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.”