CARRIER 2: VIPER STRIKE By Keith Douglass

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!”

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