for the E-2. But if you’ve got any other ideas, speak up.” Tombstone regarded his old wingman fondly. “Didn’t think so.”

How long had he been staring at the horizon? Bird Dog shook his head and resumed his scan. Complacency about routine CAP missions killed aviators.

“You still awake up there?” Gator asked. “We’re only thirty minutes into this mission.”

“Who do you think’s flying? Santa Claus?” Bird Dog snapped.

“Just asking, buddy, that’s all. You looked rough during the brief.”

“I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.”

More than just a little, if he were truthful with himself. He’d tossed in his rack for four hours, succeeding in doing nothing except getting the sheets tangled and sweaty. When he’d finally fallen asleep, it hadn’t been much better than being awake. Alvarez haunted his dreams, a silent, screaming phantom swirling around his cockpit. He’d been on a mission, some sort of bombing run, and every time he turned onto the final vector for the drop, Alvarez appeared. In the dream, somehow the airman had been blown onto the front of the aircraft instead of being chewed up by the engines. He clung there like a June bug on a car, plastered to the canopy by the force of the catapult shot and the wind. Those eyes, pleading, tears filling them without ever spilling over onto his cheeks, the mouth open in a silent entreaty.

Bird Dog had startled awake, still shaking from the vision. For a few minutes, he’d been filled with incredible rage at the dead airman. He hadn’t meant for his brakes to fail, or for Alvarez to ignore normal flight deck safety precautions. It hadn’t been his fault, it hadn’t!

“Let’s just get through this mission, Gator,” Bird Dog said quietly. Arguing with his RIO suddenly seemed like the last thing he wanted to do today.

“Okay. But when we get back on deck, I think we’re going to have a long talk,” Gator said finally. Bird Dog recognized the tone. Gator would let it slide for now, but back on deck he’d assert his seniority and his privileged status as Bird Dog’s backseater to pry into his pilot’s head. While Gator had been in the aircraft when the accident had occurred, he hadn’t been the pilot, and both men knew it. No amount of reassurance that it’d been an accident would bring the dead airman back. Or, Bird Dog suspected, prevent the nightmares from returning. He wondered if he’d be seeing Airman Alvarez in his dreams for the rest of his life.

“Strangers, bearing 245, range 120 miles,” the OS on the carrier said suddenly. “Tomcat 205, intercept and VID.”

“Roger. We’ll want to tank in about an hour, though,” Gator said. It was unlikely that the OS would forget to check their fuel state, but it never hurt to remind them. “Any IFF?”

“Negative IFF. Speed five hundred knots, rapid rate of climb. Based on the egress point, could be Flankers coming out off the coast again. Or MiGs, for a change of pace.”

“Any other info?” Bird Dog asked.

“Negative. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else,” the OS said calmly.

Bird Dog turned southwest, following the OS’s intercept vector. Moments later, Gator reported gaining the contact on his radar.

Ten minutes later, the unknown contact was a black blip on the horizon. “MiG-23,” Gator reported matter-of-factly, “based on the radar he’s using.”

“You called it,” Bird Dog said, as the contact grew larger. “Definitely a MiG. They’re sending their front-line units out.”

“What’s he look like?” Gator asked.

“Clean wings — no weapons on any station.”

“Good news for Homeplate.”

“Depends on whether there’s a submarine in the area. Clean-winged didn’t mean anything last time.”

The MiG suddenly tipped its nose down and headed for the deck, not actively evading the approaching Tomcat, but clearly not in the mood to cooperate with an American inspection.

“Catch the Vietnamese markings on the tail?” Bird Dog asked.

“Yep. I’ll let Mother know.”

Bird Dog glanced at the fuel gauge. “We’ve got time to play follow the leader. Let’s see what he’s up to.” He turned the Tomcat and followed the MiG down. “Surface contacts,” Gator announced.

“I see them.” A huge RO-RO, a roll-on, roll-off container ship, came into view. “Whose is it?”

“Can’t see the flag,” Gator muttered.

“E-2 got anything on it?”

“Hawkeye’s calling a U.S.-flagged ship,” Gator reported, after querying the circling E-2. “It’s on a normal commercial route.”

“So what’s the MiG want with our merchant ship? Don’t tell me he wants to play kamikaze!”

“Not likely. The Vietnamese don’t have so many that they’d be willing to waste them. Probably doing just what we’re doing — going down for a look-see and a photo op.”

“Hard as hell to take pictures at 450 knots,” Bird Dog said.

“Hey, I didn’t say they’d be good pictures.”

“Jeez, he’s low and fast. Gonna scare the hell out of that merchant!” Bird Dog said.

“Sometimes they’ve only got one person on the bridge during a long haul, and there’s no guarantee that he’s awake.”

“Maybe we ought to loan them you,” Bird Dog said snidely.

Third Mate Gringes settled back in the chair and glanced at the engineering status display for the hundredth time in the last two hours. Two more days at sea before liberty! While the weather had been relatively good on this voyage, even the most favorable conditions — and the generous amounts of overtime — couldn’t completely make up for the monotony of being at sea.

For want of anything better to do, he checked the surface radar display again. Still no contacts, although he wouldn’t be surprised to start seeing more ships soon. While the South China Sea was a large body of water, the trade routes were heavily traveled.

With the automatic pilot functions engaged, there was little to do on the bridge. He strolled out to the bridge wing and took a cursory glance at the horizon. Radar picture confirmed — not another ship within fifteen miles or so, at least.

A strange thrumming sound caught his attention, and he glanced up, looking for the aircraft that was causing it. After two years of making voyages on the Kawashi Maru, he knew every sound his ship was capable of making. This was clearly external to his ship.

He saw the movement first and went back inside the pilot house to retrieve his binoculars. By the time he’d found them and lifted them to examine the aircraft, the contact was gone. He dropped the binoculars and let them dangle around his neck from the strap.

The sound returned, coming now from the other side of the ship. Thankful for anything that broke up the sheer monotony of his four hours at the conn, he strolled across the pilot house to the other side of the ship.

The aircraft was much lower now — lower and closer. It didn’t take binoculars to identify the sharp angles of a MiG-23 slicing through the humid South China Sea air. He watched the aircraft come from astern, draw abreast of the ship, and then cut quickly to the right.

Within seconds, the aircraft was above him, so close and so low that Gringes felt as much as heard the thunder of the engines. His hands went to his ears automatically, trying to block the sound waves assaulting him. As the MiG raced in over him, he felt his eyes shut involuntarily. The noise consumed him, vibrating through his bones and rattling his guts.

As the sound dropped lower in frequency, down-dopplering from the relative motion of the aircraft and the ship, he opened his eyes again. The MiG raced off toward the horizon, turning as it reached a point near the horizon and heading back in toward the ship.

The intership telephone buzzed, sounding faint and fuzzy after the assault on his ears by the aircraft’s passage. The captain, he suspected, wondering what idiotic aircraft was finding amusement in buzzing the heavily laden RO-RO. He raced back into the pilot house and watched the aircraft approach as he lifted the receiver.

As the captain testily demanded an explanation, the thunder of the MiG’s engines filled the pilot house again. Gringes covered the mouthpiece with his hand for a moment and then opted for protecting his own ears rather than those of his captain. As the aircraft passed over again, he craned his head to look at its underbelly. No weapons, as far as he could tell.

Third Mate Gringes waited for his ears to stop ringing and then started drafting a radio message to the home office. They’d do the right makee-talkie to ensure that those damned Vietnamese quit disrupting his quiet watches.

The operations analyst burst into Mein Low’s office, tension evident in his plain face. “A Flanker just picked up some interesting changes in the Americans’ operating pattern. They’ve stationed an unarmed surveillance aircraft, an E-2C, over the islands. It’s alone.”

“Where are the fighters?” Mein Low demanded.

“South of Mischief Reef.”

“And our assets near the fighters?”

“None.”

“This presents a problem, I believe.”

“Not an insoluble one.”

Mein Low stared at the chart. The blip representing the American aircraft cut lazy circles over a piece of empty ocean to the south. Almost empty. His overlaid projection showed that the tip of one small rock protruded from the ocean at times. Hardly large enough to support an asset, much less any firepower.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. Obviously, the Americans had decided that that piece of ocean warranted their attention. The schedule called for another incident in three days. Unless the Americans changed their patrol patterns, it would be a problem.

Perhaps they could be lured in toward Mischief Reef again. Rebuilding of the extensive camp there had already begun. Surely that warranted more American attention! What would catch their interest the most, ensure that they resumed flights over the new camp?

A new structure resembling a rocket launcher of some sort or a new radar signature might get their attention. The Americans were compulsive about collecting intell photos and new electromagnetic signatures for their threat libraries. It need not be an actual weapons control system — it merely had to look like one. A high frequency source with a high rotation rate should do it, perhaps a frequency modulated one. He’d ask the engineers — they ought to be able to come up with something.

“Watch them,” he said finally. “See if they establish a pattern, how often they schedule their flights, whether they are tanking or doing short cycle operations. We have some time to plan.” The operations analyst nodded.

“And have air ops schedule me for a flight. I want to see their reactions myself.”

“Sure don’t like being out here by our lonesome,” Fingers grumbled. The E-2C RIO tweaked and peaked her radar display for a few moments.

“Help is only a squawk away,” her pilot said.

“It’d be better if it were only a TER away.”

“Oh, right. Like there’s any place on this antiquated airframe to hang a triple ejection rack. You’ve got jet envy, Fingers. Worse than penis envy, I hear.”

“Funny, I’d heard the same thing about you,” she said.

“Oh, good one. Fingers, you realize if they ever catch us talking like this on the boat we’re both going to get court martialed?”

“Yeah. But that’s on the boat. As long as we’re up here, different rules apply.”

“Roger, copy,” her pilot said. “You know, I was worried about having to fly with you — thought I’d have to be watching my language and learnin’ how to be politically correct. But, hell, Fingers — you’re worse than I am!”

She sighed and leaned back against the hard cushion. She rubbed the small of her back with both hands. Flying sideways had definite disadvantages to it.

“Listen, Rabbit, you think I would want to spend eight hours a day with people who were always watching their damned language? Flying with somebody paranoid? Hell, we can’t be a crew like that! You have to be able to talk to me. I have to know that you’re going to listen to me when I tell you to get the hell out of Dodge, and you have to be able to talk to me to stay away. It’s not like you’ve got anything else to do up there.”

“Aw, fuck you, Fingers. If you’d had the eyesight, you’d have been a pilot, too!”

You’ve made that offer before, Rabbit. Someday I’m going to take you up on it.”

He heard the enlisted technician snicker. “She’ll call your bluff someday, Rabbit,” he said. “Or maybe not — maybe she’s heard how you got that call sign!”

“Hey, you too? What the hell happened to male bonding?” the pilot whined.

“Replaced by RIO bonding,” he said. “I’ll take smart-wearing-glasses over stupid-with-good-eyesight any day!”

“How about taking new contacts over blank screens instead?” Fingers said, suddenly all business. “In your sector, Jamie.”

“Got him,” the technician replied. “Classify it as a Flanker, based on the radar and speed. Loitering in area, it appears. He’s doing the same thing we’re doing, hanging around watching.”

“So we watch him while he watches us,” she said softly. “And we wait to see who blinks first. I’d sure as hell feel a lot better with a TER right now.”

“We don’t need no stinking weapons,” the pilot grumbled. “At least that’s what they told us in the brief. We’ve got the Aegis to protect us, right?”

“YeA, the Aegis and a satellite. I’m feeling real secure,” Jamie said.

“You and me both, brother,” Fingers said softly. “You and me both.”

“Keep a close eye on that Flanker,” the captain ordered. “If the balloon goes up, I want to be ready.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the TAO said. A week ago, he might have been tempted to dismiss the captain’s order as more of the reflexive paranoia he’d come to associate with the man. Now, since the missile shot last week, the CO’s premonitions didn’t seem nearly as unreasonable. Sure, the Chinese were claiming they’d been provoked into firing after the Aegis had locked up their MiG. But with the new cool-down policy, that E-2 had to be feeling awful lonely up there without CAP. No matter that the Admiral thought it’d ease the tensions in the area to stand down the number of flights. He wasn’t the one on the front line.

The TAO was. And he didn’t like the feeling one little bit.

“We’ll be ready, Captain,” he said, keying the Combat circuit as he spoke. A series of clicks cluttered the circuit for a moment, acknowledgment from the other operators. “We are ready,” he amended.

“Phase One,” Tombstone said to Ops. “They know we’re there.”

“Now let’s get them thinking the way we want them to,” he said, glancing at CAG.

“Already scheduled. They’re going to see the Hawkeye relieved every six hours. No tanking, no CAP, just the little ol’ Hawkeye up there all by himself.”

“You’ve got the alert package ready to go?” Ops asked.

“Starting next cycle. We’re skipping this one, giving them some time to look us over and get lulled into the rhythm of it. Get the crews some rest, too. It’s going to be a while before they get that, once we start the next phase.”

“This afternoon,” Tombstone said suddenly. “They’re not going to do anything right now — they’ll have to talk to their staff, try to figure out how to use our operations plan to their own advantage. It’s going to take them a while — I doubt anything is prepositioned on that miserable piece of rock down there. It’s not even above water most of the time, so the self-destruct scenario isn’t going to play.”

“But you think there’ll be another incident,” CAG said. “Something directed at the rock, not at the Hawkeye?”

“I’m betting on it,” Tombstone replied. “Intell agrees with me on this one. China’s not likely to attack us directly, not without some excuse for provocation. As long as Aegis stays under control, and nobody screws up, we won’t give them that excuse. No, they don’t want to attack us — it’s a losing proposition, this far from their shores, with their lousy air refueling skills. Unless they get Vietnam to allow them land-launching permission, China’s aircraft don’t have the legs to reach out and touch us hard.”

“Now if they’d bought that aircraft carrier from Ukraine like they were planning last year, it’d be a different story,” Ops mused. “The Soviet Union was just starting to get the hang of carrier aviation when it collapsed. Those Flankers — I read that they were getting halfway decent at getting on board the Admiral Kutnezsov.”

“It might be, although I’m not convinced they’d be able to operate effectively with it that quickly. Certainly not run flight ops the way we do, not without a sizable contingent of Russian crew members. And somehow I just don’t see Russia getting in the middle of this, not with all the problems they’ve got at home,” Tombstone replied.

“Still don’t like sending the Hawkeye out like that,” CAG said somberly.

Tombstone glanced at him. In a few years, CAG might have the opportunity to find out for himself how it felt to have to order a Hawkeye out alone. Until then, he wouldn’t know if he could do it, wouldn’t understand the true burden of command.

Tombstone knew he hadn’t.