Island Warriors c-18

by Keith Douglass

  Coyote’s voice came back over the circuit. “Roger, sir. But would you care to explain what just happened? I’ve got two helos damn near the wave tops who are a little bit reluctant to return to your command and control, Captain.”

  “A great error on my part, Admiral,” Chang said, his voice deadly serious. “I will explain later — but you’ll forgive me if I concentrate my attention on getting your men out of the water right now. The explanations can wait, sir. I assure you, I will pay for my mistake later.”

  “Roger, then, Captain,” Coyote’s voice said. “You coordinate the SAR — I may have some matters to take care of down here. And as for the submarine—”

  “Pardon, Admiral,” Chang interrupted, and everyone stared aghast at the rudeness. “Consider the submarine gone.”

  He turned back to his watch section, and began giving orders again. Goforth felt the ship heel over hard as the nimble frigate turned. “The SAR — shall I talk to them?” he asked.

  Chang handed him the mike. “Major Ho Kung-Sun has made a very grave mistake as well,” he said. “Extend my apologies — I am deeply sorry. But it is imperative, whatever their feelings, that they obey my orders immediately. We must get these men out of the water within the next three minutes.”

  “Roger, sir — but to be blunt, what’s the hurry? They have survival gear and the water is relatively warm.”

  The captain shook his head. “You do not understand. I have been patrolling this area for about a week now, in my home waters. I know everything about this part of the ocean, and know it well. I have watched this over countless missions. The problem is not the temperature of the water. It is what follows in our wake.” His face reflected his concern. “Sharks. Great white. And after feasting on our trash for several weeks, they will find the morsels such as your pilots quite tasty. Now, tell your helos to obey me or be prepared to bear responsibility for what follows.”

  It took only thirty seconds for the American officer to explain the situation to the helo pilots, and after the first ten seconds, they were already turning and heading for the SAR location. When it became apparent they had located the men, Captain Chang broke one off to join his Sea Sprite and head north. There was plenty of fuel on board, and he had one last piece of business to take care of before he dealt with his own conscience.

  The submarine.

  The voice of Chang’s senior enlisted man came over the speaker, firm and competent. “I have an initial detection on the diesel submarine, sir. Her range is eight thousand yards, bearing zero one zero.”

  Dead ahead. Captain Chang stepped over to the bitch box. “Hard right rudder — Combat, I want a recommended intercept course now. I will notify the carrier — this time we will make good use of the helos.”

  The sailors on deck sprang into action at the announcement. Chang gazed at the water ahead of the replenishment ship with malice in his eyes. So a submarine was trying to take out the replenishment ship, was she? This far from friendly ports, that would do far more damage to the American battle group than attacking any other ship.

  Well, that was not going to have to happen. Not if Marshall P’eng had anything to say about it.

  Captain Chang Tso-Lin picked up the mike to call the carrier. This was one conversation that he intended to have directly with the admiral.

  USS United States

  TFCC

  1010 local (GMT +8)

  Coyote had just sat down to supper when the buzzer next to his seat sounded. He picked up the handset and said, “Admiral.” He listened for a moment, then shoved himself back from the table, reaching out to grab a sandwich as he did so. “You’ll excuse me, gentlemen. That was my TAO. That little Taiwanese frigate is about to kick some serious ass and I want to be there to see it.”

  In TFCC, Coyote hovered over the TAO’s shoulder as he watched the action unfold. The American liaison officer onboard the frigate was reading off the datum, his voice excited. A few words were spoken in firm Mandarin, and he paused for a moment, then continued. “Captain Chang Tso-Lin wishes me to convey his utmost respect, Admiral, and we’d be pleased to eliminate this submarine from the ocean if that comports with your desires. He also told me,” the officer continued, his voice slightly embarrassed, “to calm down and not look so excited. He said it is not appropriate.”

  “I agree,” the admiral said gravely. “Please tell the captain that I appreciate his courtesy in correcting one of my officers, and I regret any inconvenience or embarrassment it may cause.”

  “Admiral?” Now the officer sounded uncertain.

  “Tell him what I said.” The admiral’s voice was low and courteous. He listened as the officer translated his remarks. Finally, he heard the line go quiet for a moment, then click back on as a new voice came on.

  “It is my honor, Admiral,” a heavily accented voice said carefully. “I shall take the submarine, yes?”

  So you do speak some English! “Yes, please, take the submarine,” the admiral said. “Would it be of any assistance to have my helicopter standing by?” There was a brief pause and a flurry of translation.

  “Yes. Please to send two — we do this quickly, yes?”

  “Yes. Quickly.” The admiral paused for moment, uncertain as to how to continue, then took the plunge. “Captain, if there have been any misunderstandings, I deeply apologize for them. You should know your ship and your command have my utmost confidence, and we consider it an honor to serve with such a ship, officers, and crew.”

  This time there was a longer conversation, and then the American officer came back on with a horrified note in his voice. “Admiral, the captain has given me permission to add my own remarks as necessary to clarify for his esteemed American colleagues. He says that he believes that there have been some misunderstandings, but perhaps they were not necessary. And sir, I think I can clear up a lot of this in just a few minutes here — the captain has asked me to explain to him the difference between a gook and a geek.”

  The watch officer sitting in front of Coyote slapped his forehead. “Oh, man — that was it, wasn’t it?” He turned to Bird Dog. “Remember that day — two days ago. Ho Kung-Sun was standing behind us and you were shouting for the geeks. He must have thought you said—”

  “Shit,” Bird Dog said softly. “Don’t repeat it now… come on, please.”

  Coyote turned to Lab Rat. “Find Major Ho Kung-Sun. Take Lee with you. Explain it to him. Dammit, man, move!”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  USS Lake Champlain

  Monday, September 23

  1050 local (GMT +8)

  Norfolk stared at the screen, swearing quietly. He turned to his TAO. “Dammit, get on the horn to the E-2—they have to keep those fighters out of my airspace. Right now, it’s so clobbered I can’t risk taking a shot.”

  The TAO relayed the captain’s orders to the Hawkeye, then listened as the response came. The fighters were all too closely engaged for the E-2 to risk breaking any of them off. Consequently, the Hawkeye was recommending truncating the missile engagement envelope along that bearing.

  “United States, this is Lake Champlain,” the captain said on tactical. “Admiral, I can solve this problem if you can get your boys out of the way. This is what I recommend.” Norfolk continued for twenty seconds, explaining his plan, and when he finished, he concluded with, “I’m pretty sure it’ll work, sir. But you’ll have to do your part with the airwing.”

  Coyote’s voice came booming back. “You got it, Skipper. Stand by — I’ll give the order in fifteen seconds.” He switched immediately to an airwing call-up. “All flights, this is Coyote. On my mark, disengage, and buster for angels three one. Get as high as you can, boys and girls, and we’ll let the Aegis make your job a little bit easier for you.”

  Tomcat 102

  1055 local (GMT +8)

  The pilot heard the call, but couldn’t spare any attention to count down the seconds. He turned it over to his RIO as he fought desperately to keep out of the clutches of the MiG on his ass. W
ith his wingman gone, it was becoming increasingly difficult, as the smaller aircraft cut them off with every maneuver. The rest of his flight was engaged with their own bogeys, and the HUD display showed that a second wave was just taking off from the mainland.

  “Ten seconds,” his RIO shouted, his voice audible in the cockpit even without the ICS. “Bruce, pay attention — you can’t screw this up.”

  But the pilot had just cut hard to the left, hoping to drop back in behind the MiG for a killing shot, when the nimble MiG flipped wing over wing, circled above him, and dropped back in behind him. The pilot cut hard right, saw that bought him a few seconds, then dropped his speed breaks down to peel off airspeed like a ripe banana.

  “Five seconds!” the RIO said. “Come on, you can do it.”

  The pilot hoped to hell he could. If he couldn’t get out of the way, there was every chance that one of the Aegis missiles would decide that his massive metal airframe was just as good a target as a Chinese Craft. But to break off now and simply head for altitude, even though he could do it more quickly than the MiG, would be to expose his warm and tasty tailpipes to Chinese heat seeker missiles. It would be over quickly, too quickly, and he wouldn’t have to wait for the Aegis missiles to pepper this guy with deadly expanding-rod antiair missiles.

  There was a chance, just one chance — they could keep this game up forever until one of them got lucky or the other ran out of gas. But the Aegis plan had just put limitations on that as well.

  The words of his military science instructor from ROTC came back to him: “Consider the terrain, the fatal terrain.”

  But what terrain? The answer flashed into his mind, wonderful in its brilliant simplicity and elegance.

  The terrain here was empty air. Granted, there were different electromagnetic transmission zones. Peppering it like mountain ranges were the fur balls in progress, just as much terrain as a mountain has. If you could just… yes, there was an opportunity. It was a slim chance, but the only one he had.

  The pilot cut back hard then kicked in his afterburners. He cut back immediately in the other direction, hoping to tighten his turn enough to come up behind the MiG — or at least force the MiG to conduct the same maneuver that he had on previous occasions.

  Every time before, when he tried to circle back on the MiG, the MiG executed a wingover, almost a roll, and came in over him to get back in position. Every time, Bruce had responded with a hard turn to the right to shake the MiG.

  But this time it would be different. He started to make his normal maneuver, and punched in the afterburners hard. Instead of coming around to try to close on the MiG again, the Tomcat shot straight up in the air, shoving the pilot and the RIO both back into the seat with a hard slam. Bruce felt his vision start to go gray, and he grunted and tensed his muscles in order to keep blood flowing to his brain.

  And there it was, just ahead. A fur ball of two Tomcats and MiGs, both punching chaff and flares into the air like they had unlimited quantities, the Tomcats covering for each other as they broke off and headed for altitude.

  Bruce zoomed in behind the MiGs, turning only slightly to stitch the wing assembly of one of them with gunfire and continuing on for altitude.

  “Passing through angels thirty,” his RIO announced. “It’s going to be close.”

  “Yeah, but not as close as it was before.”

  USS United States

  TFCC

  1104 local (GMT +8)

  “All clear except two,” the TAO announced, as his assistant counted down the seconds. Coyote nodded, mentally working through the time-distance problem. It would be close, too close. He felt a moment of intense pain as he contemplated the possibility that he might take out his own pilots. Blue on blue engagements — there was no more painful moment for any commander.

  “I’m out of choices — we have to get this engagement back on track before the second wave reaches us,” he snapped. “On my mark — mark!”

  The TAO relayed the information to the pilots, and watched the two laggards desperately claw for altitude.

  USS Lake Champlain

  1105 local (GMT +8)

  “Mark!” Coyote’s voice came across the circuit clearly.

  “Full auto,” the captain snapped. “Everything below angels thirty is a target. Now, let’s see if we can even up the odds.”

  With the fire control system in full auto, the Aegis cruiser was capable of rippling off missiles in one-second intervals. The next thirty seconds, the deck under their feet rumbled and shook with deadly intensity as the missiles rippled out of their vertical launch cells. On the bridge, the crew turned away, the smoke and fire from the missile launch blinding them and burning their retinas with sharp afterimages.

  Then, it was over. The light southern breeze cleared the smoke away from the cruiser. The missiles were still in flight.

  Tomcat 102

  1106 local (GMT +8)

  “Incoming!” the RIO shouted, twisting around to watch behind them as long white telephone poles invaded the airspace they just left. “Approaching thirty-thousand feet — come on, we can do it. We can do it.”

  The pilot felt a strange calm come over him. He had done everything he could, had fought his aircraft to the best of his ability. Now it was up to luck, chance, and whatever god watched over fighter pilots. A few hundred feet would make all the difference in the world to the flurry of missiles behind them. He just hoped that it would be enough.

  USS Lake Champlain

  1107 local (GMT +8)

  Lieutenant Ackwurst floated his cursor between the two aircraft that were still within the Aegis firing envelope. He clicked on one, then the other, watching as the altitude figures on each rolled over, more quickly than normal, but far too slow for comfort. No, the missiles wouldn’t intentionally target friendly aircraft, but even smart missiles were pretty dumb. There was every chance that the two aircraft would be damaged in the fireballs or debris as the missiles found their true targets.

  The lead aircraft kicked over 30,000 feet, and then only one remained. They watched, the altitude slowly increasing. As the aircraft reached 29,000 feet, the first standard missile found its target. Not that it was a particularly dramatic event by tactical data display — merely a blip, the change to a different symbol to indicate a kill, and a line of text rolling across the monitor: CONFIRMED KILL.

  On the raw video and radar consoles, it was at least a bit more dramatic. The discrete green lozenge of the enemy aircraft and sharper image of the missile intersecting. The computer watched it, then re-evaluated its display, and the two sharp images dissolved into a myriad of spatters before the computer decided there was no longer a discrete target there.

  A flurry of MiGs were behind the last Tomcat, the reason behind his desperate gyrations as he tried to prevent any one of them from dropping into perfect firing position. But then, modern missiles didn’t need perfect firing conditions. As the team watched, four antiair missiles sprang out from the Chinese horde and headed straight for the hapless American aircraft.

  The captain had been holding the mike in his hand, his thumb hoisted over the key. He pressed down hard, and snapped, “Punch out! punch out!” shouting as he did so, knowing that the few microseconds the computer had taken to process data meant that he was already too late.

  Tomcat 102

  1108 local (GMT +8)

  “Eject! eject!” the RIO shouted, his hand closing over the ejection handle. He’d seen the smoke and fire as the missiles were launched, even from almost a mile away.

  But there was a reason the guy in front was a pilot, and that became quickly evident. His reflexes were faster, his motor skills honed to a lightning edge. He reached for the handle, jerked down, and pressed his back into the ejection seat. The canopy blasted off. Then the pilot, followed four seconds later by his RIO, punched out of the aircraft.

  They shot out at a 45 degree angle from the doomed airframe, each one to a different side, the flames under their ejection seat from the rocket
igniters the smaller cousins of their afterburner fire. The Tomcat spun in the air. It seemed to try to catch itself and continue on upward. But then, as they fell back down through 29,000 feet toward the ocean, three missiles caught the aircraft almost simultaneously.

  The air above them exploded into an ugly orange mass, black smoke whirling implacably across the sky. The pilot shouted his protest, anger and frustration but also fear in his voice.

  When they were well clear, the ejection seats separated from them, and their parachutes deployed. As the billowing fabric above them caught in the air, the pilot was jerked upward with a strong force. Not actually upward, but such a sudden decrease in his rate of descent that it felt as though he were being lifted up through the air.

  The pilot saw his RIO’s chute, although he couldn’t tell if the man dangling underneath it was injured. And the Tomcats safely at altitude, they’d see the chutes — they’d let the carrier know.

  For an aviator, the air around him was filthy. It seemed that every two hundred feet held another MiG. Most of the aircraft swerved away to avoid them, relying instinctively on international principles of military law, leaving them to descend in the clear blue sky alone.

  But one didn’t. It circled around him, the jet wash blasting him sideways under the chute. For a moment, the pilot thought that the jet wash would spill the air out of his chute, sending him plummeting down to the sea like a rock. He touched his auxiliary chute, praying that whoever packed it had been damned good.

  But whether or not they were, he would never have a chance to find out. The aircraft turned and came back once again, and for just a flash, the Tomcat pilot could see the pilot in the cockpit turning to look at them. Although the man’s face was masked, he felt like they made eye contact. Then the MiG rolled out overhead, came back down, and the American pilot saw a line of tracers spit out from its nose gun. His chute twisted him around to face the other way, but he twisted, shouting and screaming at the heavens, to get back in position. When he made it back, he could see that the RIO’s parachute wasn’t far below him. The man was already falling so fast that in a few moments he would be almost invisible.