The battle group watched the simulated ACM off the coast, monitoring the communications between the Chinese and the Vietnamese flights for shreds of intelligence data. Linguists announced that the Vietnamese aircraft usually played victim for Chinese attack sorties. The exact details were unclear, since the two countries switched to encrypted circuits for most of their tactical communications. When the first night ACM exercise launched tensions on board Jefferson ratcheted a notch higher.
“How many now?” Tombstone asked.
“At least fifty Chinese Flankers in Vietnam, maybe more,” Lab Rat said. “Maybe ten each in Brunei and Malaysia. Satellite imagery isn’t the complete answer to all our questions — they’ve moved some of them into underground bunkers.”
“As bad as the Koreans are,” Tombstone muttered, staring at the small scale map projected up on the wall of the briefing room. “That entire area is probably honeycombed with underground facilities.”
“Probably, sir. We have some intelligence reports that confirm that.”
“Well. Not entirely our problem, of course, but it’s going to be hell for the next army that goes in there. Let’s hope it’s not us. How are they reacting to our air ops?”
“As far as we can tell, it’s going according to plan. China is moving aircraft into Vietnam, Brunei, and Malaysia, and continuing routine patrols in the northern portion of the South China Sea. Aegis reports that all military aircraft simply ignore any and all communications from them.”
“Just keeping an eye on us, then. No unexpected jamming, no incidents?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Or so we’re supposed to think.”
“And as they’re supposed to think, too,” Tombstone added softly.
0900 local (Zulu -8)
Operations Center
Hanoi, Vietnam
“No reaction?” Mein Low asked.
“None that we can identify,” his staff officer said.
Strange. He would have expected the Americans to increase their patrols in the area, not decrease them. Still, it was consistent with their actions in the United Nations. Ever since their defeat in Vietnam, the Americans had been increasingly reluctant to try to assert their political will so far from home. Of course, it was foolish of them ever to believe that they would have any real voice in how things went in the South China Sea. It simply was none of their concern.
“I think it’s time to consider the final events in this course of action,” he said, studying the chart. “Politically, events seem to be moving as we wish. Our South China Sea neighbors understand that their future lies with us, not with the crazed Caucasian aggressors who are attacking unarmed island camps. Thus far, we have been models of restraint, reacting only via diplomatic channels and in the United Nations. And tactically, we have three squadrons on the ground in Vietnam, as well as one squadron in Malaysia and one in Brunei.”
“The first lesson,” his assistant said. “Attack your enemy’s alliances and allies.”
“An excellent example here,” he replied. “And you see how we have used the same events in two different ways. First, the Americans’ allies doubt her. Second, the smaller countries draw closer to us, uneasy about the possibility that the Americans will attack them. Yes, this was a beautifully fashioned plan. I am pleased.”
“Now that we have created the proper climate, what next?”
The older man gently stroked the map, his fingers lingering on the area of the South China Sea below Mischief Reef. “More of the same, but in a different light,” he replied. “China and her neighbors have been quietly tolerating these incredible acts of aggression long enough. It is time to seal the fate of American influence in this part of the world.”
“War?”
“Hardly necessary. The Americans have so little tolerance for taking casualties that I doubt they will even go to war again. No, war is not necessary. A brief skirmish, a few deaths, and the American public will be screaming for a withdrawal. With them out of the arena, settling the question of the Spratly Islands becomes a simple matter.”
“Vietnam may not think so.”
“Ah, a hardy people. Tough, resilient, and good fighters. And smart. They will understand the situation, with two billion potential Chinese soldiers massed to the north, and no American presence. After all, we beat them badly in 1987 in the Spratly Islands, and sank six of their precious patrol boats that intruded into our waters. Now that they no longer have the Soviet Union as their protector and source of equipment, I think we’ll find them much more cooperative. They’ve been remarkably silent about the loss of their patrol boat, which is a good sign.”
“The next phase will begin when?”
“Soon. Very soon.”
1100 local (Zulu -7)
Air Ops passageway
USS Jefferson
Bird Dog studied the next day’s flight schedule with a sinking feeling. The next day’s missions were posted outside the CAG ops door. A hand-lettered sign on the door itself warned casual perusers to funnel any corrections or deletions through their squadron ops officers, and not to bother bringing their sniveling little complaints directly to the CAG ops gurus.
“Lemme see,” Gator said, reaching for the sheet.
“Hold on! I just got to us,” Bird Dog said, dancing away from his RIO. “Damn, we’re on here again.”
“Imagine that. Just because you’re a pilot and I’m a RIO, these dogs think they can just go and assign us to fly any ol’ time they want! I tell you, the nerve!” Gator said sarcastically.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Bird Dog said. “Look at the alert schedule.”
“Again? Six Alert Five — six? What are we doing with six F-14’s from our squadron on alert?” Gator stared at the closed ops door. “We got to get those guys a urinalysis sometime real soon.”
“There’s more. Check out the Hornets. And the tankers and the Hummers. CAG’s got a whole alpha strike sitting on the deck, ready to go. Look at the loadout, though.”
“All air-to-air, except for the S-3’s, of course.”
“So we’re not going alpha striking. But we are ready for an air threat.”
“And in the meantime, with all this air-power sitting on deck at alert five, the only aircraft CAG’s actually launching is that one lone Hummer?” Gator asked.
“Not quite. Last page,” Bird Dog said, flipping rapidly to the back sheet. There, next to the traditional cartoon that always graced the daily flight schedule, was one final note.
“The JAST birds,” Bird Dog said. “Out of all the fighter and attack birds on board, they’re the only ones that get to go flying tomorrow.”
1300 local (Zulu -7)
Admiral’s Cabin
Tombstone watched Batman pace and tried to assess his old wingman’s frame of mind. Batman wandered restlessly around Tombstone’s cabin, pausing to look at plaques on the wall, to pick up a small model of an F-14 from the coffee table, to riffle through some messages left carelessly on the credenza. Finally, he wandered back over toward the couch, put his hands on his hips, and glared at the admiral.
“If you weren’t an admiral, Tombstone, I’d tell you what you could do with this damned fool scheme. But since you are-“
“What, you’re going to let that stop you this time? Why? Rank’s never been a curb on your temper before, Batman.”
“Sometimes it ought to be,” Batman muttered. Yet Tombstone was right. Until he’d gotten to the Pentagon, Batman had never been one to balk at setting a senior officer straight. But that’d been before he’d seen how casually and easily anyone wearing the stars could irrevocably ruin a career — often just for the amusement of it — with a few well-placed words. Until then, Batman would have sworn that a blue-on-blue engagement could only happen on the battlefield.
But this was Tombstone, he reminded himself. His lead, the pilot he’d logged thousands of hours with, done four cruises with, the man who’d bailed him out of more tough situations than he wanted to think of. No, if Tomb
stone wanted to do Batman harm, it’d come in the form of a fist in the gut rather than a knife in the back. Batman took a deep breath and vowed that this was his last DC tour.
“It’s not safe, Tombstone. It’s not safe, and you know it. Sending those E-2C’s out there on their own — hell, what do you even need them up for? The Aegis can give you every bit of air picture you need! Sending those fellows out alone, with no protection at all, under these circumstances, makes no sense at all!” Batman paused midtirade, watching his friend.
His nickname had always suited him too well, Batman thought. Tombstone’s gray eyes, brown-black hair, and somber expression would have suited an undertaker better than an aviation admiral. Yet Batman had seen the impenetrable gray pools of his eyes flare with inner fire, and heard the hard excitement too many times in Tombstone’s voice to believe that he was really as cold as his subordinates believed.
“You think so, Captain?” Tombstone’s icy voice cut through Batman’s reflections.
“Naw — hell, no, Admiral,” Batman said uncomfortably. He forced himself down onto the couch, suddenly acutely aware of how inappropriate it was to treat an admiral — any admiral, damn it! — that way. “Sorry, sir. My mouth-“
“-got the better of you, as it often does,” Tombstone finished. “Some things never change,” he said, shaking his head sadly.
Batman’s head snapped up, and he stared at Tombstone suspiciously. Was that a glint of amusement he saw in the admiral’s eyes? “Sir, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re laughing at me.”
“Not at you, Batman — with you. Or at least I will be in a couple of seconds. Let me show you,” Tombstone continued, reaching across his desk to snatch a message and a chart off his credenza, “exactly what we’re up to. Your JAST birds are a part of this plan.”
CHAPTER 19
Wednesday, 3 July
1800 local (Zulu -7)
Flight Deck
USS Jefferson
As the sun dropped down toward the horizon, the heat rising off the flight deck abated enough to entice runners out onto the decks between flight cycles. Bird Dog jogged aft, feeling the sweat pouring off his back and working out the stiffness that came from sitting cramped in a cockpit for six hours that day. The humid air made any exertion doubly tiring, but the chance to get some exercise was not to be missed. Tucked in various strange compartments within the carrier were three weight rooms and one bicycle alley. In various other stray corners, an occasional exercise bike would be placed. While the carrier went to some length to try to make fitness available at all times, no machine could offer the same sheer joy as being out on the flight deck running.
As he ran past two VF-95 Tomcats, he noticed a familiar figure perched on the step next to the cockpit. Even from fifty feet away, he recognized the slim figure barely concealed by coveralls and the shock of short blond hair. Veering off his track, he headed for the aircraft.
“Shaughnessy! What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, coming to a stop next to her Tomcat.
The young airman flinched and almost lost her balance. “Just checking that the seat is safed, sir,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Parariggers were doing some work in here earlier, and I just wanted to double-check it.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it! You’re on extra duty, Shaughnessy. That doesn’t mean screwing around with the aircraft, it means under close control of the squadron master at arms. You miss his muster, you’re UA, young woman. Now get down there!”
Shaughnessy stared at the deck, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Aye, aye, sir,” she said softly, her voice barely audible in the wind across the flight deck.
Bird Dog started off down the flight deck again, not waiting to see if she obeyed. Damned airman was getting out of hand. I’m going to talk to the chief about her again — for all the good that will do me.
After his last confrontation with his senior enlisted rating, he’d come away with the sneaking suspicion that he’d made an ass of himself. Despite his best intentions, the chief showed little to no interest in being led by the pilot that was responsible for the work center, although he had briefed Bird Dog religiously every morning on Shaughnessy’s extra duty assignments.
Come to think of it, the chief’s last suggestions sure wouldn’t have done any good either. If Bird Dog hadn’t assigned Airman Shaughnessy the extra duty immediately, neither of them would have already known she was a slacker.
An hour later, showered and back in uniform, Bird Dog went looking for the chief. He finally found him by calling the Chiefs’ Mess. Mindful of his last performance there, Bird Dog asked the chief to come up to the ready room for a few minutes.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” Chief said, when he finally appeared in the VF-95 ready room.
“Thanks for coming up, Chief,” Bird Dog forced himself to say. He’d been waiting for almost thirty minutes for the senior enlisted member of his division.
“Just had to take care of a few things first, sir. We’d had something planned for the chiefs’ mess, but the squadron comes first, of course.”
Bird Dog felt the subtle rebuke in the chief’s words. There was some justification for it, he admitted. The matter of Airman Shaughnessy could have waited until the morning, when Bird Dog would have seen the chief at quarters. There was no immediate need to interrupt the chief’s evening to resolve her disciplinary status.
Still, Bird Dog was a lieutenant, and senior to the chief. If he wanted to see his branch chief in the middle of the night, he had the right to wake his ass up and talk to him.
“It’s about Shaughnessy,” Bird Dog said, and related how he’d seen her up on the flight deck fooling around with one of the aircraft during the time she should have been at her extra duty. After a few sentences, he heard how weak his own argument sounded. The chief listened politely, although his face turned a little red.
“Well, Lieutenant, I can see your point,” the chief said after Bird Dog’d petered out. “You tell a sailor to be somewhere, that’s where she ought to be.”
“I’m glad you agree with me, Chief,” Bird Dog said. “Nothing seems to be getting her attention. Quite frankly, I don’t think we’re going to be able to nip this problem in the bud. If her blatant disrespect and disobedience continue, we’re going to have to consider Captain’s Mast.”
The chief was silent for a few moments, intently examining the worn linoleum on the ready room floor. Finally, he looked back up at the young lieutenant. “You’ve got it wrong, Lieutenant. I don’t agree with you — haven’t about this whole thing. I made that real clear to you in the beginning. You want me to push this, I will. You’re the boss. But let me tell you — you’re making a big mistake here, sir. That young airman was up there checking out our aircraft, taking some initiative and responsibility. Okay, maybe she was late for this bullshit extra duty you’ve got her on. But I can tell you, I’d a hell of a lot rather have a safe airplane than a shiny clean deck in the ready room, or an extra coat of paint in the division spaces. You start punishing people for taking the initiative, you’re going to end up with more problems than you started with. Sir.”
The chief stood up, towering over the young lieutenant. Bird Dog stood hastily, not willing to be intimidated by the older man.
“Lieutenant, you concentrate on flying. Leave the troops to me. It works out better that way — trust me.”
1920 local (Zulu -8)
Operations Center
Hanoi, Vietnam
“It is time to give them something else to think about,” Mein Low declared. He pulled the delicately annotated chart toward him. “I want the American forces confused and uncertain — but not provoked to action.”
“What do you recommend, sir?” his operations planner asked.
Mein Low studied the chart, mentally measuring distances and converting that to reaction time, aircraft range scales, and weapons envelopes. He tapped on the edge of the chart, then picked up a pencil. He paused, studying the other marks on the
chart, and nodded with approval. Not only was the chart precisely marked out, complete with current American positions and resupply points, but it was done with a certain style, the script of the drafter in harmony with the printing on the charts. A mark of refinement, he thought, and wondered exactly who’d done it. Not his operations planner. The man had the penmanship of a peasant.
“Here,” he said finally, making a light mark on the chart. The planner craned his head across the table to see the point his superior indicated.
“A wise choice,” the planner said appreciatively.
“You think so, do you? Explain to me in detail the merits of this point.” Mein Low’s eyes glinted dangerously.
“It is — the distances are, of course, obvious,” the planner began. Mein Low let him flounder for a few more minutes, giving him time to fully appreciate the dangers of appearing to know more than one did. Better if his planner had admitted ignorance — always the beginning of wisdom — and simply asked.
“A small airborne strike force, of course,” Mein Low said. “Not too many, certainly nothing that would ever begin to challenge the capabilities of the Aegis cruiser. Four fighters, perhaps. Armed, yes, but flying a highly visible flight profile. Slow and high, no suspicious maneuvering. Now do you begin to see the significance of this one point?”
The planner started to nod, and then thought better of it. He studied the point again, measuring the distance to the American aircraft carrier. Finally, he looked up.
“This point — if our fighters fly to it, then turn around and return to base, they are never within weapons range of the carrier.”
“Be more specific!” Mein Low demanded. “It is in the details of planning that wars are won and lost.”
“The carrier is never within our weapons range, while we are undoubtedly within theirs,” the planner said hastily. “I see the degrees of relative vulnerability, but I must confess I do not completely follow your plan.”
Mein Low nodded. That the young staffer had admitted his ignorance showed progress. Now that the student was willing, the teacher would appear.
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