in. Nicknamed Tomboy, the diminutive redheaded Naval Flight Officer had been
one of the first women assigned to a combat squadron.
“What the-what do you mean, a blip?” Spider demanded.
“Just that. A couple of hits on the AWG-9, then it disappeared.”
“Sea clutter. Ain’t nothing out here high speed,” Bird Dog said. He
shrugged, and felt a moment of sympathy for the two Radar Intercept Operators.
If the presence patrol missions were boring for a pilot, they were doubly so
for the RIO. Few radar contacts, nothing to track or shoot at, and not even
the simple pleasure of flying to make up for it. Even if there had been
adversary air, Bird Dog wouldn’t have been inclined to worry. He took it as
an article of faith that there wasn’t an aircraft built or a missile launched
that could touch a Tomcat. RIOs always worried too much.
“You’re probably right. Nothing in the LINK on it,” Gator said uneasily.
The AWG-9 had its problems with look-down capability, a problem partially
remedied on the later versions of the F-14 and somewhat improved on the
F/A-18. “Then again, this area’d be out of range of the surface search radars
off the ships. And it’s awful calm down there to be generating much sea
clutter. We got time to swing back and take another look?”
Bird Dog glanced at the fuel gauge. “Nope, not unless you really need
to. We stay around too much longer and Jeff’s gonna have to launch a Texaco.
Then we’ll catch it when we get back.”
“No, not solid enough for that,” Gator answered. “Probably just sea
clutter, like you said. Still …”
“How about we drop down a little lower while we head back to the boat?”
Bird Dog asked. “You take a quick look around on the turn. Maybe it’s a
fishing boat or something.”
It was, he thought, the least he could do for the RIO, who’d suffered
through an occasional barrel roll or period of inverted flight to break up
Bird Dog’s own boredom. Chasing down sea clutter ghosts would give them both
a break from the monotony of straight and level flight.
0828 local (Zulu -7)
Island 203
A high-pitched whine, barely audible at the edge of his perception,
caught his attention. Chu Hsi paused, halfway out of the tank. Was it barely
possible that there might be another aircraft in the area? Some unexpected
event to relieve the unending tedium?
He scanned the horizon, turning in a circle, looking for the source of
the noise. He selfishly said nothing to the others, keeping this experience
all for himself. Then he would be the one with the new experience to relate,
rather than having to share it with the humorless gunner.
A hint of movement on the horizon caught his attention. Too small and
too low to be an aircraft, unless it were driven by a suicidal pilot, the
shape skimmed over the tops of the waves, barely clearing the water. It was
impossible–no! He’d watched the American aircraft during their entire
transit, and he would have seen anything leave their wings.
Four seconds had passed since the flash had caught his attention. Chu
Hsi opened his mouth to yell at the rest of the tank crew.
The missile streaked in from the horizon, traveling at Mach 4, about 2400
miles an hour. The first guttural scream barely had time to start out of Chu
Hsi’s throat before the missile hit his tank.
The fuel and ammunition flashed the interior of the tank into a searing
hell, reducing the gunner inside to ash and cinders. A split second later,
shards of shrapnel shredded Chu Hsi into barely recognizable chunks.
Fragments of tank, island, and men exploded outward and upward on the
crest of an explosive fireball. Responding to the inexorable insistence of
gravity, the debris eventually hung in midair for a split second, two hundred
meters above the water, before beginning its descent back into the warm waters
of the South China Sea.
Had he still been alive, Chu Hsi would have been pleased to see that the
Spratly rock he hated so much no longer existed.
0829 local (Zulu -7)
Tomcat 205