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  Viper Strike

  ( Carrier - 2 )

  Keith Douglass

  A renegade Chinese fighter group invades Thai airspace in an attempt to break the SEATO alliance and shatter the fragile balance of world power. Ordered to stop the trouble before it gets started, the men of Battle Group Fourteen must restore peace before the skies blow wide open.

  Keith Douglass

  Viper Strike

  PROLOGUE

  0920 hours, 12 January, Mong-koi, Burma

  General Hsiao Kuoping stooped beneath the still-turning blades of the helicopter as he strode across the tarmac toward the group waiting to receive him. It had rained the night before, and the runway was slick with pools of water on which the helo's prop wash etched churning patterns.

  The long flight northeast from Rangoon had only added to Hsiao's anger.

  Twenty-four hours before he had been in Bangkok. Travel from the That capital to this remote corner of Burma was dangerous, and the chance of discovery became greater each time he risked travel between the two countries.

  Hsiao was not in uniform, but the Burmese honor guard snapped to attention and the officers saluted. One of the three officers present wore the austere uniform of a general of the Chinese People's Army. The other officer, a ponderously fat man, wore the gaudy uniform trappings of a Burmese army general.

  With his glasses, short stature, and graying hair, Hsiao Kuoping looked more like a college professor than a military officer, but the attitude of his reception committee was one of deference. Once, he had been director of the foreign service branch of China's intelligence directorate. Theoretically, he still was. Beijing did not yet know that he was now working not for them, but for himself.

  Thunder rolled through the sky, and Hsiao looked up. A pair of Chinese fighters, Shenyang J-7s, dropped below the overcast and overflew the field, the tops of their swept-back wings trailing white contrails in the wet, morning air.

  "This is indeed an honor," one of the Chinese officers said. A small, waspish man, General Xiang Xu was Hsiao's commander of the PRC forces covertly based in Burma. "We thought you were remaining in Bangkok until the end of the week."

  "That was my plan, yes," Hsiao replied, his voice low and dangerous.

  Xiang and the Chinese colonel at his side shifted uncomfortably under his stare. The fat Burmese officer, who did not speak Mandarin, just looked confused. "Unfortunately, events seem to have dictated a change of that plan.

  What cretin ordered the suspension of flights from Fuhsingchen?"

  Xiang swallowed. "I… I gave the order, Comrade General."

  Hsiao stared down at the smaller man until Xiang dropped his gaze. "And your reason?"

  "We received word here two days ago that an American aircraft carrier battle group was entering the Gulf of Thailand, possibly in support of the Bangkok regime. I thought it would be best if we suspended the flights from Fuhsingchen, rather than risk being detected by the Americans."

  "And are the Americans so formidable that everything I have planned, everything I have worked for must be suspended simply because a few of their ships approach the That coast?"

  "Sir… comrade… we tried to notify you. But communications between our base here and Bangkok are slow and uncertain."

  "I sent the message alerting you to the situation yesterday, General," Colonel Wu Ying added quietly. He gave Xiang a sideways glance. "I thought you should be apprised of the situation."

  "Quite right, Colonel." Thunder echoed again as the two fighters approached the airfield once more. Their landing gear were down, their flaps deployed as they settled toward the end of the jungle runway. "I see the transfers have been resumed."

  "Only this morning, yes, sir," Wu said. "Eighteen have arrived already, counting those two. Those still at Fuhsingchen should all be here within the next twenty hours. I ordered the flights resumed as soon as your message reached us this morning."

  Hsiao watched in silence as the two J-7s touched down and shrieked past the spot where the group stood. Drogue chutes popped from their tails, slowing them.

  This operation had been years in the making. It was complex and far-reaching, and the most insignificant of incidents could unravel everything. Xiang's interference could have destroyed the timetable completely.

  Hsiao arrived at a decision. "Colonel Wu, place General Xiang under arrest."

  Wu stiffened to attention. "Sir!" Two of the soldiers nearby stepped forward, flanking Xiang. One pulled the pistol from the general's holster.

  "I protest!" Xiang exploded. "I have friends on the Central Committee!"

  Hsiao ignored the man. "Colonel Wu, you are in command here now."

  "Comrade General," the colonel said, drawing himself up taller and squaring his shoulders with pride. "You honor me!"

  Hsiao knew exactly what thoughts were going through Wu's mind ― recognition, advancement, promotion… It was a shame that so capable an officer was doomed to disappointment. As far as the fighter squadron commander knew, he was here with his command in Burma on the orders of Beijing, part of a covert program sanctioned by the Central Committee.

  Colonel Wu would have been shocked to learn that the Chinese aircraft now based at Mong-koi had been diverted from other duties by Hsiao's own intelligence apparatus, that Beijing knew nothing of this operation. The planes were being assembled at Mong-koi using the same arms pipelines that had funneled Chinese arms to revolutionary governments around the world for decades.

  But the requisitions and the approvals had been Hsiao's, not the Party's.

  Wu would be lucky not to be shot once his part in this affair was known. As for Xiang and his friends in Beijing, he would never have a chance to communicate with them. Their fates, however, did not concern Hsiao, except for the need to keep the colonel's suspicions allayed until after Sheng li was fully under way.

  Sheng li. The phrase, Mandarin for victory, sang in Hsiao's brain like the theme of a people's triumphal march. Soon, soon…

  "You will maintain the timetable as I have written it," Hsiao told Wu.

  "Events in Thailand have reached the point where nothing must interfere with the timing of this operation. Nothing!"

  "Understood, Comrade General. And General Xiang?"

  Hsiao spared the general a single glance. The man stood between his two guards, half supported by them. His eyes were glassy, and he looked as though he were in shock.

  Hsiao had known Xiang was a fool from the beginning. The man's sole virtue lay in the ease with which Hsiao had been able to manipulate him, and the former intelligence officer had needed a high-ranking puppet at Fuhsingchen airbase in south China in order to divert the stolen aircraft.

  But he was no longer needed, and his weakness made him a liability now.

  "Shoot him," Hsiao said.

  "No! I am a loyal general officer of the People's Republic! You cannot do this!" Xiang struggled in the grip of his captors, but he was helpless.

  His screams and shouted protests and threats dwindled away as the guards frog-marched him away.

  "I insist you tell me what is going on!" the Burmese general said, speaking Burmese. General Nung Kol's round and florid face gave the impression that he was sweltering in the braid-heavy coat with its row upon row of medals.

  "Nothing that need concern you, General," Hsiao said, easily slipping into Burmese himself. "A breach in discipline is being corrected."

  The sharp crack of a gunshot rang from around the corner of the air operations building punctuating Hsiao's bland statement. Kol's eyes widened at the sound and he licked his fat lips. "I warned General Xiang that the shipments of fighters from China should not be interrupted. I warned him that-"

  "Sheng li will continue as planned," Hsiao said quietly, interrupting him.

  General Kol cast a brow-furrowed glance toward the sky. As commander of the new military base at Mong-koi, he was continually worried about the Chinese presence here, unsanctioned by his superiors in Rangoon. He, in his way, was as much a traitor to his own people as was Hsiao. "You are certain, General Hsiao, that the Americans cannot detect these aircraft with their satellites? I have heard that they can see in the dark, that they can read newspapers from space-"

  "Calm yourself, General. Not even the Americans can watch everything that happens everywhere in the world! And if they do see them, so what? Your government does not even know these planes are here, true? The Americans may protest to Rangoon, and Rangoon will deny everything, and there the matter shall rest, for the Americans will be unwilling to pursue it. I assure you, General Kol, that they will have no idea of the true situation until it is far too late."

  "The Americans could still pose a serious problem," the Burmese general insisted. "The Thais have been their pets for years. And an American carrier-"

  Hsiao kept his face a smiling mask. Kol was as stupid as he was corrupt, a useful tool within the Burmese military structure who also happened to be in the pay of the various drug syndicates ruling the Golden Triangle. Hsiao had been able to control him easily enough so far simply by threatening to expose those financial connections, but soon the time would come when he could dispense with the Burmese warlord entirely. In the meantime, he had no idea that Sheng li was designed not to destabilize the That government ― though that, too, was part of it ― but to bring Thailand and Burma to the brink of war.

  "I know about the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson, General," Hsiao said. "But their so-called supercarriers are not as invulnerable as they would have you believe. You may leave them to me."
br />   Kol watched the aircraft slowing at the far end of the runway, then turning in line to make their way toward camouflaged hangers. "Are these planes sufficient to deal with the American carrier, then?" he asked.

  "Twenty-five Shenyang J-7s once they've all arrived," Hsiao said. "Ten Nanchang Q-5 ground attack planes. An American nuclear carrier like the Jefferson carries ninety aircraft. In fighters alone they outnumber us. But it will not come to that."

  "You seem quite sure of yourself," Kol said stiffly.

  "You must trust me on this, my dear General Kol. When the time comes, your people will deal with the Royal That Army, Colonel Wu here will deal with their air force." He paused and allowed himself a smile. "And I will deal with the Jefferson!"

  Colonel Wu grinned. "That will be a tremendous victory, Comrade General," he said in Burmese. "The Central Committee will make you a Hero of the People."

  Hsiao watched the last of the J-7s vanish into a hangar at the far end of the airfield. The irony of Wu's patriotic sentiment was amusing. If Beijing found out too early what he was doing, it would mean disgrace… then death.

  The rewards, however, made any risk worthwhile. Riches and power far beyond anything possible in the service of the State would soon be his… and his alone.

  Hsiao smiled. "Yes," he agreed. "It will be a victory such as the world has never known."

  CHAPTER 1

  1312 hours, 14 January

  Tomcat 201, Catapult One, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  The U.S. S. Thomas Jefferson, CVN-74, surged ahead through gentle seas.

  Her flight deck was a confusion of urgent motion as men in bright color-coded jerseys made ready to hurl two forty-million-dollar aircraft into the sky.

  In the cockpit of an F-14D Tomcat perched on the carrier's Number One catapult, Lieutenant Commander Matthew Magruder, call sign "Tombstone," made a final check of his aircraft's systems, his eyes sweeping the gauges and dials of the F-14D's instrument console for any sign of failure or malfunction.

  Turning in his ejection seat and glancing back over his shoulder, he could see the ready light showing yellow high on the island superstructure of the carrier.

  Off the starboard side of his aircraft, he could see the bow catapult officer, wearing a yellow jersey and the bulbous radio headgear known as Mickey Mouse ears, cycling his hand vigorously over his head. Tombstone pushed the twin throttles under his left hand forward, feeling the Tomcat shudder under the twin-engine onslaught of raw noise and power. Glancing aft once more, he saw the air above the deck shimmering with the heat of his jet wash boiling up from the erect shield of Catapult One's Jet Blast Deflector.

  The island's ready light winked to green. They were cleared for launch.

  "All set back there?" he asked.

  "Ready to go, Mr. Magruder," his RIO said over the Tomcat's intercom.

  Lieutenant j.g. Jerry "Dixie" Dixon was Tombstone's Radar Intercept Officer, his backseater for this flight.

  To port and aft, a second pate gray Tomcat crouched on Catapult Three, trembling as its pilot throttled up. The modex numbers stenciled on the plane's nose read 232, while the tail displayed the red snake device of Squadron VF-95, the Vipers. The two aircraft would be launching together.

  Tombstone faced starboard again and casually tossed a two-fingered salute to the bow catapult officer, informing the deck crew that he was ready for launch. The cat officer looked left and right, checking first with the bow safety observer, who was standing at his station, arm out, thumb extended into the air, then with the sailor at the bow catapult control console, and finally checking for one last time that the Tomcat and the catapult slot running forward were both clear. Only then did he return Tombstone's salute, twist gracefully to the side with his right hand pointing forward off the bow, then drop to one knee and touch the deck.

  Below the flight deck, steam exploded against the catapult pistons, and the cat shuttle attached to the aircraft's nose-wheel whipped forward, dragging the F-14 with it in billowing clouds of white vapor.

  The jolt flattened Tombstone against his seat. Acceleration pressed his eyes back in his head and squeezed the breath from his body. There was a sharp rattle of steel wheels and a rushing blur of motion as the plane hurtled forward, passing 180 miles per hour in less than three seconds. For one instant the F-14 hung suspended in midair, just off the carrier's bow, and then the wings bit air. Tombstone's left hand punched the gear handle, then he trimmed the ship and brought the stick back, pulling the Tomcat up in a ten-degree climb.

  "Tomcat Two-oh-one, good shot," he said, letting the carrier know the cat had delivered power enough to get him safely airborne.

  "Two-three-two, good shot," said a voice a moment later.

  The second plane was aloft as well. Tombstone pulled back on the throttle until his wingman could catch up. Side by side now, the two aircraft continued to climb, angling toward a patchy ceiling of broken clouds against blue sky.

  "We copy, Sharpshooter," the voice of the carrier's Air Boss said over Tombstone's earphones. "Have a good one."

  "Rog." Tombstone clicked frequencies on his comm select panel.

  "Sharpshooter Two, this is Leader. How do you read, over?"

  "Loud and clear, Stoney." His wingman was Lieutenant E.E. Wayne, better known as Batman to the rest of Squadron VF-95. "Looks like we're CAVU clear to Bangkok."

  Tombstone looked to port. Tomcat 232 was holding position just off his left wing. He saw the helmeted heads of Batman and his RIO, Lieutenant Ken "Malibu" Blake, facing him. Batman gave him a cocky thumbs-up.

  "Ay-firmative," Tombstone agreed. Ceiling and visibility unlimited. It was a glorious day for flying. "Next stop, ladies and gentlemen, exotic Thailand…"

  The two F-14s continued to climb until they reached twenty thousand feet.

  Scattered clouds spread out below them, cast into sharp relief by their own shadows against the ocean. At three hundred knots ― about three hundred forty-five miles per hour ― the Tomcat's variable-sweep wings automatically swung back until the aircraft looked like a pair of broad, gray arrowheads hurtling through the blue glory of the sky. The Thomas Jefferson, a floating combination of airport and city with six thousand men living under her four-acre roof, dwindled astern until she was lost against the endless sea.

  "Sharpshooter Leader, this is Homeplate." Tombstone recognized the voice in his headphones as that of Commander Stephen Marusko, known as CAG for Commander Air Group. "Homeplate" was the call sign designation for the Jefferson.

  "Sharpshooter. Go ahead, Homeplate."

  "Just a reminder, people," CAG said. "Mind the ROES."

  ROEs stood for Rules of Engagement, and these had been meticulously listed and discussed during the preflight briefing that morning. Jefferson's air wing was flying in support of the Royal That Air Force, a mission which would carry them over a combat zone. They'd been emphatically warned, however, not to become involved in combat. The ROEs for the op established a hard deck of ten thousand feet, a lower limit below which they were not allowed to fly, and established a shoot-only-when-shot-at protocol that required an order from the carrier for weapons release.

  That would hardly be a problem. So far, the guerrilla forces fighting the That army and air units were armed with nothing more threatening to aircraft than SA-7 Grails, the shoulder-launched missiles which explained the hard deck rule. Sharpshooter's op plan called for a rendezvous with one of Jefferson's KA-6D tankers north of Bangkok for refueling, after which they were to proceed to the area north of Chiang Mai. Two of Jefferson's Tomcats were already flying cover for That aircraft, though they'd been ordered to stay out of any actual combat. It was thought that the mere presence of American carrier aircraft would reassure the Thais of U.S. commitment to their ally.

  So far, everything had gone smoothly since the first patrol had been launched at 0600 that morning.

  "Copy, Homeplate," Tombstone said. "We'll be good."

  "Uh… Commander?" Dixie's voice was harsh over the ICS. "We're getting some kind of radar sweep. Intermittent like."

  Tombstone could hear the pulse over his headset, a deep-throated twang like the plucked string on a bass, repeated every few seconds. "Search radar," he said. "Probably the airport at Phu Quoc."