Bird Dog turned southwest, following the OS’s intercept vector. Moments later, Gator reported gaining the contact on his radar.
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.
0950 local (Zulu -7)
On board Kawashi Maru
Vicinity Spratly Islands, South China Sea
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.
0930 local (Zulu -8)
Operations Center
Hanoi, Vietnam
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.”
1000 local (Zulu -7)
Hawkeye 623
“Sure don’t like being out here by our lonesome,” Fingers grumbled. The E-2C RIO tweaked an
d peaked her radar display for a few moments.
“Help is only a squawk away,” her pilot said.
“It’d be better if it were only a TER away.”
“Oh, right. Like there’s any place on this antiquated airframe to hang a triple ejection rack. You’ve got jet envy, Fingers. Worse than penis envy, I hear.”
“Funny, I’d heard the same thing about you,” she said.
“Oh, good one. Fingers, you realize if they ever catch us talking like this on the boat we’re both going to get court martialed?”
“Yeah. But that’s on the boat. As long as we’re up here, different rules apply.”
“Roger, copy,” her pilot said. “You know, I was worried about having to fly with you — thought I’d have to be watching my language and learnin’ how to be politically correct. But, hell, Fingers — you’re worse than I am!”
She sighed and leaned back against the hard cushion. She rubbed the small of her back with both hands. Flying sideways had definite disadvantages to it.
“Listen, Rabbit, you think I would want to spend eight hours a day with people who were always watching their damned language? Flying with somebody paranoid? Hell, we can’t be a crew like that! You have to be able to talk to me. I have to know that you’re going to listen to me when I tell you to get the hell out of Dodge, and you have to be able to talk to me to stay away. It’s not like you’ve got anything else to do up there.”
“Aw, fuck you, Fingers. If you’d had the eyesight, you’d have been a pilot, too!”
You’ve made that offer before, Rabbit. Someday I’m going to take you up on it.”
He heard the enlisted technician snicker. “She’ll call your bluff someday, Rabbit,” he said. “Or maybe not — maybe she’s heard how you got that call sign!”
“Hey, you too? What the hell happened to male bonding?” the pilot whined.
“Replaced by RIO bonding,” he said. “I’ll take smart-wearing-glasses over stupid-with-good-eyesight any day!”
“How about taking new contacts over blank screens instead?” Fingers said, suddenly all business. “In your sector, Jamie.”
“Got him,” the technician replied. “Classify it as a Flanker, based on the radar and speed. Loitering in area, it appears. He’s doing the same thing we’re doing, hanging around watching.”
“So we watch him while he watches us,” she said softly. “And we wait to see who blinks first. I’d sure as hell feel a lot better with a TER right now.”
“We don’t need no stinking weapons,” the pilot grumbled. “At least that’s what they told us in the brief. We’ve got the Aegis to protect us, right?”
“YeA, the Aegis and a satellite. I’m feeling real secure,” Jamie said.
“You and me both, brother,” Fingers said softly. “You and me both.”
1010 local (Zulu -7)
Combat Direction Center
USS Vincennes
“Keep a close eye on that Flanker,” the captain ordered. “If the balloon goes up, I want to be ready.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the TAO said. A week ago, he might have been tempted to dismiss the captain’s order as more of the reflexive paranoia he’d come to associate with the man. Now, since the missile shot last week, the CO’s premonitions didn’t seem nearly as unreasonable. Sure, the Chinese were claiming they’d been provoked into firing after the Aegis had locked up their MiG. But with the new cool-down policy, that E-2 had to be feeling awful lonely up there without CAP. No matter that the Admiral thought it’d ease the tensions in the area to stand down the number of flights. He wasn’t the one on the front line.
The TAO was. And he didn’t like the feeling one little bit.
“We’ll be ready, Captain,” he said, keying the Combat circuit as he spoke. A series of clicks cluttered the circuit for a moment, acknowledgment from the other operators. “We are ready,” he amended.
1045 local (Zulu -7)
TFCC
USS Jefferson
“Phase One,” Tombstone said to Ops. “They know we’re there.”
“Now let’s get them thinking the way we want them to,” he said, glancing at CAG.
“Already scheduled. They’re going to see the Hawkeye relieved every six hours. No tanking, no CAP, just the little ol’ Hawkeye up there all by himself.”
“You’ve got the alert package ready to go?” Ops asked.
“Starting next cycle. We’re skipping this one, giving them some time to look us over and get lulled into the rhythm of it. Get the crews some rest, too. It’s going to be a while before they get that, once we start the next phase.”
“This afternoon,” Tombstone said suddenly. “They’re not going to do anything right now — they’ll have to talk to their staff, try to figure out how to use our operations plan to their own advantage. It’s going to take them a while — I doubt anything is prepositioned on that miserable piece of rock down there. It’s not even above water most of the time, so the self-destruct scenario isn’t going to play.”
“But you think there’ll be another incident,” CAG said. “Something directed at the rock, not at the Hawkeye?”
“I’m betting on it,” Tombstone replied. “Intell agrees with me on this one. China’s not likely to attack us directly, not without some excuse for provocation. As long as Aegis stays under control, and nobody screws up, we won’t give them that excuse. No, they don’t want to attack us — it’s a losing proposition, this far from their shores, with their lousy air refueling skills. Unless they get Vietnam to allow them land-launching permission, China’s aircraft don’t have the legs to reach out and touch us hard.”
“Now if they’d bought that aircraft carrier from Ukraine like they were planning last year, it’d be a different story,” Ops mused. “The Soviet Union was just starting to get the hang of carrier aviation when it collapsed. Those Flankers — I read that they were getting halfway decent at getting on board the Admiral Kutnezsov.”
“It might be, although I’m not convinced they’d be able to operate effectively with it that quickly. Certainly not run flight ops the way we do, not without a sizable contingent of Russian crew members. And somehow I just don’t see Russia getting in the middle of this, not with all the problems they’ve got at home,” Tombstone replied.
“Still don’t like sending the Hawkeye out like that,” CAG said somberly.
Tombstone glanced at him. In a few years, CAG might have the opportunity to find out for himself how it felt to have to order a Hawkeye out alone. Until then, he wouldn’t know if he could do it, wouldn’t understand the true burden of command.
Tombstone knew he hadn’t.
CHAPTER 18
Wednesday, 3 July
0800 local (Zulu -7)
USS Jefferson
The battle group settled into standard cyclic operations quickly.
Spratly Island surveillance missions by the Hawkeyes were launched every five hours, each flight following exactly the same patrol pattern. Every eight hours, one lone fighter left the deck, occasionally accompanied by a tanker. The Hawkeyes went north, the fighters south, and neither intruded on the other’s operating area. Alert birds crowded the deck, crews in cockpits and maintenance technicians doing busywork around them, waiting.
Further north, the Aegis prowled, silently watching the unarmed E-2C’s. Flankers cut lazy circles in the airspace between the Aegis and the carrier, watching the E-2C that watched them.
To the east, Chinese fighters slipped down the coast from the mainland into Vietnam, occasionally cutting across the South China Sea to the north or south of the battle group to land in one of the other littoral nations. With the Aegis and the Hawkeye tracking them, the battle group kept the world intelligence community updated on the tail count.
By the end of the first full day of the operation, the aircrews were getting edgy. The Hawkeye crews were increasingly uneasy about the Chinese fighters and conducting surveillance without their own fighters nearby for protection. The Jefferson’s fi
ghter crews were unhappy about both the alert schedule and the lack of information on exactly why they were pulling alert instead of flying. The atmospheric conditions continued to generate ghost contacts that flickered into existence for a few minutes, then evaporated.
Rumors and speculation raged around the carrier, each theory more menacing than the last. RIOs and pilots argued continually in the Officer’s Mess about the Chinese’s capability for aerial refueling, and whether or not China could reach out and touch the battle group from the mainland as well as from Vietnam. The RiOs insisted on drawing out the time-distance problem for the pilots, demonstrating time and again how the fighters could not possibly make it to within weapons range, given their fuel package. The pilots disagreed, fundamentally unconvinced that the Chinese were not fully capable of deploying a long-range anti-air weapon on their aircraft, or passing locating data to the submarines. The pilots repeatedly mentioned the possibility that the Chinese F-10 long-range fighter was operational. After all, the pilots argued, intelligence had been wrong before.
The F-10 was something to be concerned about. Modeled on the American F-16 and the Israeli Lavi fighters, it was designed specifically to extend China’s reach from the mainland into the Spratly Island region. It combined the powerful Russian jet engine used on the Flanker with an in-flight refueling capability integral to the airframe. With an extended range and both ground attack and air combat capabilities, its speed and maneuverability made it a match for even the MiG-29.
The intelligence officers swore the F-10 was not yet operational. The pilots just pointed to the JAST birds sitting on the deck as proof that it could be.
Other than the routine patrols of the American E-2C’s and the Chinese fighters, the South China Sea lapsed into an uneasy silence. The Vietnamese were particularly silent, their MiG-23s and Flankers hugging the long coastline and venturing out into international airspace only to conduct air combat training with the Chinese fighters.
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