Ten minutes later, the unknown contact was a black blip on the horizon. “MiG-23,” Gator reported matter-of- factly, “based on the radar he’s using.”
“You called it,” Bird Dog said, as the contact grew larger. “Definitely a MiG. They’re sending their front-line units out.”
“What’s he look like?” Gator asked.
“Clean wings — no weapons on any station.”
“Good news for Homeplate.”
“Depends on whether there’s a submarine in the area. Clean-winged didn’t mean anything last time.”
The MiG suddenly tipped its nose down and headed for the deck, not actively evading the approaching Tomcat, but clearly not in the mood to cooperate with an American inspection.
“Catch the Vietnamese markings on the tail?” Bird Dog asked.
“Yep. I’ll let Mother know.”
Bird Dog glanced at the fuel gauge. “We’ve got time to play follow the leader. Let’s see what he’s up to.” He turned the Tomcat and followed the MiG down. “Surface contacts,” Gator announced.
“I see them.” A huge RO-RO, a roll-on, roll-off container ship, came into view. “Whose is it?”
“Can’t see the flag,” Gator muttered.
“E-2 got anything on it?”
“Hawkeye’s calling a U.S.-flagged ship,” Gator reported, after querying the circling E-2. “It’s on a normal commercial route.”
“So what’s the MiG want with our merchant ship? Don’t tell me he wants to play kamikaze!”
“Not likely. The Vietnamese don’t have so many that they’d be willing to waste them. Probably doing just what we’re doing — going down for a look-see and a photo op.”
“Hard as hell to take pictures at 450 knots,” Bird Dog said.
“Hey, I didn’t say they’d be good pictures.”
“Jeez, he’s low and fast. Gonna scare the hell out of that merchant!” Bird Dog said.
“Sometimes they’ve only got one person on the bridge during a long haul, and there’s no guarantee that he’s awake.”
“Maybe we ought to loan them you,” Bird Dog said snidely.
Third Mate Gringes settled back in the chair and glanced at the engineering status display for the hundredth time in the last two hours. Two more days at sea before liberty! While the weather had been relatively good on this voyage, even the most favorable conditions — and the generous amounts of overtime — couldn’t completely make up for the monotony of being at sea.
For want of anything better to do, he checked the surface radar display again. Still no contacts, although he wouldn’t be surprised to start seeing more ships soon. While the South China Sea was a large body of water, the trade routes were heavily traveled.
With the automatic pilot functions engaged, there was little to do on the bridge. He strolled out to the bridge wing and took a cursory glance at the horizon. Radar picture confirmed — not another ship within fifteen miles or so, at least.
A strange thrumming sound caught his attention, and he glanced up, looking for the aircraft that was causing it. After two years of making voyages on the Kawashi Maru, he knew every sound his ship was capable of making. This was clearly external to his ship.
He saw the movement first and went back inside the pilot house to retrieve his binoculars. By the time he’d found them and lifted them to examine the aircraft, the contact was gone. He dropped the binoculars and let them dangle around his neck from the strap.
The sound returned, coming now from the other side of the ship. Thankful for anything that broke up the sheer monotony of his four hours at the conn, he strolled across the pilot house to the other side of the ship.
The aircraft was much lower now — lower and closer. It didn’t take binoculars to identify the sharp angles of a MiG-23 slicing through the humid South China Sea air. He watched the aircraft come from astern, draw abreast of the ship, and then cut quickly to the right.
Within seconds, the aircraft was above him, so close and so low that Gringes felt as much as heard the thunder of the engines. His hands went to his ears automatically, trying to block the sound waves assaulting him. As the MiG raced in over him, he felt his eyes shut involuntarily. The noise consumed him, vibrating through his bones and rattling his guts.
As the sound dropped lower in frequency, down-dopplering from the relative motion of the aircraft and the ship, he opened his eyes again. The MiG raced off toward the horizon, turning as it reached a point near the horizon and heading back in toward the ship.
The intership telephone buzzed, sounding faint and fuzzy after the assault on his ears by the aircraft’s passage. The captain, he suspected, wondering what idiotic aircraft was finding amusement in buzzing the heavily laden RO-RO. He raced back into the pilot house and watched the aircraft approach as he lifted the receiver.
As the captain testily demanded an explanation, the thunder of the MiG’s engines filled the pilot house again. Gringes covered the mouthpiece with his hand for a moment and then opted for protecting his own ears rather than those of his captain. As the aircraft passed over again, he craned his head to look at its underbelly. No weapons, as far as he could tell.
Third Mate Gringes waited for his ears to stop ringing and then started drafting a radio message to the home office. They’d do the right makee-talkie to ensure that those damned Vietnamese quit disrupting his quiet watches.
The operations analyst burst into Mein Low’s office, tension evident in his plain face. “A Flanker just picked up some interesting changes in the Americans’ operating pattern. They’ve stationed an unarmed surveillance aircraft, an E-2C, over the islands. It’s alone.”
“Where are the fighters?” Mein Low demanded.
“South of Mischief Reef.”
“And our assets near the fighters?”
“None.”
“This presents a problem, I believe.”
“Not an insoluble one.”
Mein Low stared at the chart. The blip representing the American aircraft cut lazy circles over a piece of empty ocean to the south. Almost empty. His overlaid projection showed that the tip of one small rock protruded from the ocean at times. Hardly large enough to support an asset, much less any firepower.
Still, it couldn’t be helped. Obviously, the Americans had decided that that piece of ocean warranted their attention. The schedule called for another incident in three days. Unless the Americans changed their patrol patterns, it would be a problem.
Perhaps they could be lured in toward Mischief Reef again. Rebuilding of the extensive camp there had already begun. Surely that warranted more American attention! What would catch their interest the most, ensure that they resumed flights over the new camp?
A new structure resembling a rocket launcher of some sort or a new radar signature might get their attention. The Americans were compulsive about collecting intell photos and new electromagnetic signatures for their threat libraries. It need not be an actual weapons control system — it merely had to look like one. A high frequency source with a high rotation rate should do it, perhaps a frequency modulated one. He’d ask the engineers — they ought to be able to come up with something.
“Watch them,” he said finally. “See if they establish a pattern, how often they schedule their flights, whether they are tanking or doing short cycle operations. We have some time to plan.” The operations analyst nodded.
“And have air ops schedule me for a flight. I want to see their reactions myself.”
