Mein Low initiated shutdown procedures on the damaged engine, holding his breath while he watched for any indications of fire. None. Good, perhaps he’d shut down in time.
The aircraft felt oddly sluggish and heavy, although one engine was more than enough to keep him airborne. Not that that mattered right now — they were out of the battle for good, limited to 370 knots on one engine and such sluggish maneuverability that they’d be easy prey for anyone.
He headed for the deck, intent on avoiding any interest from the fighters circling and maneuvering above him. After he put some distance between them, he’d climb back to a more fuel efficient altitude and pray that his remaining fuel could at least get him to within range of the carrier. If he couldn’t kill fighters, then at least he could turn their flight deck into a fiery inferno. They couldn’t stay airborne forever. Ruin their landing area and they’d be forced to either eventually ditch or break off immediately and try to reach land with their remaining fuel and the tankers currently aloft.
“What are you doing?” his backseater demanded. “You’re way off course — we’re only a hundred miles from rescue forces.”
“Shut up.” Backseaters. Just for a second, he smiled with grim humor. He wondered if American pilots had to put up with pushy backseat drivers as well.
“Bien, you coward!” the Chinese lead pilot raged over tactical. “You slimy dogs, turning tail and running away from the strike. We lost over half of our forces, escaping with barely enough fuel to make it back to base. You’ll pay for this, you bastards!”
Bien clicked his mike a few times, wondering if he had the strength to resist temptation. He didn’t, he decided. He’d spent too many months under the crushing imperialism of the Chinese to not savor the sweet radar picture. A ragged line of Chinese fighters limped toward the coast, eking out every last mile from their remaining fuel.
He keyed his mike for the last time on the Chinese tactical frequency and said, “Go ahead, punk. Make my day.”
At that, the Vietnamese fighters broke formation and descended on the remaining Chinese fighters like starving sharks on a school of fat tuna. Only this time, the tuna didn’t have enough energy to run.
“We got contact on them while they were still in the high-altitude portion of their profile,” the Vincennes TAO told his counterpart on Jefferson. “They’re running about Mach 3, it looks like. Damned tough to see — if we’d stayed down south with the carrier, we wouldn’t have detected them until they’d gone into the sea-skimmer mode. Ten, maybe twelve seconds warning.”
“You got them targeted?” the Jefferson TAO asked. “Oh, never mind. Symbology just coming up on the LINK,” she finished, as the NTDS symbol for a missile raced away from the Vincennes on course to intercept the Chinese cruise missiles. “Looks like a good firing solution. Just what do you think the range on those bastards is?”
“About two hundred miles shorter than China planned,” Vincennes replied. “Look, I hate to be rude, but don’t you have something else to do besides talk to me right now? I mean, it’s okay with me — my missiles are off the rails, and it’s just a matter of wait and see. But according to the LINK, you’ve got a hell of an air battle going on to your west.”
“Oh, that,” the TAO replied offhandedly. “Our part’s already over. The first Tomcats are back on deck as we speak.”
“So who’s in that fur ball off the coast?”
“Let’s just say that the Vietnamese government made some permanent choices about the future of their country,” she replied. “And it looks like China’s a little annoyed about it. We’re standing by in case they need a hand. But from what I can tell, they’re doing pretty damned well on their own.”
“Well, will you look at that?” the SH-60F pilot yelled over the ICS. Angel 101 was on SAR, hovering a discreet distance from the air battle to be immediately available for rescues. “Damned fighters, letting one sneak off like that!”
It wasn’t too often that the less glamorous elements of the carrier air wing got a good look at a bad guy. Especially a hurt one.
“Doing 270 knots,” his copilot said. “I make his closest point of approach less than one mile. And he’s headed for the carrier.”
“Let Homeplate know they got a kamikaze inbound. Give me a course to close him.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“You betcha!” the pilot said. “Those damned Penguin missiles have been hanging on our wings for too long. Let’s see if these suckers work as advertised.”
The carrier was only eight miles away, but it already loomed huge, blocking out most of the horizon. He felt his gut tighten and tried not to think about the next few minutes. It was his duty — his destiny, perhaps. If it meant that he must die, then so be it. The possibility of doing permanent damage to the carrier was too good to pass up.
Less than five minutes to live. He shut out the sounds of his backseater screaming. The man had figured out his plan a few minutes ago, and had been wailing ever since. Mein Low had taken the precaution of switching the ejection seat controls to front seat only. It would have been better for the backseater’s karma if he’d been able to face it bravely, but then the wheel of the universe moved in mysterious ways.
“Roger, Homeplate, you heard right. Tallyho on bogey. Taking with Penguin.” The pilot toggled the safety cover aside, took careful aim, and then let fly the Penguin missile tucked onto the underbelly of his helo.
“Fox-hell, Homeplate, what do I call these?” Fox one was a Phoenix, Fox two a Sparrow, and Fox three a Sidewinder. “This a Fox four?”
He watched the antiship missile close on the crippled Flanker. The first missed, but the second scored a solid hit on the windscreen. The remaining tattered fragments of Plexiglas shimmered in the air, along with remnants of the cockpit. Including, he assumed, the pilot.
“Ain’t Fox four,” he heard the carrier TAO reply, amid a few cheers in the background.
“Well, how do I report it?”
“Let’s just call it a first, and leave it at that. You’re credited with one kill, Angel One.”
“Dang!” The pilot high-fived his copilot. “That plane captain’s gonna love me! Bet he never thought he’d get to paint a kill on his helo!”
On the ground, the Chinese officer left in charge screamed in rage. “Cowards!” he swore, yanking his pistol from his belt. He reached for the first senior Vietnamese officer he could find, intending to execute him immediately.
As he brought his pistol up, he felt something punch him in the middle of his back. It was more than a punch, he thought, surprised at the sudden detachment that seemed to have descended on his mind. No ordinary blow could have thrown him across the room, bashing him into a GCI console. He noted that he was sprawled on the ground, partially underneath one console, and the fact did not seem surprising.
His brain, operating on what residual blood remained circulating in it through sheer momentum, finally made the connection between the hard blow, sudden mind-numbing pain, and the warm, gaping hole immediately below his rib cage. As his vision began to turn black at the edges, he tried to turn his head to see who had shot him. An impossible task, since every Vietnamese officer and soldier in the room had his weapon drawn and aimed at a Chinese soldier.
