Viper Strike c-2 Page 2

  "Jeez, that's creepy."

  "No big deal, Dixie." He looked through the canopy to the right. The coastline of Vietnam lay a hundred miles in that direction, lost in clouds and distance. He could see a smear to the northeast which might be Cambodia's Koh Tang Islands. Vietnam. He thought of his father, shot down in a raid over Hanoi. "They're keeping an eye on us, that's all."

  "Yessir." He heard the hiss of his RIO's rapid breathing over the intercom. "I guess this stuff is old hat to you, huh, Mr. Magruder? I mean, after Wonsan and all."

  Tombstone wasn't sure how to answer. Dixon was a newbie. He'd come aboard at Yokosuka, Jefferson's last port of call, only three months earlier, one of the nuggets flown into Japan to replace the men lost during the raid into North Korea. He was eager, brash, and excited by the prospect of flying backseat for Tombstone Magruder, but at times the youngster's hero worship could be a bit much.

  Hero. The word tasted sour. He'd never wanted it applied to him, never asked for all the fuss.

  Matthew Magruder had seen nothing particularly heroic about his actions over Korea three months before. They'd just… happened. He'd led the Combat Air Patrol which covered Navy helos ferrying the crew of a U.S.

  intelligence ship captured by North Korea to safety. There'd been a ferocious dogfight with North Korean MiG-21s. During the turning and burning in the skies above Wonsan, Tombstone's Tomcat had been hit, his RIO badly wounded.

  Refusing to eject and lose his backseater, he'd somehow limped back to the Jefferson on one faltering engine, sliding the crippled F-14 into a flight deck barricade in a shower of sparks.

  For Tombstone, there'd been no heroism at the time, no question of bravery… only a job to be done and his determination not to drop his unconscious RIO into the gray seas off Wonsan.

  The medal they'd given him was a pretty thing, a gold Maltese cross set against a sunburst with the image of a sailing ship in the center. The ribbon was dark blue, bisected by a single vertical white stripe. The commendation that went with it declared that Lieutenant Commander Matthew Magruder had, during the period from 26 September to,30 September of that year, "distinguished himself by extraordinary heroism in military operations against an armed enemy." It went on to mention his six combat kills and the rescue of the wounded Naval Flight Officer in his aircraft.

  The Navy Cross was the highest decoration possible short of the Congressional Medal of Honor, and the CMH was awarded only for actions against a nation actually at war with the United States. The Wonsan strike had not been part of a war, not in the traditional sense; it was typical instead of this new era of international politics, when nations threatened and maneuvered, when ships and aircraft clashed… but when the victories were won or lost by politicians.

  Men were wounded or killed for the sake of those victories, though, just as in a real war. That was the tragedy, one which no medal could relieve.

  He pushed the thought from his mind. Tombstone decided that his father would have been proud of him. Sam Magruder had racked up an impressive display of fruit salad during his short career, including both the Silver Star and the Distinguished Flying Cross.

  But the Silver Star had been posthumous, and the expression on his mother's face when she received it along with the word of Sam Magruder's death haunted Tombstone still. He'd gone on to make Navy flying his life, but he tended to be cynical about the medals that came with it. Personally, he was far prouder of the "battle E" Viper Squadron had won for its part at Wonsan.

  He shook himself free of the dark mood which threatened to close in on him. "Leader to Sharpshooter Two," he said. "You there, Batman?"

  "I'm with you, Stoney."

  "Pull out the stoppers. I feel the need for speed."

  "Affirm. Let's do it."

  "Going to burner. On my mark, three, two, one… punch it!"

  Tombstone rammed the throttles forward to full military power. The added boost kicked the F-14 forward with a shuddering jolt. As the Tomcat's speed crept up the scale toward Mach 1, the shudder increased… then suddenly vanished as the plane broke the sound barrier. Batman's 232 aircraft kept pace.

  Behind them, the search radar at Phu Quoc continued to thrum its lonely, monotonous tune.

  1358 hours, 14 January

  Tomcat 101, near the That-Burmese border

  Lieutenant Commander John "Made It" Bayerly, CO of the VF-97 War Eagles, banked his Tomcat for a better view of the action on the valley floor below.

  The terrain here was mountainous, forest-shrouded peaks rising in steep folds and humps above the meandering clefts of valleys. The tree canopy ten thousand feet below was unbroken save for the flash of sunlight from a twisting stretch of river.

  To the south, Bayerly could see white contrails drawing themselves across the dark foliage covering the ground. Four Royal That Air Force Falcons were making an attack run on suspected guerrilla positions on the banks of the Taeng River ― the Nam Mae Taeng, as it appeared on That maps. Roads in this area were virtually nonexistent, muddy, twin-rut smugglers' tracks for the most part, but the That CIA had reported what might be a truck park and military camp down there. If the rebels were getting help from the socialist Burmese government, they would be stockpiled and distributed from such a camp.

  In any case, it was the perfect opportunity for the RTAF to practice with their new purchase. The American F-16 Falcons had been delivered to the That government only recently. The nimble, dual-purpose aircraft could carry over ten thousand pounds of ordnance for ground attack. Their load on this afternoon was considerably less. Each plane carried four Rockeye 11 CBU-59s, cluster bombs designed to scatter hundreds of tiny bomblets in a broad footprint across the jungle. Against unarmored troops, their effect would be devastating.

  From this high up, Bayerly could not see the attack well, but he could make out the sparkles of detonating bomblets among the trees, saw the surface of the river thrash as the Falcons rocketed up the valley. A contrail stabbed up from the shore, describing an odd, corkscrew path as it chased the That Falcons. An SA-7, Made It thought. The reason the ROEs were keeping him stuck uselessly almost two miles above the action.

  So far as Bayerly was concerned, the ROEs for this op were nonsense.

  What good would a show of American support for the That government do when the U.S. aircraft were so far above the jungle the guerrillas didn't even know they were there?

  Below, the Grail's smoke trail gave out as its fuel was expended, and the warhead dropped unseen back into the trees. The Falcons pulled up and clawed for altitude, their pass complete, their contrails sharp as the planes bored through the humid air above the jungle.

  He eased back on his Tomcat's throttles, glancing first at the RPM meter on the panel just above his left knee, then at his airspeed indicator. The thunder of the twin GE F-110 engines dropped to a smooth growl as the aircraft, its swing wings extended to their full-forward position, cruised above the rolling green carpet of jungle. His wingman, Lieutenant j.g. Peter Costello, call sign "Hitman," parked his F-14 off Bayerly's starboard wing.

  "Hey, Made It," Bayerly's RIO said over the ICS. "Word from Sierra Bravo Four-six. Sharpshooter is refueled and on the way."

  "About damn time," Made It replied. "Only danger we're likely to face is being bored to death."

  Lieutenant "Kid" Stratton, his backseater, chuckled. "So we'll give the hero his turn on the boonie patrol. I could use a shower and a cup of coffee."

  Bayerly didn't answer. Tombstone Magruder and the fuss that had been made over him since Wonsan was rapidly becoming a sore point with Made It.

  Where the Jefferson's other aviators joked and bantered about Magruder's name in the headlines, the press conferences, and all the rest, for Bayerly it was all simply a bitter reminder that his own career was nearly at an end.

  "Magruder can go-"

  "Hold it," Kid interrupted. "Something from Sierra Bravo."

  "Let's hear it."

  There was a click as the RIO piped the radio call throu
gh to Bayerly.

  Sierra Bravo Four-six was one of Jefferson's E-2C Hawkeye radar surveillance planes. A so-called "force multiplier," a Hawkeye increased the efficiency of American Naval aircraft by detecting targets at ranges far beyond the reach of the Tomcat's own AWG-9 radar, and by coordinating widely scattered warplanes both on routine patrol and during combat.

  "Cowboy, this is Sierra Bravo Four-six," the Hawkeye observer's voice was saying. "We have unidentified bogie, bearing three-five-zero from your position, range five-two miles. Can you confirm sighting, over?"

  There was an anxious moment's silence. "Can't find 'em, Made It," Stratton said. "They're lost in the clutter. Must be pretty low."

  Made It opened the radio channel. "Sierra Bravo, this is Cowboy Leader.

  No joy on your sighting. Repeat, no joy. Over." This was ridiculous. If the Hawkeye wanted them to sort targets from the reflected returns off the mountains, they'd have to grant permission to go below the hard deck. At this rate, they wouldn't spot any bogies until the targets were right on top of them.

  "Cowboy, Sierra Bravo. Bogie may be Burmese incursion That air space.

  Homeplate requests visual confirmation, repeat, visual. Come to new course, three-four-five. Over."

  "We copy, Sierra Bravo." He brought the stick over, watching the compass heading slip through the numbers until the Tomcat was on the indicated bearing. His left hand nudged the throttle forward and the F-14 picked up speed. Hitman Costello's aircraft paced him.

  "Yo! Got them," Stratton said. "Two bogies, bearing three-five-one, range forty. Shit, that's across the green line, Made It. You think they're Burmese?"

  The green line was shorthand for the That-Burmese border. "Probably a couple of That recon planes that got lost," Made It replied. "Sierra Bravo Four-six, this is Cowboy. We have the bogies and are going to buster."

  Together, the Tomcats surged forward, closing rapidly now with the two unknowns. Bayerly eyed the jungle unrolling beneath the belly of his F-14.

  They were flying over That territory now, but farther north, somewhere among those ravines and jungle-covered hills, lay the Shan District of eastern Burma. The green line was clear enough on the map, but political realities were less obvious in the real world. At ten thousand feet there was nothing to distinguish country from country.

  Bayerly opened the tactical channel. "Cowboy Leader to Cowboy Two," he said. "You've got overmatch, Hitman. Hang back."

  "Affirm, Made It. Watch your hard deck."

  Costello's F-14 broke right and cut power. In seconds, Bayerly's aircraft was far ahead.

  "Bogies still coming," Stratton said. "Hey, Made It? They're not squawking. I've got IFF on a couple of That F-5s down on the deck, but not a beep from the bogies."

  "We'll be able to get our primaries on 'em pretty quick," Bayerly replied. "Primaries" was aviator's slang for eyes and instincts. "We should be in eyeball range any time now."

  "There are the friendlies. Ten o'clock low."

  Bayerly looked in the indicated direction. Two That F-5 Freedom Fighters were flying parallel to the Tomcat's northerly course three thousand feet below and half a mile ahead, lean, dagger-slim, and deadly.

  "Got 'em." He searched ahead, toward the north. Movement caught his eye, a pair of black specks just above the forest canopy. "Tally-ho!" he called over the radio. "We have bogies in sight."

  The specks grew, closing with the That F-5s at better than Mach 1. They flashed past so quickly that reaction was impossible, identification was all but impossible… but Bayerly had an instant's glimpse of delta wings centered on a blunt, tube-shaped fuselage.

  "Sierra Bravo," he yelled into the microphone in his oxygen mask. "This is Cowboy Leader! MiGs! MiGs!"

  Bayerly pulled back and left on the stick, dragging the Tomcat into a steep turn to port.

  "Cowboy Leader, Sierra Bravo." The Hawkeye operator's voice sounded remote and unhurried. "Homeplate requests verification of bandit sighting."

  Bayerly wondered if they believed the report. He wasn't sure he believed it himself. There weren't supposed to be any MiGs here.

  "Verified, damn it!" he yelled. "Two MiGs. Two MiGs! Coming in fast!"

  CHAPTER 2

  1405 hours, 14 January

  CATCC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Carrier Air Traffic Control Center, pronounced cat-see by Jefferson's officers and crew, was a suite of darkened compartments on the 0–3 deck directly beneath the "roof," the carrier's flight deck. Lit by the green and amber glows of numerous radar screens and the illumination from the large, transparent status boards, it was an eerie place where men spoke in urgent but subdued tones, where petty officers paced the decks behind the operators as they listened to air traffic through headsets trailing wires.

  Commander Marusko slumped into one of the elevated command chairs normally reserved for the ship Captain or the admiral when they were in CATCC and rested his coffee mug against the chair's arm. "MiGs? Whose MiGs?"

  "No ID yet, CAG," a senior chief said, pressing a headset earphone to one ear. "Sierra Bravo Four-six says they may have come across from Burma, but they didn't get a solid track. Ground clutter."

  "Somebody check World's for me." World's Air Forces was one of the standard references for the air inventories of other countries. A third-class radarman checked the entry. "Socialist Republic of the Union of Burma," he said, reading. "They've got twenty-two combat aircraft, sir. PC-7s and AT-33s." He looked up. "Nothing in here about MiGs, CAG."

  "This is damned strange, Marusko thought. If the Burmese didn't have MiGs, who did? Cowboy was a long way from Laos, and China was separated from Thailand by a hundred miles of Burmese territory. "Get the admiral on the batphone," he said, referring to the special phone system which gave a direct line to every important person and department on the ship. "Let him know we could have a situation here."

  "The MiGs are closing with the That F-5s," the chief announced. "We're getting the feed straight through Sierra Bravo now."

  "Pipe it over the speaker, Chief."

  There was a hiss of static from the loudspeaker, a burst of noise as a cockpit microphone was opened. "They're closing with the That F-5s now." The voice sounded like Bayerly's RIO. "Holy shit! Launch! Launch!"

  "Who's shooting at who?" CAG asked.

  "Blue bandit launch on one of the F-5s," Stratton said. "Missile in the air!"

  There was another burst of static, followed by Bayerly's voice. "Sierra Bravo, this is Cowboy Leader." He didn't know yet that his words were being relayed directly to Jefferson's CATCC. "Request weapons release. Repeat, request weapons release."

  "Wait one, Cowboy. Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Sierra Bravo Four-six.

  Do you copy Cowboy's request, over?"

  "Have him wait," CAG snapped. He turned to one of his staff nearby.

  "Did you get the admiral yet?"

  "On his way, CAG."

  The situation was exploding out of control with horrifying speed. If one of those MiGs launched on an American aircraft, the Tomcats would return fire.

  An international incident was in the making here, and Marusko didn't even know who the enemy was.

  He looked at one of the transparent plot boards, where sailors practiced at writing backwards were filling in data on two other airborne Tomcats.

  "Sharpshooter," he said. "Where's Sharpshooter?"

  "Due to rendezvous with Cowboy in five minutes."

  "Tell 'em to pour on the coal. Get them in there!"

  "Aye, sir."

  "And scramble the alert fifteen," CAG added, referring to pilots standing by for a launch with fifteen minutes' warning. "I want another flight up ASAP."

  1406 hours, 14 January

  Tomcat 101, near the That-Burmese border

  The pair of That F-5s had split left and right when the MiGs streaked past. The bandits had hauled around in a high-G turn, side by side in the familiar "welded wing" formation, dropping onto a Freedom Fighter's six ― on his tail and following ― bef
ore loosing the missile. Bayerly had seen the flash, had watched with disbelief as the white contrail unraveled through the sky, tracking the That plane.

  And Jefferson's only response had been the order to "Wait one." The delay grated at him worse with each passing second. How long was it going to take Jefferson's command staff to debate the issue?

  "Homeplate, this is Cowboy Leader!" he called. "We have two MiGs on two RTAF F-5s. Request permission to intervene. Over."

  "Cowboy, Homeplate," the reply came back a moment later, scratchy as it was relayed by the far-circling Hawkeye. "Negative your last. Wait one."

  The missile was turning now, following one of the F-5s. The Freedom Fighter twisted hard to port, its pilot pulling eight Gs at least as he tried to evade the oncoming air-to-air killer. The contrail swung onto the F-5's tail, still closing, and vanished into the engine exhaust. There was a brilliant flash, followed an instant later by a fireball that ate its way through the That plane, scattering fragments of burning debris across the sky…

  Bayerly watched a stubby wing and a portion of the fuselage tumble as they trailed smoke into the jungle below.

  "Homeplate! One That plane has been killed. Request weapons release!"

  "Copy, Cowboy. Wait one."

  "Kid!" Bayerly snapped. "Arm Sidewinders! We'll get a lock while we're waiting for those bastards."

  "Weapons armed." The F-14 carried eight of the deadly air-to-air AIM-9L missiles slung beneath its wings.

  Bayerly pushed the stick over, putting the Tomcat into a dive. One of the MiGs was cutting across his bow from right to left a mile ahead. He concentrated on the computer-generated images on his heads-up display, willing the targeting pipper to connect with the rapidly moving target symbol.

  "Watch the hard deck," Stratton warned. "Watch your altitude, man!"

  "Screw the hard deck!" He tightened up on the turn, feeling the Gs press him down against his ejection seat until he dropped in on the other plane's tail, half a mile behind. The MiG was at nine thousand feet and still descending, heading north.