Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 25

As the coastline of Vietnam slipped by below him, Bien made the call to the rest of the aircraft. “Feet wet,” he said, referring to the fact that he was over water rather than land. Not that it would matter. There were no SAR forces standing by.

He then reached down and flipped the protective plastic cover off of the IFF gear. He looked down long enough to check the position of the dials that set his modes and codes, the unique set of IFF symbols that would identify his aircraft to any unit with the appropriate detection gear. He twisted the dial until the numbers his Vietnamese superiors had given him were displayed.

In the ten miles of airspace around him, every Vietnamese pilot was doing exactly the same things.

“About time,” Jefferson’s TAO said, as a massive gaggle of hostile air contact symbols popped onto the big screen display. “I was starting to think they changed their minds.” The weak joke brought a spatter of laughter from the crews manning the consoles, the only indication that tensions were at a peak.

“Sir! Breaking the IFF codes for the Vietnamese forces!” the OS said.

“Thank God,” the TAO said quietly. “It looks like this crazy plan just might work.”

Exactly one minute after he’d changed the IFF codes, Bien shoved his throttle forward, accelerating quickly to 580 knots. At that speed, his jet gulped down fuel at a prohibitive rate. Fortunately, he thought as he observed the fuel gauge quiver, it wouldn’t be for long. He glanced behind him, watching the orderly Vietnamese formation straggle out into a ragged line of aircraft and then coalesce back into a fighting unit that followed him. He banked hard to the south and watched the others follow. Only twenty seconds had elapsed since his speed increase. His radio crackled with orders and demands for information. All the questions were in Chinese.

And that is exactly the wrong language for answers, Bien thought grimly.

“There they go,” Tombstone said. “Those birds breaking off and heading south are Vietnamese.”

“Roger,” the TAO acknowledged. “We know who the good guys are now, sir. I’ll make sure Vincennes understands, too.”

“What’s she doing?” Tombstone demanded. The speed leader attached to the ship’s symbol had suddenly changed directions.

“Headed south at thirty knots. Still out of missile range and screaming bloody murder!”

“Give me that handset,” Tombstone ordered. The TAO turned over his tactical circuit to the admiral. “Get your ass back up north, Killington!”

“Are you fucking insane? You’ve got inbound hostile air, with only a couple of frigates around you! The FFG’s standard missiles have a maximum range of twenty-five miles, you idiot! You need us there!”

“I also have two squadrons of Tomcats and two of Hornets airborne!” Tombstone snapped. “These are Flankers, Killington! Fighters! The only thing they carry is air-to-air missiles, not air-to-surface ship missiles! And if those Flankers are carrying anything heavier, it’s a laser-guided or dumb bomb, and they’re so weighed down that they’re dead meat!”

“You’re dead, you know,” Killington said in a cold, calm voice. “May God forgive you for what you’re doing to your crew.”

“I may be dead, but you’re relieved! TAO, are you listening?” Tombstone demanded.

A long pause, then a tight, higher-pitched voice broke in on the circuit. “Sir, this is Lieutenant Commander Carson, TAO.”

“Son, get your Executive Officer up to Combat ASAP. And log it now — Captain Killington is hereby relieved of command, and ordered to report to the Jefferson. Your XO has command of the ship, and you are on watch as TAO until further notice. Got that?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Very well. Now get that ship back in position. We believe you have about five minutes, at the most, until you start picking up inbound long-range cruise missiles. I’m counting on Vincennes to stop them. Any questions?”

“Uh, no. Admiral, the captain-” the TAO paused, and Tombstone heard screaming in the background noise “-Captain Killington, I mean, is demanding to speak to you.”

“Let him listen, then. Captain Killington, you are to station yourself in your helo hangar until I give the orders for your helo to transport you to Jefferson. Under no circumstances are you to remain in CIC, nor are you to give any orders on any subject to any member of your crew. TAO, you will call the ship’s security force to CIC, and have Captain Killington removed. You understand?”

“Admiral,” a new voice broke in, “this is the Executive Officer. I’ve heard your orders, and we will follow them. And my apologies,” he said, his voice suddenly hitched up a few notes, “but the rest of this will need to wait. I’m about to be real busy.” Abruptly, the circuit went dead.

“I guess you are,” Tombstone said quietly, and handed the handset back to his own TAO. Plastered on the tactical screen, in single-file formation, were ten LINK tracks with missile symbols imposed over the radar, just leaving the coast of China and heading south. “Now let’s see if the Aegis is all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Get that bastard off the cat!” the Air Boss screamed. The Hornet five decks below him waggled its control surfaces forlornly as the pilot cycled the stick again. One aileron refused to move. “We don’t have time to troubleshoot on the cat. Move, people, move!”

The Hornet backed down from the catapult, pivoted, and then taxied aft of the island. Green-shirted avionics technicians swarmed over it as it rolled to a stop, popping panels off of it to find the cause of the stuck aileron. Another Hornet rolled smartly up to the catapult. Within moments, it was airborne. The JBDs, or jet blast deflectors, dropped down, and the next waiting fighter rolled forward.

“Goddamn Hornet,” the Air Boss snarled. The Mini Boss carefully stifled his agreement. It was the first time he’d ever heard the Air Boss admit that the Hornet was anything other than the most superb fighter ever built. “What was our time on the alert fifteens?”

“Five minutes. Not too shabby,” the Mini Boss replied.

“Not too hot, either, with a strike inbound. I sure hope to hell Tombstone knows what he’s doing.” The Air Boss glanced at the relative wind indicator, watching it quiver. “Tell the OOD I want another five knots of wind. We need another three Vikings airborne. If the admiral’s right, we’re going to have some submarines making themselves conspicuous right quick. Hunter 701 has contact on one of them, but those slimy little bastards could have a couple more in the area.”

The Mini Boss toggled the bitch box and relayed the message to the Officer of the Deck. With enemy fighters inbound and the threat of submarine-launched missiles, there were a hell of a lot of things he’d like more than Vikings. The Aegis snugged in closer for instance, or more aircraft in the pattern. And maybe, just maybe, a little luck wouldn’t hurt.

“Rabies! Get us the hell out of here!” the TACCO said urgently.

“One more shot,” Rabies snapped.

“If we’re going to get back, we have to leave now,” his copilot argued.

“If we leave now, we may not have anywhere to go back to! You think that sub’s just here for the fun of it? Don’t you know what overwhelming force is all about? Those fighters are there for a reason, to distract us while this bastard takes his next shot!”

“MAD, MAD, MAD,” the TACCO sang out suddenly. “That’s it, Rabies! Attack criteria.”

The torpedo was off the wing an instant later. Rabies fought the sudden change in weight, as the strong winds caught the now asymmetrically loaded Viking. He quickly retrimmed the sturdy jet, reestablished level flight, and circled to watch the results.

The top of the sail was already visible, a darker shape and peculiarly stable against the churning water. Half of the sail had already slid back, exposing the starkly gleaming launcher. A missile was already on the rails. Rabies squinted. No sign of the torpedo or its telltale wake.

“She’s active-acquired!” the AW shouted. “Homing-homing-YES!”

Three short cheers echoed on the ICS, drowned out immediately by the coldly professional recitation of the AW.

“Explosion-secondaries. Wait one-flow tones. Okay, that’s it. She’s breaking up.”

Adrenaline surged through the pilot, making him almost giddy. For the moment, he forgot about the eighty men below him, struggling against a torrent of invading seawater, dying quickly in an explosion if lucky, drowning slowly if they were not. Later, he knew, it would hit him, but for the moment the sheer joy of the kill sang in his blood.