of the South China Sea below Mischief Reef. “More of the same, but in a
different light,” he replied. “China and her neighbors have been quietly
tolerating these incredible acts of aggression long enough. It is time to
seal the fate of American influence in this part of the world.”
“War?”
“Hardly necessary. The Americans have so little tolerance for taking
casualties that I doubt they will even go to war again. No, war is not
necessary. A brief skirmish, a few deaths, and the American public will be
screaming for a withdrawal. With them out of the arena, settling the question
of the Spratly Islands becomes a simple matter.”
“Vietnam may not think so.”
“Ah, a hardy people. Tough, resilient, and good fighters. And smart.
They will understand the situation, with two billion potential Chinese
soldiers massed to the north, and no American presence. After all, we beat
them badly in 1987 in the Spratly Islands, and sank six of their precious
patrol boats that intruded into our waters. Now that they no longer have the
Soviet Union as their protector and source of equipment, I think we’ll find
them much more cooperative. They’ve been remarkably silent about the loss of
their patrol boat, which is a good sign.”
“The next phase will begin when?”
“Soon. Very soon.”
1100 local (Zulu -7)
Air Ops passageway
USS Jefferson
Bird Dog studied the next day’s flight schedule with a sinking feeling.
The next day’s missions were posted outside the CAG ops door. A hand-lettered
sign on the door itself warned casual perusers to funnel any corrections or
deletions through their squadron ops officers, and not to bother bringing
their sniveling little complaints directly to the CAG ops gurus.
“Lemme see,” Gator said, reaching for the sheet.
“Hold on! I just got to us,” Bird Dog said, dancing away from his RIO.
“Damn, we’re on here again.”
“Imagine that. Just because you’re a pilot and I’m a RIO, these dogs
think they can just go and assign us to fly any ol’ time they want! I tell
you, the nerve!” Gator said sarcastically.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Bird Dog said. “Look at the alert
schedule.”
“Again? Six Alert Five–six? What are we doing with six F-14’s from our
squadron on alert?” Gator stared at the closed ops door. “We got to get
those guys a urinalysis sometime real soon.”
“There’s more. Check out the Hornets. And the tankers and the Hummers.
CAG’s got a whole alpha strike sitting on the deck, ready to go. Look at the
load-out, though.”
“All air-to-air, except for the S-3’s, of course.”
“So we’re not going alpha striking. But we are ready for an air threat.”
“And in the meantime, with all this air-power sitting on deck at alert
five, the only aircraft CAG’s actually launching is that one lone Hummer?”
Gator asked.
“Not quite. Last page,” Bird Dog said, flipping rapidly to the back
sheet. There, next to the traditional cartoon that always graced the daily
flight schedule, was one final note.
“The JAST birds,” Bird Dog said. “Out of all the fighter and attack
birds on board, they’re the only ones that get to go flying tomorrow.”
1300 local (Zulu -7)
Admiral’s Cabin
Tombstone watched Batman pace and tried to assess his old wingman’s frame
of mind. Batman wandered restlessly around Tombstone’s cabin, pausing to look
at plaques on the wall, to pick up a small model of an F-14 from the coffee
table, to riffle through some messages left carelessly on the credenza.
Finally, he wandered back over toward the couch, put his hands on his hips,
and glared at the admiral.
“If you weren’t an admiral, Tombstone, I’d tell you what you could do
with this damned fool scheme. But since you are-”
“What, you’re going to let that stop you this time? Why? Rank’s never
been a curb on your temper before, Batman.”
“Sometimes it ought to be,” Batman muttered. Yet Tombstone was right.
Until he’d gotten to the Pentagon, Batman had never been one to balk at
setting a senior officer straight. But that’d been before he’d seen how
casually and easily anyone wearing the stars could irrevocably ruin a