Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 18

The battle group settled into standard cyclic operations quickly.

Spratly Island surveillance missions by the Hawkeyes were launched every five hours, each flight following exactly the same patrol pattern. Every eight hours, one lone fighter left the deck, occasionally accompanied by a tanker. The Hawkeyes went north, the fighters south, and neither intruded on the other’s operating area. Alert birds crowded the deck, crews in cockpits and maintenance technicians doing busywork around them, waiting.

Further north, the Aegis prowled, silently watching the unarmed E-2C’s. Flankers cut lazy circles in the airspace between the Aegis and the carrier, watching the E-2C that watched them.

To the east, Chinese fighters slipped down the coast from the mainland into Vietnam, occasionally cutting across the South China Sea to the north or south of the battle group to land in one of the other littoral nations. With the Aegis and the Hawkeye tracking them, the battle group kept the world intelligence community updated on the tail count.

By the end of the first full day of the operation, the aircrews were getting edgy. The Hawkeye crews were increasingly uneasy about the Chinese fighters and conducting surveillance without their own fighters nearby for protection. The Jefferson’s fighter crews were unhappy about both the alert schedule and the lack of information on exactly why they were pulling alert instead of flying. The atmospheric conditions continued to generate ghost contacts that flickered into existence for a few minutes, then evaporated.

Rumors and speculation raged around the carrier, each theory more menacing than the last. RIOs and pilots argued continually in the Officer’s Mess about the Chinese’s capability for aerial refueling, and whether or not China could reach out and touch the battle group from the mainland as well as from Vietnam. The RiOs insisted on drawing out the time-distance problem for the pilots, demonstrating time and again how the fighters could not possibly make it to within weapons range, given their fuel package. The pilots disagreed, fundamentally unconvinced that the Chinese were not fully capable of deploying a long-range anti-air weapon on their aircraft, or passing locating data to the submarines. The pilots repeatedly mentioned the possibility that the Chinese F-10 long-range fighter was operational. After all, the pilots argued, intelligence had been wrong before.

The F-10 was something to be concerned about. Modeled on the American F-16 and the Israeli Lavi fighters, it was designed specifically to extend China’s reach from the mainland into the Spratly Island region. It combined the powerful Russian jet engine used on the Flanker with an in-flight refueling capability integral to the airframe. With an extended range and both ground attack and air combat capabilities, its speed and maneuverability made it a match for even the MiG-29.

The intelligence officers swore the F-10 was not yet operational. The pilots just pointed to the JAST birds sitting on the deck as proof that it could be.

Other than the routine patrols of the American E-2C’s and the Chinese fighters, the South China Sea lapsed into an uneasy silence. The Vietnamese were particularly silent, their MiG-23s and Flankers hugging the long coastline and venturing out into international airspace only to conduct air combat training with the Chinese fighters.

The battle group watched the simulated ACM off the coast, monitoring the communications between the Chinese and the Vietnamese flights for shreds of intelligence data. Linguists announced that the Vietnamese aircraft usually played victim for Chinese attack sorties. The exact details were unclear, since the two countries switched to encrypted circuits for most of their tactical communications. When the first night ACM exercise launched tensions on board Jefferson ratcheted a notch higher.

“How many now?” Tombstone asked.

“At least fifty Chinese Flankers in Vietnam, maybe more,” Lab Rat said. “Maybe ten each in Brunei and Malaysia. Satellite imagery isn’t the complete answer to all our questions — they’ve moved some of them into underground bunkers.”

“As bad as the Koreans are,” Tombstone muttered, staring at the small scale map projected up on the wall of the briefing room. “That entire area is probably honeycombed with underground facilities.”

“Probably, sir. We have some intelligence reports that confirm that.”

“Well. Not entirely our problem, of course, but it’s going to be hell for the next army that goes in there. Let’s hope it’s not us. How are they reacting to our air ops?”

“As far as we can tell, it’s going according to plan. China is moving aircraft into Vietnam, Brunei, and Malaysia, and continuing routine patrols in the northern portion of the South China Sea. Aegis reports that all military aircraft simply ignore any and all communications from them.”

“Just keeping an eye on us, then. No unexpected jamming, no incidents?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Or so we’re supposed to think.”

“And as they’re supposed to think, too,” Tombstone added softly.

“No reaction?” Mein Low asked.

“None that we can identify,” his staff officer said.

Strange. He would have expected the Americans to increase their patrols in the area, not decrease them. Still, it was consistent with their actions in the United Nations. Ever since their defeat in Vietnam, the Americans had been increasingly reluctant to try to assert their political will so far from home. Of course, it was foolish of them ever to believe that they would have any real voice in how things went in the South China Sea. It simply was none of their concern.

“I think it’s time to consider the final events in this course of action,” he said, studying the chart. “Politically, events seem to be moving as we wish. Our South China Sea neighbors understand that their future lies with us, not with the crazed Caucasian aggressors who are attacking unarmed island camps. Thus far, we have been models of restraint, reacting only via diplomatic channels and in the United Nations. And tactically, we have three squadrons on the ground in Vietnam, as well as one squadron in Malaysia and one in Brunei.”

“The first lesson,” his assistant said. “Attack your enemy’s alliances and allies.”

“An excellent example here,” he replied. “And you see how we have used the same events in two different ways. First, the Americans’ allies doubt her. Second, the smaller countries draw closer to us, uneasy about the possibility that the Americans will attack them. Yes, this was a beautifully fashioned plan. I am pleased.”

“Now that we have created the proper climate, what next?”

The older man gently stroked the map, his fingers lingering on the area of the South China Sea below Mischief Reef. “More of the same, but in a different light,” he replied. “China and her neighbors have been quietly tolerating these incredible acts of aggression long enough. It is time to seal the fate of American influence in this part of the world.”

“War?”

“Hardly necessary. The Americans have so little tolerance for taking casualties that I doubt they will even go to war again. No, war is not necessary. A brief skirmish, a few deaths, and the American public will be screaming for a withdrawal. With them out of the arena, settling the question of the Spratly Islands becomes a simple matter.”

“Vietnam may not think so.”

“Ah, a hardy people. Tough, resilient, and good fighters. And smart. They will understand the situation, with two billion potential Chinese soldiers massed to the north, and no American presence. After all, we beat them badly in 1987 in the Spratly Islands, and sank six of their precious patrol boats that intruded into our waters. Now that they no longer have the Soviet Union as their protector and source of equipment, I think we’ll find them much more cooperative. They’ve been remarkably silent about the loss of their patrol boat, which is a good sign.”

“The next phase will begin when?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

Bird Dog studied the next day’s flight schedule with a sinking feeling. The next day’s missions were posted outside the CAG ops door. A hand-lettered sign on the door itself warned casual perusers to funnel any corrections or deletions through their squadron ops officers, and not to bother bringing their sniveling little complaints directly to the CAG ops gurus.

“Lemme see,” Gator said, reaching for the sheet.

“Hold on! I just got to us,” Bird Dog said, dancing away from his RIO. “Damn, we’re on here again.”

“Imagine that. Just because you’re a pilot and I’m a RIO, these dogs think they can just go and assign us to fly any ol’ time they want! I tell you, the nerve!” Gator said sarcastically.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Bird Dog said. “Look at the alert schedule.”

“Again? Six Alert Five — six? What are we doing with six F-14’s from our squadron on alert?” Gator stared at the closed ops door. “We got to get those guys a urinalysis sometime real soon.”

“There’s more. Check out the Hornets. And the tankers and the Hummers. CAG’s got a whole alpha strike sitting on the deck, ready to go. Look at the loadout, though.”

“All air-to-air, except for the S-3’s, of course.”

“So we’re not going alpha striking. But we are ready for an air threat.”

“And in the meantime, with all this air-power sitting on deck at alert five, the only aircraft CAG’s actually launching is that one lone Hummer?” Gator asked.

“Not quite. Last page,” Bird Dog said, flipping rapidly to the back sheet. There, next to the traditional cartoon that always graced the daily flight schedule, was one final note.

“The JAST birds,” Bird Dog said. “Out of all the fighter and attack birds on board, they’re the only ones that get to go flying tomorrow.”

Tombstone watched Batman pace and tried to assess his old wingman’s frame of mind. Batman wandered restlessly around Tombstone’s cabin, pausing to look at plaques on the wall, to pick up a small model of an F-14 from the coffee table, to riffle through some messages left carelessly on the credenza. Finally, he wandered back over toward the couch, put his hands on his hips, and glared at the admiral.

“If you weren’t an admiral, Tombstone, I’d tell you what you could do with this damned fool scheme. But since you are-“

“What, you’re going to let that stop you this time? Why? Rank’s never been a curb on your temper before, Batman.”

“Sometimes it ought to be,” Batman muttered. Yet Tombstone was right. Until he’d gotten to the Pentagon, Batman had never been one to balk at setting a senior officer straight. But that’d been before he’d seen how casually and easily anyone wearing the stars could irrevocably ruin a career — often just for the amusement of it — with a few well-placed words. Until then, Batman would have sworn that a blue-on-blue engagement could only happen on the battlefield.

But this was Tombstone, he reminded himself. His lead, the pilot he’d logged thousands of hours with, done four cruises with, the man who’d bailed him out of more tough situations than he wanted to think of. No, if Tombstone wanted to do Batman harm, it’d come in the form of a fist in the gut rather than a knife in the back. Batman took a deep breath and vowed that this was his last DC tour.

“It’s not safe, Tombstone. It’s not safe, and you know it. Sending those E-2C’s out there on their own — hell, what do you even need them up for? The Aegis can give you every bit of air picture you need! Sending those fellows out alone, with no protection at all, under these circumstances, makes no sense at all!” Batman paused midtirade, watching his friend.

His nickname had always suited him too well, Batman thought. Tombstone’s gray eyes, brown-black hair, and somber expression would have suited an undertaker better than an aviation admiral. Yet Batman had seen the impenetrable gray pools of his eyes flare with inner fire, and heard the hard excitement too many times in Tombstone’s voice to believe that he was really as cold as his subordinates believed.

“You think so, Captain?” Tombstone’s icy voice cut through Batman’s reflections.

“Naw — hell, no, Admiral,” Batman said uncomfortably. He forced himself down onto the couch, suddenly acutely aware of how inappropriate it was to treat an admiral — any admiral, damn it! — that way. “Sorry, sir. My mouth-“

“-got the better of you, as it often does,” Tombstone finished. “Some things never change,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

Batman’s head snapped up, and he stared at Tombstone suspiciously. Was that a glint of amusement he saw in the admiral’s eyes? “Sir, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re laughing at me.”

“Not at you, Batman — with you. Or at least I will be in a couple of seconds. Let me show you,” Tombstone continued, reaching across his desk to snatch a message and a chart off his credenza, “exactly what we’re up to. Your JAST birds are a part of this plan.”