Sure, he’d made some assumptions about his enlisted troops, probably some that weren’t entirely fair. But hadn’t they taught him that in Aviation Officer’s Candidate School? That it was up to him to supply leadership and direction to his troops? That the chiefs would depend on him for guidance, discipline for the men and women in the branch? Hell, everyone swore an oath to obey the orders of the officers appointed over them, didn’t they? Didn’t that include Bird Dog’s orders?
He thought of his drill instructor, the Marine gunny sergeant who’d shepherded him through those endless months of AOCS. Now there was an enlisted man who’d never disobey orders, he was certain. Shouldn’t the Chief be the same way?
Probably not, he admitted. He tried to imagine giving Gunny MacArthur an order to do anything. But that had been different, some part of his mind insisted. Gunny was the one who knew how things worked. It was his job to turn the raw civilians he’d been given into officers.
This was different, though. Bird Dog knew naval aviation now. He’d had classes on leadership, courses on motivating and leading people, in addition to his bachelor’s degree in psychology. This was stuff he understood, and he was right!
Yeah, and I walked right out of ground school and flew a T-34 by myself too. Sure he had — after countless hours of dual-controls flight with an instructor, simulator training, and a careful practical walk-through by more experienced aviators.
Maybe the same principles applied to learning to be a leader. It was possible — just barely possible — that he’d been wrong.
The heat in the Tomcat’s cockpit seemed more bearable than it had a few minutes earlier. When he got back, he’d go have a chat with the chief. It might be time to listen instead of talk for a while.
Bird Dog felt the Tomcat shudder, and steam pressure immediately began building in the steam piston below the decks. The shuttle holding the aircraft on the catapult transmitted the vibrations to his bird. A Yellow Shirt darted forward and out of view under the aircraft. He came out carrying six red streamers — Bird Dog counted them carefully as the ragged ends whipped in the wind. They were the safety pins on his weapons, which were now fully operational.
Another Yellow Shirt held up a white board with grease-penciled numbers on it, giving the Tomcat’s takeoff weight as it was currently configured. Two Phoenixes, two Sparrows, and two Sidewinders hung beneath his wings, a full range of ACM weaponry. Bird Dog begrudged the Phoenixes the space they took up; he would have preferred to have a full load of the more dependable Sidewinders.
Bird Dog nodded vigorously at the Yellow Shirt, confirming the launch weight. The Yellow Shirt held up his thumb, and then snapped his hand up in a salute, the signal that he was transferring complete responsibility for the aircraft to Bird Dog. He returned the salute. Somehow, the simple flight deck ceremony took on more meaning for him now. It was no longer an archaic ritual that impeded his speedy progress off the deck, but an exchange of responsibility as significant as any in the Navy. It was given and received as a sign of respect between men and women who shared similar responsibilities and burdens of serving their country, regardless of their education, background, or pay grade. It made them, for that split moment, anyway, equals.
He dropped his salute and shoved the throttle forward to full military power. A split second later, the Tomcat slammed him in the back.
Airborne!
CHAPTER 25
Thursday, 4 July
1830 local (Zulu -7)
Flanker 11
As the coastline of Vietnam slipped by below him, Bien made the call to the rest of the aircraft. “Feet wet,” he said, referring to the fact that he was over water rather than land. Not that it would matter. There were no SAR forces standing by.
He then reached down and flipped the protective plastic cover off of the IFF gear. He looked down long enough to check the position of the dials that set his modes and codes, the unique set of IFF symbols that would identify his aircraft to any unit with the appropriate detection gear. He twisted the dial until the numbers his Vietnamese superiors had given him were displayed.
In the ten miles of airspace around him, every Vietnamese pilot was doing exactly the same things.
1830 local (Zulu -7)
CDC
USS Jefferson
“About time,” Jefferson’s TAO said, as a massive gaggle of hostile air contact symbols popped onto the big screen display. “I was starting to think they changed their minds.” The weak joke brought a spatter of laughter from the crews manning the consoles, the only indication that tensions were at a peak.
“Sir! Breaking the IFF codes for the Vietnamese forces!” the OS said.
“Thank God,” the TAO said quietly. “It looks like this crazy plan just might work.”
1831 local (Zulu -7)
Flanker 11
Exactly one minute after he’d changed the IFF codes, Bien shoved his throttle forward, accelerating quickly to 580 knots. At that speed, his jet gulped down fuel at a prohibitive rate. Fortunately, he thought as he observed the fuel gauge quiver, it wouldn’t be for long. He glanced behind him, watching the orderly Vietnamese formation straggle out into a ragged line of aircraft and then coalesce back into a fighting unit that followed him. He banked hard to the south and watched the others follow. Only twenty seconds had elapsed since his speed increase. His radio crackled with orders and demands for information. All the questions were in Chinese.
And that is exactly the wrong language for answers, Bien thought grimly.
1842 local (Zulu -7)
TFCC
“There they go,” Tombstone said. “Those birds breaking off and heading south are Vietnamese.”
“Roger,” the TAO acknowledged. “We know who the good guys are now, sir. I’ll make sure Vincennes understands, too.”
“What’s she doing?” Tombstone demanded. The speed leader attached to the ship’s symbol had suddenly changed directions.
“Headed south at thirty knots. Still out of missile range and screaming bloody murder!”
“Give me that handset,” Tombstone ordered. The TAO turned over his tactical circuit to the admiral. “Get your ass back up north, Killington!”
“Are you fucking insane? You’ve got inbound hostile air, with only a couple of frigates around you! The FFG’s standard missiles have a maximum range of twenty-five miles, you idiot! You need us there!”
“I also have two squadrons of Tomcats and two of Hornets airborne!” Tombstone snapped. “These are Flankers, Killington! Fighters! The only thing they carry is air-to-air missiles, not air-to-surface ship missiles! And if those Flankers are carrying anything heavier, it’s a laser-guided or dumb bomb, and they’re so weighed down that they’re dead meat!”
“You’re dead, you know,” Killington said in a cold, calm voice. “May God forgive you for what you’re doing to your crew.”
“I may be dead, but you’re relieved! TAO, are you listening?” Tombstone demanded.
A long pause, then a tight, higher-pitched voice broke in on the circuit. “Sir, this is Lieutenant Commander Carson, TAO.”
“Son, get your Executive Officer up to Combat ASAP. And log it now — Captain Killington is hereby relieved of command, and ordered to report to the Jefferson. Your XO has command of the ship, and you are on watch as TAO until further notice. Got that?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Very well. Now get that ship back in position. We believe you have about five minutes, at the most, until you start picking up inbound long-range cruise missiles. I’m counting on Vincennes to stop them. Any questions?”
“Uh, no. Admiral, the captain-” the TAO paused, and Tombstone heard screaming in the background noise “-Captain Killington, I mean, is demanding to speak to you.”
“Let him listen, then. Captain Killington, you are to station yourself in your helo hangar until I give the orders for your helo to transport you to Jefferson. Under no circumstances are you to remain in CIC, nor are you to give any orders on any
subject to any member of your crew. TAO, you will call the ship’s security force to CIC, and have Captain Killington removed. You understand?”
“Admiral,” a new voice broke in, “this is the Executive Officer. I’ve heard your orders, and we will follow them. And my apologies,” he said, his voice suddenly hitched up a few notes, “but the rest of this will need to wait. I’m about to be real busy.” Abruptly, the circuit went dead.
“I guess you are,” Tombstone said quietly, and handed the handset back to his own TAO. Plastered on the tactical screen, in single-file formation, were ten LINK tracks with missile symbols imposed over the radar, just leaving the coast of China and heading south. “Now let’s see if the Aegis is all it’s cracked up to be.”
1850 local (Zulu -7)
Pri-Fly
USS Jefferson
“Get that bastard off the cat!” the Air Boss screamed. The Hornet five decks below him waggled its control surfaces forlornly as the pilot cycled the stick again. One aileron refused to move. “We don’t have time to troubleshoot on the cat. Move, people, move!”
The Hornet backed down from the catapult, pivoted, and then taxied aft of the island. Green-shirted avionics technicians swarmed over it as it rolled to a stop, popping panels off of it to find the cause of the stuck aileron. Another Hornet rolled smartly up to the catapult. Within moments, it was airborne. The JBDs, or jet blast deflectors, dropped down, and the next waiting fighter rolled forward.
“Goddamn Hornet,” the Air Boss snarled. The Mini Boss carefully stifled his agreement. It was the first time he’d ever heard the Air Boss admit that the Hornet was anything other than the most superb fighter ever built. “What was our time on the alert fifteens?”
“Five minutes. Not too shabby,” the Mini Boss replied.
“Not too hot, either, with a strike inbound. I sure hope to hell Tombstone knows what he’s doing.” The Air Boss glanced at the relative wind indicator, watching it quiver. “Tell the OOD I want another five knots of wind. We need another three Vikings airborne. If the admiral’s right, we’re going to have some submarines making themselves conspicuous right quick. Hunter 701 has contact on one of them, but those slimy little bastards could have a couple more in the area.”
The Mini Boss toggled the bitch box and relayed the message to the Officer of the Deck. With enemy fighters inbound and the threat of submarine-launched missiles, there were a hell of a lot of things he’d like more than Vikings. The Aegis snugged in closer for instance, or more aircraft in the pattern. And maybe, just maybe, a little luck wouldn’t hurt.
1840 local (Zulu -7)
Hunter 701
“Rabies! Get us the hell out of here!” the TACCO said urgently.
“One more shot,” Rabies snapped.
“If we’re going to get back, we have to leave now,” his copilot argued.
“If we leave now, we may not have anywhere to go back to! You think that sub’s just here for the fun of it? Don’t you know what overwhelming force is all about? Those fighters are there for a reason, to distract us while this bastard takes his next shot!”
“MAD, MAD, MAD,” the TACCO sang out suddenly. “That’s it, Rabies! Attack criteria.”
The torpedo was off the wing an instant later. Rabies fought the sudden change in weight, as the strong winds caught the now asymmetrically loaded Viking. He quickly retrimmed the sturdy jet, reestablished level flight, and circled to watch the results.
The top of the sail was already visible, a darker shape and peculiarly stable against the churning water. Half of the sail had already slid back, exposing the starkly gleaming launcher. A missile was already on the rails. Rabies squinted. No sign of the torpedo or its telltale wake.
“She’s active-acquired!” the AW shouted. “Homing-homing-YES!”
Three short cheers echoed on the ICS, drowned out immediately by the coldly professional recitation of the AW.
“Explosion-secondaries. Wait one-flow tones. Okay, that’s it. She’s breaking up.”
Adrenaline surged through the pilot, making him almost giddy. For the moment, he forgot about the eighty men below him, struggling against a torrent of invading seawater, dying quickly in an explosion if lucky, drowning slowly if they were not. Later, he knew, it would hit him, but for the moment the sheer joy of the kill sang in his blood.
CHAPTER 26
Thursday, 4 July
1901 local (Zulu -7)
Tomcat 205
“Tallyho,” Bird Dog heard Batman call out, confirming contact on the enemy aircraft. “Low and fast, probably counting on coming right out of the sun low on the horizon.”
“You got them yet, Gator?” Bird Dog asked.
“Not yet. But I’ll take those JAST avionics on our lead anytime, if he’s seeing them from this range!”
“Batman’s supposed to be as sharp as his bird. Not often we get to fly wing on a full captain. Let’s just see if he’s still got it, after pushing a desk in the Pentagon!”
The loose, orderly formation of Tomcats scattered. Bird Dog broke right, following Batman to intercept the northernmost cell of enemy fighters. The JAST bird was armed with four Sidewinders and two Sparrows, the weapons load tailored to the lead’s preference for close-in kills. Five hundred feet above and behind his lead, Bird Dog’s Tomcat carried the heavier and longer-range Phoenixes, as well as an array of shorter-range missiles.
“Bogey to the north, Bird Dog,” Gator said. “No, wait! I lost him! This little bastard pops in and out on my screen like a-hey, wait a minute! You think this has anything to do with those ghosts we’ve been seeing?”
“Do I give a shit? Get me a goddamn target! You can’t hold that one, pick another!”
“Getting contacts from the JAST bird now,” Gator muttered as the targeting pip appeared on his HUD. “Damned tough to hold, though.”
“Take a shot, Bird Dog,” Batman ordered over the circuit.
“Fox one!” Bird Dog thumbed the switch and felt the aircraft jolt up as the massive missile shot off the rails. Even if it missed, it lightened the Tomcat, extending his time on station by decreasing his fuel consumption. He held the Tomcat straight on in level flight, feeding targeting information to the missile.
“Closure rate, one thousand knots,” his RIO said. Already, Gator had ceased to exist as a separate presence, becoming instead a part of Bird Dog and his aircraft, a voice feeding him information.
Aside from situations allowing the use of long-range missiles such as the Phoenix, aerial combat was a battle for position and altitude. Aircraft danced through the air, darting around each other and maneuvering for position. Above and behind — the ultimate goal for position on an enemy.
Bird Dog nosed the F14 up, sacrificing a little airspeed for altitude. With the enemy strike force approaching, he had little time to spare. Altitude was something you could never have too much of.
1902 Local (Zulu -7)
Chinese F10
“Missile inbound,” the officer in the backseat howled. “Phoenix!”
“I’ve got it,” Mein Low swore. He cut the aircraft into a sharp turn, heading nose-on to the missile to reduce their radar cross section. The F10’s avionics examined the radar signal and radiated countermeasures intended to defeat detection and targeting.
Mein Low scanned the sky, knowing the missile was too far away to see but trying anyway. Over his tactical circuit, he could hear aircraft in the strike calling out targets, dividing up the launching American fighters between themselves.
No matter. He was flight leader, and the first aircraft they saw would be his — As well as the first kill.
The long-range Phoenix missiles were not the ones that worried him most. They required guidance from the AWG-9 Tomcat radar for most of their flight, switching to individual guidance only as they neared their targets. Intelligence had told him that they often suffered fusing problems, failing to ignite, and that none had ever been used successfully in engagements. It was not enough to make him overconfident, thou
gh. Even a Phoenix that failed to detonate could do a massive amount of damage if it struck his aircraft.
The weakness in the system was the AWG-9 radar, and the need for the Tomcat to maintain a radar lock on him.
“Chaff,” he ordered, and felt the gentle thumps of the canisters of highly reflective metal strips being ejected from the aircraft. With any luck, that would confuse the radar picture, and perhaps mislead the Tomcat into keeping the missile locked on the chaff rather than his aircraft.
As the chaff was shot off, he broke into a hard turn and headed directly for the missile. At its Mach 5 speeds, it was unwieldy, and would be unable to follow drastic last-minute maneuvers. As a last resort, he could always dive for the deck, although it was an option he’d prefer to avoid in this sea state. The AWG-9 was notoriously erratic on tracking targets below fifty feet. If he broke radar lock with the Tomcat before the missile acquired him, on its own independent homing radar, the missile would not pose a threat to him.
A scream echoed over the tactical circuit, abruptly cut short in midcrescendo.
“I see it!” his RIO exclaimed.
“Got it,” he muttered, and concentrated on the missile’s course. Wait for it, wait for it, he kept repeating to himself. The tiny speck in the air grew larger at an incredible rate. At the last moment, he dove for the deck, pouring on all the speed he could muster.
The Phoenix snapped by him, barely visible at close range for a few moments before dwindling again from sight. It would lack sufficient fuel to regain a lock on him, he knew.
Even if it were no longer a threat, it had achieved its tactical purpose — forcing him onto the defensive and throwing off his own engagement plan. Not a fatal position to be in. There was plenty of airspace, and far more Chinese fighters than American ones in the air.
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