The ass end of the carrier slipped under his wing, and he brought the Tomcat down decisively, simultaneously shoving the throttles to full military power in case of a bolter, but knowing it was pointless. He’d snagged the three-wire; he always snagged the three-wire. How many perfect traps in a row was that for him? If the navy had an Olympics for aviators, this would be his gold-medal event.
“Nice trap, slick,” his RIO said as the Tomcat jolted to a halt and Hot Rock killed the engines. “Especially since we came back with such a heavy load under the wing.”
2130 local (-8 GMT)
Tomcat 304
South China Sea
“Bird Dog, what’s your situation?” the air boss said over the radio. Hot Rock had just landed. Bird Dog was still limping toward the carrier.
“Good to go,” Bird Dog said. “Get me a green deck and I’ll get onboard.”
“I understand you’ve lost some control function,” the air boss said in a careful voice.
“Just enough to take me out of the dogfight,” Bird Dog snarled. “Not enough to keep me from putting this bird on the carrier.”
“Commander, don’t make me order you to eject.” Now the air boss sounded almost kind, although there was steel behind the tone. He was in absolute control of everything that happened on the flight deck, and responsible for it all as well. “I can’t let you jeopardize this boat just to keep from dumping that Tomcat in the drink. Is that understood?”
Bird Dog forced his voice to stay calm. “Listen, my RIO is unconscious. I don’t know… she might be hit, might have a broken neck… I don’t know. I can’t fire her out of this bird, not if I’ve got a chance of landing on the carrier. Which I do. So with your permission I’m coming in.”
There was a long pause. Ahead and to his left, Jefferson was a glowing blur in the darkness. Amazing how huge a carrier seemed when you were on it… and how tiny it looked from here.
“Roger that,” the air boss said. “Green deck. Tell me what you need.”
Bird Dog let out a breath. “You might have Jeff brought a few degrees to port. That’s the only way my Tomcat wants to turn, so I’d feel better having a little push on that side.”
“You got it. Stay in the stack until I let you know it’s time.”
Bird Dog clicked his mike twice, then concentrated on keeping the Tomcat wings-level as he flew in the marshall stack. In a way, the difficulty of handling his crippled bird, the effort required to keep it airborne at all — never mind trying to land it on a moving postage stamp — was good for him. It kept him from thinking about other things.
Like what might be happening to Lobo.
2130 local (-8 GMT)
TFCC
USS Jefferson
“Missing?” Batman said. “You mean, completely? But I understood her chute was sighted.”
Coyote looked haggard. “Here’s the situation, Admiral. Her plane was struck by a PLA heat-seeker and downed. Her chute was seen, fully deployed; so was her backseater’s. But it was getting dark at the time. The backseater was located and picked up by the SAR helo from Shiloh… but he was dead. And… the sharks had been at him.”
“Oh, Christ. Lobo — ”
“Her situation is a different matter, Batman. SAR hasn’t found any sign of her at all. No sign, you understand? Not even a shred of cloth.”
Batman looked up. “You’re saying she might have been picked up by somebody.”
“It’s a possibility, sir. SAR reports there was a lot of surface traffic in the area: Commercial boats, cabin cruisers, fishing boats… Could easily be one of those grabbed her.”
“Until we know for sure, keep SAR going out there.” Batman clenched his jaw so hard he felt two molars grind. “Lobo got shot down before… and it went very badly for her.”
“I’m aware of her story,” COS said softly.
“Of course.” Batman sighed. “All right. So now I suppose we just wait until we get some kind of word.”
“On the positive side,” Coyote said, “our pilots shot down three Flankers, and ran the rest off. And we also picked up a civilian survivor.”
Batman made a shamed grimace. The survivor. Somehow, in the last few hours the object of this entire disastrous episode had been relegated to the status of “Oh, yes, by the way…”
“His condition?” Batman asked.
“Strained back, cuts and bruises, dehydration. Shock. He was out there for hours, and I guess he spent some time fending off sharks himself. We know his name’s Alonzo George, and he’s with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. He’s out of it for now; Doc says we can visit him in medical tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” Batman wondered if tomorrow would be soon enough, then pushed the thought out of his mind and turned toward the hatch. “I’m going to watch Bird Dog’s landing.”
2143 local (-8 GMT)
Headquarters, PLA Air Force
Hong Kong Garrison
Major General Wei Ao, supreme commander of the Hong Kong PLA, had obviously expected this phone call. It was equally obvious to Political Commissar Yeh that Wei had called him into the room specifically so he would be involved in the conversation.
As soon as Yeh was seated, Wei flicked on the speakerphone. “Yes, Comrade General Ming,” he said. “We did consider your orders, of course. But the situation was unique. We not only needed to provide aid and assistance, but to try to find and identify the attacking aircraft.”
Ming’s voice crackled slightly over the speakerphone. “And who authorized an air battle with U.S. Navy aircraft not a hundred miles from Hong Kong? Do you realize that this was seen live on television all over the world?”
Yeh watched the garrison commander’s throat pulse with his swallow. What had Ming said about this man’s vices? He collected imperial Chinese antiquities…. “I’m aware of it, yes,” Wei said.
“The American jet’s last transmission has been played on the media as well, over and over: ‘It’s Chinese; it’s got a red star.’ This is your interpretation of my orders not to provoke the United States?”
Wei drew himself up defiantly, something Yeh suspected he’d never dare do if the general were physically in the room. “The media broadcasts should work to our advantage, General. As you know, the attacker was described as a stealth-type aircraft, a flying wing. Obviously it could not have been a PLA fighter. The American pilot was obviously mistaken. That’s why I considered it in the interests of national security to send aircraft out to investigate what actually — ”
“And once again,” Ming said, “the only direct witness of the event ended up in the hands of the Americans. How is that possible? I consider this a very poor job on your part, Major General. Very disappointing.”
Wei slumped back in his chair. “But — ”
“Gather your co-commanders at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” Ming said. “I’m flying down to talk with all of you and get this straightened out once and for all.”
2145 local (-8 GMT)
Tomcat 304
USS Jefferson
As Bird Dog turned on final, he was annoyed to see that the crash barricade, that giant badminton net designed to catch wounded aircraft that missed the cables, had been raised across the deck. Well, of course they would raise it, under these circumstances, but he still found it infuriating. What, they didn’t think he could hit a three wire with half an airplane?
“You hang in there, Catwoman,” he said over ICS. “You just hang in there, okay?”
There was no answer. She was resting, he told himself.
Watching the meatball, listening to the patter from the LSO, he brought the Tomcat in toward her home. Many pilots referred to carrier landings as “controlled crashes,” but Bird Dog had a higher standard than that. And he was going to live up to it now, too — not because of his pride, but because he didn’t want to jar the precious cargo in his back seat any more than he had to.
And he was not going to need that damned net.
2142 loc
al (-8 GMT)
Dirty Shirt Officers’ Mess
USS Jefferson
As Hot Rock entered the dirty-shirt mess, he was greeted with subdued applause and slaps on the back. With pilots dead and missing, the usual after-battle banter was subdued, but Hot Rock was still congratulated for making his first kill — even if it was only a helicopter, at least it was probably the same helicopter that blew up the Lady of Leisure, right? He was congratulated for his flying skills, outmaneuvering multiple bogeys even if he didn’t have the chance to take any of them out.
Only his RIO, Two Tone, stayed out of the group, Beaman said. “She’s a sorry sight, isn’t she?”
Franklin couldn’t look at him. Tomcat 304 was now a hangar queen. Fist-sized holes punched all over it, the metal blackened and splintered around the edges. The back half of the canopy just gone. How Bird Dog had managed to bring the plane in, Franklin had no idea.
Franklin felt sick and angry. He wasn’t sure who he was angry with, but it was a strong feeling.
“The RIO,” he said. “Is she…”
“In sick bay. Alive. Bad. And you know what? She’s lucky at that. I just had a little talk with Lieutenant Commander Robinson. He says that about the time things got hot, he lost hydraulic pressure in the left wing control surfaces. That was before he took any hits. Now, how do we explain a loss of hydraulic fluid?”
Franklin felt a frightful chill clatter down his spine. “I tightened that fitting,” he said. “I tightened it right down. I know I did.”
Beaman nodded gravely at the plane. “We’ll see.”
Tuesday, 5 August
0700 local (+5 GMT)
The Beltway
Maryland
As always when they were going to the car to drive somewhere together, Tombstone and Tomboy both strode straight for the left front door. “I’m more current than you are,” Tomboy joked.
Tombstone handed her his duffel bag. “Exactly why I need some stick time. Besides, this is my car.”
“Sexist pig.”
They tossed their luggage in the back of the GTO and climbed in. Tombstone fired up the Goat’s engine and hit the street with a bit more velocity than necessary. He said, “Sorry. But I’m going to be spending the next fourteen hours letting somebody else fly us to Singapore, and then I have to switch to a civilian airliner. A Third World civilian airliner.”
Tomboy reached across the console and squeezed his thigh. “The way things are over there right now, it’s either that or swim.”
Only an hour ago, as a consequence of the air battle that had taken place following the downing of an Air Force plane, the Pentagon had curtailed all military flights into Hong Kong. Most American airlines had immediately canceled service to Hong Kong as well. Other nations were picking up the slack; Tombstone had been booked on a Thai Airlines flight out of Singapore.
“God, I wish I were going to Jefferson with you,” Tombstone said. “Not that Batman can’t handle the heat, but… hell, that’s where I feel like I should be.”
“Your talking to Martin Lee could make a big difference,” Tomboy said, her gaze on the road. “If you can help figure out how the Chinese got their UAV program up and running so well, it could make all the difference in the world — to Jefferson and to the United States.”
“According to you and Uncle Thomas, it’s not really an issue. According to you, UAVs are the Volkswagens of the aerospace world. Anybody can make one.”
“No, anybody can afford one. That’s not the same thing.” She paused. “Especially when you’re talking about combat UAVs.”
“Like the one that attacked me.”
“Yes. The Air Force supposedly has a CUAV program under way, but like Uncle Thomas said…” She shrugged. “The financial and political support is minimal. Of course, that might change now.”
“Because the Chinese are ahead of us. I can’t believe the politicians have gotten us into the position of playing catchup.”
“It’s strange when you think about it,” she said. “I mean, from the Chinese perspective. UAVs have two big advantages over conventional aircraft: low unit cost, and zero pilot mortality. But let’s face it: The PRC has always been known for throwing human bodies at the enemy; after all, they’ve got more of them than anyone else in the world. So why this sudden interest from them in cost-effective, user-friendly UAVs?”
“Maybe they’re not really interested. Maybe it’s like during the Cold War, when the Soviets used to park fake bombers on runways for our spy satellites to photograph. We spent billions developing countermeasures to a threat that never existed.”
“That’s possible…” Tomboy said. “I know there are people in the Pentagon who would consider it a blessing if more effort went into CUAV programs. Some people say CUAVs are the wave of the future — a natural extension of the success of cruise missiles and smart bombs.”
Tombstone shook his head. “People have been predicting for years that future wars would be fought by machine. At the beginning of the Vietnam war, American fighter jets didn’t even have guns because it was believed that missiles made dogfighting unnecessary. All it took was a bad kill ratio to bring things around. This is just another instance of that. There will always be the need for human beings on the front lines — including inside aircraft.”
“The Chinese seem to agree with you,” Tomboy said. “At least, judging by the fact they’ve got this other new aircraft out there, the flying wing.”
“That’s the one that scares me,” Tombstone said.
Wednesday, 6 August
1000 local (-8 GMT)
PLA transport
10 miles north of SAR
The officer in charge of the radar station on the mountain just outside of Hong Kong picked up the phone and dialed the number given to him the previous night by Major General Wei Ao, First Among Equals. I want to know the moment General Ming’s flight appears on your screen, Wei had said.
So now, after identifying himself, the officer in charge said, “General Ming’s transport is two hundred kilometers out, sir. He’s vectoring in to Kai Tak Airport rather than the Air Force base.”
“The quicker to arrive at garrison headquarters,” Wei grunted, as if to himself. “Very well.”
After hanging up, the officer in charge went back and stared at the radar screen, watching the incoming blip. General Ming had left Hong Kong for Beijing only a couple of days ago, and now he was back. This did not bode well for certain military people in Hong Kong. The officer was determined to keep his installation running in top form, lest he be caught unawares in some sort of snap inspection.
He was about to turn to other duties when he noticed something strange on the screen — a tiny, brief return registering perhaps twenty kilometers to the rear of General Ming’s plane. It brought his full attention immediately back. Only after he stared at the screen for several sweeps without seeing anything else did he start to relax. Suddenly a strong, clear return appeared out of nowhere behind Ming’s plane. A moment after that, two more blips appeared, close together, racing toward Ming’s plane.
Even as the station officer reached for the radio, he wondered how quickly he could disappear, as so many others had, into the teeming hive of Hong Kong.
1030 local (-8 GMT)
Aft elevator
USS Jefferson
Under the pretext of inspecting the repair work being done on the aft elevator, Bird Dog walked out onto the platform and took in the afternoon air. Odd, when you thought about it: Here they were in the open ocean, yet for those who worked and lived in the carrier, fresh air was an uncommon gift. When you were on deck you were stepping lively, concentrating on things, trying not to get killed by any of the myriad heavy, sharp, fast-moving objects around you. When you were belowdecks, the air was filtered, air-conditioned, flattened. And of course when you were in a Tomcat, you flew through the air but didn’t feel it on your skin.
He inhaled deeply and looked out across the South China Sea. The water surged past
below, appearing to move faster than it really was. Whitecaps were beginning to appear on it, he saw. On the horizon, thunderheads rose like white cliffs crowned in rubble. The wind yanked at Bird Dog’s khakis, and he heard the sizzle and crackle of an arc welder at work behind him, but he didn’t react, didn’t turn.
He was miserable.
It was a terrible thing to lose pilots in a battle. Even worse when one of them had been shot down saving your ass. And worst of all when that pilot was… well, one of the best damned sticks in the U.S. Navy.
He thought again about the hydraulic failure in his wing. Beaman, his plane captain, had been checking the Tomcat out ever since Bird Dog thumped it back onto the carrier. “I’m still looking,” he said every time Bird Dog asked him what he’d found. Plane captains were fanatically — and blessedly — devoted to their aircraft, and so to the pilots who were allowed to borrow the machines from time to time.
After climbing out of the aircraft last night, Bird Dog had looked at the rear cockpit and surrounding area and felt suddenly nauseous. It wasn’t the blood, because there wasn’t any. It wasn’t even the sight of the motionless Catwoman, who was already being checked out by corpsmen. It was the realization that his plane had been destroyed. Half the canopy was gone, and the right wing looked like a colander. There was more air than metal left in that wing. Bird Dog had landed a pile of scrap on the carrier, and he had no idea how he had done it, or what had made him think he could.
In retrospect, he wondered how anyone could hope to figure out what had gone wrong with the control-surface hydraulics on the mangled wing. But Beaman, aided by damned near every hydraulics tech onboard the carrier, refused to give up. If the Tomcat had had a mechanical seizure in the air, the plane captain wanted to know why, and where, and how. And as soon as he figured it out…
Typhoon Season c-14 Page 16