“The Chinese have purchased Russian and North Korean assistance with promises of economic concessions in Vietnam and the Spratlys.”
General Forest, the Army Chief of Staff, started to laugh, out of surprise, but stopped himself.
Peck nodded. “I agree. Normally I’d say Moscow and Pyongyang would be fools for agreeing to such an arrangement. Talk about a pig in a poke.”
“But the source is reliable,” insisted Peck, “and we believe it shows what they all think of our chances. We’ve been top dog for a long time, gentlemen, but some of the dogs don’t think we’re that tough anymore.”
“It’s still a bargain made in hell,” Kastner remarked.
Peck nodded. “The President publicly committed us to defend Vietnam from Chinese aggression. Now it’s time to put up or shut up.”
“The reasons for defending Vietnam haven’t gone away,” Forest reminded them.
“But the job’s gotten a lot harder,” said General Warner. Air Force and Navy aircraft would have been the weapons used to stop Chinese forces. Now, their power was reduced, and their vulnerability increased.
“That was the entire purpose of the Chinese plan. They knew we would commit ourselves publicly if our risk was low, and once we committed, they changed the game. It was a setup from the start, and we’re trapped.”
“It would still be bad if they overran Vietnam,” Admiral Kramer observed. “There’d be an economic cost, and domestic and foreign political cost.”
“The damage to our reputation abroad could be severe,” agreed Peck.
“‘There go the Americans again, not keeping their promises,’” chimed in General Forest. “Let’s use a Chinese term. It’s about face. They’ve already gained some by giving us a black eye, and it’s paying off. Does anyone want to guess how many new friends they’ll have if they actually take over Vietnam?”
General Kastner shook his head. “We can’t trade lives for pride.”
“I have to disagree, sir,” countered Forest. His tone was respectful, but firm as well. “That isn’t the trade-off. It’s fight here,” he paused looking around the room, “and lose some people, or fight later in a lot of different places, and against a stronger enemy. Does anyone think the Chinese will stop here? They’ve already promised their allies a piece of the Spratlys!”
Peck said, “What if we change the rules? Can we increase their cost?”
“Widen the war,” said Kramer. “Threaten them anywhere and everywhere. We can’t hit the gun, but there are a lot of targets that are in Tomahawk range, or in range of carrier aircraft. We can sink every naval unit and shoot down every aircraft we can find. And we know about the Spratlys,” he said, nodding toward Peck.
“Wide-scale warfare,” Kastner wondered out loud, but then his voice changed. “Hit them where they can’t hit us back. I agree.”
Peck nodded. “It’s an option. I’ll convey your recommendations to the President.”
USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76) in the South China Sea November 27
On the flight deck, everything was normal, if a maelstrom of noise, metal, and hot exhaust can ever be called normal. Rows of strike aircraft sat armed and ready, while fighters and radar-warning aircraft took off and landed at regular intervals, protecting the task force.
The pilots’ orders were clear. Push right up to the Chinese coast. Shoot down any aircraft in Chinese markings you find, sink any ship flying the Chinese flag. But don’t cross the coast. Not until we’re ready.
Below in plot, they were still trying to get ready, hours after targets had been assigned and authorization received. Squadron commanders waited impatiently while the planners struggled and argued.
The target list was ambitious, with primary, secondary, and tertiary targets assigned to each aircraft. Defense-suppression missions were supposed to arrive moments, just seconds before the strikers made their runs. Enemy defenses were supposed to be located by reconnaissance UAVs that would datalink the position back to command aircraft. Those planes would in turn task in-flight aircraft to attack those targets.
But every step in that process involved a position—a GPS position. The heavily automated precision-targeting systems had to be adapted to other, less precise navigation systems. Those systems had errors, much more error then the planners were used to. In many cases, the errors were too great for the precisely timed tactics of the manuals.
The strikes would launch, late, and the planners could not guarantee that all the strikers would come back.
Space Force Headquarters, Miramar November 29
Ray heard the klaxon in his office. He ran outside, expecting to see fire engines racing by. His first thought, of the hydrogen and oxygen tanks at the pad, was so frightening that his mind raced, searching for some other emergency. A toxic spill? Did someone fall? Terrible things to hope for, but better than a fire in the fuel area.
He rounded the corner of his office building, which gave him a clear line of sight to the launch compound. It was over a mile away, but seemed normal. Then he heard machinegun fire. He ran faster.
An open-topped Humvee loaded with armed Marines roared past and he waved frantically, and yelled, still running. He heard someone recognize him. “It’s McConnell, hold up,” and it skidded to a stop.
They made room for him in front and he jumped in, the driver flooring the accelerator. Someone behind yelled into his ear over the noise of the diesel engine.
“It’s a full alert. Radar’s detected a slow-moving aircraft headed for the base. He’s already inside the prohibited zone, and he won’t answer on the radio.”
The street ended, and the open area surrounding the launchpad replaced the buildings on either side.
McConnell heard the machine gun again, and located the firer from the sound. It was another Humvee with a pintle-mounted machine gun. They were stopped, and the gunner was pointing his weapon up. Ray followed the line of tracers, and saw a small speck. It looked like a light plane still a few miles away.
“He can’t hit anything at that range,” Ray shouted.
“He’s trying to warn him off,” the driver shouted back. Ray noticed the driver was an officer, a Marine lieutenant. The Marine picked up the vehicle’s radio microphone. “This is Hall. I can see him. It’s a light plane, a Cessna or something like it. He’s at low altitude, and he’s headed straight for the pad complex.”
“What’s he going to do?” asked McConnell.
Lieutenant Hall shrugged. “You tell me. It could be a suicide crash, or loaded with commandos. Or he could drop leaflets that say ‘Save the Whales.’”
Hall continued at breakneck speed, arriving at the hangar after the longest sixty seconds of Ray’s life. As the vehicle braked, Marines jumped to the ground and ran to take up positions covering the hangar and its precious resident.
Ray could see other squads racing into position, and more weapons opened up on the approaching plane. It was closer, and he could hear the plane’s small engine snarl as the pilot opened up the throttle. Its speed increased slightly, and he lowered the nose. Was he going to crash the hangar?
Tracers surrounded the plane. Ray knew intellectually how hard it was to hit even a slow aircraft with a machine gun, but right then he was infuriated with the gunners who couldn’t hit something that large, that slow, flying in a straight line.
It was even closer, and he could see it was a high-winged civilian plane, a four-seater. He’d flown them himself. It was nose-on, headed straight for him. The drone of the engine increased quickly, both in pitch and volume.
Although he couldn’t see any weapons, he suddenly felt the urge to run for cover, but they hadn’t planned for an air raid. The hangar was poor protection. Besides, wasn’t that what they were aiming for?
Something fluttered away from the side of the aircraft, and for a moment Ray thought the machine gunners had actually hit. Then he recognized the shape as one of the side doors. A parachute jump? But they were too low, no more than five hundred feet.
They were almost at the hangar, and the Marines nearby had raised their weapons, tracking the plane but not firing without an order.
“Hold fire!” Hall shouted, then repeated the order into the radio. He turned to Ray. “If we hit it now, it could crash into the hangar.”
“Assuming that isn’t their plan,” Ray muttered.
McConnell watched its path, wishing it would vanish. It didn’t, but at the last moment it did veer a little to the left, and in a few seconds Ray was sure it was not headed for hangar. He couldn’t feel relief.
The plane was headed for the launchpad, about a hundred yards away. He saw a man-sized object leave the plane and drop toward the ground. It had fins on one end and a point on the other. It looked like nothing so much as a giant dart.
Ray stood and watched the object fall, looking even more dartlike as it fell nose-first. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the Marines, with better reflexes, were all hugging the ground.
It struck almost exactly in the center of the pad, exploding with a roar. The concussion was enough to stagger him a hundred yards away, and misshapen fragments cartwheeled out from the ugly brown smoke cloud.
Ray was still standing, dazed and unsure of what to do next, when a pair of Marine SuperHornets zoomed overhead in pursuit of the intruder. His eye followed the jets as they quickly caught up with the Cessna, still in sight, but headed away at low altitude.
One of the Hornets broke off to the right, then cut left across prop plane’s path. McConnell heard a sound like an angry chain saw, and a stream of tracers leapt from its nose in front of the trespasser. The other jet was circling left, and had lowered its flaps and landing gear in an attempt to stay behind the Cessna.
Lieutenant Hall’s radio beeped, and he listened for a minute before turning to Ray. “They’ve ordered him to land, and he’s cooperating.” Glancing at the lethal Hornets circling the “slow mover,” he said, “I sure would.”
Remembering the bomb, Ray ran over to the still-smoking pad. Acrid fumes choked him, but he ignored them, then almost stumbled on the debris littering the once-smooth surface. Slowing down, he picked his way over metal fragments and chunks of concrete.
His heart sank when he saw the crater though the clearing smoke. Easily three meters across, it was at least that deep. Torn steel rods jutted out from the sides at crazy angles.
Admiral Schultz came up though the smoke, standing beside Ray and gazing at the crater. Ray saw Schultz look him up and down, then ask, “You look fine. Is everyone OK?”
Ray stared at him for a minute, then replied, “I don’t know.”
Schultz shook him by the shoulder, not roughly, but as if to wake him. “Ray, snap out of it. We’ve got to check for casualties, and see what the damage to the pad is. We can’t let this slow us down.”
Ray nodded, and started to check the area. He spotted people he knew, and set them to work. He saw Marines working as well, moving from person to person, making sure everyone was all right, helping some who were hurt.
Lieutenant Hall trotted up to Schultz and saluted. “Sir, they’ve got the intruder lined up for landing.”
“Right, let’s go, then.” He called to McConnell. “Ray! Can you come?” McConnell had overheard the lieutenant and was already heading for the Humvee.
The lieutenant drove almost as fast to the runway as he had to the launchpad. It was located on the part of the base still being used by the Marines, and at speed, it took five minutes to cover.
Ray saw armed patrols all over the base and signs of heavier weapons being deployed. Wheeled vehicles with SAM launchers on top rumbled by, and he saw a column of tracked fighting vehicles being loaded and fueled.
A sentry at the end of the airfield spotted the Humvee’s flashing light and waved them onto a taxiway, pointing to the far end. A cluster of vehicles surrounded the Cessna, and the two Hornets whoostled overhead, as if they were daring it to take off.
Ray recognized General Norman, standing to one side, as armed Marines secured the plane. Its two occupants were being half-dragged out of the plane and efficiently searched. A man and a woman, both were in their early twenties, dressed in fashionably mismatched pastel colors, their hair short on top, long on the side. To Ray’s eyes, they looked like a couple of college students, straight off the campus.
“Don’t put weapons in space!” one of them shouted as he was searched.
“Down with Defender!” the girl shouted. “We won’t let you turn space into a battlefield.”
Ray was in shock. He wanted to grab the two of them, show them the damaged pad, the injured being taken to the hospital. Or show them the Battle Center, and what was at stake.
General Norman’s face was made of hard stone, and Schultz looked ready to order two executions on the spot. But they weren’t moving or saying a word. Maybe they couldn’t. But Ray didn’t either. He watched the MPs cuff the two civilians and lead them away.
Later in the day, Ray reported to the admiral. Schultz’s office was filled with people. General Norman occupied the only other chair, but a Marine JAG officer, the base’s Public Relations officer, and Defender’s Security officer took up most of the remaining floor space. They’d all been waiting for Ray.
He didn’t bother with introductory remarks. “The engineers say they can fix the pad by tomorrow evening. They’ll use the same stuff they use to repair bombed-out runways. It won’t be worth much after Defender uses it, but it will be fine for the launch. Some of the handling equipment was damaged, but again, it can be repaired quickly.” He half smiled. “One of the advantages of jury-rigging all this gear is that it’s pretty easy to fix.”
Schultz just said, “Thanks, Ray,” and turned to the Security officer.
“They’re not Chinese agents, of if they are, the Chinese are making some bad personnel choices. Their names are Frank and Wendy Beaumont, and they’re siblings, students at UCSD. They’re well-known activists at the school, and belong to several political organizations. The plane’s their dad’s, and both have been taking flying lessons.”
“We think they had help with the bomb, but only from other students. It was an improvised shaped charge. The boy, who’s a sophomore, described it in detail, and claims he did it all himself, but I doubt it.”
Schultz nodded, then looked at the Public Relations officer, a Marine major, who reported, “The press is having a field day with this. Half the headlines read, ‘Marines Fire on College Students,’ and the other half read ‘Marines Fail to Protect Secret Spacecraft.’ Either way we can’t win. Some of them are even speculating that the Defender actually was damaged, and of course we can’t show them that it isn’t.”
Schultz replied, “Let them say it is. If the Chinese think we’re hurt, that’s fine. Also, show them the people who were hurt in the blast.
“I just got off the phone with the hospital,” he continued. “The total is five hurt, one seriously enough to need surgery to remove a bomb fragment. All of them will recover fully.”
“I’m glad nobody was killed,” General Norman rumbled. “But we can’t assume that there won’t be another attack. I personally want to apologize for letting that plane get through. It won’t happen again. The Commandant has told me I can have anything I need to protect you and this base.”
“For as long as you need it, we will stay at full alert. We’re keeping fighter patrols and helicopter gunships overhead twenty-four hours a day. There will be no further interruptions.”
Space Force Headquarters, Miramar December 1
Biff Barnes knocked twice on the door to Ray McConnell’s BOQ room, then tried the knob. It was unlocked, and as Biff opened it, he heard someone typing. Ray sat hunched over the keyboard, in his pajamas.
“Ray, this is supposed to be a wake-up call. Remember? I told you about something called ‘Crew Rest’?”
“I remembered something early this morning that I had to deal with,” McConnell answered, his attention still on the screen.
“After dea
ling with stuff last night until one o’clock.” Barnes dropped onto the edge of the bed. “I need you alert and at peak for tomorrow, Ray. When did you wake up this morning?” His question had a slight edge to it.
“Four.”
“So you think three hours is enough?”
“Okay, I’ll take a nap after lunch.”
“That’s when we’re supposed to review the new sensor handoffs.”
“Oh.”
“Join us halfway through,” Biff told him. “Now I’ll see you at crew breakfast in fifteen minutes.”
Barnes left and Ray quickly showered and dressed. In spite of his fatigue, it didn’t take any effort to hurry, and Ray wondered what percentage of his blood was composed of adrenaline. He’d been running on nerves for way too long.
Feeling like a fool, he put on the blue coveralls Barnes had given him. The left shoulder had a patch that said U.S. SPACE FORCES, and the left breast had one that said DEFENDER, along with his name stenciled below it. Although they were attractive, if flashy, Ray didn’t remember approving either design. When asked, Barnes had told him that some things were better left in the hands of fighter pilots.
Barnes had insisted on Ray wearing the coveralls at all times this week. “Of course it makes you stand out. You’re flight crew, and that makes you different. Let everyone see it. You not only built Defender, you’ve got the balls to fly in her as well. That’s the ultimate vote of confidence, and your people will appreciate it.”
The mess hall looked better and better. Geoffrey had changed the decor again, this time from Southwest to Space. Posters of starfields and spaceships filled the walls, and the classical music was appropriately grand.
Ray hurried over to the crew table, and was gratified to see he was not late. Steve Skeldon and Sue Tillman were also just sitting down. Both of them wore military insignia with their coveralls, and made them look natural. Ray thought he probably looked all right, as long as he stood close to one of them. He still felt like a pretender.
Combat Page 28
