Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 19

As the sun dropped down toward the horizon, the heat rising off the flight deck abated enough to entice runners out onto the decks between flight cycles. Bird Dog jogged aft, feeling the sweat pouring off his back and working out the stiffness that came from sitting cramped in a cockpit for six hours that day. The humid air made any exertion doubly tiring, but the chance to get some exercise was not to be missed. Tucked in various strange compartments within the carrier were three weight rooms and one bicycle alley. In various other stray corners, an occasional exercise bike would be placed. While the carrier went to some length to try to make fitness available at all times, no machine could offer the same sheer joy as being out on the flight deck running.

As he ran past two VF-95 Tomcats, he noticed a familiar figure perched on the step next to the cockpit. Even from fifty feet away, he recognized the slim figure barely concealed by coveralls and the shock of short blond hair. Veering off his track, he headed for the aircraft.

“Shaughnessy! What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, coming to a stop next to her Tomcat.

The young airman flinched and almost lost her balance. “Just checking that the seat is safed, sir,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Parariggers were doing some work in here earlier, and I just wanted to double-check it.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it! You’re on extra duty, Shaughnessy. That doesn’t mean screwing around with the aircraft, it means under close control of the squadron master at arms. You miss his muster, you’re UA, young woman. Now get down there!”

Shaughnessy stared at the deck, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Aye, aye, sir,” she said softly, her voice barely audible in the wind across the flight deck.

Bird Dog started off down the flight deck again, not waiting to see if she obeyed. Damned airman was getting out of hand. I’m going to talk to the chief about her again — for all the good that will do me.

After his last confrontation with his senior enlisted rating, he’d come away with the sneaking suspicion that he’d made an ass of himself. Despite his best intentions, the chief showed little to no interest in being led by the pilot that was responsible for the work center, although he had briefed Bird Dog religiously every morning on Shaughnessy’s extra duty assignments.

Come to think of it, the chief’s last suggestions sure wouldn’t have done any good either. If Bird Dog hadn’t assigned Airman Shaughnessy the extra duty immediately, neither of them would have already known she was a slacker.

An hour later, showered and back in uniform, Bird Dog went looking for the chief. He finally found him by calling the Chiefs’ Mess. Mindful of his last performance there, Bird Dog asked the chief to come up to the ready room for a few minutes.

“Evening, Lieutenant,” Chief said, when he finally appeared in the VF-95 ready room.

“Thanks for coming up, Chief,” Bird Dog forced himself to say. He’d been waiting for almost thirty minutes for the senior enlisted member of his division.

“Just had to take care of a few things first, sir. We’d had something planned for the chiefs’ mess, but the squadron comes first, of course.”

Bird Dog felt the subtle rebuke in the chief’s words. There was some justification for it, he admitted. The matter of Airman Shaughnessy could have waited until the morning, when Bird Dog would have seen the chief at quarters. There was no immediate need to interrupt the chief’s evening to resolve her disciplinary status.

Still, Bird Dog was a lieutenant, and senior to the chief. If he wanted to see his branch chief in the middle of the night, he had the right to wake his ass up and talk to him.

“It’s about Shaughnessy,” Bird Dog said, and related how he’d seen her up on the flight deck fooling around with one of the aircraft during the time she should have been at her extra duty. After a few sentences, he heard how weak his own argument sounded. The chief listened politely, although his face turned a little red.

“Well, Lieutenant, I can see your point,” the chief said after Bird Dog’d petered out. “You tell a sailor to be somewhere, that’s where she ought to be.”

“I’m glad you agree with me, Chief,” Bird Dog said. “Nothing seems to be getting her attention. Quite frankly, I don’t think we’re going to be able to nip this problem in the bud. If her blatant disrespect and disobedience continue, we’re going to have to consider Captain’s Mast.”

The chief was silent for a few moments, intently examining the worn linoleum on the ready room floor. Finally, he looked back up at the young lieutenant. “You’ve got it wrong, Lieutenant. I don’t agree with you — haven’t about this whole thing. I made that real clear to you in the beginning. You want me to push this, I will. You’re the boss. But let me tell you — you’re making a big mistake here, sir. That young airman was up there checking out our aircraft, taking some initiative and responsibility. Okay, maybe she was late for this bullshit extra duty you’ve got her on. But I can tell you, I’d a hell of a lot rather have a safe airplane than a shiny clean deck in the ready room, or an extra coat of paint in the division spaces. You start punishing people for taking the initiative, you’re going to end up with more problems than you started with. Sir.”

The chief stood up, towering over the young lieutenant. Bird Dog stood hastily, not willing to be intimidated by the older man.

“Lieutenant, you concentrate on flying. Leave the troops to me. It works out better that way — trust me.”

“It is time to give them something else to think about,” Mein Low declared. He pulled the delicately annotated chart toward him. “I want the American forces confused and uncertain — but not provoked to action.”

“What do you recommend, sir?” his operations planner asked.

Mein Low studied the chart, mentally measuring distances and converting that to reaction time, aircraft range scales, and weapons envelopes. He tapped on the edge of the chart, then picked up a pencil. He paused, studying the other marks on the chart, and nodded with approval. Not only was the chart precisely marked out, complete with current American positions and resupply points, but it was done with a certain style, the script of the drafter in harmony with the printing on the charts. A mark of refinement, he thought, and wondered exactly who’d done it. Not his operations planner. The man had the penmanship of a peasant.

“Here,” he said finally, making a light mark on the chart. The planner craned his head across the table to see the point his superior indicated.

“A wise choice,” the planner said appreciatively.

“You think so, do you? Explain to me in detail the merits of this point.” Mein Low’s eyes glinted dangerously.

“It is — the distances are, of course, obvious,” the planner began. Mein Low let him flounder for a few more minutes, giving him time to fully appreciate the dangers of appearing to know more than one did. Better if his planner had admitted ignorance — always the beginning of wisdom — and simply asked.

“A small airborne strike force, of course,” Mein Low said. “Not too many, certainly nothing that would ever begin to challenge the capabilities of the Aegis cruiser. Four fighters, perhaps. Armed, yes, but flying a highly visible flight profile. Slow and high, no suspicious maneuvering. Now do you begin to see the significance of this one point?”

The planner started to nod, and then thought better of it. He studied the point again, measuring the distance to the American aircraft carrier. Finally, he looked up.

“This point — if our fighters fly to it, then turn around and return to base, they are never within weapons range of the carrier.”

“Be more specific!” Mein Low demanded. “It is in the details of planning that wars are won and lost.”

“The carrier is never within our weapons range, while we are undoubtedly within theirs,” the planner said hastily. “I see the degrees of relative vulnerability, but I must confess I do not completely follow your plan.”

Mein Low nodded. That the young staffer had admitted his ignorance showed progress. Now that the student was willing, the teacher would appear.

“Think of the impression we wish to convey. The South China Sea is ours, and we need no justification for patrolling any part of it. Particularly the area we have declared as an exclusion zone — the Americans are there at our sufferance, and have assumed the risk. I wish to accustom them to seeing fighters patrolling with impunity in the area. You will instill in each pilot the concept of cool confidence, that they have the right to be in the vicinity without any further explanation to the Americans. They will not respond to any challenges or inquiries from the Americans, nor will they ever venture within range to launch weapons on the American forces. You now see the beauty of this plan?”

“I believe so. If the Americans attack our airplanes, that simply confirms to the world our position — that the Americans are hostile belligerents in a peaceful area of the world, stirring up trouble and attacking all other countries at will. If they kill our pilots and burn our aircraft, they will have done more to unify opinion against them than anything we could do.”

“And the alternative result?” Mein Low demanded.

“If they fail to act, then they simply reaffirm our rights to patrol our area at will. But, sir, what if they launch escorts to intercept and escort our small group?”

“Even better. Let me show you what I intend.”

Fifteen minutes later, the young operations planner began to understand just how much he had to learn about the art of operational planning.

“All quiet back there?” Rabbit asked. It wasn’t really necessary to ask — had anything interesting crossed their screens, the scope dopes would have been screaming bloody murder.

“Why? You got somewhere else to be?” Fingers asked. The ICS evened out her hard, clipped Maine accent, catching every additional consonant without emphasizing the missing ones.

“Nope. Just logging the flight pay up here.” The pilot grinned at the copilot. It was sheerly one of the joys of being an aviator. Getting to fly, and getting paid extra to do it.

“Looks like you spoke too soon,” Fingers said. “Looky who’s coming out to play! Four unidentified bogeys off the commercial routes. Inbound, angels fifteen, 420 knots. I call it Chinese fighters.”

“You copy, Homeplate?” Rabbit said over tactical. “I’m going to start feeling a little lonely up here real soon.” It was one thing, he thought, to fly missions alone off the coast of southern California. An entirely different level of pucker factor to do it in the South China Sea. The quietly reassuring if occasionally obnoxious presence of a few Tomcats or Hornets would have sounded mighty fine right then.

“Roger, copy,” the OS said. “Hang tight, Snoopy. We’re going to send some playmates up with you. Spook One and Two are launching as we speak.”

Fingers shook her head. Spook was the call sign assigned to the two new JAST birds. She’d gotten a good look at them on the deck, both at the impressive avionics and at the stealth coating. Still, when you got right down to it, neither one had been fully op tested under real-time conditions. What looked like a workable system at Pax River didn’t necessarily work as advertised after multiple catapult launches, slamming tailhook recoveries, and the gentle ministrations of flight deck technicians. Had she been given a choice, she’d have opted for one of the regular Hornets or Tomcats — preferably the long-endurance Tomcat.

She clicked her mike in acknowledgment and listened to the tactical chatter from the back of his aircraft over the ICS.

Within minutes, the OSs on the carrier were complaining about the radar picture.

“I know they’re off the deck. We’re picking up IFF responses to interrogation. But I’m not getting skin — just mode four squawk. What the hell are these birds, anyway?” the OS on the Vincennes asked the air tracker on the carrier over the private LINK coordination circuit.

“Both Spooks are inbound your position,” the OS on the carrier advised. “Don’t worry — I can’t see them either. Aegis is picking up skin off them, and we’re tracking them over LINK. Let me know when they get close enough to paint.”

“Hell of a way to run a war,” the copilot muttered. “Bad enough when we can’t see the bad guys, but now the good guys are invisible too!”

“Be advised the Spooks will be taking high station on you,” the OS said, a note of puzzlement in his voice.

“High station? What the heck for? Can’t we get someone down here close and personal?” the pilot demanded. “What dope-smoking idiot came up with that one?”

“I think that would be me,” a too-familiar voice said. “Any problem with that, son?”

The pilot swallowed hard. “No, sir, Admiral. High station sounds just fine.”

“Good contact on the inbound bogeys,” Tomboy said tersely.

“Man, those guys have got to be sweating it,” Batman answered. “What’s the range?”

“Three hundred miles and closing. We going in to take a look at them?”

“I’m going to try. Let me know what you’re getting off them when we get closer. I don’t want them to know we’re there. With any luck at all, they’d have to get a visual on us to know we’re here, if intell is right about their radars.”

Spook Two was nose-on to the intruders, presenting its least detectable aspect. Batman made a minute adjustment in his course, pointing the JAST bird’s oddly configured nose at the Chinese fighters. No point in giving them any better a target than they deserved. While Batman still had a number of tricks up his JAST sleeve, he wanted to keep them in reserve.

“Nothing spectacular, Batman. Low-grade air search radar. Not much chance of them seeing us,” the backseater said after a moment. “Don’t think we can make it into visual range without being detected, though.”

“I kinda figured that,” Batman said. “Sure would like to get a look at their wings, though.”

“Roger that. I’ll yell the second I even smell fire control radar.”

“That’ll have to do. Don’t know that I like it, but it’s how we planned it.”

And if I don’t like it, Batman thought, it’s for damned sure that E-2C Hawkeye doesn’t. Nothing like being tied to a stake as a sacrificial lamb to make a pilot feel unwanted and unloved. Damned smart plan of Tombstone’s. He knows the Chinese would never expect us to leave the Hawkeye up here alone. Ergo, they’ll come to one of two conclusions. Either we’re not worried because we know we’re not responsible for the attacks, and we’re proving it by putting the E-2C up alone — or they’re not alone. And with the JAST low observability characteristics, Batman didn’t expect to be detected by any damn Soviet-built airborne radar!

A cold smile crossed his face, hidden by his oxygen mask. Now let’s just let them try to figure out which it is, he said to himself.

“We execute our orders,” the pilot commanded. “You see how this was all planned out? Our advisers knew exactly what we would encounter near the American battle group.”

“I admit that I doubted their assessment. Leaving one of their six surveillance birds unprotected did not seem reasonable,” his backseater admitted.

“Which is why we’re just paid to fly. Just ensure that your fingers stay off the targeting functions. We are to give them no cause for alarm.”

“Understood. How close will you approach?”

“Just to the edge of our weapons envelope.”

“But tell me — what would we have done if their fighters had appeared? Four Flankers against all the aircraft that they can launch? It would be a difficult tactical position, to say the least!”

The pilot smiled, a cruel edge to his mouth. “They will not attack us, that much is clear. They cannot risk starting a war so close to our homeland. Should their fighters appear, we will do exactly what we are doing now. Fly straight and level, in a nonthreatening fashion, and proceed toward their Hawkeyes. We would simply fly the same escort pattern on their Hawkeye that they would intend to fly on us.”

After all, the pilot thought, it was their sea. Not the Americans’.