Pacific Siege sts-8

by Keith Douglass

  “Phillips, there are three of them stacked. You taking the top one?”

  “Right, Pace. I’ve got him gloating over his kill. We have weapons free. Get one of the bastards.”

  Then Phillips was breaking through 25,000 feet, and his RIO gave him a vector to the running Flanker. “He’s heading down and toward the island. What the hell is he doing?” Lieutenant Patsy Fralic called into the ICS.

  “He’s still got three or four missiles left,” Phillips said as he powered down toward the Flanker. “He might have orders to take out the Japs down there.”

  Phillips followed the Russian fighter down. It was faster than his Tomcat, not by much but a little, so he couldn’t overtake him. He had no chance for a lock-on with his radar with the Flanker banking, turning, looping, doing maneuvers all over the sky.

  “All we can do now is follow the bastard and watch him,” Phillips said.

  A minute later they saw the Russian jet level out and start a run at the small village of Golovnino on Kunashir island.

  “Now’s our chance to get a lock-on with him while he’s on a bombing or strafing run. That’s where the Japs’ headquarters are,” Phillips said.

  “He just launched a missile,” Patsy said from the backseat. “Is he trying to start World War Three down there?”

  Phillips turned to tactical frequency, and called Home Base. But before he could transmit, another voice came on the speaker.

  “American Tomcat. This is Russian Flanker. Not the one that shot down your plane. My English not good. Sorry about your friend. Sergei has gone crazy. My orders are to shoot him down before he launches more missiles. Can you help?”

  “Be glad to,” Phillips said. “Keep your two Flankers out of the area so we don’t mistake you for him.

  “Let’s go get him,” Phillips said in the ICS. He slanted the F-14 to the left, picking up the Flanker as he started another missile run against the town.

  “He knows we’re here,” Phillips said. “He’s breaking off his run.

  Must have felt our radar. Here we go.”

  The Flanker pulled up in a steep climb, rolled over, and slanted away from them. Phillips matched his movements, but couldn’t get into position to lock on with his radar. They swept around again, each fighting for an advantage.

  Patsy had a Sidewinder AIM-9 infrared-homing air-to-air missile ready to fire when the lock-on was firm.

  They were somewhere west of the island now, over the sea, The Flanker-33 had dropped down to wave-top altitude no more than thirty feet off the water. Phillips tried to lift up for a top shot, but the other plane pulled away and raced upwards in a vertical climb that left Phillips sweating to follow.

  Then it was all but over. The Russian jet slowed, flying straight and level. They were at fifteen thousand feet, and Phillips raced in behind him, and he heard Patsy shout in the ics.

  “I have a lock. Fox three.” She had fired the Sidewinder missile at the Flanker.

  Phillips pulled the F-14 to the left to escape any blast particles, and followed the trail of the nine-and-a-half-foot-long missile as it homed in on the Russian Flanker. In its thousand-yard flight it never got up to its Mach Two speed as it smashed into the jet, detonating, exploding the fighter’s fuel system in a fireball that sent half of the plane slashing through the sky toward the water below.

  “Splash one SU-33 Flanker,” Phillips said on his tactical frequency.

  “That’s a Roger. Red Tomboy Flight, come home,” Home Base said.

  It was CAG, and he sounded tired. “Contact Pri-Fly for instructions.

  We’ve got a hell of a lot of paperwork to do, and messages to send.

  Nice shooting, Phillips.”

  “Sorry, CAG, it wasn’t. He slowed down and waited for me to shoot.

  It was like he gave up and committed suicide.”

  “Get back on deck, Phillips. We’ll talk it through here.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  There was silence on the ICS.

  “Patsy, you still there? You all right?”

  “I’m here. It’s just that-..”

  “Yeah, Fralic, I know. Don’t let it get to you. It’s our job.

  What we trained for.”

  “I know. Still … “

  “Yeah. I know too. Hasn’t hit me yet. That was my first splash too. We suck it up, we tell the CAG exactly how it went, what that Russian Sergei did, what we did, the whole schmeer.”

  “That won’t change a thing, Phillips. We killed a man.”

  “Yes, that’s our job. He just killed Vanhorst and Mugger, remember that. It’s still just one for our two.”

  “There is that.”

  The intercom went silent. Phillips contacted Pri-Fly for his rotation back. They didn’t stack him up, bringing him right in.

  “Hey, Fralic, are you still with me?”

  “I’m here. I’m all right. I’ll fly again this afternoon if we’re on the sked. I’m not crying. There ain’t no crying in baseball.”

  Phillips grinned. “Yeah, I saw that movie too.”

  On the way in, Phillips tried to figure out how he felt. He had been outraged when Vanhorst was shot down. He had done his best to out-fly the Russian, and his Flanker, but never had. Then Sergei had pulled up and waited to be shot down. Why? The Russian pilot who spoke English said Sergei was crazy, and that he had been ordered to shoot down his wingman. Now what the hell?

  Phillips tested his hand, holding it rigid in front of him. Dead solid, not the hint of a waver. He felt calm, in control. He had just killed a man. They had just killed a Russian pilot and destroyed a twenty-million-dollar aircraft.

  True. Their job.

  Phillips brought the Tomcat in on the approach precisely, took the landing signal, and dropped down on the three wire. He edged the plane into the assigned spot, and powered down.

  “You still okay, Fralic?” he asked in the ICS.

  “Yeah, I’m kicking ass if anyone asks. I just got my first kill.

  Now let’s get the hell out of here and go see the CAG.”

  Five minutes later, CAG led them into a small debriefing room. He sat them down, gave them both cups of coffee, and took one himself.

  Irving Olson was a full captain, a former F-14 pilot himself, and had the respect of his pilots and RIOs.

  “I’m sorry about the two good men we lost. Congratulations on the splash. We know how it happened, we’re just not sure why. We’ve contacted Admiral Rostow on the Russian carrier with our questions.

  “First a report to you. The missile Sergei fired at Golovnino wiped out three houses, two stores, and a small dock. We estimate no more than a dozen deaths resulted. He missed the military headquarters building by two hundred yards.

  “We have monitored Russian air traffic to its planes. It’s not coded just as ours isn’t. We haven’t translated the tapes yet to be sure, but it sounds like the remaining two Migs were ordered to shoot down this Sergei.”

  The captain switched on a small tape recorder and put it on the table between them. “Phillips, will you go through what happened, step by step? No hurry. I know this is your first combat … kill. But I want a complete report.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they came out of the room and headed for their quarters. At a turn in a companionway, Lieutenant Patsy Fralic touched Phillips’s shoulder.

  “Hey, thanks for doing most of the work in there. I’m … I’m going to be all right, but it might take me a few hours. You never know how you’ll react when it happens. I knew a cop back in Detroit. He said the same thing. When he saw his first dead body he threw up. A buddy of his got in a shoot-out with two punks, and when it was over the cop realized that he had shit his pants.”

  Phillips chuckled. “At least we avoided that.”

  “You better check, Phillips. I’m okay on that score. Right now I’m gonna have a shower.”

  Back in the debriefing room, Captain Olson stared at the recorder.

  No problem with his aircrew. Everything acco
rding to the book. Now he had to compose a supremely diplomatic yet stern communique to the Russian admiral. His message would be approved by, and go out under the name of, Admiral Kenner. It had to be exactly right. They didn’t want any more accidents, even if this one looked premeditated by the Russian pilot. The man had to have had a history of trouble in the Russian Navy.

  In the small village of Golovnino, Japanese General Raiden Nishikawa set twenty of his troops to work putting out the fires and taking the injured to the small clinic. He brought a doctor from the prison compound to treat the wounded. Fifteen Russian civilians had died in the missile attack. One of his men had been wounded.

  The missile must have been some kind of air-to-air type. It didn’t seem to detonate at once, but skidded down a street, and then exploded near the dock.

  He had been on the radio at once, speaking without any prepared statement, shouting at times at the Russians for their attack on his island.

  “If there is another such attack, or an attack of any type on my island of Kunashir, I will summarily execute twenty Russian soldiers starting with the officers and working down. There can be no repeat of such an attack, or Russia will suffer many casualties.

  “I know it was a Russian plane that launched the missile. Such actions are totally unacceptable. I expect a quick and total apology by the Russian admiral responsible for this pilot.”

  General Nishikawa put down the microphone. He had been speaking in Japanese, and he realized it would take some time for the Russians, and the Americans, to translate what he had said.

  He had been outside before the attack, checking on his outposts, when he saw a brilliant flash in the air to the west. He hadn’t been sure what it was, but shortly the Russian aircraft had attacked his island.

  He shook with rage just thinking about it. This might slow down the Russians’ plans to shell the island at the end of the seven days.

  He had no plans at all to leave the island. He had captured it, and he would keep it until he was driven off or dead in its defense.

  The general left the military headquarters and toured the damaged area. The fires were mostly put out, and the wounded had been taken care of. Now the wails of the families who had lost loved ones could be heard. He wasn’t used to such sounds of anguish.

  They made him think of his father and mother each time he tried to worship at his ancestors’ graves. There had been much wailing, and crying, and agony over the fate of their ancestors’ final resting places.

  Nishikawa went back to his office, knowing that he had done the right thing by coming here and capturing this island. He might not win in the military sense. Now he realized it was a heroic but rather stupid thing he had done here. Heroic because he had brought the plight of thousands of Japanese who had ancestors’ graves here to the eyes and ears of the world through the medium of television.

  Whether this had produced, or would produce, any long-lasting benefits was the question. If it did not, then indeed he would be branded as a fool, by his own family and by the countless other Japanese families out there who had suffered terrible losses at the hands of the Russians.

  He slammed into his headquarters building, and found his second in command.

  “Double the guards at the docks, around the bay, everywhere that someone could land a small boat. I think that it’s time we understand that we will not win the diplomatic discussion. They will revert to an attack of some kind. I’m just not sure what it will be. All of our troops will be on alert now twenty-four hours a day.

  “Those off duty will wear their uniforms, and weapons are to be in hand at all times. We will be facing a crisis soon. I’m just not sure what it will be, where it will come from, or what nation will be coming here to kill us.

  19

  Wednesday, 21 February

  USS Monroe, CVN 81

  Off Kunashir Island

  Kuril Chain, Russia

  The official statement came through an hour after Captain Olson’s message had been delivered. He read it again to be sure he had it right.

  “Admiral Kenner, Commanding, U.S. Task Force. Sir. We regret that one of our planes had an electrical and radar malfunction with the result that one of your aircraft was shot down. We offer condolences to the families of the two persons in the plane.

  “We understand the immediate retaliation, and the destruction of the offending aircraft, even though the deadly accident had nothing to do with the pilot of the craft. We also have suffered a lost shipmate.

  “We strongly urge that we both now maintain a separation between our aircraft. Since you were on the site first, we will relinquish the project of flying cover over the island to your aircraft. We will keep our flights offshore from the island, but in close proximity. This way there will be no reason why one force should be in the sights of the other, or that any lock-on by radar aiming should take place.

  “We reserve the right to move onto the island when our seven-day grace period is over. It appears that General Nishikawa is making no preparations to leave.

  “Our ships will continue to cover the area to the east of the island, and we will appreciate your recognizing this area and not interfering with our routine patrols.

  “We hope that this entire situation can be cleared up with no more loss of life or equipment.”

  It was signed by

  “Admiral Vladimir Rostow, Russian Naval Forces Commander.”

  Captain Olson took the message at once to Admiral Kenner, who had approved the wording of the complaint to the Russians less than an hour ago.

  “Accident my jockstrap,” Captain Olson said when the admiral had finished reading the message. “Our pilots heard the Russian pilot of one of the other Flankers say that Sergei must have gone crazy and that the two other Flankers up there had been ordered to shoot down the one who splashed our Tomcat.”

  “We’ll be lucky if that’s the only deadly confrontation we have with the Russians,” Kenner said. “This is a damn tense situation. I like the idea of keeping our forces apart this way. Tell the admiral that we accept his statement, and that we’ll cooperate on keeping our forces separated.”

  “Good. I’ll write it out and you can okay it.”

  Several decks below in the CDC, the watch commander looked over the shoulder of a chief manning a tactical display. This one was from their E-2C Hawkeye on station at thirty thousand feet over the fleet and monitoring anything that drove, flew, or sailed in a 250-to-350-mile radius.

  “Look at that sucker go,” the commander said.

  “Estimate speed of seventy knots, Commander. Damn, that’s eighty miles an hour over the water. Has to make it an air-cushion craft. The Russians have some. Last we knew, there were thirty-four of them in the Russian fleet. They could carry one in an amphibious ship if they have one in this fleet.”

  “Find the specs on them,” the watch commander said. One man moved to a large book, and came back with the answers.

  “Sir, they have three types, all about the same size from eighty feet to one-eighty-nine. The middle one can do seventy knots. It’s called the Aist, type one-two-three-two-point-one. Has a crew of ten, and can carry two medium tanks and two hundred troops. Range is a hundred and twenty miles at fifty knots.”

  The commander reached for his phone. “That’s the picture, Admiral,” the watch commander from the CDC said. “Figured you’d want to know. The craft has turned just south of Golovnino, and is circling about a half mile offshore.”

  “Thanks, Commander,” said the admiral in his quarters. “Let me know what it does next. This is no violation of our agreement with the Russians, but it’s a little pushy of them. They’re telling the little general in there that they can move in with two tanks and two hundred men anytime they want to. The hovercraft is not exactly a quiet ship.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Kenner hung up and he told Captain Olson about the call. Then the admiral took off his shoes and stretched out on a couch in his cabin.

  “What wor
ries me as much as anything is that damned OSCAR. What is a Russian submarine doing in our backyard? They have eleven of them, and the intel says five are based in the Pacific. What are they doing here?”

  “We could ask Admiral Rostow,” Captain Olson said.

  They both laughed. “He won’t even admit that he knows one is in the Pacific,” Admiral Kenner said.

  “You know what’s missing in this whole damn scenario?” Captain Olson asked. “Where the hell is the Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force? Their damn Navy? I know they have over forty destroyers, sixteen submarines, and seventeen or eighteen frigates. They could put quite a screen around this damn island. Last time I checked they had almost forty-seven thousand men in their Navy. They have all kinds of smaller craft including LCIs and LCMs and patrol craft. All of their ships have the latest and best missiles and torpedoes. So why the fuck are they sitting in port, and we’re out here on the damn firing line?”

  “About time you thought of that, Irving. I had a signal on that the first day we took our orders. The Japanese Diet, their legislature, pressured the Prime Minister into ordering that none of the Self Defense Forces be used to solve this little problem. They said it wasn’t self-defense, so technically the forces could not be used.

  “What it came down to was that the Japanese didn’t want their own forces shooting and killing each other. They said it could lead to a civil war.”

  “So the Japs, the Japanese, just don’t want to be shooting their own people. It certainly wouldn’t lead to a civil war, that’s for sure.

  Damn, sounds like a thin excuse so we would have to come yank their fucking chestnuts out of the fire again.”

  A steward brought in coffee and each officer took a cup.

  “Find out from TFCC what’s happening to that hovercraft,” Admiral Kenner said. “You might send one of your CAP planes down to take a closer look.”

  Captain Olson went to the phone, and in a few minutes came back with the information. “From what our F-14’s say, the hovercraft probably isn’t loaded. The loaded speed is about fifty knots. It’s on a milk run, a display-only show of force.”