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!”