Chain of Command

6

I hauled my ancient ass up six decks to Pri-Fly to watch the preparations. We'd lost three Tomcats, one tanker, and one helo. That in addition to the E-2C that went down four days before.

It wasn't just the aircraft, although that was the way we phrased it to keep from facing the ultimate tragedy. Airframes could be replaced, but the men and women who'd flown in them could not. Not in my air wing, and not in the families ― wives, husbands, children, and parents ― that they'd left behind. I would be writing those letters all too soon, facing the hard reality of what we do as day-to-day business. Then there would be time to mourn, time to think about them as I knew them, as I saw them in the mess every day and in the passageways of my ship.

But for now, we went by the numbers. It reduced the war to what it had to be for us to fight it ― for if we really thought about our people too long and too hard, or even about the other guy, we'd lose what you have to have to get shot off the pointy end of an aircraft carrier and go into battle.

"Every aircraft you have, CAG," I said for probably the third time. It wasn't necessary ― he'd heard me the first time.

CAG nodded. "We have contingency plans, of course," he began. "Actually drafting up the flight plans and getting all the birds on deck in the right spots with weapons on wings will take a little time." He shot me a glance that said he knew that I knew exactly how much time. I ignored it.

"Two hours ― every aircraft," I said. "Unless it's an out and out hangar queen, I want it in the air."

"We'll do it." CAG stood. "And if you could excuse me, I probably need to be down below keeping an eye on it." He pointed one finger in the direction of Vietnam. "Get a good look at the coastline, Admiral. In a couple of hours, there's gonna be too much smoke and fire to see anything."

CAG headed back down to his office on the 03 level, trailing a couple of Strike Warfare people in his wake like pilot fish. He was a good man, and if anybody could pull this off, he could. The tower was fully manned up because we had SAR assets airborne. I'd sent out four helos and three S-3s, hoping that by carefully quartering the area we might pick up some trace ― any trace ― of our downed aircraft.

Of our crews.

So far, the results had been zero. Three oil slicks, one chunk of a fuselage floating. No signs of any aircrew anywhere, and that was all that mattered. Evidence that they'd gone into the drink didn't matter ― hell, that was something we already knew.

The SH-60s and CH-46s had one advantage over the S-3. They could hover, get a good close look at the water, and see if there were any men in it. The S-3, on the other hand, had a lot longer legs. With tanking, she could stay airborne for five hours easy, although the noise and vibration would reduce crew efficiency considerably before then.

Under the circumstances, I thought they'd probably tough it out. In fact, I was certain of it.

After I'd committed a second squadron of Hornets to the battle, the Vietnamese had finally broken off and fled for home. They had an airstrip deep in the jungle, one that had been carefully camouflaged before except for heat sources and that was not the subject of constant intelligence updates. CVIC ― Carrier Intelligence Center ― was already working the problem real-time. Lab Rat had called me three times so far to let me know that Strike was getting the full picture on it.

I think of all of us, if it were possible, Lab Rat felt the worst. It was his intelligence the crews depended on ― and he hadn't known about the SAM sites. A simple equation from an Intelligence Officer's point of view. Bad intel equals lost aircraft. I wondered how bad it would eat at him.

The Air Boss turned to me and said, "Admiral, the first two helos are coming back in for fuel. No sign so far, other than those oil slicks."

Unspoken was the bigger question ― how much longer did I want to keep it up? We knew where the aircraft had been, had already covered the area pretty thoroughly. But there was a chance, a small one, that somebody hadn't been looking in the right direction, or that a current had carried the crews further out of the area. I'd already dispatched two destroyers as well to ride at the twelve-mile limit, and put them patrolling outer limits of the area.

"Another full cycle," I said to the Air Boss. "We've got to do it."

He nodded, clearly with something on his mind. "May I be blunt?"

"That's what I pay you for."

The Air Boss took a deep breath, then spoke quietly. "Admiral, we're going to need most of our SAR assets and support during and after the strike. My only concern here is making sure we have that."

It was a real concern, but one that I didn't think the aircrews would go along with. As long as there was a chance, no matter how slim, that there was a pilot or RIO out there in the water, they would insist on going back out. I had more crews than aircraft, and could rotate them through helos and S-3s at will, but eventually even aircraft start breaking down.

"Another full cycle, then we'll see." I could see that the Air Boss was glad it was my decision and not his.

I waited until everyone had come in to recover, fuel, and head back out. Then I went back to my cabin to wait.

There was a pilot waiting for me there, standing just outside my cabin. I stopped when I saw him, then shrugged. Why should I be surprised? After all, Skeeter Harmon had been flying wingman on Bird Dog long enough to pick up most of his bad habits in the air ― why not on the ground too?

"What do you want?" I asked. I had a pretty good idea, but I wanted to hear it from him.

"Admiral, I need to go on that strike," Skeeter Harmon began.

Just what I thought.

"You'll go if they put you on the flight plan," I said, aware of a rough edge to my voice I hadn't really intended. "And why the hell are you pop ― tall in front of my patch?"

Skeeter shook his head, not listening to anything I said.

"Strike won't let me go ― they're putting me in the second wave. Admiral, I have to-"

"I had this conversation with your lead not so long ago," I said. "And look what happened to him. I know you're furious about this, Skeeter, everyone of us is. But damn it, I'm not intervening in the daily planning anymore." I tapped lightly on my collarbone at the stars there. "That's not my job. And for you to come in here and start insisting on-"

"Admiral, it was my fault," Skeeter said, his voice low and crumpled-sounding. "I made the same mistake Bird Dog did with the E-2 ― hell, I saw him make that one, I knew it was wrong, but I didn't say anything. He's kind of a tough guy to argue with sometimes, you know." He looked up at me, and I could see that those hard, shiny eyes were glazed.

"Mistakes in the air," I said. "You make them at the wrong time, and it kills you. End of lesson ― now get out of here."

"Admiral, he's alive. I'm certain of it."

I had started to walk away, but that phrase stopped me dead in my tracks. Without turning back to him, I asked, "How can you be so sure? The helos haven't found a thing."

"I know he is, I just know it," Skeeter said, his voice insistent. "Admiral, there were chutes ― I'm certain of it."

"Did you debrief chutes?"

Skeeter shook his head. "No, it was only when I got to thinking about it ― it happened so fast, Admiral. God, you wouldn't believe-"

"Of course I would believe," I said, turning back around to face him. "And just who the hell do you think I am? Some ship driver? Jesus, mister, I've got more time in the chow line on an aircraft carrier than you've got in the cockpit. And you barge in here and presume to lecture me on how my pilots need to be treated?

"You want sympathy for how you're being treated, young man, you go see the chaplain. Not the admiral. You got that?"

I saw him stiffen, drawing himself up into a rigid posture of attention. "Yes, sir, Admiral, I surely do." A soft Southern drawl had crept into his voice. "I apologize for disturbing you ― I just thought that ― "

"You didn't think," I said, cutting him off. "And if you don't think while you're on the deck, then how do I know you're going to think while you're in the air? Have you ever thought of that? Good judgment is good judgment ― it's not something that overcomes you the second you drop into one of those babies. Now get out of here."

I watched him turn and head down the passageway, wondering just what the hell his point had been. Did he want me to make sure that he was personally on the flight schedule? Hell, there are too many pilots on the carrier for me to even know all their names, much less watch how they're assigned on missions.

And why had I been so rough on him? The man's lead had just been shot down, and by most standards any wingman would feel it was his fault. No matter that I'd heard Bird Dog order him back into the stack, tell him to keep his distance while Bird Dog was searching for the tanker crew. That didn't matter to Skeeter Harmon ― anymore than it would have mattered to me had it been Tombstone who'd been in the drink.

Then why was I an asshole about it? With a flash of insight, I knew. I'd known Bird Dog for several cruises now, watched him grow from a brash young aviator with more mouth and balls than ninety percent of them, seen him pull off some incredible stunts of airmanship. Every single loss we take hurts, hurts more than I ever thought possible, but it's even worse when it's someone you know that well. As well as I knew Bird Dog. As well as Skeeter knew him.

And that was the unpardonable sin that Skeeter had just committed in my presence. He'd reminded me that at least one of the men in the water ― too junior to really call him this, but this was what he was ― was my friend.

I went back into my office, got on the horn, and made my second call of the day intruding into Strike Operations.

If Skeeter needed vengeance to be whole, then that's what he'd get.

Or at least the chance for it.

CAG beat his deadline by five minutes. I don't know how he accomplished it ― and I guess I don't really want to know. The shortcuts alone would have terrified me.

The deck was packed, as full as I'd ever seen it. Every aircraft that could fly was manned, with engines turning or crews doing preflight. The SAR helos were already turning on their spots, blasting the deck with incredible down-drafts from the rotors. They would go first, in order to be on station in case an emergency occurred during catapult operations.

After that, the E-2C Hawkeye would launch, accompanied by a pair of fighters. Once he was airborne, my radar coverage extended to well over the land mass. More importantly, he could provide direct control of all the fighters on station, vectoring them off to intercept inbound bogies or vampires as necessary, Maybe the AWACS radar coverage is better over land, but there's nothing that can beat an E-2 controlling an air battle.

After that would come our main strike assets. Tomcats loaded with five-hundred- and one-thousand-pound bombs, along with a couple of Sidewinders tucked in for good luck on their wing tips. Then the Hornets, those thirsty little bastards, would want to get airborne, then immediately take on fuel. Their carrying capability was more limited. Each one carried two one-thousand-pound bombs, but Strike had designated most of them for air-to-air combat roles. Given their performance characteristics against the MiG-29, that was the best choice for what I hoped would be a quick strike, burn to the ground, and back out again.

I'd asked the Air Force for tanker assets, and they were scrambling to get a couple of KC-135s and KC-10s in the area, but I didn't think they'd make it in time. The Air Force has been always oddly reluctant to commit tanker assets to a battle on short notice, preferring instead at least a couple of days of planning, polite requests, and other butt-kissing to get them on station. While the massive KC-10 could out-refuel anything I had on board, it had a couple of disadvantages as well. First, it carried a minimal crew ― no navigator, just pilots and a boom operator. Their entire flight program was loaded into the computer, supported by redundant backup SINS systems. The Air Force always swore to me that there was no chance ― none ― of all their independent backup systems going down at once.

Don't count on it.

Under grueling conditions, things go wrong. Additionally, call me old-fashioned, but I at least like to have one person on board every aircraft who has a clue as to where they are. Computers are great, and they've certainly revolutionized warfare, but there's no substitute for a guy with a compass, a piece of string, and a damn good set of charts. Unfortunately, practical real-world experience has proven this point over and over.

A KC-135 might be a smaller aircraft, with less refueling capability, but it would still be a massive advantage over our own organic tanker assets. But they were still a day away, staging out of Japan, and Japan was none too happy about it. Massive diplomatic battles were being fought over whether or not Japan would grant us landing rights, overflight rights, or anything else having to do with the suddenly sprouting war against their neighbors.

In theory, the tankers could support our squadron from Hawaii, or even some other Asian nation. In practice, however, the long flight time, crew fatigue, and the ever-changing tactical picture would often render it difficult for a KC-135 to be present in-theater. Besides that, if they did get in trouble, they had to have somewhere to bingo. It wasn't like I could take him on my deck, not even with the barricade nets strung across the flight deck.

There were more people on deck than aircraft. Yellow-shirted handlers directed the flow of traffic. The brown shirts were plane captains, each either standing next to their aircraft and preflighting with the aircrew or carefully watching the fuselage for signs of problems as engines spooled up. Most of the purple shirts ― aviation fuel technicians ― and red shirts ― weapons ― were already well clear, having worked at a breakneck pace during the last one hour and fifty-five minutes to arm and feed the hungry beasts already growling on the deck.

Six decks directly below me, in the Handler's Office, there was one lieutenant commander who was responsible for all the movement of aircraft across the deck. He had a scale mock-up of the ship, along with accompanying wooden overhead silhouettes of each aircraft. I had no idea how he'd managed to get so many aircraft packed so tightly on the deck. I'd never seen that full complement readying for launch, but somehow he had.

Finally, the last helo bobbled unsteadily into the air and veered away from the ship. Seconds later, the Air Boss called a green deck for fixed-wing aircraft. Just as he'd finished giving the order, the first set of fighters were shot off the forward and waist cats simultaneously.

From the tower, I could see the waist-cat aircraft launch sagging a bit as it lifted off, but still always in view.

Once all the aircraft were off the deck, there was no point in remaining in Pri-Fly. It stayed fully manned, of course, as it did whenever we had aircraft up. The vagaries of combat are too unpredictable ― hell, of carrier aviation in general. If an aircraft suffered a serious equipment failure or mechanical problem of some sort, they needed a green deck ― now. There wasn't time for them to wait around while we manned up.

But you couldn't fight a war from Pri-Fly. The aircraft I just had launched were now black smudges on the horizon, then not even that. I needed real-time information, the big picture, and I wouldn't get it here. And not just over radio circuits.

Six decks back down, then forward to CVIC. The sailor at the security door buzzed me in as soon as he saw me. I stopped long enough at the large coffeepot just inside the hatch to grab a quick mug, then ambled on back to SCIF. "You've got connectivity?" I asked Lab Rat as I slumped into the chair next to his.

He pointed up at the monitors, a slight smile on his face. "As good as we've ever had it, Admiral. The next best thing to being there."

Some of the technological advances in war-fighting are almost out of Star Trek. This was one of them.

For years, we've had the ability to mount a photo-reconnaissance pod underneath an aircraft and use it to obtain real-time BDA ― Battle Damage Assessment. The big drawback was always that we couldn't put weapons on the TARPS bird, and we had to wait for it to come back to the carrier, download the film, and then have it developed. It was still light-years better than anything else we had. We've never been able to rely solely on pilot reports of their own performance on bombing runs.

Not that they lie. It's just that they tend to be a little overly optimistic about the damage they've inflicted during a bombing run.

TARPS gave us the capability to conduct real BDA, albeit after the fact. Still, it was invaluable in deciding whether or not we needed to go back and bomb a target again or whether we'd taken it out the first time.

J-TARPS took the whole thing one step further. The J stood for joint, which meant that the system was capable of being deployed on aircraft in all the services, not just the Navy. Another part of the modern trend, developing technology that's not uniquely service-bred, that can be exported and used by your sister services.

There was one other thing about J-TARPS ― it was realtime. In addition to the photographic capabilities of the pod mounted on the beast's underbelly, there was one little section that contained a high-data-rate transmitter. Now, instead of waiting for the film, we saw what the pod saw ― real-time as it happened. The pilot could switch between a regular video display, a low-light one, and infrared. While the pilot couldn't monitor the data in the cockpit, he could respond to requests from the carrier to change displays. I had no doubt that in the next generation of J-TARPS technology, that limitation would be overcome as well.

SCIF ― Specially Compartmented Information ― was the most highly classified space on the ship. Into it was fed the most esoteric and high-tech data we had, in addition to the normal slew of incredibly sensitive message traffic. Reports from informants, human sources on the ground, and stuff so highly classified that they'll barely tell me where it comes from. But it's like any intel ― it can be wrong or incomplete at times. That's why we'll never take the man out of the loop. Somebody's got to decide what's nonsense and what's ground truth.

This room had been configured as a new experiment, one that would allow me to monitor and direct the battle from here. It sounded like a good idea, but there was a danger too, the tendency to micromanage. It had already gotten us in trouble when the same technology allowed the pundits in D.C. direct control of an arsenal ship's weapons, and I was determined not to make the same mistakes they'd made. The same mistakes that had been made in Vietnam the first time ― micromanagement of targeting choices by politicians.

"Who's who?" I asked.

Lab Rat pointed to the monitor on the far left of the room. "That's the lead ― from there, I have 'em up in order of egress."

"All Tomcats?"

Lab Rat nodded. "Strike wanted all the hard points on the Hornets devoted to weapons. I don't think it'll make a difference."

I grunted, not sure I liked that. Since when did Hornets have priority over Tomcats in an air battle.

Since MiGs turned out to be the target, one part of my mind suggested. Don't go getting parochial about this ― you know they're right.

"The satellite imagery is over on that wall," Lab Rat continued, pointing off to the right. A large-screen display dominated that wall, an overhead view of the area from a geosynchronous satellite. It was currently in photo mode, but it also could toggle into infrared if needed.

On the far-left screen, from the TARPS camera on the lead Strike aircraft, the coast of Vietnam was materializing out of the haze. Dark, jagged along the coast, a few dreary brown areas of civilization carved out of the lush terrain. It was like being there, like flying over it myself, except that my view was not obstructed by my own aircraft. A stunning picture, one only occasionally shot through with static.

The screens to the right of it, the two others, still displayed just ocean. Just at the edge of the horizon, I could see the coastline starting to come into view.

"Wow." It was all I could manage.

Lab Rat looked smug. "We're pretty pleased with it," he said off-handedly, as though he alone were responsible for the entire project. I let him enjoy his triumph, as a partial mitigation of the terrible embarrassment he felt over the SAM sites.

The lead was feet dry now, the radio call coming over one speaker as the camera showed the aircraft transitioning to over land. The other cameras were now showing the coastline, only minutes away from going feet dry themselves.

The primary target was the covert airfield that satellites had just revealed hidden deep in the jungle. It was the same one from which the last, aborted strike had deployed, and from what we could tell, most of the aircraft had returned to that airfield after withdrawing from the air battle. My intention was to strike a quick, retaliatory blow aimed primarily at the airfield and its aircraft that had attacked us. No civilian population centers, no other targets, other than a secondary airfield we'd just discovered north of that.

The strike was divided into two missions, one heading for the main field, the other briefed to pull north to the secondary airfield. Depending on the results I saw via J-TARPS, I would be able to vector the second flight in to restrike the primary airfield or allow them to continue on to their northern airfield mission.

The trees loomed closer now, and I could make out individual trees and foliage. The aircraft were down on the deck, coming in low and fast. Precision bombing at its best, with the results highly dependent on individual pilot skills. But the airfield was a good target, one that would be easy to pick out. And it was big enough that we should be able to neutralize most of its capabilities even if we didn't nail every square inch of it. Of course, it was the aircraft I was really concerned about. Airfields can be fixed quickly, with the combination of quick-set concrete and temporary steel airfield mats. But aircraft ― and the people that flew them ― weren't quite as expendable.

The airfield was coming into view now, a dull, silvery stripe against the green of the jungle. There were maybe ten aircraft parked along it, wings folded, ancillary equipment swarming around. One main building spouted flames and smoke, an indication that the EA-6B Prowler HARM missiles had found at least one antenna radiating. Good ― maybe we'd caught them by surprise. One of the first things any enemy does when an inbound strike is detected is shut down all electromagnetic radiation to avoid the HARM missiles.

If they'd had any doubts about it before, they now knew we were coming. The detail was amazing ― I could pick out technicians running across the airfield, yellow gear called huffers that provided compressed air for quick engine starts next to some of the aircraft, and even one pilot slamming down a canopy. Faces were turned up to look toward me.

The picture shuddered violently. The radio circuit revealed why ― the lead Tomcat had just lofted his five-hundred-pound dumb bombs at the airfield, and pulled into a hard turn to clear the area. The clearance maneuver was designed to not only get him away from the explosions that would soon occur, but also to clear the path for the incoming flights.

The J-TARPS camera was stabilized to remain locked on the designated point as long as possible, but the pilot quickly outstripped its capabilities. He pulled back, and the picture of the airfield was replaced with the immenseness of the jungle again.

I switched my gaze to the second camera. He was just coming up on the airfield, and concrete and smoke splattered up from the runway where the lead's bombs had hit. There were more people now running, scampering toward the illusory safety of the main building as the strike force pressed on in.

Smoke was obscuring the picture, and would complicate the targeting picture. As it wafted across the screen, blocking out part of my picture, I realized that something was bothering me. I turned to Lab Rat. "Where are the rest of the aircraft?"

He frowned, a worried look on his face. "We counted twelve on the deck. There were more than that in the air last time ― definitely more."

"Revetments?" I suggested.

He sat still for a moment, his face expressionless. "Maybe," he admitted finally. "But we saw no indication of it on the satellite pictures. Usually there are mounds, some sort of clearly definable entrance to them. But not here."

"Then where are they?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. But at least we'll get the ones that are out there now. Twelve aircraft have got to be a significant blow to their capabilities."

I didn't want to decimate the Vietnamese air-combat capabilities, not just hurt them a little, force them to slow down. I wanted complete and utter destruction, smoking black holes in the ground where aircraft, fuel dumps, and spare parts inventory had been. Scorched earth as vengeance for my people ― nothing else would suffice.

But if the aircraft were in revetments, we had a problem. Concrete reinforced structures buried under the earth were a tough target. It took a lot of firepower to damage them, much less destroy them. Weaponeering can do it if you know that's the problem, using some special high-penetration bombs designed to take on hardened targets, but that wasn't what our weapons load carried. Big old plain fat dumb bombs, that was it.

Now the second aircraft was dropping its bombs, and I studied the picture being transmitted back carefully, searching for some indication of where the aircraft might be. Jungle, just jungle surrounded the entire airfield. It was unusually flat for that part of the country, probably the reason they'd built the base there. "Switch to infrared on number three," I said.

Lab Rat relayed my order to the Tactical Action Officer in the Combat Direction Center, who had his Operations Specialist pass it on to the pilot. The picture flickered, then dissolved into the black-and-white display of the infrared.

"See anything?" I asked Lab Rat. He motioned to the Intelligence Specialist standing slightly behind him, an expert in photographic imagery. The man stepped up beside the monitor.

"These heat sources appear to be from the bombs, Admiral," he said, pointing out two or three bright white flares on the screen. "Smoke may cool the picture off a little bit, but it can't disguise the main heat source. These appear to be pretty much in the area where the aircraft were parked."

"What else?" I asked.

He studied the picture for a moment, then continued. "Here's the main building ― see, those heat sources come from the gear in there as much as the people. And a couple smaller spots ― probably yellow gear. Maybe some secondary fires."

"So what would the revetments look like?" I asked.

"Tough to say, Admiral. There are ways to design the exhaust systems to conceal a heat signature ― just like we do with our Stealth birds, cooling the exhaust down so it's not distinguishable from the ambient atmosphere. However," he continued, seeing my doubtful look, "I doubt that the Vietnamese are that sophisticated. If they're not obviously visible from the photo display, then they're camouflaged in some way, although we can make some logical assumptions about their location. First, they need to be near the airfield ― or if not, there's gotta be a well-marked path from the revetments to the airfield."

"Could they be built into the side of the mountains?"

He shook his head. "I doubt it. I've read some science-fiction books about aircraft landing in concealed mountain caverns, but that's not a strong probability. No, if they're there, I'm betting that they're near this airfield." He pointed in an area ringing the airfield, now splotched with bright heat sources indicating fires.

"Maybe ― what about there?" I said, pointing at a small spike of peaks off to one side.

"I was just looking at that." He squinted, stepped back a few feet to get a bigger overall picture, then nodded. "If the revetments are in the area at all, that would be my bet." He shot a sly, sideways glance at me. "If you ever get tired of being an admiral, I could use a good photo interpreter."

I laughed, more at the shocked, outraged expression on Lab Rat's face than anything else. I like an enlisted man that has enough balls to treat an admiral like a human being. "I'll consider it," I said. "After this raid is over."

The technician nodded, a pleased expression on his face. Then he slipped back into a professional mode. "Commander," he said, addressing Lab Rat, "your opinion, sir?"

Lab Rat nodded. "If there are revetments around, that's where they are, I would think. As you said, it fits all the criteria."

"Then let's get some ordnance on top of it. We may not be able to break through the top of the revetments and get at the aircraft inside, but we ought to be able to muddy up the entrance enough to make it difficult for them to dig out."

"The secondary strike, or divert some aircraft from the main one?" Lab Rat asked.

"The secondary strike ― hell, both. If we can put those aircraft out of commission, then we've accomplished our mission."

Again, Lab Rat relayed my orders to the Tactical Action Officer. I heard the pilots acknowledge the change of mission over tactical, and sat back to watch the show.

The satellite picture was now almost totally obscured by smoke. The one small area we had been bombing was only about one twentieth of the large-screen display, and I was struck by how vast and vital the country was around it. This was such a small area, but if the mission went well, one with major tactical implications for the Vietnamese. It was, I hoped, truly a surgical strike.

The third J-TARPS camera was now over the scene, and the photo image showed billowing clouds of black smoke. Down at the bottom of the screen, one small ball of fire seemed to take on a mind of its own. It was moving, traveling slowly from left to right on the screen. I stared at it for a moment puzzled, not understanding what I was seeing.

Lab Rat choked off an exclamation. He turned away from the cameras for a moment, then looked up at his Photo Tech, his face pale. "Screaming Alpha?" he asked.

The photo intel expert nodded. "That would be my guess."

I tried to ignore them, but my eyes were drawn back to that spot again and again. It had stopped moving now, settling down to look like any other fire spot on the ground.

A Class Alpha fire was one composed of combustible materials such as paper and wood. A Class B fire was fuel oil of some sort, Class C electrical, and Class D burning metal such as an aircraft on fire.

In the profane jargon of Damage Control, a Screaming Alpha was brutal shorthand for a human being on fire.

One of the advantages of fighting from the air instead of on the ground is distance from targets. Sure, you know that your bombs are hitting people, but you try not to think about it. It's like taking out an enemy aircraft ― the target is the aircraft, and the crew are merely incidental matters. You feel you've killed an it ― not a him or them. But this was something that ground troops faced all the time, both the Army and the Marines. They looked into the eyes of human death far more frequently than we did, shielded as we were by our aircraft and altitude. I thought, after seeing the picture, that perhaps it was a good idea that the J-TARPS pods had no display inside the cockpit. I wanted pilots focused on missions and threats, not on the hard facts of the destruction they were wreaking on the ground.

"Second flight leader acknowledges the new mission," Lab Rat said. "They should be on station in two minutes ― a little less now."

Now that I knew what I was looking at, I could see other small spots of fire moving erratically around the burning airfield. The more I stared, the easier it became to pick them out. The people were the ones that moved in short spurts of speed, then fell burning on the melting tarmac. My imagination started suggesting that I could see the figures inside the flames, and I shoved the thought away. Not now, no more than I would think about the men and women I'd lost in my fighters. Not now.

Suddenly, everything seemed to be moving on the ground. I turned to Lab Rat for an explanation.

"That heat generates strong local wind currents," he explained. "You heat the air, it rises, and cold air rushes in. That's how you get the mushroom effect from any bombing, and that's what you're seeing on the ground now."

The third camera showed the flight leader was almost over his target. Again the shudder as the bombs were dropped, making the aircraft suddenly lighter and more maneuverable. I knew that feeling, of dropping heavy weapons off your airframe. There's an immediate increase in your airworthiness, and your speed and maneuverability. You feel lighter, like you've just lost fifty pounds after sitting in a sauna.

The camera jiggled, and steadied back down. The bombs dropped, almost invisible, lofted toward the revetments on a parabolic arc.

Explosions, heat, and light ― the picture was a blur.

"Commander, there's something-" The Intelligence Specialist broke off and stepped over to stand directly in front of the monitor. As the aircraft veered away, the area where the enemy aircraft had been lined up on the airfield came into view. "It's not hot enough," he said. "Not for a Class D fire. It should be burning brighter than anything else on the screen, absolutely unstoppable. It should be ― no, it can't be."

"What?" Lab Rat and I demanded simultaneously. "What is it?"

"I saw something similar once," he said slowly. "It was a test-range film. They were touting the accuracy of a new guidance system, and a couple of Tomcats were making precision bombing runs on a mock enemy airfield. That picture looked just like this one."

"So what's wrong with that?" I asked, shifting my gaze back and forth between the burning area over the revetments and the technician. "That's what we wanted, right?"

He shook his head, a deep look of concern on his face. "No, I don't think so. Because in the training tape I saw, the Tomcats were dropping ordnance on wooden mock-ups of enemy aircraft. The point wasn't to test the destructiveness of the weapons, you see, but to demonstrate the effectiveness of the targeting. You don't need to burn up real aircraft for that."

I stared at him aghast. "You said it's not hot enough ― you think we're burning up wooden targets?"

"Shit." The disgust in Lab Rat's voice convinced me that he was in agreement with his technician. "Shit shit shit."

I turned back to the display and stared at it again. "The heat sources are the same intensity as the burning jungle and buildings.

"That's what I mean, Admiral." The technician's voice was grim. "If there're aircraft around that airfield, they weren't lined up along the side. We've been suckered."

"Can you play this tape back?" I asked Lab Rat.

He nodded. "Now, or after the mission?"

I considered it for a moment, then said, "After the mission. I want to watch this one play out first. Then I want every set of eyes you've got on the tape from the flight leader. Get a good look at those aircraft, see if we've been suckered. Do an analysis of the revetments again as well. One way or the other, Lab Rat, I need to know where those aircraft are."

"There's one thing that wasn't cardboard," the technician said. "Those people on the ground. That I'm sure of."

I repressed a shudder. I didn't want to know during which part of his training he'd studied classified imagery of human beings running while they burned to death.

"The fire's spreading, Admiral," Lab Rat said. He directed my attention back to the satellite overhead imagery. "The wind's picking it up and carrying it along ― see, there are spot jungle fires cropping up all over."

"Any nearby villages?" I asked.

"I don't know ― I don't think so. The people are so thinly scattered in some parts of the jungle, it's hard to tell. Maybe."

I needed to know, to see whether or not the fires that were spreading would inflict significant collateral damage. I told myself it was in order to make a complete report to my superiors, but in reality it was more than that. Command can be a terrible thing sometimes, but it demands that one understand the consequences of every order and decision. I'd made the decision to conduct this raid, even without Air Force support. It was up to me to face the consequences.

"Vector the flight leader ― the first camera ― down toward those jungle areas," I said.

"Might be a problem with SAMs," Lab Rat warned.

"Then get the EA-6 back up there to cover him."

Lab Rat nodded. He spoke to the TAO for the third time, directing the lead Tomcat to fly a low, high-magnification sweep of the direction in which the fire was burning. I switched my attention back to the first camera and waited.

Sure enough, the picture changed almost immediately. "Back to photo," I said. Lab Rat nodded and complied.

We were back in the jungle again, skimming over treetops so close it seemed I could touch them. Lab Rat had set the J-TARPS pod to maximum magnification, and I knew the pilot was well clear of the treetops.

"Mark on top," I said, as a small cluster of structures zipped by me on the monitor. "I want another look at that. Maximum magnification."

Lab Rat slaved the J-TARPS to that geographic spot and asked the pilot to orbit overhead. He did so, and the picture was remarkably stable.

It was a small cluster of huts, along with one main building built out of wood. Smoke from the fires was drifting into it, and I could see people running and probably screaming, their mouths moving and wild expressions on their faces. Where they were going, I had no idea. The fire was moving up on them rapidly, and I could see no place nearby that they'd be safe.

"Who is that?" Lab Rat said suddenly. He jumped up and pointed at one figure on the screen. "She's not Vietnamese."

"Get in closer," I said. "Now ― Jesus, now."

The picture flickered, then zoomed in hard on the figure that had caught Lab Rat's attention. It was a woman, a tall white woman, clearly distinguishable from the families of Vietnamese flooding past her. Unlike her counterparts, she was facing toward the fire, pointing and talking to a large man in her company.

There was something about her posture, about the way she moved, that reminded me ― oh, dear God.

"It's Pamela Drake," I breathed, scarcely daring to believe it myself. "God damn, Pamela Drake, the ACN reporter. And that man must be part of her video crew."

"What's she doing in a small Vietnamese village?" Lab Rat said, his voice beyond surprise and into sheer shock. "She's gotta get out ― Admiral, the fire's moving that way and she's not making any effort to get to safety."

"She wouldn't," I said grimly. "Pamela Drake is as bad as any fighter pilot. She's invulnerable, don't you know? Just like all of the rest of them."

And indeed, that had been the case in most conflicts that Ms. Drake had covered. She'd been a continual pain in the ass to both Tombstone and me, but her sheer, raw courage and tenacity had always evoked a grudging admiration from both of us, even when she interfered with military operations.

"Finally ― she's leaving," Lab Rat said. Pamela had turned away from the fire and was following the path of the Vietnamese. A few had remained behind, dragging at her arms and urging her to leave the area. "But where are they headed?"

"See if the pilot can follow them," I said.

Lab Rat spoke in the radio, relaying my request. The pilot's voice was doubtful.

"They're disappearing into the trees, Home Plate. I may fly low, but I can't get that low. I can't see them under the canopy, and there's no indication of a road."

"Is there anything around? Anything that can provide them shelter?" I demanded. "Water? Some stretch that's bare of vegetation?"

"Nothing I can see. Hey, Home Plate, glad to oblige you guys" ― the pilot clearly had no idea of who he was talking to ― "but I gotta get the hell outta here. My visibility's getting obscured and this rising hot air is playing havoc with my low levels. So, if it's just the same with you guys, I'm outta here."

"Tell him to go ahead," I said to Lab Rat.

The picture stayed locked on the burning village as long as the J-TARPS pod was capable of doing so, but eventually it wavered and then slaved back to the forward view from the aircraft. I had Lab Rat freeze the last frame of the village on the screen.

The flames had crept to the edge of the clearing, and were now nibbling at the small building inside it. There were no people anymore ― they'd all fled. One pig wandered around the compound, confused and lost.

Where had they gone? The villagers had looked as if they'd known where they were going, but what refuge did they have from the flames there? What was it I didn't know about these mountains, these hills?

Another worry intruded. Where was Tombstone? I knew he was on the ground in Vietnam, but the circumstances and conditions of his mission meant that he was completely out of touch with us. Was he anywhere near the burning airfield, the fire spreading out in giant plumes around it?

I could only hope and pray not. Collateral damage to this small village that I'd watched was bad enough, but the possibility that I'd just torched my old lead was almost more than I could bear. The devastation that nuclear weapons would wreak on this beleaguered country was just beyond imagining.

One thing I knew for certain. If Pamela Drake was around, Tombstone couldn't be far.