Island Warriors

TWENTY-TWO

The second and third refueling passed uneventfully. Tombstone found his biggest problem was the boredom. The Tomcat’s engines droned reassuringly around them, the low growl simply part of the background noise. His lower back ached from the hard curves of the ejection seat, and he made a mental note to see if his uncle could spring for an upgraded lumbar support device. There had to be a decent one around somewhere, there just had to be.

In the back seat, Jason, too, was fighting off the tedium. Finally, Tombstone said, “I wouldn’t normally recommend this, but this is our first long flight, and we’ve got a learning curve. I’m thinking it might be a good idea for us to take turns catching a couple of winks.”

“Go to sleep in a Tomcat?” Jason’s voice was incredulous. “Man, that ranks high on the list of things I never thought I’d hear anyone say.”

“Same place, on a list of things I never thought I’d say. I know tanker and surveillance aircraft pull longer flights, but they’ve got a full flight crew, can get up and stretch and we can’t. I’m not embarrassed to admit I’m starting to dread the return haul.”

“Yeah, well. It always takes more time on the way out, don’t you think?”

“Anyway, let’s give it a try,” Tombstone said. “Go on, rack out for thirty minutes. I’ll wake you up.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice.” Within a few minutes, Jason’s breathing was slow and regular. Tombstone wondered if he’d be able to nod off as easily when his turn came.

He glanced at the radar screen again, and saw a few commercial flights on their way across the ocean, but nothing out of the ordinary. The tactical circuit was silent, but he had no doubt that the AWACS was still monitoring their progress, so that must mean there were no problems. And it was another two hours to the next refueling.

That’s the way it was, wasn’t it? Hours of boredom leavened only by moments of sheer terror. Some things never changed.

When Jason’s thirty minutes were up, Tombstone said, “Rise and shine, buddy.”

No response from the back. He glanced in his mirror and saw the younger pilot’s chest rising and falling.

Surely he didn’t turn his radio off? He wouldn’t — aw, hell. “Wake-up!” Tombstone shouted.

Still no response from Jason.

I don’t believe this. What the hell is wrong with him? Food poisoning — something we both ate, maybe? Oh God, he can’t be dead. No.

“Jason, wake-up!” Tombstone shouted, after he’d jerked his own 02 mask off. “You asshole — wake up!” Tombstone followed with a string of curses that he hadn’t used in quite some time, and was rewarded by the slightest movement from the unconscious figure in his back seat.

“Mom?” a sleepy voice croaked. “Is it time for school?”

Oh, this is priceless. If I have anything to say about it, Jason Greene will never live this down.

“You listen to me, young man. You get up right this second,” Tombstone said in high-pitched voice, his gaze locked on the mirror.

Jason bolted upright, a look of confusion on his face. Then a red flush crept up his cheeks.

In the front seat, Tombstone howled. “Oh, man, what I wouldn’t give to be in a squadron right now,” Tombstone chortled. “But since we’re a squadron of two, I’m going to assume responsibility. I don’t care what your call sign was before, you’re now Schoolboy.”

Jason muttered something too low to be heard, and Tombstone said, “What’s that? Speak up, Schoolboy.”

“If I’m Schoolboy, guess that that makes you Mommy dearest.” Jason sniggered. “Yeah, I like that. No more Tombstone — you’re Mommy from now on.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Tombstone retorted. “Not if you ever want a shot at the front seat.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what my mom used to say.”

“Triple nickels, this is Big Eyes,” the AWACS said suddenly over tactical. They both jumped. “Be advised that there’s additional activity taking place at Six Flags. No launches, just warnings and indications.” Six Flags was the code word for the nearest Russian air base.

Jason groaned. “Just what we need.”

“Doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with us,” Tombstone said. But it did — someone on the ground somewhere had taken note of a tanker in the air, and the small, virtually insignificant radar speck headed south and west. Taken note of it, and decided to do something about it. And while there might not be Russian fighters airborne right now, there would be if Tombstone continued heading south.

“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Big Eyes continued. “And I’m about to pull one of them out now. You’re going to get degradation on all your comm circuits, radars, and ECM indicators. If you got anything to tell me, make it snappy. I’ll give you ten seconds.”

“We have anything to tell them, Mommy?”

“Shut the hell up. No, I don’t. You?”

“The right engine is running a little hot,” Jason said. “Nothing to worry about now — well within specs. It’s just that the temperature started to rise slowly over the last two hours.”

“Yeah, I know. But there’s nothing to tell Big Eyes about yet. It’s not like he can do anything about it, anyway.”

“Roger, concur.”

“Five seconds,” Big Eyes said. He continued counting down, and just as he reached zero, Tombstone had a flash of insight. “Turn down your radio volume — way low,” he ordered. He reached out and switched his down.

“What the hell is that contact?” Coyote asked. He pointed out the offending radar blip, marked as a neutral aircraft, but headed toward the Russian Islands. “Anybody know?”

Bird Dog shook his head. “No answer to a call up on distress frequencies, sir. But by its flight profile, it looks like a fighter.”

“I’m not taking any chances right now,” Coyote snapped. “Break off two Tomcats to fly CAP directly over Marshall P’eng.”

“What about that Chinese surface action group?” Bird Dog asked.

“They moved yet?”

“No, sir. But they’re within missile range now.”

“Watch ’em. The second one of those bastards so much as sneezes, I want missiles on them like stink on shit, and I don’t give a damn what the United Nations says,” Coyote said.

Suddenly, the radio came to life. Goforth, the liaison on the P’eng, was calling. “TAO, Captain Chang has a few questions about what he’s just heard over sonar. Evidently he believes he heard a submarine breaking up after that torpedo shot. He’s wondering if there’s anything you need to tell him, TAO. Like can he assume that the contact that was sunk was the Chinese diesel he’s been after? And if it was, does the admiral want his helos back?”

Suddenly, the tactical screen flared into life. The seemingly random disposition of Chinese surface ships resolved into a classic amphibious operations and antiair formation. At the same time, the airspace along the coast of China was suddenly lousy with air contacts. The staff stared in horror as wave upon wave of Chinese fighters went feet wet. Half of the formation turned slightly north and headed for the island of Taiwan. The others bore down directly on the USS United States.

Goforth’s questions hung in the air, as the majority of the staff concentrated on the incoming waves of Chinese fighter aircraft. The speaker was a cacophony of voices as the E-2 directed fighters to individual engagements and maintained the overall picture on the fur ball now developing to the east.

Ho glanced around desperately, aware that no one was answering. Why not? The answer was clear to him — the lives of the people onboard Marshall P’eng were not nearly as important to them as their precious fighter aircraft.

Ho approached the admiral, anger surging under the calm he forced on his face. He waited to be recognized, as would be appropriate in his own culture, but no one even acknowledged his presence.

He cleared his throat. No one even looked in his direction.

Finally, he spoke, his voice coming out harsh. “Admiral, my captain — he has asked for instructions.” He waited.

Coyote was still deep in conversation with the commanding officer of the Viking squadron. “Get two more tankers ready to launch — and no, I don’t want to see Rabies on the flight schedule for that. You know what we’re up against — put him on the submarine. He’s the best we’ve got.”

Ho Kung-Sun tried again. “Admiral. The Marshall P’eng.”

Coyote was turning to his air operations officer. “You have to cover for the AWACS. I don’t want to lose another one. Gas in the air is going to be the limiting factor. Refueling is our top priority.”

“Admiral!” Surprising even himself, but his fury knowing no bounds, Ho Kung-Sun reached out to touch Coyote on the arm.

On a ship from his own country, such disrespect would have ended his career immediately. Yet the American admiral turned to look at him with no more than minor annoyance on his face. “What is it?”

“Captain Chang — he wishes to know whether you want him to continue to attempt to locate the Chinese submarine, under the circumstances. Or should he move closer to the carrier and return the helos to your operational command?”

“Keep the helos and keep them looking for a submarine,” Coyote said. He noticed the look of concern on the young Taiwanese major’s face. “Look, he’s well within our air umbrella. I know he heard one sub breaking up, but there’s no guarantee there’s not another one out there.” Coyote said a silent prayer that it had been the Chinese diesel that had taken the hit, not the Seawolf. But until Seawolf checked in, the admiral couldn’t be entirely sure. “P’eng is in no more danger than the rest of the surface ships are, and getting that submarine is a major priority right now. Ask him what he needs — set up the second separate coordination circuit if you need to.”

Ho turned to study the plot, Coyote’s dismissive words ringing in his ears. Was Marshall P’eng really within the air umbrella protection? How could that be? — she was so much further away than the other ships. No, the admiral was keeping his own ships in closer, risking Marshall P’eng for some purpose of his own. Perhaps as a decoy to draw Chinese fighters away from the carrier — yes, that would make sense. A missile sump — that’s all they were.

A radioman touched Ho on the arm, and he drew back, seriously affronted. For an enlisted man to touch him — that was what came of his touching the American admiral. Now a very junior man felt free to do the same to him. “You want a separate circuit, sir?” the radioman asked, his voice urgent but polite. “I got to know now, Major.”

A separate circuit, even. More evidence — they were relegated to the sidelines, not part of the main battle. Yet still, this could be turned to his advantage as well.

“Yes — a separate circuit. That will be good.”

“Five minutes, sir. Maybe less.” The radioman turned and picked up a telephone and spoke with the communications center. He hung up, and began setting dial switches to the appropriate channels. “You need a speaker, sir? Or just a mike and a headset?”

“A headset will be fine, thank you. After all, this is just to speak to one ship on one issue.”

The radioman nodded, as much as admitting it was true.

Moments later, Ho heard the circuit come to life. The radioman handed him a headset. “It’s all yours, sir,” he said.

Ho slipped the headset on. It was, indeed, all his now. And the Americans would understand — if they survived this — that they could not treat the Taiwanese nation in such a cavalier fashion.

Captain Chang listened to the words coming over the speaker with a growing sense of unreality. After the first sentence, he clicked off the feed to the speaker and listened to the call on a headset. His astonishment grew with every sentence that came out of Ho’s mouth.

“I have told you repeatedly, my captain, that these people are not to be trusted entirely. It is good I am on the scene, because had I not heard the derogatory remarks and seen the disrespect toward our forces, I would not have believed it myself. Even you can have no doubts at this point. We have been removed from the main battle circuit, Captain, removed and relegated to this link. And as you can see from your screen, you are further away from the American carrier and the cruiser than any other ship. It is the admiral’s intent to use you to draw off fighters from his carrier, knowing how much the Chinese hate us. He believes that they will attack you first, giving his forces a chance to follow-up to prevent damage to the American ships.”

“He said that?” the captain asked, still not believing what he was hearing. It was so inconsistent with everything he had seen from the Americans so far, completely inconsistent.

And yet it was possible, wasn’t it? American support for Taiwan had always been difficult for the Taiwanese to understand. In their mind, there should have been a massive retaliatory strike against China at the first offense. But the Americans temporized, talking about free trade, the need to maintain relationships with those nations. Taiwan, in the end, could count it as nothing more than a betrayal.

“You know how they speak,” Ho said. “With the Americans, it is better to watch what they do instead of listen to what they say. And can you have any doubts yourself at this point? Look how exposed the ship is — and all because of the submarine that poses the primary threat to the Americans.”

“And to us as well,” Chang pointed out. “And I am using American helicopters to pin her down as well, do not forget.”

“And what of the American fighters that he sent for defense? If you’re truly within his cruiser’s protection envelope, why would he send fighters at all?” Ho Kung-Sun asked.

Why, indeed? Chang pondered this for moment, a sinking feeling in his gut. Had he so misjudged the admiral, this Coyote? A slip of information from his cross-cultural studies class came back to mind. In the Native American culture, the Coyote was considered the trickster, the one who was always pulling a sly prank on a trusting person. Could it be that this admiral, this Coyote, was very correctly named?

“If you go further north, you risk more,” Ho said. “Captain, it makes sense to break off prosecution and return close to the carrier. You can take the submarine just as easily from here as from there.”

“And risk her coming in closer,” Chang said quietly. “Additionally, the water to the south is not as favorable as these conditions. We would lose in terms of our detection capabilities from the noise generated by the American ships alone. No, it is better to prosecute here. If that is the only factor considered.”

“But it is not, is it?” Ho said, now certain that he had Chang worried.

“No, it is not. Are you absolutely certain that this is the American admiral’s intention? Certain?”

“Yes. I am, sir.”

Just then, Chang Tso-Lin saw the fighters inbound on his ship. Why fighters? Hadn’t the admiral assured him that Marshall P’eng was within the antiair protection envelope? If that was true, then there was no need for fighter cover.

Unless Ho is right. The admiral wishes to destroy us, but he dare not risk antiship missiles at this range. He may need them for dealing with the Chinese ships, and using the fighters prevents him from putting his own ships at risk?

But why? We are allies! Or at least I believed that we were.

Perhaps he will try to claim China did this, and use that as an excuse to establish firmer control of the region. There are political forces at work here that I do not understand, will never understand. But I do know when someone is trying to kill me.

“Then we must avenge this act of war,” Chang said firmly. He was certain that Ho did not know what he was starting. If indeed they had been betrayed by the Americans, then the only honorable path was to avenge that betraval by the Americans. And it would begin with Marshall P’eng. Now and here.

But instead of the righteous light of anger in his soul, he felt dishonorable and incompetent. How could he have so misjudged the American admiral? He thought he knew the man, had seen the spirit of ancient warriors in his soul. But to be betrayed like this, well, there could be no doubt.

“You will tell the people how we died,” Chang said. “Tell them my men served bravely, and in defense of a free and glorious Taiwan.”

He replaced the mike in the holder, and clicked off the circuit. There was nothing else discussed — while Ho Kung-Sun may not have intended this reaction, Chang Tso-Lin had no choice. He turned to his watch officer. “Break the helicopters off — have them return to us. And as they do, target them with our antiair missiles.”

The watch officer’s jaw dropped, but true to his training, he did as he was told.

The speed leader on the Marshall P’eng suddenly changed directions and length, as did those of the helicopters in support of the antisubmarine engagement. Coyote watched for a moment, wondering whether it was a computer glitch of some sort, then turned to Ho Kung-Sun. “What is your captain doing?”

“What he should have done a long time ago,” the Taiwanese major answered, savage glee in his voice. “Perhaps I will survive, perhaps not. But it makes no difference. I will die in defense of my country.”

“What?!” Coyote’s head snapped back and forth between the screen and the major. “What are you babbling about? What did you tell him?”

“I do not babble. I merely speak the truth. And I have so informed my captain.” His voice was proud. “No longer will we be subject to your treachery.”

“Treachery? What the hell are you talking about?”

Just then, the first missile left the rails of the frigate, headed toward a helicopter.

The SH-60 helicopter pilot was puzzled as he headed back for the carrier. He clicked on its ICS mike. “I just don’t get it. We were getting close, we had her. And they break us off?”

“Why the hell do they do anything?” his copilot answered. “Another five minutes, and we would have had her solid.”

The sensor operator spoke up from the back. “I figure we have her pinned down, so the frigate wants to go in for the kill. Take all the credit for it, you know? That would make them look like the big guys around here, even though we really did all the work.”

“You think? Well, it’s not like we were the only ones, though. That little Sea Sprite driver is a tenacious little fellow. You give him enough time, and I think he may have gotten the sub off alone. And that frigate’s no slouch, either. Face it, guys. They could have handled it without us.”

“But not as quickly.” the sensor operator said.

“Yeah, that’s true.” The pilot clicked over to call the carrier and request a green deck. Just as he did so, he saw a long, white con trail streaming out from the deck of the frigate. For a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then training and reflex took over, and he put the helicopter into a hard bank and headed for the surface of the ocean. “We got incoming!” he yelled over tactical. “What the hell is going on around here? They shot at us — the Marshall P’eng just shot at us!”

Chang studied the display, then listened to a report from his lookout. The missile had missed, but not by much. A second one was off the rails, headed for the other helicopter. “Retarget the lead helo,” he ordered. “And continue in toward the carrier.”

“What’s the loadout on the helo?” Coyote demanded. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Strictly antisub, sir,” the air operations officer said.

“Guns, though,” Bird Dog noted. “That could do a lot of damage to a frigate, sir.”

“Get those helos back on board,” Coyote answered. “I want to talk to the captain — there’s something screwy going on here, and I have a feeling our little major is behind it.”

Major Ho drew himself up to his full height. “You are behind it, Admiral. Not me.”

Lieutenant Goforth stared in horror at the picture unfolding on the screen. He had not followed all of the conversation between Chang Tso-Lin and Ho Kung-Sun, although he found something in their tone definitely disturbing. Now, everything was becoming unreal — break off from the prosecution of the submarine when they almost had it? And shooting at the American helos? He felt the blood drain from his face and a cold chill sweep over him. What next? Would they execute him as a spy?

He turned to face Captain Chang, trying to frame the question. But the words simply wouldn’t come, although the captain watched him carefully. Finally, he managed to say, “Captain, sir, there has been a serious misunderstanding. I must speak to my admiral immediately, sir.”

The captain shook his head. In remarkably clear and precise English, he said, “Talk is cheap, Lieutenant.” He pointed at the tactical display. “Your admiral has betrayed us. Perhaps losing his helicopters will teach him not to kill all gooks.”

Goforth’s jaw dropped. Captain Chang smiled bitterly. “Surprised that I speak your language? I thought so.”

“No, sir — yes, sir, I mean but — but, sir — what makes you think that’s what he’s trying to do?”

“Major Ho Kung-Sun explained.” Captain Chang Tso-Lin turned his back on him, evidently through with the conversation. “I had thought better of your admiral. I thought we understood each other in a very special sort of way. After he revealed the U.S. submarine to me…”

“He what?!”

“It does not matter now,” Chang continued.

Goforth turned back to the screen and saw the missiles headed directly for the two helicopters. Then, forgetting everything he had had drummed into his head about the Taiwanese culture, as well as every bit of military protocol from his own service, he grabbed Chang by the arm. “Look — those Tomcats. They are here to protect us, sir. Watch — you see what they do.”

The captain shook his head, although Goforth thought he saw a trace of sorrow on his face. The translator turned back to the American. “I cannot take the chance.”

Goforth took a deep breath. “You say it matters what we do, not what we say.” He pointed to the screen again. “Then watch what they do, sir. They’re here to protect you — not to attack. Just watch for a few seconds before you decide. Please, sir.”

The order came from a nervous ground controller who obviously had brass standing behind him. “I am directed to tell you to disengage two flights of fighters from the first wave and prosecute the treasonous Chinese vessel Marshall P’eng located just to the north of the main battle group. You will use all means at your disposal to ensure that the frigate is destroyed.”

All means — the pilot knew what that meant. If necessary, he was required to make a suicidal dive on her, if he could not reach her with his antisurface missiles.

“Acknowledged,” he said, and clicked over to the short range channel with his wingman. “You are ready?”

“Of course.”

The two aircraft turned in unison, breaking apart slightly for loose formation as they headed for the Taiwanese frigate.

The pilot studied the display, and saw that the rest of their wing was now heavily engaged in a fur ball to the south. It was ranging over a wide area of ocean, but drifting gradually to the east, bringing it to the edge of the area that the cruiser was designated to handle with its missiles. It was always a risk, making sure you’re outside the missile engagement sound. Even though the sensitive Aegis missile system would not attack target radiating friendly IFF, there was not a single pilot he’d ever talked to who was willing to bet his life on it.

“We’re way out of it,” his wingman groused. “Just burning fuel and wasting time when we could be—”

“Knock it off,” the lead pilot ordered. “We got our orders, we follow them. You understand?”

“Yeah, I got it. But they’re not coming up here — that would be crazy. Even the Chinese aren’t stupid enough to take on the Aegis cruiser.”

Something shifted on the pilot’s HUD and adrenaline rushed into his system. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Yeah. About time.”

As he watched, two Chinese fighters broke off from the pack, and headed directly for them. “Go high,” the pilot ordered. “And make sure the E-2 has a handle on what’s going on.” He stroked his stick, his fingers playing over the weapon selection toggle. “You got it yet, RIO?”

“Got it, sir,” the RIO answered.

“Your dot.”

The first missile dropped off the Tomcat’s wing, and shot unerringly for the lead of the two Chinese fighters.

In short succession, lead and his wing fired off another three missiles. If that didn’t do it, they were prepared to get serious.

“You see?” Goforth shouted, almost jumping up and down to get Chang Tso-Lin’s attention. “They’re taking on the Chinese fighters — not you! They turned as soon as the fighters were inbound!” He stepped two respectful paces back, kept his eyes lowered, trying desperately to sound like a respectful officer conscious of the power of his captain. “Captain, I’m simply asking permission to contact my admiral. He has inadvertently created a misunderstanding that I know he would be most sorrowful about. He said, watch what we do, not what we say.” He pointed to the screen. “That’s who we are, sir. And that’s how we value our alliance with your nation.”

“Break right! break right!” the lead howled, throwing his own aircraft to the left in a nose-down attitude. His altimeter wound down as he peeled off altitude.

The missile zoomed between them, traveling too fast to make a turn and come back on them. When it tried to search the area for another target, it confronted a snowstorm of chaff and decoys in the air, including two infrared flares. It paused, unable to find the sweet hot target it had been following before, then picked the most probable location and detonated. Its bundle of expanding rods ripped through the air, shredding the chaff into even smaller pieces and further confusing the second missile coming.

“Get by the chaff, get by the chaff!” the lead shouted, doing just that as he snapped the aircraft back up into a hard drive, kicking in the afterburners. The afterburners were a risk, providing an enticingly clear target should the Americans fire the heat seeker, but it was a risk he had to take. It was more dangerous to remain alone in the air without the sheltering fog of chaff.

His wingman, however, was not so lucky. As the second missile turned, catching a glimpse of them with its seeker head, he panicked. He turned away from it and ran, kicking in full afterburners, making it an even more attractive target. The missile had no doubt about what it should do. It homed in unerringly, and, moving at twice the maximum speed of the aircraft, caught it within seconds. The result was a blinding fireball of orange, red, and metal sparking off into the air.

The lead felt a rush of pain, as his wingman was an old friend, but there was no time for sentiment, not if he was going to get out of this alive. He pumped out more chaff, making a trail back to where the fireball was, hoping that would distract the subsequent missile. He jockeyed to stay behind it as long as it was burning, and popped up more chaff and flares to create an additional distraction. On his heads-up display, he saw two more missiles inbound.

All measures — they said all measures. He screwed up his courage, shot up above the sheltering cloud of chaff, and bore directly down on the missiles.

“What’s that crazy bastard doing?” the RIO asked. “He’s heading right for us. Doesn’t he know he’s outnumbered?”

“He couldn’t miss his wing going down,” the pilot answered. “He’s a gutsy bastard, I’ll give him that.”

As they watched, the Chinese fighter headed directly for the two missiles. Then the pilot felt a creeping sensation of uneasiness. “Head-to-head — the closure rate of Mach 5. If he—”

Just then, his HUD anticipated his next words. The Chinese pilot let the missiles get so close he could almost touch them, then jerked violently upward, then down, porpoising around them. The missiles tried to make the turn, but the first one nicked the second, and both exploded.

“Okay, we’ll have to do this the hard way,” the pilot said. He punched in the afterburners, and headed for the MiG.

The wingman circled around, coming in at an angle, and intended to trap the Chinese fighter and take him out with guns. But before he could get in position, the Chinese fighter took a shot at him, and a missile found its mark.

The wingman saw the missile inbound and did his best to avoid it. But in the last seconds, he could see that it was in vain. Just before the missile reached them, his hand closed on the ejection seat, and he and the RIO left the aircraft to the mercy of the missile.