1730 local (Zulu -7)
cvic
USS Jefferson
Tombstone studied the satellite picture that had been faxed to the
carrier from the NSA over secure, highly encrypted circuits. “Looks like
they’re getting ready to launch,” he said.
The IS, a photo-interpretation specialist, nodded. “That would be my
call, Admiral. How long will it take to get all those aircraft in the air?”
Tombstone studied the massed formations of aircraft. “If they space them
at thirty seconds apart, almost an hour. Drop it down to ten-second
intervals, and you’re looking at twenty minutes. They’re going to wait until
at least half of them are airborne, maybe all of them, mass up into a strike
force, and then head our way. We’ve got a little time–not much, but enough.”
“Guess we got pretty lucky, getting them to launch just when we’ve got
satellite coverage in the area,” the IS said, smiling. “Makes this job a lot
easier when you get good data points.”
“It might be luck, son. But it might just be something else as well,”
Tombstone said gravely. “Sometimes you create your own luck by playing on the
other fellow’s perceptions, feeding him misinformation.”
“Is that what happened today?” the IS asked, surprised.
“I can’t tell you. But there’s one thing you probably already know.
Commander Busby is one hell of a fine intelligence officer.”
“We know that, sir,” the IS said. “A little paranoid sometimes, maybe,
but you gotta like that in an intelligence officer.”
“I know I do,” Tombstone murmured as he reached for the bitch box toggle
switch. “TFCC, this is Magruder. Get those JAST birds in the air, and launch
the alert EA-6B Prowlers. Make sure everyone down south is tanked to the
gills. I want them bustering back up here. Chinese raid is inbound now!”
As Tombstone pulled open the door and strode down that passageway back to
TFCC, he could hear the Prowlers’engines spooling up to full military power.
Within thirty seconds, the train-rattling sounds of catapults lumbering
forward shook the overhead, ending in the gentle thump that signaled another
aircraft airborne. Moments later, a second and then a third Prowler took to
the skies. It was time for the second phase of the plan to begin.
1800 local (Zulu -8)
Operations Center Airfield
Hanoi, Vietnam
Eighty aircraft ringed the airfield, their engines turning as the pilots
performed preflight checks. The air around the field shimmered as unburned
fuel floated through the air. The rain yesterday had left the ground around
the strip soggy, and the hot, humid air seemed to concentrate the fumes. Red
streaks of dirt crisscrossed the runway, evidence of the maintenance truck’s
trips out to the waiting aircraft.
Poised at the end of the runway, ten Vietnamese Flankers and sixteen
MiG-23’s followed a similar routine. The roar of their jet engines igniting
was completely drowned out by the larger Chinese force. Even though both
countries were flying the same airframes, Bien thought he could tell the
difference between the Chinese engines and those of his own country’s
aircraft.
Bien circled his silent aircraft, preflighting the exterior by checking
that each panel was dogged down tight, that there were no leaks or unexplained
puddles of liquid around the jet, and that the tires and landing gear appeared
to be in good repair. He then climbed into the cockpit and began going
through the preflight checklist automatically. His earlier confidence had
gradually eroded into a numb certainty that this was his last flight. The
familiar details of preflight steadied him.
He glanced down to the last aircraft to start its engines. Mein Low had
walked out to the airfield with Bien, then broken off to head for his aircraft
without even a word of good luck. Now the five F-10’s, sleek and deadly,
shimmered in the heat waves coming up off the tarmac.
At last, Bien started his Flanker’s engines. The engines spooled up,
slowly at first, then the RPMs rising quickly as the stator gained momentum
and overcame initial mechanical friction. The sound slid up octaves in
seconds, and had soon picked up enough harmonics and undertones to be the
normal full-throated scream of raw power.
His radio popped and crackled for a moment, then began spitting out