Alpha Strike c-8

by Keith Douglass

  “Our former enemy and current ally, the great republic of Vietnam, is not entirely pleased with their neighbor to the north. I think the events of the last few weeks in the South China Sea and the attractive lure of more trade concessions have made them see the light.”

  “China, I take it. What are they doing now, persecuting more Vietnamese citizens?”

  “Better — or worse, depending on your point of view,” he added hastily. “Seems China has been demanding air overflight rights, as well as landing and refueling privileges. Vietnam has gone along with it for now. Understandable — they have to live with China; we don’t.”

  “And now?” she prompted, wishing he’d get to the point.

  “Vietnam is wondering whether or not we might like some additional information on the explosions in the South China Sea. It’s one thing to try to placate China, and another thing entirely to let them kill your patrol boats.”

  “Kill patrol — of course,” she breathed. “One of those incidents in the Spratly Islands. They’ve got proof China was behind it?”

  “Proof, and more. They’re not so bad at snooping around, you know. After the conflicts between the two countries during the Cold War, Vietnam has developed a fairly extensive intelligence network in the region. And seeing as how it might be to their advantage right now, with the U.S. normalizing relationships with Vietnam — and, potentially, China — they’d like to share a little information with us.”

  “About what?” she asked.

  “He didn’t want to go into it over the telephone, but I was fairly sure you’d be interested. That a good enough reason to skip Roberto?”

  She smiled and stood. “Remind me not to notice the next time you do something stupid, Armand. You’ve just earned yourself a real big brownie point.”

  Ambassador Wexler went back to her office, smiling. In the intricate plotting and scheming that defined the relations between nations in the UN, information was golden. It looked like Vietnam had just decided to make a goodwill deposit in the American bank.

  Two hours later, the ambassador from Vietnam arrived.

  “An interesting opportunity you offer,” Ambassador Wexler said, eyeing the Vietnamese ambassador seated across from her. Ngyugen seemed his usual unflappable self. She could pick up no hint as to the reason for his visit.

  “An opportunity for both sides,” he acknowledged, taking a sip of tea from the delicate bone-china cup. “One that could work to our mutual benefit.”

  “Let me make sure I understand this. China has amassed a considerable force of fighters in your country, correct? Ones that they’re not willing to move anytime soon. Your government is concerned that the United States understand your opposition to this, while of course you feel somewhat limited in your ability to insist on withdrawal. Is that it?”

  He nodded. “I’d feared it would be difficult for you, understanding the delicate position we stand in with regard to China. But, yes, that’s the situation exactly.”

  “And you’re sure about this information?” she asked. “Careers are going to fall over this one, you know.”

  “The source is trustworthy, I assure you. As trustworthy as any spy ever is, at least.”

  She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “We are, of course, most grateful for the information. It will cause some problems, naturally, but not as many as allowing the situation to continue.”

  “Yes. We thought as much. As it would for us, should the source of your information be discovered.”

  “I’ll do my best to protect you on this, but you understand the difficulties.”

  “We have fewer such problems in Vietnam. Perhaps you should consider implementing more control over your press, as we have done.”

  She laughed. “As much as I’d welcome the idea at times, it really wouldn’t work here, you know.”

  “Of course not. Still, it must be an attractive idea at times.”

  “On occasion. But there are strengths to every weakness, Ambassador, just as every strength is weak at some point.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Odd. You sound very Asian, Madam Ambassador.”

  “And in exchange for our understanding, and for the U.S. not insisting on Vietnam taking action, you’re prepared to offer us information?”

  “More than information. Cooperation, where possible. You know, of course, that we’re a bit short on fighters ourselves. The bases they’re using in the south were all built by American forces, I believe.”

  “The one thing you haven’t made entirely clear is exactly what this cooperation consists of. Or perhaps you have, and I’ve just failed to see the subtleties in the situation.”

  “Perhaps this will assist you,” he said as he set his cup and saucer down on the coffee table. He opened his attache case, pulled out a brown folder, and handed it to her. “All their operational traffic and operations plans for the last week.”

  She suppressed a sudden intake of breath. A treasure trove of intelligence! “Could I impose on you for the salient points of your analysis?” she asked, not yet wanting to leaf through the messages and bits of paper crammed into the folder.

  “Of course. China has been conducting a rather delicate campaign of misinformation and deception. You’ve deduced, of course, that she herself is behind the explosions on the Spratly Island camps.” He paused for a moment. “As well as the attack on our own naval forces,” he continued grimly. The change in his expression made him look less the well-groomed and urbane ambassador she’d known for two years and more of a warrior. He had, she recalled, fought with American forces during the Vietnam conflict. He now looked more like the combat-blooded veteran he was.

  “There is a source inside your satellite monitoring facilities,” he continued. “We haven’t been able to determine exactly who it is, but there is no doubt that there is one. It influences their planning immensely, although I cannot say what effect it has on their mainland. They’re trying to blame it on you, in an effort to unify Southeast Asia against the United States.”

  “We’d started to suspect that,” she commented, still holding the folder gingerly.

  “We know,” he replied, and allowed a slight trace of amusement to cross his face. “At any rate, you can expect a major incident sometime very soon, one that China hopes will justify in the eyes of the world their attacking your battle group. They plan to launch their strike from our soil. If that happens, we will lose any chance of continuing the normalization of relationships. This must not occur.”

  “And the cooperation?” she nudged gently.

  “I think you might like that part best of all.” For the next five minutes, he laid out a plan that rivaled China’s.

  She listened for several minutes. Grim amusement crept into her expression. “Oh, yes,” she said finally. “I like this very much. And I think that Navy admiral in the South China Sea is going to like it even better.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Thursday, 4 July

  0600 local (Zulu -8)

  Operations Center

  Hanoi, Vietnam

  Bien ran his hands over his face, trying to erase the tiredness he was sure showed there. Mein Low’s comments had kept him tossing half the night. Participating in the Chinese strike on the American battle group was unacceptable, yet the plan he’d presented to the American ambassador was almost as risky. He’d awoken at 0400 and finally decided to go to the Operations Center. It was better than lying in bed worrying.

  After two hours of paperwork and staring at charts, he’d heard Mein Low’s grating voice in the hallway outside his office. Seconds later, the Chinese commander had entered his office without knocking, and was now helping himself to tea from the hot plate on Bien’s credenza. And using Bien’s own mug. Now, settled into a chair on the other side of the room, Mein Low fixed his Vietnamese counterpart with a cold glare.

  “You have two choices,” Mein Low said. His voice carried no inflection to betray the least bit of emotion or weakness. “You may either execute this pla
n as I have given it to you, or I will have you shot. I will proceed thusly through your subordinates until I find one officer capable of obeying orders. And should anyone disobey me while we are in the air, my deputy here in the center will execute your men. Is that clear to you?”

  Bien stared at the small Chinese general. So it finally comes to this. Even though I have warned Ngyugen, and set all the necessary plans in place, it is actually happening. Odd that I never really believed it would — that I never understood how eternal and deadly the Chinese drive for dominance is.

  Aware that the man was waiting for an answer, Bien nodded abruptly. “We will follow your plan.”

  “Eagerly, I hope.” The commander’s demeanor thawed slightly. “After all, it is to your advantage as well to have the Americans out of the South China Sea. Your country, of all those in this region, should understand how devastating American attempts to intervene in Asian affairs are.”

  Again, Bien nodded. And China is a more merciful alternative?

  “As you see from the plans, your Flankers and Foxbats will lead the attack on the carrier. It is our wish to allow Vietnam her rightful place as a leader in the region, and since the battle group is closer to your coast than our islands, we decided it was only appropriate that your aircraft lead the strike. Much glory will accrue to you and your pilots if you succeed in making the first direct strike on the American battle group.” Mein Low smiled. “My forces will be immediately behind yours, to provide second strike capability as well as vectoring and surveillance services.”

  “We are, of course, honored at your trust,” Bien said smoothly, masking his feelings behind a bland expression. Although you have neglected to mention the real reason for placing us in the front — to make sure that we do not waiver in our determination. With the Americans in front of us and the Chinese behind us, we are truly left with no alternatives. As soon as the Americans see the raid inbound, they will use their surface-to-air missiles. Undoubtedly our faithful allies hope to use my forces as a missile sponge. Once the American fighters engage, the Americans cannot risk their shipboard weaponry. There will be too much danger of hitting their own aircraft. “And your Flankers,” Bien continued. “What will their weapons loadout be?”

  “Not just Flankers,” the Chinese commander said deliberately. “In a gesture of friendship, we will be augmenting our normal complement of Flankers with our most advanced aircraft. My own personal aircraft, the F-10, is being flown south as we speak. I have had the responsibility for developing and testing it, and I will now provide its worth in a strike. The details of weapons loadout and fueling will be handled by our crews, as always.” He shot a sharp, searching glance at Bien. “We will both fly this mission, of course. There is no other way to lead men except from in front. We launch in twelve hours. Our planes are ready now. Make sure yours are as well.”

  1730 local (Zulu -7)

  CVIC

  USS Jefferson

  Tombstone studied the satellite picture that had been faxed to the carrier from the NSA over secure, highly encrypted circuits. “Looks like they’re getting ready to launch,” he said.

  The IS, a photo-interpretation specialist, nodded. “That would be my call, Admiral. How long will it take to get all those aircraft in the air?”

  Tombstone studied the massed formations of aircraft. “If they space them at thirty seconds apart, almost an hour. Drop it down to ten-second intervals, and you’re looking at twenty minutes. They’re going to wait until at least half of them are airborne, maybe all of them, mass up into a strike force, and then head our way. We’ve got a little time — not much, but enough.”

  “Guess we got pretty lucky, getting them to launch just when we’ve got satellite coverage in the area,” the IS said, smiling. “Makes this job a lot easier when you get good data points.”

  “It might be luck, son. But it might just be something else as well,” Tombstone said gravely. “Sometimes you create your own luck by playing on the other fellow’s perceptions, feeding him misinformation.”

  “Is that what happened today?” the IS asked, surprised.

  “I can’t tell you. But there’s one thing you probably already know. Commander Busby is one hell of a fine intelligence officer.”

  “We know that, sir,” the IS said. “A little paranoid sometimes, maybe, but you gotta like that in an intelligence officer.”

  “I know I do,” Tombstone murmured as he reached for the bitch box toggle switch. “TFCC, this is Magruder. Get those JAST birds in the air, and launch the alert EA-6B Prowlers. Make sure everyone down south is tanked to the gills. I want them bustering back up here. Chinese raid is inbound now!”

  As Tombstone pulled open the door and strode down that passageway back to TFCC, he could hear the Prowlers’engines spooling up to full military power. Within thirty seconds, the train-rattling sounds of catapults lumbering forward shook the overhead, ending in the gentle thump that signaled another aircraft airborne. Moments later, a second and then a third Prowler took to the skies. It was time for the second phase of the plan to begin.

  1800 local (Zulu -8)

  Operations Center Airfield

  Hanoi, Vietnam

  Eighty aircraft ringed the airfield, their engines turning as the pilots performed preflight checks. The air around the field shimmered as unburned fuel floated through the air. The rain yesterday had left the ground around the strip soggy, and the hot, humid air seemed to concentrate the fumes. Red streaks of dirt crisscrossed the runway, evidence of the maintenance truck’s trips out to the waiting aircraft.

  Poised at the end of the runway, ten Vietnamese Flankers and sixteen MiG-23’s followed a similar routine. The roar of their jet engines igniting was completely drowned out by the larger Chinese force. Even though both countries were flying the same airframes, Bien thought he could tell the difference between the Chinese engines and those of his own country’s aircraft.

  Bien circled his silent aircraft, preflighting the exterior by checking that each panel was dogged down tight, that there were no leaks or unexplained puddles of liquid around the jet, and that the tires and landing gear appeared to be in good repair. He then climbed into the cockpit and began going through the preflight checklist automatically. His earlier confidence had gradually eroded into a numb certainty that this was his last flight. The familiar details of preflight steadied him.

  He glanced down to the last aircraft to start its engines. Mein Low had walked out to the airfield with Bien, then broken off to head for his aircraft without even a word of good luck. Now the five F-10’s, sleek and deadly, shimmered in the heat waves coming up off the tarmac.

  At last, Bien started his Flanker’s engines. The engines spooled up, slowly at first, then the RPMs rising quickly as the stator gained momentum and overcame initial mechanical friction. The sound slid up octaves in seconds, and had soon picked up enough harmonics and undertones to be the normal full-throated scream of raw power.

  His radio popped and crackled for a moment, then began spitting out permission for the Vietnamese fighters to launch. Bien led the two squadrons into the air. He quickly ascended to four thousand feet, and then began orbiting, waiting for the rest of his squadrons to join on him. He heard the voice on the radio change, and the language shift from Vietnamese to Chinese. He could see the Chinese fighters beginning their roll-out, rotation, and initial climb. The Chinese squadrons were joining up to the south of the airfield, the Vietnamese ones to the north. Evidently the spirit of brotherly cooperation did not extend to sharing airspace.

  Finally, the signal came, first in Chinese then repeated in Vietnamese. Bien turned east, increasing his speed to 420 knots and climbing to seven thousand feet. His wingman bobbled for a moment and then settled down to his left, and the rest of the circling wolf pack of fighters broke into their respective flights. Behind them, the Chinese were settling into the fighting formation that Bien had seen entirely too many times in the last five months.

  Seventy miles to the east,
the American battle group waited.

  1000 local (Zulu -7)

  Spook Two

  “Well, will you look at that?” Tomboy said softly.

  “Got them?” Batman asked.

  “You betcha. Looks like about eighteen — no, make it closer to twenty-five high-speed contacts leaving the coast. Tight formation. Any other bird, it’d be difficult to break them out in this soup.” She twiddled with the radar, tweaking and peaking. “But I got them — oh, yeah, do I got them!”

  “Best we wake Mother up, then,” Batman said, a tight note creeping into his voice. “I think we might just back up off the front line a little, too. At least until our posse arrives.”

  “Concur. We just did our job at the OK Corral.”

  “Homeplate, this is Doc Holliday,” Tomboy said into the mike. “Suggest you wake up Wyatt Earp.”

  1810 local (Zulu -7)

  TFCC

  Wyatt Earp could have done with snipers, Tombstone thought, staring at the TFCC screen and waiting for the air battle to unfold. Snipers provide a force multiplier that can’t be beat. If a year at the Naval War College had taught him nothing else, it had taught him that operational planning was the key to winning an engagement. Define the desired end state, and plan for that state to exist. We studied enough military history and strategy planning to have a variety of examples, both good and bad.

  The shoot-out at the OK Corral and the Peloponnesian wars. It was a combination that he didn’t think had even occurred to his professors.

  “Could be another feint,” Batman said neutrally.

  “Not with that many aircraft,” Tombstone said. “It’s gone on too long. We’ve held off long enough to convince them that we’re lulled. They’ll take advantage of our complacency. They’re convinced now.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “Neither can they. But look at it from their point of view. We haven’t reacted to the last two probes. In this sea state, they’re going to feel a little more confident that their submarine can get in close, and that our radar may be degraded. They’ve got to know that we’re tired, and they’re launching so that the sun will be in our eyes when we intercept them.”