Viper Strike c-2, page 10
part #2 of Carrier Series
"What happened?"
"He joined the Marines." She sniffled once, surprised that the memory still brought tears. "He went to boot camp at Paris Island, then got assigned to a rifle platoon going overseas. Beirut."
"Oh, God."
"October, 1983. Some crazy drove a truck bomb into his barracks one floor below where he was sleeping. They never even found enough of him afterward to send home in a body bag."
"I'm… sorry."
"So, Commander, I do care for… for 'service pukes," as you call them.
And that's why. As a journalist, yes, damn it, as a liberal journalist, I take great pleasure in putting the spotlight on waste in the military, especially on fat, braid-heavy Washington S.O.B."s who ship young men like Bobby off into impossible situations, places where they aren't even allowed to defend themselves, places where they can get killed, killed just because…
because…"
Pamela wasn't sure just how she got into Tombstone's arms. It hadn't been her idea, but she made no move to break away.
"I'm sorry, Pamela," he said. "I had no idea…"
"How could you?" She took a step back and looked up into his face, searching. "Tombstone, I… I really was interested in you during the interview. Not as a hero. Not as some kind of target in a campaign against government waste. As a person. I can disagree with a national policy and still see you as a… as a person, can't I?" She'd almost said "friend," and wasn't sure why she'd changed the word at the last instant. Pamela had not felt this confused in a long time, and it embarrassed her.
"I wish you would," Tombstone said. He grinned. "Why do you think I went to all this trouble to be with you someplace where we didn't have a camera staring at us?"
She looked around and was suddenly aware that several Thais nearby were casting dark looks in their direction. "Speaking of staring…"
Tombstone followed her glance and smiled. "That custom," he said. "They disapprove of public displays of affection between the sexes. Even holding hands." He was still holding hers.
"Hey! I've seen guys holding hands in public here."
"That's different. Friends are a lot more demonstrative with each other in public here than back Stateside. But boys and girls have to watch their step."
She pulled her hand free. "Maybe we should watch ours, then." She looked at her watch. "I should get back," she said. Why did the words hurt so? "They'll think I got kidnapped or something."
"We can catch a water taxi over here." He pointed along the pier. There were fewer boats now, and the remaining waterside vendors were starting to pack up their wares. Western tourists continued to wander along the street, though, wandering in and out of the shops and store fronts facing the klong like brightly-colored ants on an anthill. "Come on."
She didn't want to go back to the hotel.
1245 hours, 17 January
Tomcat 232, over the border thirty miles northwest of U Feng
Batman sat back in his ejection seat, shaking his helmeted head sadly.
"C'mon, Malibu. Give me a break. You think I like being out here in the boonies? Playing tag with crawlies as long as my arm?" He shuddered. That tropical centipede he'd seen legging it across the floor in his barracks at U Feng the night before hadn't been quite that big, but…
"Hey, dude," his RIO said over the ICS. "All I know is I was enjoying liberty call in the big B, and then I find out there's been this here change in orders. If they want to punish you by sending you to Siberia, fine, but what did I do to deserve this?"
"Guilt by association, my man. You hang out with the wrong people."
"Next time I'll know better. Watch it. Coming up on the first TARPS run. Switch on… cameras running."
To Batman's eyes, the jungle canopy below remained unbroken, mysterious and secret. To the high-tech eyes of the camera pod slung beneath his aircraft, however, the trees were far more transparent.
The TARPS pod consisted of a flattened, streamlined canister attached to one of the F-14's weapons mounts and tied in with the aircraft's navigational computer. TARPS could be fitted to a Tomcat in a matter of hours and was used by the Navy to convert standard F-14 fighters to the reconnaissance role as necessary. The pod contained a KS-87 high-speed frame camera, a KA-99 panoramic camera, and perhaps most useful of all, an AAD-4 infrared line scanner.
Fitted with TARPS, an F-14 could overfly suspected enemy positions and take high-resolution recon photos which, more than once, had caught the surprised expressions of antiaircraft gun crews as the Tomcat flew overhead.
The lateral panoramic camera could photograph in telescopic detail broad stretches of terrain clear to the horizon in a format which allowed extreme enhancement and enlargement.
The AAD-5 created a line-by-line heat image of the terrain unfolding in a continuous strip with photographic clarity, revealing everything in the aircraft's path within a swath which ran very nearly from horizon to horizon.
Infrared photography was an especially valuable tool for intelligence work.
Batman had examined IR photos which showed the heat shadows of aircraft, identifiable traces marking where planes had been parked on an airfield, hours after they'd been moved; he'd seen infrared shots of oil storage tanks which revealed the level of oil inside as though the tanks themselves were transparent; he'd seen shots of hot vehicle engines gleaming like bonfires through layers of foliage or camouflage netting.
IR scans of the That jungle would reveal hidden trails just as clearly.
The cleared, hard-packed ground of foot trails or roads gave off different levels of heat than the loose humus around it, and the jungle could not entirely conceal the patterns of temperature differentials. Jungle roads were clearer still, and vehicles would show up like burning flares.
Batman glanced out the canopy. To starboard, toward the north, lay Burma. There was an air base off that way, fifty kilometers distant.
Mong-koi, it was called. He remembered the MiGs that had come across the line four days earlier. He could see nothing but jungle mountains, partly masked by clots of drifting cloud.
To the south, Price Taggart's Tomcat drifted lazily off the starboard wing. "Two-oh-three, this is Two-three-two," he said over the radio. "You with me, Price? We're starting our run."
"With you, Batman," Taggart's voice replied in his helmet. "Lead the way."
"We have signal lock," Malibu said, "Beginning run… now."
Images picked up by TARPS could be stored or beamed back to a base for immediate processing. This time around, the images would be held for analysis on board Jefferson.
"Smile down there," Batman said. "You're on Candid Camera."
The minutes dragged on. Though TARPS technology allowed the reconnaissance aircraft to move at a reasonably high speed ― Batman was cruising at nearly five hundred knots ― the need to stick to a particular course was irksome to any fighter pilot. It made him feel predictable, and therefore vulnerable. Not that there was evidence of anything more hostile in that green maze than cobras and malaria. Now if there'd been a SAM site or two down there…
Becky was supposed to be in town for a few more days. He wondered if CAG would relent and bring him back in time to enjoy another run into Bangkok.
"Hey, Batman? You see something there?"
Malibu's voice over the ICS snapped Batman's attention back to his VDI.
The camera feed from the TARPS pod showed the IR line scan on the screen, a shifting picture in black and white. Odd. There were dazzling points of light down there. Cooking fires?
"I think we have stumbled across one of those quaint and charming tribes of native hill people you've heard tell about," he said. It seemed strange, though. There were a lot of fires down there.
He held the Tomcat in straight, level flight, throttling back to less than four hundred knots at an altitude of three thousand feet. He dismissed the idea that he'd caught a band of smugglers. If that was a camp of some kind hidden beneath the jungle canopy, it had a population numbering in the thousands. He could see the engine flares of trucks now, too. It looked like he'd stumbled across some sort of army.
An army. Those weren't That troops down there, not that many, not in this area.
Batman's eyes strayed to the northern horizon, encountering unrelieved green. That whole region was a regular breeding ground for armies, most of them the personal guards of drug lords. No doubt some of them were operating on this side of the border as well.
Whatever it was down there, it was damned big. "I wonder what they're going to make of this back at U Feng," he said to Malibu.
"Damned if I know. Want me to call it in?"
"Let's finish the run first. Good God! There's no end to them! Just what the hell have we found anyway?"
1248 hours, 17 January
Mong-koi, Burma
"General Hsiao! Major Sai is calling! The Burmese radio operator pressed the telephone handset against his ear. Around him, other men in Burmese army uniforms sat at the radar consoles which filled the Mong-koi control tower. Through the large, inward-slanting windows of the tower, the Mong-koi runways could be seen, flat, straight-lined slashes through the jungle. "He reports two American aircraft over his position!"
"American aircraft? What kind?"
The radio operator spoke briefly into the radio before turning again.
"Sir! He doesn't know."
Peasants, Hsiao thought. Peasants who could scarcely tell the difference between a jet interceptor and a helicopter. Most of the soldiers in the People's Army now fighting in northern Thailand had been recruited from the ranks of militias formerly in the service of the various warlords of the Golden Triangle. Major Sai had, until recently, been working for the notorious Khun Sah, a Burmese drug lord widely known as the Prince of Death.
His United Shan Army still dominated much of eastern Burma.
That would not be the case for very much longer. Once Hsiao's agents controlled Thailand, he would be able to dictate his own terms to the likes of Khun Sah.
"American reconnaissance aircraft," Hsiao said. "From the carrier at Sattahip."
"Major Sai requests instructions, General," the operator said. "Shall he open fire?"
SA-7 missiles might down one of the planes, but killing two was unlikely.
More probably the planes would flee, bearing precise coordinates for the point at which they'd been fired upon. "Tell him to do nothing. Support will be there in a few minutes."
"Yes, sir."
Hsiao sensed the ponderous bulk of General Kol coming up beside him.
"General Hsiao?" The Burmese sounded worried. "What are you planning?"
Hsiao looked past the fat general, his eyes seeking the shadowed forms of several MiGs parked beneath the patchwork cover of layered camouflage netting.
Ignoring Kol, he snapped an order. "Colonel Wu!"
"Sir!"
"Do we have a patrol ready to go?"
"Yes, general. Four aircraft are fueled and standing by."
"Scramble them."
"At once, General!"
"General Hsiao" Kol began, but he stopped when the former Chinese intelligence officer turned a cold gaze on him. He swallowed, then made himself continue. "General Hsiao, perhaps it is not wise to antagonize the Americans. After all, a plan so broad, so complex. To shoot down American fighters here, now…"
"Your concern, General," Hsiao said quietly, "is this base and the Burmese forces we have in the field. The Americans are my concern."
"But if attention should be called to this air base-"
"It does not matter, Kol," he replied, omitting the formal use of the Burmese general's rank as a reminder of who was in charge. "After tonight it will not matter what the Americans know… or their That puppets!"
Kol lowered his gaze. "Of course, General."
The mournful wail of a siren could be heard faintly through the windows of the control tower. Across the tarmac, Chinese aircrews were wheeling the first of four J-7 fighters onto the runway. Hsiao could see four pilots, already wearing their green form-fitting pressure suits, dog-trotting toward their planes with their helmets under their arms.
"In any case," Hsiao continued, "there is nothing to worry about. So far as anyone else is concerned, this will simply be one more minor border incident."
The first Chinese pilot clambered up a ladder and slid into his cockpit.
Crewmen detached power lines and wheeled the starter cart out of the way as the engine coughed into life, the whine rising above the moan of the siren.
The canopy came down as the Chinese MiG started to roll.
Hsiao nodded to Wu, who was pressing a headset against one ear. "Have them stay at treetop level all the way to the target, Colonel. Perhaps we can surprise our American friends."
Moments later, the first two J-7s shrieked off the runway.
1249 hours, 17 January
Tomcat 232
"How about one more run?" Batman asked. He pulled the Tomcat into a sharp, banking turn to port. They had turned to cross the greatest concentration of heat sources, crossing the area from south to north. This had taken them close to the Burmese border, though they were still south of that invisible line.
"Fine by me," Malibu replied. "I don't really fancy visiting Burma anyway."
"Two-three-two!" Taggart's voice exploded over Batman's headset. "Bogies incoming, bearing three-four-oh at one-four miles!"
That put the targets across the line, well into Burma. "Rog," he said.
"How many?"
"Two bogies," Taggart replied. "Repeat, two bogies. I think they're low. Keep losing them in the ground clutter."
"Stay on 'em, Malibu! You have them?"
"No joy, Batman… no! Got 'em! Two bogies, range now one-zero miles.
Shit, Batman. They're coming straight in!"
Batman hauled back on the stick, clawing for sky. Whatever was about to happen, he wanted some room to maneuver.
The bogies kept coming.
CHAPTER 9
1250 hours, 17 January
Tomcat 232
"Let's split up and see if we can get a better look at these guys," Batman said. He kept the F-14 in a sharp, twisting climb. The jungle fell away beneath the Tomcat as sunlight flooded the interior of the cockpit.
"Roger that," Taggart replied. "Not too far, though. Don't want to lose you."
American aircraft did not generally use tight-knit wingman formations but preferred the system known as "loose deuce." Having one of the two planes well out in front of the other, and a mile higher or lower, improved the chances of spotting the enemy, as well as giving two sets of aircraft radars a better look at the target.
"Range eight miles," Malibu called from the backseat. Batman leveled off at nine thousand feet, already searching the northwestern horizon for some visual sign of the approaching planes. "Still coming, speed six hundred knots."
"Okay. Call up the Jeff and tell them we have a situation here. I think we'd-"
"Shit!" Malibu exploded. "We have four bogies now, repeat, four bogies!"
They must have been flying wingtip to wingtip and hard on the deck to confuse the Tomcats' radars.
"Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Tomcat Two-three-two," Batman radioed.
"Do you copy, over?"
"Two-three-two, Homeplate," a voice answered moments later. Radio communications with the Jefferson were being relayed through a Hawkeye circling near Bangkok. "We COPY."
"Homeplate, we have four, repeat, four bogies closing from three-four-oh at six hundred. They're coming in over the line!"
"Copy, Two-three-two. Break off and RTB."
"Rog," Batman said. "You copy that, Price? Time to get out of Dodge."
"I don't think they're going to let us, Batman," Taggart said. "Tell you what. Get down on the deck while I run interference."
Batman thought about it for a brief moment. Taggart's suggestion made sense. Tomcat 232 was carrying two Sidewinder missiles in addition to the TARPS pod, not enough for a sustained dogfight if it came to that. Taggart was carrying eight missiles, and had greater maneuverability as well.
"Where the hell are our escorts anyway?" he snapped.
"We have six That F-5s at one-five-nine," Malibu replied, "Range thirty miles."
"Great." By the time they arrived, the fight would be over. He made his decision. "Right you are, Price Tag," he said. "Have fun and mind the ROES."
He banked left into a sideslip dive which took the F-14 hurtling toward the jungle canopy. Tree-clad mountains rushed up to meet him, growing larger until he was so close that the ground became a featureless green blur.
Taggart's aircraft dropped astern, taking up a position between the bogies and Batman's plane. The Rules of Engagement still applied. They couldn't fire until they were fired upon, but Taggart's maneuver would give Batman the chance to get clear whatever happened.
Batman leveled off at two thousand feet above the treetops, heading south. He cut back on the throttles, cutting the Tomcat's speed until the wings slid forward. He didn't want to get too far ahead of Taggart. A river flashed into view, winding through a valley between emerald hilltops.
Batman saw the flash in the same instant as Malibu.
"SAM! SAM!" his RIO yelled. "Seven o'clock!"
"Got it!" Batman hauled the stick left instinctively, turning into the missile in an attempt to make it overshoot. He recognized that corkscrewing white trail at once, the signature of a shoulder-launched SA-7, called "Grail" by NATO. Some bastard down there had lobbed it at them as they cleared the treeline along the river.
"It's closing!"
"Hang on, Malibu!" he yelled. "Pop flares!"
But he already knew they weren't going to make it.
1250 hours, 17 January
Tomcat 203
"There they are!" Taggart's RIO called. "They're coming in behind us!"
"Hang on, Zig! I'm goosin' it!" He rammed the throttles full forward, cutting in the Tomcat's afterburners as he stood the aircraft on its tail. He heard Zig-Zag Ziegler grunt over the ICS as the acceleration slammed them into their ejection seats.
