CARRIER 2: VIPER STRIKE By Keith Douglass

Eagle Leader. Do you read me, over?”

“Eagle, Snow White. Loud and clear. Go ahead.”

“Snow White, we have a Long Track paint. Time to sing them your song.”

“Copy that, Eagle Leader. You guys prefer blues or the hard stuff?”

“Sing ’em the blues, Snow White.”

“Snow White’s jamming, Tombstone,” Dixie said. Somewhere miles to the

south, an EA-6B Prowler of VAQ-143 designated Snow White circled at

altitude, transmitting on frequencies designed to jam enemy radar. The

jamming would break down at close range, but it would shield the alpha

strike from long-ranged attacks and keep the enemy guessing about That

and American numbers and intentions.

“Chickenhawk, Chickenhawk, this is Eagle Leader,” Tombstone called.

“Where are you, Smiley?”

“Eagle, Chickenhawk Lead,” Lieutenant Commander John ‘Smilin’ Jack” Van

Dore replied. The former XO of VFA-161 had moved into the skipper’s

slot after the tragic death of Marty French at Wonsan. “We’re one

hundred fifty miles out and catching up.”

“Chickenhawk, Gainfuls are confirmed. You guys are going to be busy.”

“Roger that, Eagle. Warm ’em up a little for us, will you?”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

“Tombstone!” Dixie shouted. “Trapdoor is under fire!”

“Right,” Tombstone snapped. “What’s going down?”

“I’m getting missile indicators.” Dixie paused, reading his scope. “SAM

launch, Tombstone! SAMs!”

And Tombstone knew that Hsiao had sprung his trap.

0742 hours, 21 January

Falcon 992, over the Nam Mae Taeng Valley

Lieutenant Colonel Vasti Nithanivituk pulled back on his Falcon’s stick

and kicked in the afterburner. Green-clad mountains wheeled past his

canopy as he stood the nimble aircraft on its tail and boosted for

altitude. A veteran of six months in the United States training on

F-16s at Nevis AFB, he was proud of his aircraft, fiercely proud of what

he could make it do. The Falcon shrieked into the sky, inverting as it

twisted out to an Immelmann.

The red warning light for a SAM lock still flashed on his console, next

to the glowing computer symbols of his HUD. Upside down now, pressed

into his ejection seat by the G-force of his loop, he looked “up”

through the canopy, searching the greenery and valley folds overhead.

There!

He’d seen films at Nevis, but never the real thing. Just as the

American pilots always described the thing, the SAM did look like a

telephone pole as it rose from the jungle, balanced on a tongue of white

flame. “Trapdoor!

Trapdoor!” he shouted in That. “Launch! I have a launch! Nam Mae

Taeng Valley, sector three!” The missile was accelerating rapidly,

arrowing toward him.

Lieutenant Colonel Vasti was the leader of Trapdoor, the That force

assigned to secure air superiority over U Feng. He’d flown over twelve

hundred hours in modern interceptors and was widely regarded as the best

of Thailand’s elite fighter pilot corps.

He was scared now. The SAM was less than a mile off now, still

accelerating as its radar held its lock on his ship. This was the worst

part of evading a SAM launch, as his American instructors had warned

him, those long, long seconds when he had to keep his aircraft flying

straight and level until the SAM was committed. He kept his eye on the

missile, now visible only as a bright pinpoint of light, a flare in the

sky rapidly growing brighter.

Now! Vasti stabbed at the chaff button and rolled his aircraft into a

hard right turn. The idea was to twist out of the way before the

missile could react and change course. Once its solid fuel motor burned

out, it would pursue a ballistic trajectory into the ground and explode.

The skin on his face stretched back from his eyes and mouths with the

force of his 7-G turn. He kept hitting the chaff dispenser, spewing

packets of metallic foil along the Falcon’s path in a cloud which would

distract the SAM’s radar and let him slip away.

Recovering from the break, he chanced a look back over his right

shoulder. The enemy missile should …

He had only a second’s glimpse of the missile as it arrowed up toward

his plane. Twenty feet long and over a foot thick, the Gainful had an

eighty-kilogram warhead which could explode on impact or by proximity

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *