High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “No, sir. What the hell is going on?”

  “We’re not sure, but it looks like sabotage might be involved.”

  An off-duty controller rushed up the stairs. “The goddamned system has crashed! Fourteen planes down! It’s on television!”

  Weiser turned, his mouth dropping open.

  “It’s true,” Swanson shouted. “Shut everything down now, Vance.”

  “What’s going on?” Weiser demanded, pulling himself together.

  “I wish I knew,” Swanson replied. The connection was broken.

  Weiser slammed the phone down. “Shut the fuck up,” he told the still shouting controller, and he started closing down his airport, one eye toward the smoking wreckage of United 425. What the hell was going on?

  Major General Marvin Zwiebel, CINC of Marine forces on Okinawa, arrived at Camp Foster operations less than ten minutes after the alert message had been received. Most of his staff had already arrived.

  “We’ve been ordered to DEFCON THREE, that’s confirmed,” his chief of staff, Colonel Howard Stromgren said. “But so far nobody is giving us any reasons.”

  Zwiebel removed his uniform blouse and took a cup of coffee from a sergeant. “What’s our readiness status?”

  “We’ll be fully operational in another five minutes. But we’ve got no mission orders. All we can do is close and secure the base.”

  “Where’s Blisk?”

  “On his way over from communications,” the chief of staff said. “He’s been here all night.”

  “Were we expecting this?”

  “Nobody said anything to me, Marvin.”

  “Okay, set up a unit commanders meeting for 0525. That gives them ten minutes. By then this base had better be closed tighter than a gnat’s ass.”

  “Let’s get Seventh on the horn,” Stromgren suggested. “I’d like to know what the hell we’re facing.”

  “First set up the meeting, and then get me Hagedorn at Kadena.”

  “Will do.” Stromgren went to the phone on his desk.

  Lieutenant Colonel Robert Blisk, Chief First Marine Air Wing Intelligence, came in, carrying a leather folder. He looked worried. “You’re not going to like this very much, General.”

  Zwiebel motioned him into the glass-enclosed briefing room. “Spell it out,” he said when the door was closed.

  “There’s no particular order to this, so you’re going to have to take it in one big bite. At this point the DEFCON THREE we’re under applies only to this theater. Everyone else stays at FOUR at least for now. Mission orders for all of Seventh Fleet, including us plus Kadena, are to hold our ground but not to fire unless fired upon.”

  “By whom?”

  “By anyone. The Japanese have increased their readiness to DEFCON TWO, which means they’ll shoot anyone they take to be a threat to their homeland or their assets. Anywhere. The entire MSDF has been ordered to sea, fully twenty-five percent of their ASW, observer, and remote-command post aircraft are already in the air, and their ground defense and missile services have been scrambled. Seventh has sent another Orion to back up our destroyer north of here. Looks as if we’re getting into it with that submarine.”

  “More?”

  “’Fraid so, General. The Russians may be getting ready to make their retaliatory strike somewhere on Hokkaido’s north coast, which ostensibly is the reason for Tokyo’s jumpiness. But our DEFCON THREE is not just a knee-jerk response. Something else is going on that mystifies the shit out of me.” Blisk opened the leather folder and handed the general a half-dozen intercept and message flimsies. “Some of that we got from CNN. The confirmations are from Washington through Don Moody’s office in Yokosuka. So far a total of fourteen Guerin 522 jetliners have crashed stateside, all within a ten-minute period. Among them was Air Force Two, which was bringing the Vice President to Tokyo. General, it’s believed that those airplanes were sabotaged. Possibly by the Japanese.”

  The general leaned back against the conference table. “Has everyone gone nuts?”

  “I can’t think of any other explanation,” Blisk replied.

  Now that DD Thorn had turned into the wind and seas she rode much easier. The Barbey and Cook were fighting their way downwind. It would take them another twenty minutes to make the rendezvous, but they would be in firing position sooner. Seventh was advising caution, still not sure what had happened, but that made no difference to Hanrahan. Despite the surface noise and the damage to Thorn’s towed sonar arrays, they’d gotten a good position on the Samisho. Besides the turbulence caused by her mangled sail, the boat was leaking air, which at times sounded like a whistling tea kettle.

  “We lost him, Captain,” Sattler reported from CIC. “No screw noises, no air leaks.”

  “What’s your best estimated position?”

  “Five thousand yards, bearing three-two-zero, depth one hundred feet.”

  Hanrahan walked over to the chart table where Ryder plotted the submarine’s possible location. It was clear what the submarine driver was trying to do.

  “The sonofabitch is waiting for us,” Ryder said. “In all the racket he could have loaded and flooded his tubes without us hearing it.”

  “They’re our allies, remember?” Hanrahan said.

  His XO looked up. “Nobody’s fault he ran into us.”

  “It’ll be our fault if they sink us.” Hanrahan called CIC. “Ping them once for range and bearing, and a second time for confirmation.”

  “Aye, aye,” Sattler replied. “But, Skipper, that unidentified target we were painting on radar is hailing us.”

  “Ident?”

  “She says she’s a U.S.-documented sailboat out of Okinawa. Wants to know if they can be of any assistance.”

  “A trick?”

  “Unknown.”

  “We’ll find out when we’re done with the sub.”

  “Stand by. Thorn is going after Chrysanthemum,” FF Cook’s second officer, Ensign Tim Boyle, told his skipper. “They’ll send us a position.”

  “What about the surface target?”

  “Could be a bogey.”

  “The MSDF duty officer sends his regrets, but Admiral Shimikaze is still in conference and unable to take your call,” Captain Byrne said.

  “Recommendations?” Admiral Ryland asked his staff tersely.

  “I think you should move your flag out to the George Washington. She’s three hundred twenty miles southeast, about halfway between here and the Bonin Islands,” Don Moody suggested.

  “Makes sense to me, Admiral,” Byrne agreed. “It’s your call at this point, but if we go to DEFCON TWO you might not have the time.”

  The Seventh Fleet was composed of three carrier battle groups, forty-five ships and submarines in all, assigned to defend the western Pacific rim. Now that the Soviet Union was not a threat, Seventh Fleet duties had been reduced to showing the flag and providing operational readiness for local or regional conflicts. In the old days the Third Fleet, based at Pearl, mingled freely with ships of the Seventh. The middle of the Pacific was their playground. These days, however, Third kept east of Midway, and Seventh patrolled from the Japanese home waters down to the Philippines. The Pacific was a very big patch of ocean, but since the commissioning of the CVN 73 George Washington, an improved Nimitz-class carrier with superior nuclear reactors, state-of-the-art technology, and augmented air wing, co-mingling of the fleets was no longer considered vital. At best flank speed Third was one hundred hours from reinforcing Seventh. Not a comforting thought. In any initial trouble, Seventh was on its own.

  “There’s the matter of the rioters at the main gates,” Moody cautioned. “The crowd is growing, and we may be faced with shooting at them, or allowing them to overrun the base. The Japanese military is unwilling to help, and the local police force is inadequate.”

  The last combat Ryland had seen was the Gulf War more than six years ago. In his wildest dreams he never imagined something like this.

  “Gentlemen, I’m transferring my flag to the Ge
orge Washington right now. Get Tony Benson on the horn, tell him we’re on our way.”

  “Shall we inform the MSDF?” Byrne asked.

  Ryland didn’t have to think about it. “After we’re aboard,” he said.

  In the old days Captain First Rank Anatoli Anishchenko would not have been so nervous. He stood on the bridge of the 512-foot destroyer Sovremennyy, name ship of the class, and tried to pick out the lights of their target to the south. They were heading almost due west through the Soya Strait separating Japan’s north island of Hokkaido from Russia’s Sakhalin Island. These were disputed waters, but by agreement Russian vessels were allowed unhindered access to the open Pacific. All that, Anishchenko thought, was about to change.

  Before Gorbachev and the Kremlin Coup that toppled him from power, the military chain of command was made of iron links. Now it was made of papier-mâché. Moscow was in shambles and so was the officer corps. Yet field commanders were expected to show initiative with nothing to back them up if something went wrong. Three days ago Anishchenko had received detailed verbal orders via encrypted laser-beam transmission from CINC Pacific Fleet, Vladivostok. He was told to ignore all further ordinary telex transmissions that were not secure. The written messages would be a disinformation ploy. Twelve hours ago the Sovremennyy was ordered to return to her home port of Vladivostok at all possible speed via the strait of Soya. The message had come by telex transmission, which meant their primary orders to attack and destroy the Japanese Air Self Defense Force radar installation at Wakkanai were still valid.

  Anishchenko was willing and able to carry out the attack, but if something went wrong he would have nothing in writing to back him up. It weighed heavily on his mind.

  “Sound general quarters,” he told his executive officer, Captain Lieutenant Gennadi Roskov. “Battle stations missile.”

  “Aye, Captain, sounding general quarters, battle stations missile,” Roskov replied crisply.

  “Turn left to new heading two-three-zero degrees,” Anishchenko told the helmsman. The new course would clear Cape Soya and Rebun Island to the west, but it brought them closer to Wakkanai, which was less than one hour away at flank speed, and already within weapons range.

  Thirty-two miles down the coast from the Wakkanai radar installation, the Air Self Defense Force Eighth Intercept Squadron at Embetsu was at full alert in response to the DEFCON TWO. Northern Air Defense Command at Misawa had been warning them for the past six days about a possible attack by the Russians in retaliation for the Tatar Strait incident, so everyone was on their toes. Squadron Commander Major Yumiko Osani, who’d been bunking on a cot behind the ready room, came in, buttoning up his tunic.

  “It’s Crimson-Three, Major,” his operations officer Captain Tokako Kotoda said. Crimson-Three was the call sign for Wakkanai radar.

  “Anything other than that destroyer they were tracking?” Osani asked. He took a cup of tea from an orderly.

  “Iie. But they’ve turned south. Looks as if they could be targeting Wakkanai itself.”

  “Are we going to get any help from the MSDF?”

  “The nearest surface ship is at least three hours away. But that destroyer is in firing range right now.”

  “Anything else on the threat board?”

  “Not in our sector, Major,” Kotoda said.

  “Is anybody up?” Osani asked. He picked up the direct-line phone to Misawa.

  “Kaifu and Tatewaki. Six others on the line and two in the alert hangar.”

  “Have Wakkanai give vectors out to the ship, but make sure they stay out of that destroyer’s Close-in-Weapons-Systems envelope. When they get an ID, scramble the squadron.” Osani held his hand over the phone. “I am not giving them authorization for weapons release at this time, unless they are fired on first.”

  “We’re at DEFCON TWO.”

  “I am well aware of our alert status, Kotoda-san. But I want a positive visual on that ship first.”

  Lieutenants Hisayuki Kaifu and Keisaku Tatewaki reached their crusing altitude of twenty-five thousand feet above the Sea of Japan southwest of the base within three minutes after take-off. Their F/A-18JD Hornets were equipped with the modified AAS-38 Forward Looking InfraRed pod, which used thermal imagery to display high-definition pictures of ground or sea objects on their Master Monitor Displays. The optic head of the FLIR pod automatically followed either a pre-set search pattern or a designated target. If anything was down there they’d see it, day or night. And if anything was emitting, their surveillance radars would detect it. Each Hornet was armed with a pair of Harpoon anti-ship missiles, one Sparrow and two smaller Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, as well as Vulcan 20 mm cannons.

  “Falcon-Eight, this is Seven-Seven-Charlie and Four-Three-Delta on station,” Kaifu radioed. “Looks clean.” Falcon-Eight was Embetsu’s call sign.

  “Roger, stand by for vectors from Crimson-Three,” their mission control officer instructed.

  “Air or surface?” Kaifu asked.

  “Surface contact in Soya Strait. Stand by.”

  Kaifu switched to his encrypted inter-aircraft channel. “Look sharp, Keisaku, this might be it.”

  “Hai. I hope the bastards try something.”

  He and Kaifu, who were second cousins, had gone through the defense academy and flight school together. They were both engaged to be married to each other’s cousins. It was a small, close-knit family.

  “Seven-Seven-Charlie, this is Crimson-Three. We have an unidentified surface object incoming at approximately thirty knots. Bearing zero-four-eight, eight-zero miles from your position.”

  “Single bogie?” Kaifu asked. He hauled his Hornet in a five-G turn to starboard and kicked in his afterburners, accelerating smoothly toward Mach two.

  “Roger, Seven-Seven-Charlie. We’re presuming it’s a Russian destroyer, so watch yourself. We need a positive visual ID.”

  “Copy,” Kaifu radioed. At Mach two their time to target was under four minutes.

  “Report all weapons systems armed and ready,” Sovremennyy’s weapons control officer Lieutenant Nikolai Burov announced.

  “Very well,” Anishchenko acknowledged. He glanced at his exec, then picked up the growler phone. “CIC, bridge.”

  “CIC, aye,” Combat Information Center officer Lieutenant Grigori Kalmykov responded.

  “What are our threat receivers picking up?”

  “Other than Wakkanai, nothing, Captain. But there have been radio transmissions between Wakkanai and the Eighth Intercept Squadron at Embetsu, and between a pair of patrol aircraft to the southwest. They are turning toward us now.”

  “They’ve picked us up?”

  “Yes, but there’s no reason for them to attack until we fire. They’ve only sent two aircraft, and we’ll be ready for them. The moment they light their combat radar systems we’ll shoot them out of the sky.”

  “Could they be preauthorized?”

  “I don’t think so, Captain. We detected a brief transmission between Embetsu and Northern Air Defense Command at Misawa. The transmission was encrypted, so we were unable to read it. But it’s my guess the squadron commander asked for instructions.”

  “Which were?”

  “Wait and see what we do, then act accordingly. But there’ll almost certainly be a delay on their part.”

  “We won’t wait for their radars. The moment they pass overhead and present their tail fins to us, we will open fire on them and the radar station at the same moment.”

  “They’ll be overhead in less than ninety seconds, Captain.”

  “Very well,” Anishchenko said.

  “That’s definitely a Russian destroyer,” Tatewaki said on the inter-aircraft channel. “No mistake.”

  They were eighteen miles out. They’d dropped down to five hundred feet above the surface and had eased back to subsonic. Kaifu’s recognition program pinged when it had the silhouette identified. “I agree.” He keyed his radio. “Falcon-Eight, this is Seven-Seven-Charlie.”

  “Falcon-Eigh
t,” their mission control officer answered.

  “Sir, we have a positive identification on that surface target. She’s a Sovremennyy-class destroyer. Looks as if she’ll clear the cape. Probably on her way home.”

  “Stand by.”

  The ghostly thermal image of the destroyer grew larger and more detailed on their Master Monitor Display CRTs as they closed. The Russians knew that they were incoming, but nothing showed on the Hornets’ threat receivers. By all outward appearances a Russian military vessel was clearing the Soya Strait and a pair of Japanese ASDF fighter/interceptors had come for a look. Routine.

  “Seven-Seven-Charlie, kill the target. Say again, kill the target. You have weapons release authorization.”

  “Yo-so-ro,” Kaifu replied, his heart in the back of his throat. He switched to inter-aircraft. “Launch all four Harpoons at her starboard side on the count of five. Break off, come around, and if need be we’ll go for the bridge with Sidewinders.”

  “Let’s sink the bastard!” Tatewaki agreed.

  Kaifu dialed up the AGM-109 anti-ship missiles with his weapons selector switch on his stick, and entered the distance-to-target radar program into the strap-down inertial system. When launched the Harpoon would drop to the deck and skim low over the water. At the programmed distance-off the missile’s radar went active and when it found its mark it locked on. At the last moment, the Harpoon pulled up and dove into its target. There was almost no defense against it.

  “Five-four-three-two-one-launch,” Kaifu radioed. He hit the fire switch once, and then a second time.

  Anishchenko went to the windows and looked outside. The morning was pitch black, there was nothing to see other than the forward twin-mount 130 mm gun, and the bows crashing through the seas. In a matter of seconds the two ASDF patrol aircraft would pass overhead and he would order the attack. Four SS-N-22 SSM anti-surface missiles would be launched against Wakkanai, and a pair of SA-N-7 air-defense missiles would be sent against the fighter/interceptors.