Alpha Strike c-8

by Keith Douglass

“I take it you’re enjoying the opportunity, then?”

  “Absolutely! Bouncer gave me a good briefing on it, and Batman’s making sure I have plenty of opportunities to practice with it.” She smiled, and her whole face lit up.

  Tombstone felt a slight twinge of disgruntlement. It felt uncomfortable to hear his old wingman’s name roll so easily off his current RIO’s lips. It wasn’t enough that Batman had to borrow his RIO — not that he got to fly that much anymore, he forced himself to admit — but he also seemed to be striking up a fast friendship with the female NFO. That hadn’t been part of the deal, had it? It was one thing to have a close connection with your regular RIO and wingman, a bond that transcended transfers and career changes, and it was an entirely different matter to go poaching on someone else’s turf.

  Now what the hell? Since when did I start thinking of Tomboy as mine? Even before Batman arrived, she was flying with other pilots. I’ve heard her talk about her missions a hundred times, and I’ve never felt — what? What exactly am I feeling?

  Jealousy. The word flashed into his mind and insisted on being recognized. It’d never occurred to him to be jealous before, because secretly he’d never viewed any other aviator as possible competition for her attention. He was the admiral, damn it! And a better pilot than 99.5 percent of the aviators on this ship — hell, why be modest? In the whole damned Navy.

  But Batman — ah, that was a different matter. Within a year, Tombstone felt certain, his old wingman would be sporting silver stars of his own on his collar. And if any single pilot that he’d ever flown with had ever come close to matching Tombstone’s ability, it was Batman. And lately, Tombstone had to admit, Batman was probably better. Flying with the JAST program despite his assignment to the Pentagon, Batman was getting a lot more stick time than Admiral Magruder. Dare he admit it? It was even possible that the eminent Tombstone Magruder, ace aviator and key player in every conflict in the last ten years, was getting rusty.

  And maybe not just in his flying skills.

  “Admiral?” he heard Tomboy say anxiously. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” he muttered, now unwilling to meet her eyes. He was afraid that if he did, she might see something there that he was not entirely sure he wanted known.

  “Okay, so about today’s hop,” she said, reaching for her briefing checklist.

  “Um, yeah. Listen, Commander,” he said, and saw her head snap up in surprise as he addressed her formally, “I just remembered a couple of things that can’t wait. Call air ops and scrub me from the mission. We’ll try to reschedule it in a couple of days.”

  “Aren’t you going to go out of qual if we wait any longer?” she asked, a note of concern creeping into her voice. “Tombstone,” she added, pitching her voice low, “is everything okay?”

  “Of course,” he said, thinking quickly. “It’s just that sitting here doing the briefing, I started realizing that I had something a little off for lunch. It’s not sitting too well, and I’d hate to be airborne before I — well, you understand. It’s a little embarrassing, Tomboy, that’s all.” He forced himself to use her call sign, and to look her in the eyes.

  “Ah,” she said, and her expression lightened. Pilots and RIOs became intimately familiar with each other’s gastrointestinal tracts and the workings thereof. “Gotcha. Our secret, Tombstone. Just like that time that I had to-“

  “I gotta scat, Tomboy,” he interrupted. “We’ll pick this up another time, okay?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” she said. As he walked to the door of the ready room, he could feel her eyes on his back. While she appeared to have been convinced by his last-minute lie, his deception had only bought him some time. Whatever was going on in his head was his problem, not hers, and it was up to him to solve it before it interfered with their working relationship. As a last resort, he could ask for a different RIO.

  Wonderful solution that would be — hurt Tomboy’s feelings and get rumors started around the air wing about his relationship with Tomboy or, even worse, about Tomboy’s competence. Either alternative was unacceptable.

  CHAPTER 21

  Wednesday, 3 July

  1300 local (Zulu -7)

  VF-95 Ready Room

  USS Jefferson

  “Damn it, I gave her a direct order!” Bird Dog roared. “Are you listening to me, Chief?”

  “I hear you. Sir. So does everyone else on this passageway and two decks up and down.”

  “Then if you hear me so well, how come this stuff’s not getting done?” Bird Dog lowered his voice slightly. “Your muster report shows that Shaughnessy scrubbed and waxed the deck in the ready room. Does that deck look like it’s had a mop near it in the last two weeks?”

  Chief stared at a spot somewhere on the wall. “It’s not always a matter of giving orders, Lieutenant. There’re some things you just can’t demand. We had some birds down last night, and she thought she could get two of them back up for launch today. It’s a matter of priorities.”

  “These are sailors, damn it! They’re supposed to follow orders, not decide which ones they’re going to obey!”

  Finally, the chief looked at him. Bird Dog was surprised at what he saw in the older man’s eyes. Anger, outrage, and something more. A certain weariness, as though the chief had been through this same conversation too many times before.

  “Let me tell you something about sailors, sir. These sailors, in particular. Your average Blue Shirt is a hell of a lot smarter and more capable than you’re giving them credit for. You know how much an E-3 gets paid?”

  Bird Dog shook his head. “I have the feeling you’re about to tell me, though.”

  “Somewhere around a grand a month. Plus somewhere to live and all the chow they can eat. Not a bad deal for an eighteen-year-old, you’d think. You’re probably thinking you had a lot less than that to live on when you were that age.”

  Bird Dog nodded.

  “But take another look at what we expect of them. That same eighteen-year-old is the last checkpoint between you and disaster. Your plane captain — think there might be a thousand ways he can keep you from getting killed? And just how old do you think the kid is that makes sure your ejection seat works? How about the one that packs your parachute, and maintains your flight gear? And what about the kid that gives you a final look-over before you get shot off the front end of the ship? Hell, he’s probably a lot older — like maybe twenty-two or so. The point is, Lieutenant, these men and women you call kids are carrying a hell of a lot of responsibility on their shoulders, far more than you ever did at that age. They screw up, you’re dead before you leave the flight deck.”

  “I know how much they do, Chief. We all do. So what’s your point?”

  The chief sighed, looked away, and then pinned Bird Dog to the bulkhead with a steely look. “The point is, sir, that they damned well deserve to be treated with a little more respect. And that goes for me as well. We’ve all of us been doing this job just a little longer than you have. You think going through AOCS and leadership school makes you better than them? You better think again, Lieutenant. Because it don’t. It gets you paid more, and gets you out of a lot of the shitty little work details they do — on top of their main jobs of keeping you alive — but it don’t make you a damn bit better as a person. Or as a sailor. And the sooner you realize that, the better you’re going to do in this canoe club.”

  “Captain’s Mast, Chief,” Bird Dog said. “I’m tired of these excuses. And if you ever falsify another extra duty report, you’d better count on seeing the old man, too!”

  The chief turned and walked to the door. He put his hand on the doorknob, paused, and turned back to Bird Dog. “One thing you need to remember, Lieutenant. Sailors don’t follow orders — they obey them. They follow leaders.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Wednesday, 3 July

  1800 local (Zulu -8)

  Operations Center

  Hanoi, Vietnam

  By the end of the evening brief, cooler air was already
starting to seep into the room through cracks around the windows, finally providing some relief from the stiflingly humid daytime temperatures. Bien sighed, and thought longingly of the feel of the evening breeze on his face. The last three hours had not been pleasant, and it appeared that there was no immediate end in sight to the uneasy forced partnership with their northern neighbors. He saw the Chinese commander motion to him from across the room, and regretfully gave up the immediate prospect of getting away from the Operations Center.

  “It is time for that final conversation I mentioned,” Mein Low said flatly. “This tactical situation must be exploited immediately.”

  “How so?” Bien asked, wanting to buy some time and collect himself. He knew all too well what his nemesis was referring to.

  At his early-morning brief, Bien had studied the operational positions of all the forces carefully. The American cruiser, Vincennes, was still meandering around the northern portion of the South China Sea. While she had not yet come close to the Paracels Islands, she was well within Tomahawk strike range of the ragged collection of islands so close to the Chinese mainland.

  The battle group, centered around the USS Jefferson, loitered east of the Spratly Islands, slowly patrolling east and west in a corridor that ran from Mischief Reef to twelve miles off the coast of Vietnam. For the last ten days, a lone E-2C Hawkeye had been stationed midway between the Vincennes and the Jefferson, only sporadically accompanied by a U.S. fighter. The American fighter patrols focused exclusively on the areas to the south, staying always outside of weapon release range of the Spratly Islands. It was a strange tactical dispersion, and the positioning of the fighters made little sense to either the Chinese or the Vietnamese.

  “The only explanation,” Bien said thoughtfully, “is that they are attempting to avoid the appearance of interest in the Spratly Islands. By staying out of weapons range, they believe that they can convince the rest of the world that they are not behind these horrible attacks on the islands.” He carefully avoided referring to the islands as Chinese. That issue would be resolved later, although Vietnam had little chance of opposing China without outside assistance.

  “A futile gesture.” Mein Low shrugged. “After all, you yourself have investigated the facts behind the attacks. It was not China, and it certainly was not Vietnam. Who else could be responsible?”

  And now comes the most delicate part of this strange dance between our countries, Bien thought. How am I to convince you that we believe your story, when past experience would persuade us to believe the opposite? If you told me the sun had risen this morning, I would be forced to go check for myself before I believed you!

  “As you say — who else could be responsible?” Bien murmured. “Perhaps the stealth technology we have heard about, or a submarine-launched Tomahawk? Or even their special operations forces? The possibilities are too many to fully explore.”

  The Chinese commander leaned back in his seat, apparently satisfied, Bien noted.

  “So far, they have limited their attacks to our outposts,” he said, apparently broaching a new topic. “However, should your negotiations for normalization of international relations and trade concessions falter, do you truly believe that they would abstain from attacking your forces as well? Let us be frank with one another — while neither of us is willing to acknowledge the other’s claim to this territory, we are both certain that the Americans have no justifiable interest here. Correct?”

  “Of course,” Bien said.

  “Then it is to the advantage of both to ensure that the Americans leave this region. Permanently.”

  “It took us twenty years of war to convince them to go home last time,” Bien said softly. “Can we dare hope that it would be easier now?”

  The Chinese commander nodded vigorously. “It should be, thanks to that very same tragedy. That is the other reason that cooperation between our countries is so appropriate at this time. It is Vietnam’s sacrifices that will make this plan work. The result of your prior disagreement with the Americans is that they have no tolerance for loss of life. It must be very comforting to your people that your losses will finally be revenged.”

  “And the plan?” Bien pressed.

  “At the right time, my friend. At the right time. Now,” the Chinese commander continued, rubbing his hands together briskly, “I believe you mentioned inspecting the airfield this afternoon? What better time than now?”

  1900 local (Zulu -7)

  Admiral’s Cabin

  USS Jefferson

  “Good evening, Admiral,” Pamela said. She was proud of her voice — calm and professional, despite the rage of emotions flooding her.

  “And to you, Miss Drake,” he answered gravely. His voice was scratchy, rubbed raw by too many cups of bitter black midwatch coffee and too little sleep.

  How long can he keep this up? It’s been a week, and there’s no sign that the Chinese are any closer to doing anything different! Every face I see looks like death warmed over. If these people don’t get some sleep soon, it’s not going to matter what happens on some damned rock in the middle of the South China Sea. Not that I care about him in particular, she added hastily to herself.

  They’d come full circle in their relationship. From friends to lovers, and then engaged — and now back to merely friends. If it was possible. She wasn’t entirely sure it was going to be.

  And that pilot — what was her name? Tomboy, she’d heard the others call her. From the way Tombstone looked at her, the younger woman was more than just another aviator in his carrier group. She wondered if anyone else had noticed the sparks that flew between their admiral and the pilot. It was more than just the close bond that grows up between men and women facing mortal danger together.

  Not that Stoney would do anything about it, of that she was certain. As long as Tomboy was under his command, she had no permanent claim on his attention. To get involved with a woman on his ship — no, the meticulously proper Rear Admiral Tombstone Magruder would never commit that sin.

  She listened to the morning briefing half-attentively. Too little had changed to warrant more than a cursory discussion. Chinese fighters still challenged the edges of the carrier’s air envelope, still in small groups and still in unthreatening mission profiles. Despite the apparent lack of progress, Commander Lab Rat — Busby, she corrected herself — still looked as optimistic and determined as ever. Pamela forced herself to start paying attention as the intelligence officer stood to give his portion of the morning brief.

  “Situation unchanged, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. An incongruously cheerful smile spread across his face. “No news is good news, in this case!”

  “How much longer?” CAG grumbled. “I’ve got people walking around asleep on their feet! We can’t keep this many alert aircraft manned and the flight deck in this state of readiness forever.”

  Busby looked thoughtful. “I know it’s a problem, CAG, but it shouldn’t be too much longer. We have some reasons to believe that something may happen soon.”

  “You keep saying that!” Ops burst out. “How about some specifics, Commander?”

  Commander Busby drew himself up to his full height and stood his ground. “There are some things I can’t brief, sir. No disrespect intended.”

  “Typical intelligence,” Ops snapped. “Too late to do any good. And if you’ve got something useful for us, it’s too classified for the people that need it most to see!”

  “Enough,” Tombstone said. “Ops, CAG — I appreciate the difficulty of your positions. I see the same faces you do, and I know what you’re up against. In this situation, however, Commander Busby has my full support. And my utmost confidence. That good enough for you?”

  Ops grunted and CAG nodded. Neither one, Pamela noted, appeared to be reassured by their admiral’s statement.

  “End of discussion,” Tombstone added. “Commander, I believe that is the end of the brief as well.”

  The intelligence officer shot him a grateful look and began rolling up
his charts and overlays. Pamela wondered what arcane bit of intelligence information the two of them shared — and why it was secret from the rest of the staff.

  1000 local (Zulu +5)

  Ambassador Wexler’s Office

  United Nations

  “Well, I don’t see how we could possibly work you into her schedule until next Tuesday. It’s just-“

  Ambassador Wexler paused at the coffeepot and watched her aide. His normally congenial expression had just faded into something that resembled the look of a shell-shocked POW. She stirred in some creamer, wondering what besides a declaration of war could so disturb her normally unflappable staffer.

  “I see,” the aide said finally. His voice had taken on a musing note. “And you’re sure about this?” She watched him reach for her calendar, then motion to her with the other hand, the telephone jammed between his shoulder and his ear. He pointed to her afternoon appointment with her hairdresser and made sure she was watching as he drew a heavy X through it. To one side, along the margin, he wrote the initials, VN.

  She shot a sidewise look at him, puzzled. Why? she mouthed silently at him.

  He just shook his head and pointed. “The ambassador can see you at two p.m., then,” he said finally. “Yes, of course. I understand the need for speed, as will she. Thanks.”

  He hung up the telephone and stared at her for a moment, reassembling his expression into calm professionalism but unable to completely repress the glee lurking at the corners of his eyes.

  “I take it I’ve got an urgent appointment with the ambassador from Vietnam,” she said, settling into the comfortable chair lodged against one wall. “Would it be too much to ask why this is important enough for me to cancel my appointment with Roberto?”

  “Not at all, Madam Ambassador,” he replied. “And I think you’ll agree with me in a few minutes.”

  Her eyes grew serious at the use of her formal title. “So it’s that important?” she said, worry starting to gnaw at her.