Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 22

By the end of the evening brief, cooler air was already starting to seep into the room through cracks around the windows, finally providing some relief from the stiflingly humid daytime temperatures. Bien sighed, and thought longingly of the feel of the evening breeze on his face. The last three hours had not been pleasant, and it appeared that there was no immediate end in sight to the uneasy forced partnership with their northern neighbors. He saw the Chinese commander motion to him from across the room, and regretfully gave up the immediate prospect of getting away from the Operations Center.

“It is time for that final conversation I mentioned,” Mein Low said flatly. “This tactical situation must be exploited immediately.”

“How so?” Bien asked, wanting to buy some time and collect himself. He knew all too well what his nemesis was referring to.

At his early-morning brief, Bien had studied the operational positions of all the forces carefully. The American cruiser, Vincennes, was still meandering around the northern portion of the South China Sea. While she had not yet come close to the Paracels Islands, she was well within Tomahawk strike range of the ragged collection of islands so close to the Chinese mainland.

The battle group, centered around the USS Jefferson, loitered east of the Spratly Islands, slowly patrolling east and west in a corridor that ran from Mischief Reef to twelve miles off the coast of Vietnam. For the last ten days, a lone E-2C Hawkeye had been stationed midway between the Vincennes and the Jefferson, only sporadically accompanied by a U.S. fighter. The American fighter patrols focused exclusively on the areas to the south, staying always outside of weapon release range of the Spratly Islands. It was a strange tactical dispersion, and the positioning of the fighters made little sense to either the Chinese or the Vietnamese.

“The only explanation,” Bien said thoughtfully, “is that they are attempting to avoid the appearance of interest in the Spratly Islands. By staying out of weapons range, they believe that they can convince the rest of the world that they are not behind these horrible attacks on the islands.” He carefully avoided referring to the islands as Chinese. That issue would be resolved later, although Vietnam had little chance of opposing China without outside assistance.

“A futile gesture.” Mein Low shrugged. “After all, you yourself have investigated the facts behind the attacks. It was not China, and it certainly was not Vietnam. Who else could be responsible?”

And now comes the most delicate part of this strange dance between our countries, Bien thought. How am I to convince you that we believe your story, when past experience would persuade us to believe the opposite? If you told me the sun had risen this morning, I would be forced to go check for myself before I believed you!

“As you say — who else could be responsible?” Bien murmured. “Perhaps the stealth technology we have heard about, or a submarine-launched Tomahawk? Or even their special operations forces? The possibilities are too many to fully explore.”

The Chinese commander leaned back in his seat, apparently satisfied, Bien noted.

“So far, they have limited their attacks to our outposts,” he said, apparently broaching a new topic. “However, should your negotiations for normalization of international relations and trade concessions falter, do you truly believe that they would abstain from attacking your forces as well? Let us be frank with one another — while neither of us is willing to acknowledge the other’s claim to this territory, we are both certain that the Americans have no justifiable interest here. Correct?”

“Of course,” Bien said.

“Then it is to the advantage of both to ensure that the Americans leave this region. Permanently.”

“It took us twenty years of war to convince them to go home last time,” Bien said softly. “Can we dare hope that it would be easier now?”

The Chinese commander nodded vigorously. “It should be, thanks to that very same tragedy. That is the other reason that cooperation between our countries is so appropriate at this time. It is Vietnam’s sacrifices that will make this plan work. The result of your prior disagreement with the Americans is that they have no tolerance for loss of life. It must be very comforting to your people that your losses will finally be revenged.”

“And the plan?” Bien pressed.

“At the right time, my friend. At the right time. Now,” the Chinese commander continued, rubbing his hands together briskly, “I believe you mentioned inspecting the airfield this afternoon? What better time than now?”

“Good evening, Admiral,” Pamela said. She was proud of her voice — calm and professional, despite the rage of emotions flooding her.

“And to you, Miss Drake,” he answered gravely. His voice was scratchy, rubbed raw by too many cups of bitter black midwatch coffee and too little sleep.

How long can he keep this up? It’s been a week, and there’s no sign that the Chinese are any closer to doing anything different! Every face I see looks like death warmed over. If these people don’t get some sleep soon, it’s not going to matter what happens on some damned rock in the middle of the South China Sea. Not that I care about him in particular, she added hastily to herself.

They’d come full circle in their relationship. From friends to lovers, and then engaged — and now back to merely friends. If it was possible. She wasn’t entirely sure it was going to be.

And that pilot — what was her name? Tomboy, she’d heard the others call her. From the way Tombstone looked at her, the younger woman was more than just another aviator in his carrier group. She wondered if anyone else had noticed the sparks that flew between their admiral and the pilot. It was more than just the close bond that grows up between men and women facing mortal danger together.

Not that Stoney would do anything about it, of that she was certain. As long as Tomboy was under his command, she had no permanent claim on his attention. To get involved with a woman on his ship — no, the meticulously proper Rear Admiral Tombstone Magruder would never commit that sin.

She listened to the morning briefing half-attentively. Too little had changed to warrant more than a cursory discussion. Chinese fighters still challenged the edges of the carrier’s air envelope, still in small groups and still in unthreatening mission profiles. Despite the apparent lack of progress, Commander Lab Rat — Busby, she corrected herself — still looked as optimistic and determined as ever. Pamela forced herself to start paying attention as the intelligence officer stood to give his portion of the morning brief.

“Situation unchanged, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. An incongruously cheerful smile spread across his face. “No news is good news, in this case!”

“How much longer?” CAG grumbled. “I’ve got people walking around asleep on their feet! We can’t keep this many alert aircraft manned and the flight deck in this state of readiness forever.”

Busby looked thoughtful. “I know it’s a problem, CAG, but it shouldn’t be too much longer. We have some reasons to believe that something may happen soon.”

“You keep saying that!” Ops burst out. “How about some specifics, Commander?”

Commander Busby drew himself up to his full height and stood his ground. “There are some things I can’t brief, sir. No disrespect intended.”

“Typical intelligence,” Ops snapped. “Too late to do any good. And if you’ve got something useful for us, it’s too classified for the people that need it most to see!”

“Enough,” Tombstone said. “Ops, CAG — I appreciate the difficulty of your positions. I see the same faces you do, and I know what you’re up against. In this situation, however, Commander Busby has my full support. And my utmost confidence. That good enough for you?”

Ops grunted and CAG nodded. Neither one, Pamela noted, appeared to be reassured by their admiral’s statement.

“End of discussion,” Tombstone added. “Commander, I believe that is the end of the brief as well.”

The intelligence officer shot him a grateful look and began rolling up his charts and overlays. Pamela wondered what arcane bit of intelligence information the two of them shared — and why it was secret from the rest of the staff.

“Well, I don’t see how we could possibly work you into her schedule until next Tuesday. It’s just-“

Ambassador Wexler paused at the coffeepot and watched her aide. His normally congenial expression had just faded into something that resembled the look of a shell-shocked POW. She stirred in some creamer, wondering what besides a declaration of war could so disturb her normally unflappable staffer.

“I see,” the aide said finally. His voice had taken on a musing note. “And you’re sure about this?” She watched him reach for her calendar, then motion to her with the other hand, the telephone jammed between his shoulder and his ear. He pointed to her afternoon appointment with her hairdresser and made sure she was watching as he drew a heavy X through it. To one side, along the margin, he wrote the initials, VN.

She shot a sidewise look at him, puzzled. Why? she mouthed silently at him.

He just shook his head and pointed. “The ambassador can see you at two p.m., then,” he said finally. “Yes, of course. I understand the need for speed, as will she. Thanks.”

He hung up the telephone and stared at her for a moment, reassembling his expression into calm professionalism but unable to completely repress the glee lurking at the corners of his eyes.

“I take it I’ve got an urgent appointment with the ambassador from Vietnam,” she said, settling into the comfortable chair lodged against one wall. “Would it be too much to ask why this is important enough for me to cancel my appointment with Roberto?”

“Not at all, Madam Ambassador,” he replied. “And I think you’ll agree with me in a few minutes.”

Her eyes grew serious at the use of her formal title. “So it’s that important?” she said, worry starting to gnaw at her.

“Our former enemy and current ally, the great republic of Vietnam, is not entirely pleased with their neighbor to the north. I think the events of the last few weeks in the South China Sea and the attractive lure of more trade concessions have made them see the light.”

“China, I take it. What are they doing now, persecuting more Vietnamese citizens?”

“Better — or worse, depending on your point of view,” he added hastily. “Seems China has been demanding air overflight rights, as well as landing and refueling privileges. Vietnam has gone along with it for now. Understandable — they have to live with China; we don’t.”

“And now?” she prompted, wishing he’d get to the point.

“Vietnam is wondering whether or not we might like some additional information on the explosions in the South China Sea. It’s one thing to try to placate China, and another thing entirely to let them kill your patrol boats.”

“Kill patrol — of course,” she breathed. “One of those incidents in the Spratly Islands. They’ve got proof China was behind it?”

“Proof, and more. They’re not so bad at snooping around, you know. After the conflicts between the two countries during the Cold War, Vietnam has developed a fairly extensive intelligence network in the region. And seeing as how it might be to their advantage right now, with the U.S. normalizing relationships with Vietnam — and, potentially, China — they’d like to share a little information with us.”

“About what?” she asked.

“He didn’t want to go into it over the telephone, but I was fairly sure you’d be interested. That a good enough reason to skip Roberto?”

She smiled and stood. “Remind me not to notice the next time you do something stupid, Armand. You’ve just earned yourself a real big brownie point.”

Ambassador Wexler went back to her office, smiling. In the intricate plotting and scheming that defined the relations between nations in the UN, information was golden. It looked like Vietnam had just decided to make a goodwill deposit in the American bank.

Two hours later, the ambassador from Vietnam arrived.

“An interesting opportunity you offer,” Ambassador Wexler said, eyeing the Vietnamese ambassador seated across from her. Ngyugen seemed his usual unflappable self. She could pick up no hint as to the reason for his visit.

“An opportunity for both sides,” he acknowledged, taking a sip of tea from the delicate bone-china cup. “One that could work to our mutual benefit.”

“Let me make sure I understand this. China has amassed a considerable force of fighters in your country, correct? Ones that they’re not willing to move anytime soon. Your government is concerned that the United States understand your opposition to this, while of course you feel somewhat limited in your ability to insist on withdrawal. Is that it?”

He nodded. “I’d feared it would be difficult for you, understanding the delicate position we stand in with regard to China. But, yes, that’s the situation exactly.”

“And you’re sure about this information?” she asked. “Careers are going to fall over this one, you know.”

“The source is trustworthy, I assure you. As trustworthy as any spy ever is, at least.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “We are, of course, most grateful for the information. It will cause some problems, naturally, but not as many as allowing the situation to continue.”

“Yes. We thought as much. As it would for us, should the source of your information be discovered.”

“I’ll do my best to protect you on this, but you understand the difficulties.”

“We have fewer such problems in Vietnam. Perhaps you should consider implementing more control over your press, as we have done.”

She laughed. “As much as I’d welcome the idea at times, it really wouldn’t work here, you know.”

“Of course not. Still, it must be an attractive idea at times.”

“On occasion. But there are strengths to every weakness, Ambassador, just as every strength is weak at some point.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Odd. You sound very Asian, Madam Ambassador.”

“And in exchange for our understanding, and for the U.S. not insisting on Vietnam taking action, you’re prepared to offer us information?”

“More than information. Cooperation, where possible. You know, of course, that we’re a bit short on fighters ourselves. The bases they’re using in the south were all built by American forces, I believe.”

“The one thing you haven’t made entirely clear is exactly what this cooperation consists of. Or perhaps you have, and I’ve just failed to see the subtleties in the situation.”

“Perhaps this will assist you,” he said as he set his cup and saucer down on the coffee table. He opened his attache case, pulled out a brown folder, and handed it to her. “All their operational traffic and operations plans for the last week.”

She suppressed a sudden intake of breath. A treasure trove of intelligence! “Could I impose on you for the salient points of your analysis?” she asked, not yet wanting to leaf through the messages and bits of paper crammed into the folder.

“Of course. China has been conducting a rather delicate campaign of misinformation and deception. You’ve deduced, of course, that she herself is behind the explosions on the Spratly Island camps.” He paused for a moment. “As well as the attack on our own naval forces,” he continued grimly. The change in his expression made him look less the well-groomed and urbane ambassador she’d known for two years and more of a warrior. He had, she recalled, fought with American forces during the Vietnam conflict. He now looked more like the combat-blooded veteran he was.

“There is a source inside your satellite monitoring facilities,” he continued. “We haven’t been able to determine exactly who it is, but there is no doubt that there is one. It influences their planning immensely, although I cannot say what effect it has on their mainland. They’re trying to blame it on you, in an effort to unify Southeast Asia against the United States.”

“We’d started to suspect that,” she commented, still holding the folder gingerly.

“We know,” he replied, and allowed a slight trace of amusement to cross his face. “At any rate, you can expect a major incident sometime very soon, one that China hopes will justify in the eyes of the world their attacking your battle group. They plan to launch their strike from our soil. If that happens, we will lose any chance of continuing the normalization of relationships. This must not occur.”

“And the cooperation?” she nudged gently.

“I think you might like that part best of all.” For the next five minutes, he laid out a plan that rivaled China’s.

She listened for several minutes. Grim amusement crept into her expression. “Oh, yes,” she said finally. “I like this very much. And I think that Navy admiral in the South China Sea is going to like it even better.”