Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 5

Battle-ax, thought T’ing. He’d just learned the meaning of the word from one of his aides. It suited the ambassador from the United States. She was two inches taller than he was and twenty pounds lighter, but her iron demeanor and uncompromising insistence on the American view of the world made the word fit her too perfectly. Pity that American women don’t age more gracefully. A Chinese woman is perpetually of a certain age, until she suddenly grows old and dies. That is the way it should be with women. The American compulsion to thrust them into every arena ages them too quickly.

Still, battle-ax or not, Ambassador Sarah Wexler was the only opponent that concerned him on the Security Council. The little charade he was about to play had been carefully crafted for her alone.

“it is regretful that I must make this complaint on such short notice, but events leave my peace-loving country few alternatives,” the Chinese ambassador said silkily. T’ing paused for a moment and surveyed the members of the Security Council.

The Russian ambassador already knew what China would say, the result of a carefully worded briefing earlier that day. Both countries had played political games with the United States for too long not to understand the rules.

“The Council understands that sometimes circumstances require immediate action. Please, continue,” the Russian ambassador, currently chairman of the Council, said solicitously.

“Very well. It is our hope that this distinguished body can intervene immediately to short-circuit what appears to be an escalating state of affairs immediately off our coast.” T’ing kept a careful watch on the ambassador from the United States. Surely she must have some hint of the subject he was about to broach! But her face wore the carefully schooled blank look of polite attention so characteristic of professional diplomats.

“At approximately eight o’clock yesterday morning, American forces conducted an unprovoked and completely unlawful attack on Chinese land located in the South China Sea — the area the United States refers to as the Spratly Islands. This action resulted in the deaths of two Chinese servicemen, as well as the destruction of government property.” A murmur filled the room as the aides to the various ambassadors conferred in whispers with their bosses.

Ah-ha! That got her attention, he thought, as he watched the American ambassador’s color deepen. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused as an aide tugged on her jacket from behind.

“Mr. Chairman,” the American ambassador began, her eyes blazing as fury flooded her face.

“I am not finished, Mr. Chan,” T’ing interrupted smoothly. “The rules do entitle me to complete my complaint before the aggressors are allowed to respond, I believe?”

“Of course, Ambassador T’ing. Ms. Wexler, please hold your comments until the ambassador is through,” the Russian chairman said blandly.

“Since there is always the possibility that the American forces are carrying nuclear weapons, we have taken the precaution of declaring an exclusion zone in the South China Sea. This action is necessary to protect Chinese lives and the security of our good neighbors who border this historic bay.” And take that, Madam, he thought viciously.

“I have in my possession radar data and other military information that will show the necessity of this action. At the time of the attack, the only military forces in the area were from the American warships. We believe that a circling fighter aircraft, known as an F-14 may have been the launch platform. Naturally, portions of these documents are classified, but I have taken the liberty of making as much of that data available to the Council as is consistent with our national security,” T’ing concluded.

“A horrible story, Mr. Ambassador, and one you can be assured the Council will investigate thoroughly,” the Russian said. “Ms. Wexler, has the United States any possible excuse or explanation for this blatant imperialistic attack?”

The American ambassador stood, slowly unfolding her lanky frame from the chair. She glanced at some notes written on small cards and then tossed them on her table. She surveyed the faces around the room — one friendly, two decidedly hostile, and the remainder as carefully bland as her own had been minutes earlier.

“Mr. Chairman, fellow delegates, the ambassador from China is sadly misinformed. It is true that an American task force was in the area, exercising its freedom of navigation on the high seas. The South China Sea, despite China’s claims, is not subject to the whims of one nation’s control, nor is there a basis for this supposed exclusion zone that China wishes to impose.

“I received this morning,” she continued, “a report forwarded from the on-scene commander. He states that there was an explosion in his vicinity yesterday morning, probably the result of an undetected cruise missile fired at an island. A thorough search for survivors was made, as well as for the source of the missiles, and none was found.”

“How kind,” China’s ambassador said viciously, “to first annihilate a target and then go through the motions of looking for survivors!”

“If I may continue?” she snapped, glancing at the Russian, who nodded abruptly.

“Neither the United States nor any force or unit under her control was responsible for these attacks. Mission tapes and displays will be made available to the Council to support that claim, to the same extent that China makes her data available.

“Finally, no American force deployed anywhere, other than ballistic missiles submarines on routine patrol, is armed with nuclear weapons. This includes the task force in the international waters of the South China Sea. The United States deplores the existence of these weapons throughout the world, and is in full support of and compliance with all arms limitations treaties. China has no reason to doubt our assertions in this regard.”

“Just one reason, Madam Ambassador,” the Chinese ambassador said, pitching his voice low to capture the attention of the audience and still the ever-present whispers. “And that is the best reason of all — past experience. Of all the nations in the world that possess nuclear capabilities, the United States is the only country ever to have used them.”

Satisfied, the ambassador from China leaned back in his chair, a look of deep concern and outrage carefully pasted on his inscrutable features. Of all the charges, both false and true, that could be made against the Americans, that one fact was irrefutable.

Somehow he thought most of the other nations might see it the same way.

“Ugly fuckers, aren’t they?” the Air Boss said to his assistant, the Mini Boss. The two were seated in their large elevated chairs in Pri-Fly on the 0-10 level, directing the careful symphony of actions it took to get any aircraft on board the carrier. Tensions — and interest — were running high, and the tower was crowded with looky-loos wanting to get a first glimpse of the two modified F-14 JAST aircraft.

“Bigot,” replied the Mini Boss mildly. The Air Boss was an F/A-18 driver, and his ribbing almost automatic. “If you flew a real fighter like the Tomcat, you’d have some basis for comparison. Nothing about your Hornets that would make any man’s heart beat faster.”

“Ask the MiG pilots about that,” the Air Boss drawled. “Seems to me I remember bailing out a couple of Tomcats not long ago.”

The Mini Boss studied the aircraft taxiing away from the wire seven decks below him. The first JAST F-14 had taken one touch and go, and then gracefully slammed to a stop on the first approach, catching the three-wire handily. There’d been a moment of concern when the second JAST bird had boltered its first pass, touching too far down the flight deck to snag a wire. Still, the pilot had snagged the two-wire on his second pass. Not too shabby — there wasn’t a pilot in the air wing that hadn’t boltered from time to time. Even the eminent Carrier Group Commander, Rear Admiral Tombstone Magruder, had had his share of bad passes.

At first glance, the JAST aircraft looked like any other F-14. A closer look revealed small but significant differences. First, the radar dome. It was larger, extended further under the belly of the aircraft. The Mini Boss squinted and then picked up his binoculars. He followed the aircraft down the flight deck toward the catapults. “Different antennas, it looks like. And the pitot tubes look funny — longer, a little skinnier maybe. And the skin. She looks like she’s rippled, almost.”

“Supposed to be low observability. I read that those shallow-angle variations reflect radar off in funny directions. Composites just under the skin absorb some of the radar energy, too. But most of the differences are in the black boxes. If JAST can do even half of what the contractor claims, it’s a good deal,” the Air Boss said.

“If it can! They claim the avionics are practically sailorproof. Maintenance ought to be happy about that.”

“Nothing’s ever been built that a sailor can’t screw with,” the Air Boss replied. “Besides, I’m pretty happy with the Hornet as it is.”

“It’ll be a great fighter — as soon as they come up with an AVGAS hose long enough to keep it permanently plugged into a tanker.” The Mini Boss smirked. The Hornet had a much smaller fuel capacity than the Tomcat. While the reduced weight gave the Hornet added maneuverability, the constant whining of Hornet pilots for tankers was a standing joke that the Tomcat drivers invariably found hysterically funny. The Hornet aviators weren’t as amused.

“We’ll have our chance to check these babies out pretty carefully. If they can solve this mystery about the cruise missiles, that’ll be enough. My stereo likes staying dry, and I don’t want to think about what a new cruise missile can do to our happy little home here.”

“You’re not feeling safe and secure with Aegis nearby?” the Air Boss said casually.

The Mini Boss shot him a sharp glance. They hadn’t discussed it, but every senior officer on the ship knew that Rear Admiral Magruder was less than happy with the Aegis cruiser. Rumor had it that the CO had received a serious ass-chewing on his last visit to the carrier. Even the mess decks were abuzz with gossip concerning the disappearance of ice cream from the flag mess.

“If Aegis doesn’t see it, it isn’t there,” the Mini Boss said finally. “Isn’t that what they claim?”

“Then I guess the last attack was just spontaneous combustions, because Aegis sure as hell didn’t see what caused it,” the Air Boss replied. He raised his binoculars and pointed them at the passengers disembarking from the COD. “Well, will you look at that! That COD’s got more modifications than the JAST birds!” the Air Boss exclaimed. The Mini Boss followed his line of sight, and then trained his binoculars in the same direction.

“Not bad,” he said grudgingly. “But anything looks good halfway through deployment. Any woman that’s not an aviator,” he amended hastily.

“That’s one of the reporters,” an enlisted air traffic controller, or AC, offered. “Saw her listed on the manifest for the COD.”

“Reporter, huh? Wonder what brought her out here, the JAST birds or the tactical events? Hey, what’s her name? Anyone we’d have heard of?” the Mini Boss asked.

The AC picked up a clipboard, and ran his finger down the list of names. “Here it is. Pamela Drake, from ACN. I’ve heard of her.”

The Air Boss and Mini Boss exchanged a telling look. So had they, but not from watching television. Unless they were completely mistaken, Miss Drake was Rear Admiral Magruder’s long-standing heart-throb. Rumor control, monitored by the petty officers that handled all mail going off and coming on the carrier, said that the two were no longer an item. Speculation had run rampant on the mess decks about the future of the relationship.

“If you thought things were getting interesting out here before,” the Air Boss said quietly, “just stand by.”