portion of his composure. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back toward Tombstone.
“I thank the admiral for taking the time to instruct me in basic rules of engagement for this part of the world. Be assured, Admiral — I won’t forget our conversation.” His face was carefully neutral during his statement.
“Get out, before I change my mind and relieve you now,” Tombstone said in a deadly quiet tone.
CHAPTER 8
We will be increasing the size of the garrison here immediately,” Mein Low said. “Your logistics officer will meet with mine to discuss the details.”
“May I ask why?” Bien forced a neutral tone into his voice. The ten Chinese Flankers currently on “temporary assignment” to Vietnam were already straining the resources of the small training base.
“Increased training opportunities,” the Chinese officer replied. “Your men have made excellent progress in air combat. It is time to take the next logical step in this evolution and begin experimenting with squadron-level tactics rather than one-on-one combat. To support that, I need more than one squadron here.”
“I will have to discuss this with my superiors, of course,” Bien said politely. “It will take some time to make preparations for more aircraft.”
“The next squadron will arrive next Tuesday,” Mein Low said, as though his Vietnamese counterpart had not spoken.
“I’m not certain-“
“Four days from now, Bien.” Mein Low fixed Bien with an impassive, vaguely threatening look.
So finally the Chinese show their hand! Bien thought. I warned the government against this very scenario. Once China has a presence inside a country, they can be very difficult to dislodge. They are the perpetual unwanted houseguests who far overstay their welcome — haven’t we at least learned that during the last twelve centuries? And to refuse this additional deployment will be an invitation for them to extend their presence by force.
The politicians who were eager to consolidate their recent gains in power had been eager to take advantage of the advanced air-power training the Chinese had offered. Bien’s concerns had been dismissed as old-fashioned, his fears as paranoia.
“In addition to more advanced training for your countrymen,” Mein Low puffed, “there will be other exciting opportunities to advance your regional security. Our squadrons will also be deploying to Malaysia and Brunei, to assist their programs. Within months, you will have the capability to make the South China Sea an impenetrable fortress. Never again will you see the Americans invading your soil, destroying your unity! With our help, you will be invulnerable.”
I heard those arguments six months ago, when your first aircraft arrived It was that very concept that sold the politicians on this entire evolution — that we would develop the capabilities to withstand another American invasion. But if the Soviets were difficult masters, how much worse the Chinese will be!
But there was nothing to be won jousting with the Chinese commander, not when his own politicians failed to see the dangers. Bien bowed politely, leaving Mein Low’s office deeply worried about the future of his country’s independence.
Most of the battle group wheeled to the west, steadied on a course of three hundred, and headed toward the coast of Vietnam. Jefferson turned into the wind, generating thirty-five knots of wind across the deck, and set flight quarters.
Inside Hornet 401, Major Frederick Hammersmith, call sign Thor, cycled his stick forward, back, and then side to side, testing his aircraft control surfaces. He watched the Yellow Shirt and nodded when he got a thumbs-up. He shoved the throttle forward, coming to full military power. The Hornet vibrated eagerly as he went to afterburners.
Thor returned the Yellow Shirt’s salute and settled the small of his back against what passed for a lumbar support pad in his seat. Two seconds later, the steam-driven catapult screamed forward, accelerated the Hornet to 130 knots in just under four seconds, and threw it off the forward end of the carrier.
The Hornet dropped sickeningly. Thor felt the usual second of sheer terror, wondering whether he had enough airspeed to fly. Of all the things that could go wrong in carrier aviation, a “soft cat” was his personal nightmare.
With gas and a combat load of weapons, a Hornet weighed 49,244 pounds. In order to loft it into the air, the steam piston below the flight deck had to be charged to the correct pressure. Too little, and the fighter would simply dribble off the bow of the ship, unable to claw its way into the air. Too much, and the catapult might snap his wheel strut off, and the rest of the aircraft would do a final impersonation of a NASCAR stock car crash, probably sweeping the handler and several other technicians off the flight deck as well.
Marine F/A-18 squadrons had been deploying off of carriers for several years now, as more and more often amphibious ships were married up with carrier battle groups for those strange conflicts the Pentagon insisted on calling “military operations other than war” or MOOTW. The strange acronym was pronounced “moot-wah.” Monitoring the precarious political situation around the Spratly Island fell into that nebulous mission.
Seconds after the cat shot, Thor felt the Hornet grab air and steady up. As his speed increased, he hauled back on the stick to gain altitude. Leveling off at five thousand feet, he waited for his wingman to join him.
Thirty seconds later, Hornet 307 snuggled up to him on the right. James “Killer” Colburne waved. Thor clicked his radio once and pointed left, to the west. Killer nodded and followed 401 into a gentle turn.
Thor waited until they were steady on course and then made his next call.
“Redcrown, Jigsaw One checking in.”
“Roger, Jigsaw One, we hold you, flight of two,” the Operations Specialist on the Aegis cruiser said. The brief exchange told Thor and his wingman that their IFF transmitters were working, and the Aegis would be able to distinguish them from enemy aircraft if necessary.
Thor clicked his mike once in response and then settled down for a routine CAP mission. Whatever had tried to shoot at the Viking the previous day would find that shooting at a Hornet — and a Marine one, at that — was a whole different ball game. Especially one that carried a few cluster bombs snugged up on the center pylon.
Vincennes, Tombstone noted, was meticulously locked into the center of her screen position. After the initial flurry of maneuvers, she settled in fifteen thousand yards dead ahead of the carrier. Tombstone doubted that life was very pleasant for the officers and crew of the Aegis cruiser.
An hour later, Thor was shifting uneasily in his ejection seat. “Jeez, my back’s already aching,” he complained to Killer over tactical. “Twenty minutes to get out here, and forty minutes of clockwise circling. Just for the fun of it, I’m going to go the other direction for a while.”
“That’s what we get for being disciplined. If we were in the Navy, we’d be able to have some fun out here.”
“Yeah, but we’re not. Thank God for that, anyway. Still, the colonel’s obsessed with neat little circles in the sky. It’s getting to be a pain. Man flies a jet, he oughta be able to have some fun with it.”
“Guess he doesn’t see it that way.”
And the Colonel did see what his pilots were up to while on CAP. Thor had seen his commanding officer park his tail end in CDC and watch a scope, watching his pilots cut neat, symmetrical circles in the sky.
“Take a leak. That helps sometimes,” his wingman offered.
