“So who’s in that fur ball off the coast?”
“Let’s just say that the Vietnamese government made some permanent
choices about the future of their country,” she replied. “And it looks like
China’s a little annoyed about it. We’re standing by in case they need a
hand. But from what I can tell, they’re doing pretty damned well on their
own.”
1930 local (Zulu -7)
Niblet 601
“Well, will you look at that?” the SH-60F pilot yelled over the ICS.
Angel 101 was on SAR, hovering a discreet distance from the air battle to be
immediately available for rescues. “Damned fighters, letting one sneak off
like that!”
It wasn’t too often that the less glamorous elements of the carrier air
wing got a good look at a bad guy. Especially a hurt one.
“Doing 270 knots,” his copilot said. “I make his closest point of
approach less than one mile. And he’s headed for the carrier.”
“Let Homeplate know they got a kamikaze inbound. Give me a course to
close him.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“You betcha!” the pilot said. “Those damned Penguin missiles have been
hanging on our wings for too long. Let’s see if these suckers work as
advertised.”
1930 local (Zulu -7)
F-10
The carrier was only eight miles away, but it already loomed huge,
blocking out most of the horizon. He felt his gut tighten and tried not to
think about the next few minutes. It was his duty–his destiny, perhaps. If
it meant that he must die, then so be it. The possibility of doing permanent
damage to the carrier was too good to pass up.
Less than five minutes to live. He shut out the sounds of his backseater
screaming. The man had figured out his plan a few minutes ago, and had been
wailing ever since. Mein Low had taken the precaution of switching the
ejection seat controls to front seat only. It would have been better for the
backseater’s karma if he’d been able to face it bravely, but then the wheel of
the universe moved in mysterious ways.
1931 local (Zulu -7)
Niblet 601
“Roger, Homeplate, you heard right. Tallyho on bogey. Taking with
Penguin.” The pilot toggled the safety cover aside, took careful aim, and
then let fly the Penguin missile tucked onto the underbelly of his helo.
“Fox-hell, Homeplate, what do I call these?” Fox one was a Phoenix, Fox
two a Sparrow, and Fox three a Sidewinder. “This a Fox four?”
He watched the antiship missile close on the crippled Flanker. The first
missed, but the second scored a solid hit on the windscreen. The remaining
tattered fragments of Plexiglas shimmered in the air, along with remnants of
the cockpit. Including, he assumed, the pilot.
“Ain’t Fox four,” he heard the carrier TAO reply, amid a few cheers in
the background.
“Well, how do I report it?”
“Let’s just call it a first, and leave it at that. You’re credited with
one kill, Angel One.”
“Dang!” The pilot high-fived his copilot. “That plane captain’s gonna
love me! Bet he never thought he’d get to paint a kill on his helo!”
1928 local (Zulu 4)
Vietnamese Op Center
On the ground, the Chinese officer left in charge screamed in rage.
“Cowards!” he swore, yanking his pistol from his belt. He reached for the
first senior Vietnamese officer he could find, intending to execute him
immediately.
As he brought his pistol up, he felt something punch him in the middle of
his back. It was more than a punch, he thought, surprised at the sudden
detachment that seemed to have descended on his mind. No ordinary blow could
have thrown him across the room, bashing him into a GCI console. He noted
that he was sprawled on the ground, partially underneath one console, and the
fact did not seem surprising.
His brain, operating on what residual blood remained circulating in it
through sheer momentum, finally made the connection between the hard blow,
sudden mind-numbing pain, and the warm, gaping hole immediately below his rib
cage. As his vision began to turn black at the edges, he tried to turn his
head to see who had shot him. An impossible task, since every Vietnamese