“Lead aircraft inside their engagement zone,” the TAO announced. “Captain, we have time for four more shots on the far edge of the MEZ, if you want them?”
“Hell, yes, I want them,” the captain said, and this time the cheers in combat rose to audible levels. He watched what had quickly become such a smooth operation as four more missiles were launched.
“Captain — I have aircraft inbound from the north.”
“The north! What the hell?” He listened as his TAO called out the data and began an initial query of the aircraft.
“Looks like one of our fighters, sir. And it’s breaking IFF Mode Four. Whoever it is, it is definitely a friendly. No way I can target.”
“Call the carrier. Ask them if one of their boys is lost. Because he came out of nowhere as far as I could see — down from the Kurile Islands. And,” the TAO continued, a look of worry growing on his face, “he’s headed for the Jefferson.” Now worry dominated his expression. “Captain, the Jefferson doesn’t have air protection right now — and if we’re going to do something, we need to do it now. Should be within weapons range of the Jefferson in approximately five minutes.”
“Call the carrier, ask him what else is going on. And stand by to take it out.”
USS United States
2235 local (GMT +8)
Coyote listened to the request for information coming over the circuit, and then turned to his TAO, a puzzled look on his face. “Who the hell is that? Some tanker or something? The Air Force get lost again?”
“I don’t know, sir — but if it’s squawking Mode Four, it’s definitely a friendly.”
Coyote swore quietly. “I’m going to kill some son of a bitch when I get back Stateside. What the hell are they doing, flying in this area without letting me know?”
Suddenly, a familiar voice came over an open, nonencrypted circuit, using designated code names instead of their real identities. “Big Brother, this is Homeplate. Be advised I have a friendly inbound for recovery — no time to generate message traffic or SPINS on it. But we’re taking her on board. I can’t explain anything else, Big Brother — just trust me on this one. Home plate out.”
“Batman!” Coyote roared. “Damn it, tell me what’s going on here.”
But there was silence on the circuit. Coyote turned to his communications officer, frustrated. “Where is he?”
The communications officer shook his head. “Jefferson only has one classified circuit. If he has a contact inbound, he’s probably talking to him on that. He can’t do both at the same time, sir. He just came on this frequency to let us know not to shoot.”
USS United States
TFCC
Monday, September 23
2250 local (GMT +8)
Coyote paced the compartment, barely able to contain himself. The roar inside TFCC was continuous as the air boss and the flight deck crew raced to launch every fighter in the inventory. There was so little time, so little.
As the wave of Chinese aircraft rolled in toward the carrier, the cruiser would attempt to eliminate as many of them as possible. Even the destroyer, operating under the cruiser’s guidance, could attempt to get off a couple of shots with her shorter range missiles while the enemy was inside the missile engagement zone, or MEZ.
But MEZ was a painfully small window of opportunity and within minutes the Chinese aircraft would be in the FEZ, or fighter engagement zone, and that was where the true test of skill, training, equipment and people would take place. American lives would then be on the line as the fighters took them on one by one.
“How many in the first wave?” Coyote asked.
“It looks like about seventy, sir,” the TAO said. “Using the cruiser’s data.”
And the cruiser’s data would be better than most, given the powerful SPY-1 radar. Still, there was a chance she could be mistaken — there might be fewer. Some processing error, human or machine, could lead to false contacts.
No. Don’t even consider that. Go with the numbers your people can give you, don’t depend on false hope. Because if seventy aircraft are inbound now, you can bet that there are another seventy behind them somewhere, already starting to launch. We’ll have to go for maximum damage from the very first, no quarter given or expected, in order to avoid being overwhelmed in very short order.
He clicked the mike on. “Weapons free, all Chinese forces declared hostile. Good luck people — let’s make them pay for this.”
Batman and Tombstone had known this, he knew now. The complete and utter frustration of sitting in TFCC, watching the intense engagement take place without your participation. There could be no more frustrating feeling, your fingers clenching, moving involuntarily as though you were in the lead aircraft yourself. Why hadn’t they told him it was this difficult?
“First engagement, sir. The cruiser’s targeted ten of them — we have a launch, we have a launch.”
On the tactical display, a series of ten missile symbols rippled into being, all barreling straight up from the cruiser and toward the incoming flight. The destroyer added another three long-range missiles to the pack. Although her slower fire control system was not able to process as many immediately, the Aegis was able to provide targeting data directly to her.
“Seventy minus thirteen, what’s that leave?” Coyote asked.
“Fifty-seven, sir,” the TAO answered, leaving unspoken the words that everyone was thinking.
Fifty-seven if all the missiles found their marks. And if, in the process of shooting them down, our own people don’t screw up badly enough to get in the path of the incoming. Because we can’t afford to lose even one of our own, particularly not to friendly fire. Not with the odds the way they are now.
And how many waves of seventy fighters will the Chinese send out? We don’t even have an accurate count of their air inventory, damn it.
Doesn’t matter. Right now, if it flies, it dies, and that’s all there is to it.
Hornet 106
2251 local (GMT +8)
Thor was totally focused, and was ignoring the quick thrill of adrenaline in his blood. Discipline, that’s what it was about — the ability to control the blood lust that rose up in you as you contemplated what was to come, to control the fear that lay right behind it. Because this was the moment you trained for, dreamed about, you knew everything about in the world except how it would actually feel when you went into combat for the first time.
But this wasn’t Thor’s first time. Oh, no, not by a long shot.
“Packer flight, picture,” the monotone voice of the Hawkeye broke it. “Inbound on radial two seven zero, three waves of twenty units and one of ten. Composition fighters, supported by Mainstay command and control aircraft as well. Hornet one zero six, target lead,” and the Hawkeye continued, doling out assignments to maintain air clearance between the units. “All flights, observe missile engagement zone safety restrictions. Launch from cruiser is going down on your three o’clock at this time. Stand well clear, guys — it’s going to get messy.”
Thor throttled back slightly, and felt the Hornet sink gently beneath him. He’d get his chance — no point making the problem any more complicated than it had to be.
“All flights, Hawkeye. Cruiser has launched another ten missiles. Stay well clear of missile engagement zone.”
Twenty-three total? Well, we appreciate all the help we can get, boys and girls, but it’s going to come down to knife fighting. And that’s my business.
USS Lake Champlain
2251 local (GMT +8)
Norfolk watched the missiles arrow out on virtually identical paths, then break apart as a shotgun load would do. Each missile was assigned to a different target, but the computer was instantaneously calculating the probability of a kill and whether or not a second weapon was needed on any one aircraft. Each missile took its guidance originally from the computer on board the cruiser, with initial course and target location fed into it just microseconds before it launched.
During the first few mom
ents of flight, the picture inside the missile’s tiny brain was updated. Right now, combat was as busy as it ever would be, monitoring the initial stages of the flight and preparing any instantaneous corrections that needed to be done. As each missile continued on toward its target, it would finally acquire the enemy aircraft with its own seeker head, and at that point use its own illumination to guide it to the final kill.
“At least the fighters are staying out of the way,” the TAO said. “Good thing, too.”
Norfolk just grinned. He knew that many members of the cruiser community felt that aircraft were virtually obsolete, that a cruiser could completely protect a carrier from every possible air threat. But he wasn’t of that school, having seen far too many fights in too many parts of the world to believe that the ship was as invulnerable as most people thought. It was the low-tech stuff that screwed you up the worst, he had learned. Mines, small boats with handheld launchers, the stuff you didn’t see until it was right on you.
“Reporting target acquisition, missiles one through twelve,” the TAO announced. “On terminal—bingo.” He turned excitedly to the captain. “Ten kills, sir.”
“Ten kills assigned by the computer,” the captain corrected. A computer’s decision that a missile had intercepted its target, detonated successfully, and eliminated a threat was a good deal different from seeing the fireball yourself. “Let’s wait for the air crew confirmation.”
The TAO looked slightly taken aback, but he was too busy with his duties to worry about it.
Nonfolk turned his attention back to the screen. I hope you’re ready to go, boys and girls. Because this is going to get very nasty before very long. I don’t know how many fighters they have in their inventory, but they’re certain to have more aircraft than I have missiles onboard. Even with the United States’s help, even with perfect targeting, there’s no way I can take them all. Not in time.
Tomcat 203
2254 local (GMT +8)
“Whoa!” Bird Dog hollered. “You see that, Music? Did you ever see such a beautiful thing in your life?”
Music craned his head around to look out past Bird Dog’s ejection seat. In the air ahead, there were nine small fireballs, ugly and obscene against the blue sky.
But it wasn’t nine fireballs — it was eighteen men. Sure, Chinese, sure — but aviators just like he was. For a moment, Music felt his stomach curl into a hard knot. Was he the only one who felt this way, who realized that the people they were blasting out of the air were just regular guys? He had to be — no one else was worried. And if there’s one thing that Music was at this point, it was very, very worried.
“Looks great, sir,” he agreed heartily, wishing to hell he was anywhere else except in the back seat of this Tomcat.
“You’re damn right it looks great.” Bird Dog shouted. “What you’re looking at is a better chance of us going home in one piece with our aircraft around us!”
Music looked down at his console. The computer was reporting ten direct hits, and then it added another three to the total as the destroyer’s missiles found their targets. Music glanced back up at the sky and counted again. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve — no, there were only twelve fireballs, not thirteen.
“I count twelve, sir,” Music said.
“Yes, twelve — that’s what I’ve got. Hold on, Music — it’s almost our turn.”
“But sir… the computer shows thirteen kills. I don’t get it. What about the other aircraft?”
“Don’t worry, kid. There’ll be enough for all of us.”
“But sir, if they say it’s thirteen, but it’s really only twelve, they might miss one.”
“Give me a vector, Music,” Bird Dog ordered. “Forget it, just worry about what you see. Save it for another twenty years until you’re an admiral, OK? For now, give me a target.”
“Not yet, sir. Another wave of missiles is outbound.”
Bird Dog swore quietly. “I burn more fuel up here than I do weapons.”
As Music listened to his pilot bitch, he tried to keep track of the fireballs. But with Bird Dog wheeling around in the sky, staying clear of the missile engagements while still ready to pounce in the second, it was difficult to stay oriented. Sometimes he thought he counted ten, other times thirteen. There was no way to tell for sure. Maybe the computer was right — maybe a few fireballs were hidden behind the others. But somehow, he didn’t think so.
“Fastball, you watching this?” Bird Dog said over tactical. “You stay in place, buddy. None of that bullshit from before.”
“Roger, Lead,” Bird Dog heard Rat acknowledge, and knew she got his message. Fastball might be a hothead, but Rat seemed to have some degree of control over him. She was simply reminding him of that fact.
“That Rat, she’s something else,” Bird Dog said admiringly. “If it were me, I’d never climb back in the cockpit with that cowboy. She’s got all the right stuff. She even saved Fastball’s ass last cruise — you remember, when she punched them out when they were in that flame-out on final?”
“Yes, Bird Dog.” So that was the ideal, was it? To be bloodthirsty? And even Rat was managing to show all the right stuff, was she? Even a woman. Music felt his own personal failings more strongly than he ever had before. And the worst of it was, there was no one he could talk to about it.
Tomcat 209
2255 local (GMT +8)
“I don’t know why you’re so pleasant to them,” Fastball snapped. “The way everybody acts, you’d think Bird Dog was some sort of god.”
Rat bit back the comments she longed to make. Sure, Bird Dog was… well, Bird Dog. Abrasive, arrogant and sometimes downright infuriating. But outside of the admiral, through a weird combination of events, Bird Dog probably had more combat time than any other pilot on the ship, including the CAG. Okay, so he punched out more times than anyone had a right to expect in a career, but he brought his RIO back safe and sound. And that’s not something you could say about every pilot, now, was it?
So what are you doing back in this cockpit? This idiot almost got you killed twice, and you still fly with him? Are you out of your mind?
It was me or a nugget, a colder part of her mind responded. And a nugget, he stands no chance of coming back — somebody has to keep his ass out of trouble.
And that someone would be you?
Yes.
Stupid idea. But in that last furious conversation in the ready room, when they’d almost come to blows, she thought she had straightened him out. There would be no more of this pilot attitude, no more ignoring her and never giving her the dot. They would fight the aircraft as equals, and he would listen to her opinion. Even on matters involving flying, although she acknowledged she would have to defer to him on those.
“Music, picture,” the E-2 said. “You copied my last?”
“Roger. Give me a target, hot guy,” she heard Bird Dog answer for his RIO. A vector to a target followed, and then the E-2 Hawkeye coordinating the air battle jumped in on the circuit.
“Tomcat two zero niner, come right to course 000 to rejoin your lead. Acknowledge.”
“What?!” Fastball started swearing.
“You heard the man, Fastball,” Rat said crisply. “Now move your ass. Let’s get going.”
“But the fight’s back here,” Fastball whined. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair, I’m going to—”
Rat cut him off. “You’re going to do exactly as you were told,” she said crisply. “Because if you don’t, you will be explaining to the CAG and the admiral why you’re back on board without your canopy or your RIO. I told you, I’ve had it with your attitude. A professional follows orders, Fastball — follows orders, whether they involve the opportunity for personal glory or not. So you may not like getting broken off to fly CAP for the destroyer, but the fact is that she puts her ass on the line to keep your airfield float. The least you can do is return the favor. Now, if I don’t see this aircraft turning in approximately five seconds, I’m out of here.”
“Okay,
okay. But I’m going to have a talk about this with the CAG when we get back on board,” he muttered. He yanked the Tomcat into a violent turn, slamming Rat into the side of her ejection seat, and building up Gs to the point of forcing her into an M1 maneuver to counteract the effects.
You’re not the only one who’s going to be talking to people when we get back aboard, she swore silently, fighting to remain conscious. XO, CO, then CAG, then the admiral if I have to. One way or another, you idiot, I’m going to do my best to see that you’re grounded.
Hornet 106
2257 local (GMT +8)
“Raiders, picture. Bogies now FEZ, follow indicated vectors and take targets at will. Good hunting. See you back on the boat.” With that, the Hawkeye slipped back into a monitor mode as the individual flights of aircraft broke out to seek out their targets.
Thor had been following his target on his HUD since the initial call, and was already mentally fighting the battle. He would come in high, with Archer taking the low slot, and let Archer draw a bogie off to the south. As soon as the MiG turned, Thor would drop in behind into the killing position. He clicked on his mike. “You ready, Archer?”
“As ready as ever, boss,” the other Marine’s voice came back. “Inbound now!”
Archer slammed his wing over, rolled out of position, and bore down on their designated target. Thor kicked in his afterburners, gained altitude, and headed in the same direction although slightly offset, hoping he could circle back slightly and be in the perfect position.
He looked down and saw that Archer was already in afterburner, and called out a warning. “Watch your fuel consumption, Wayne. We don’t have time to tank.”
A single click on the mike acknowledged his transmission. As he watched, Archer cut back out of afterburner.
But the Fencer had figured out what was happening, and was kicking butt and heading for the sky. The bogie pilot clearly understood the need to gain altitude to avoid being trapped in a pincer maneuver, and Thor swore quietly. He had hoped it would work first time out, but evidently that was not to be.
Island Warriors c-18 Page 23
