CARRIER 2: VIPER STRIKE By Keith Douglass

That put the targets across the line, well into Burma. “Rog,” he said.

“How many?”

“Two bogies,” Taggart replied. “Repeat, two bogies. I think they’re

low. Keep losing them in the ground clutter.”

“Stay on ’em, Malibu! You have them?”

“No joy, Batman … no! Got ’em! Two bogies, range now one-zero

miles.

Shit, Batman. They’re coming straight in!”

Batman hauled back on the stick, clawing for sky. Whatever was about to

happen, he wanted some room to maneuver.

The bogies kept coming.

CHAPTER 9

1250 hours, 17 January

Tomcat 232

“Let’s split up and see if we can get a better look at these guys,”

Batman said. He kept the F-14 in a sharp, twisting climb. The jungle

fell away beneath the Tomcat as sunlight flooded the interior of the

cockpit.

“Roger that,” Taggart replied. “Not too far, though. Don’t want to

lose you.”

American aircraft did not generally use tight-knit wingman formations

but preferred the system known as “loose deuce.” Having one of the two

planes well out in front of the other, and a mile higher or lower,

improved the chances of spotting the enemy, as well as giving two sets

of aircraft radars a better look at the target.

“Range eight miles,” Malibu called from the backseat. Batman leveled

off at nine thousand feet, already searching the northwestern horizon

for some visual sign of the approaching planes. “Still coming, speed

six hundred knots.”

“Okay. Call up the Jeff and tell them we have a situation here. I

think we’d-”

“Shit!” Malibu exploded. “We have four bogies now, repeat, four

bogies!”

They must have been flying wingtip to wingtip and hard on the deck to

confuse the Tomcats’ radars.

“Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Tomcat Two-three-two,” Batman radioed.

“Do you copy, over?”

“Two-three-two, Homeplate,” a voice answered moments later. Radio

communications with the Jefferson were being relayed through a Hawkeye

circling near Bangkok. “We COPY.”

“Homeplate, we have four, repeat, four bogies closing from three-four-oh

at six hundred. They’re coming in over the line!”

“Copy, Two-three-two. Break off and RTB.”

“Rog,” Batman said. “You copy that, Price? Time to get out of Dodge.”

“I don’t think they’re going to let us, Batman,” Taggart said. “Tell

you what. Get down on the deck while I run interference.”

Batman thought about it for a brief moment. Taggart’s suggestion made

sense. Tomcat 232 was carrying two Sidewinder missiles in addition to

the TARPS pod, not enough for a sustained dogfight if it came to that.

Taggart was carrying eight missiles, and had greater maneuverability as

well.

“Where the hell are our escorts anyway?” he snapped.

“We have six That F-5s at one-five-nine,” Malibu replied, “Range thirty

miles.”

“Great.” By the time they arrived, the fight would be over. He made

his decision. “Right you are, Price Tag,” he said. “Have fun and mind

the ROES.”

He banked left into a sideslip dive which took the F-14 hurtling toward

the jungle canopy. Tree-clad mountains rushed up to meet him, growing

larger until he was so close that the ground became a featureless green

blur.

Taggart’s aircraft dropped astern, taking up a position between the

bogies and Batman’s plane. The Rules of Engagement still applied. They

couldn’t fire until they were fired upon, but Taggart’s maneuver would

give Batman the chance to get clear whatever happened.

Batman leveled off at two thousand feet above the treetops, heading

south. He cut back on the throttles, cutting the Tomcat’s speed until

the wings slid forward. He didn’t want to get too far ahead of Taggart.

A river flashed into view, winding through a valley between emerald

hilltops.

Batman saw the flash in the same instant as Malibu.

“SAM! SAM!” his RIO yelled. “Seven o’clock!”

“Got it!” Batman hauled the stick left instinctively, turning into the

missile in an attempt to make it overshoot. He recognized that

corkscrewing white trail at once, the signature of a shoulder-launched

SA-7, called “Grail” by NATO. Some bastard down there had lobbed it at

them as they cleared the treeline along the river.

“It’s closing!”

“Hang on, Malibu!” he yelled. “Pop flares!”

But he already knew they weren’t going to make it.

1250 hours, 17 January

Tomcat 203

“There they are!” Taggart’s RIO called. “They’re coming in behind us!”

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