through your subordinates until I find one officer capable of obeying orders. And should anyone disobey me while we are in the air, my deputy here in the center will execute your men. Is that clear to you?”
Bien stared at the small Chinese general. So it finally comes to this. Even though I have warned Ngyugen, and set all the necessary plans in place, it is actually happening. Odd that I never really believed it would — that I never understood how eternal and deadly the Chinese drive for dominance is.
Aware that the man was waiting for an answer, Bien nodded abruptly. “We will follow your plan.”
“Eagerly, I hope.” The commander’s demeanor thawed slightly. “After all, it is to your advantage as well to have the Americans out of the South China Sea. Your country, of all those in this region, should understand how devastating American attempts to intervene in Asian affairs are.”
Again, Bien nodded. And China is a more merciful alternative?
“As you see from the plans, your Flankers and Foxbats will lead the attack on the carrier. It is our wish to allow Vietnam her rightful place as a leader in the region, and since the battle group is closer to your coast than our islands, we decided it was only appropriate that your aircraft lead the strike. Much glory will accrue to you and your pilots if you succeed in making the first direct strike on the American battle group.” Mein Low smiled. “My forces will be immediately behind yours, to provide second strike capability as well as vectoring and surveillance services.”
“We are, of course, honored at your trust,” Bien said smoothly, masking his feelings behind a bland expression. Although you have neglected to mention the real reason for placing us in the front — to make sure that we do not waiver in our determination. With the Americans in front of us and the Chinese behind us, we are truly left with no alternatives. As soon as the Americans see the raid inbound, they will use their surface-to-air missiles. Undoubtedly our faithful allies hope to use my forces as a missile sponge. Once the American fighters engage, the Americans cannot risk their shipboard weaponry. There will be too much danger of hitting their own aircraft. “And your Flankers,” Bien continued. “What will their weapons loadout be?”
“Not just Flankers,” the Chinese commander said deliberately. “In a gesture of friendship, we will be augmenting our normal complement of Flankers with our most advanced aircraft. My own personal aircraft, the F- 10, is being flown south as we speak. I have had the responsibility for developing and testing it, and I will now provide its worth in a strike. The details of weapons loadout and fueling will be handled by our crews, as always.” He shot a sharp, searching glance at Bien. “We will both fly this mission, of course. There is no other way to lead men except from in front. We launch in twelve hours. Our planes are ready now. Make sure yours are as well.”
Tombstone studied the satellite picture that had been faxed to the carrier from the NSA over secure, highly encrypted circuits. “Looks like they’re getting ready to launch,” he said.
The IS, a photo-interpretation specialist, nodded. “That would be my call, Admiral. How long will it take to get all those aircraft in the air?”
Tombstone studied the massed formations of aircraft. “If they space them at thirty seconds apart, almost an hour. Drop it down to ten-second intervals, and you’re looking at twenty minutes. They’re going to wait until at least half of them are airborne, maybe all of them, mass up into a strike force, and then head our way. We’ve got a little time — not much, but enough.”
“Guess we got pretty lucky, getting them to launch just when we’ve got satellite coverage in the area,” the IS said, smiling. “Makes this job a lot easier when you get good data points.”
“It might be luck, son. But it might just be something else as well,” Tombstone said gravely. “Sometimes you create your own luck by playing on the other fellow’s perceptions, feeding him misinformation.”
“Is that what happened today?” the IS asked, surprised.
“I can’t tell you. But there’s one thing you probably already know. Commander Busby is one hell of a fine intelligence officer.”
“We know that, sir,” the IS said. “A little paranoid sometimes, maybe, but you gotta like that in an intelligence officer.”
“I know I do,” Tombstone murmured as he reached for the bitch box toggle switch. “TFCC, this is Magruder. Get those JAST birds in the air, and launch the alert EA-6B Prowlers. Make sure everyone down south is tanked to the gills. I want them bustering back up here. Chinese raid is inbound now!”
As Tombstone pulled open the door and strode down that passageway back to TFCC, he could hear the Prowlers’engines spooling up to full military power. Within thirty seconds, the train-rattling sounds of catapults lumbering forward shook the overhead, ending in the gentle thump that signaled another aircraft airborne. Moments later, a second and then a third Prowler took to the skies. It was time for the second phase of the plan to begin.
Eighty aircraft ringed the airfield, their engines turning as the pilots performed preflight checks. The air around the field shimmered as unburned fuel floated through the air. The rain yesterday had left the ground around the strip soggy, and the hot, humid air seemed to concentrate the fumes. Red streaks of dirt crisscrossed the runway, evidence of the maintenance truck’s trips out to the waiting aircraft.
Poised at the end of the runway, ten Vietnamese Flankers and sixteen MiG-23’s followed a similar routine. The roar of their jet engines igniting was completely drowned out by the larger Chinese force. Even though both countries were flying the same airframes, Bien thought he could tell the difference between the Chinese engines and those of his own country’s aircraft.
Bien circled his silent aircraft, preflighting the exterior by checking that each panel was dogged down tight, that there were no leaks or unexplained puddles of liquid around the jet, and that the tires and landing gear appeared to be in good repair. He then climbed into the cockpit and began going through the preflight checklist automatically. His earlier confidence had gradually eroded into a numb certainty that this was his last flight. The familiar details of preflight steadied him.
He glanced down to the last aircraft to start its engines. Mein Low had walked out to the airfield with Bien, then broken off to head for his aircraft without even a word of good luck. Now the five F-10’s, sleek and deadly, shimmered in the heat waves coming up off the tarmac.
At last, Bien started his Flanker’s engines. The engines spooled up, slowly at first, then the RPMs rising quickly as the stator gained momentum and overcame initial mechanical friction. The sound slid up octaves in seconds, and had soon picked up enough harmonics and undertones to be the normal full-throated scream of raw power.
His radio popped and crackled for a moment, then began spitting out permission for the Vietnamese fighters to launch. Bien led the two squadrons into the air. He quickly ascended to four thousand feet, and then began orbiting, waiting for the rest of his squadrons to join on him. He heard the voice on the radio change, and the language shift from Vietnamese to Chinese. He could see the Chinese fighters beginning their roll-out, rotation, and initial climb. The Chinese squadrons were joining up to the south of the airfield, the Vietnamese ones to the north. Evidently the spirit of brotherly cooperation did not extend to sharing airspace.
Finally, the signal came, first in Chinese then repeated in Vietnamese. Bien turned east, increasing his speed to 420 knots and climbing to seven thousand feet. His wingman bobbled for a moment and then settled down to his left, and the rest of the circling wolf pack of fighters broke into their respective flights. Behind them, the Chinese were settling into the fighting formation that Bien had seen entirely too many times in the last five months.
Seventy miles to the east, the American battle group waited.
“Well, will you look at that?” Tomboy said softly.
“Got them?” Batman asked.
“You betcha. Looks like about eighteen — no, make it closer to twenty-five high-speed contacts leaving the coast. Tight formation. Any other bird, it’d be difficult to break them out in this soup.” She twiddled with the radar, tweaking and peaking. “But I got them — oh, yeah, do I got them!”
“Best we wake Mother up, then,” Batman said, a tight note creeping into his voice. “I think we might just
