Alpha Kat

by William H. Lovejoy

Kimball got up and paced in small circles near the end of the bed. Both Wilcox and McEntire watched him.

  Kimball stopped suddenly and turned toward him. “You knew this from day one, right?”

  Wilcox only considered lying for ten seconds. “Yeah, we did. Not that the drug angle doesn’t weigh heavily, Kimball, it does. The major concern, though, is that Lon Pot could buy himself one government, then another.”

  “He’s bought this one?”

  “A lot of palms have been greased. We expect very little resistance to the takeover. And once he’s got himself a country, he legitimizes his operations. That makes it tougher to combat, without obtaining UN sanctions. And those sanctions might be watered down.”

  Wilcox forced himself to slow down. He did not want to oversell.

  “And more countries after that?” McEntire asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “He’s got his fingers in some Cambodian and Laotian pockets, too. The intelligence estimate … top secret, by the way, and not something I should be giving you … says he’ll run into very little opposition.”

  “You believe the intelligence estimate?” Kimball asked.

  “I wrote it.”

  “Damn it. Is this your scenario alone? How high does it go?”

  “High enough.”

  “I want to know.”

  “That won’t happen, Kimball. You got the money, didn’t you? That tell you anything?”

  “Have you been working this from a single source?” Kimball asked.

  “Hell, no! I have five, one of whom is in a sensitive position.” Simonson had four, and Wilcox had one.

  “This highly placed spook,” McEntire said, “he’s naturally reliable.”

  “Naturally.”

  “For money, or for ideology?”

  Wilcox thought about hedging on that one, but did not. “Money.”

  “That makes me feel better,” McEntire said.

  “The spook confirms your domino theory of countries tumbling to Lon Pot, one after another?” Kimball said.

  “Lon Pot has started calling himself the Prince of Southeast Asia.”

  “Christ! How come the world has so many self-ordained saviors?”

  “We see him becoming another Idi Amin, another Saddam Hussein.”

  Kimball abruptly plopped into his chair. “I wish we had something to drink.”

  “The twenty-seventh,” Wilcox repeated.

  “We’re in Dacca then,” Kimball told him.

  “After the twenty-seventh, you’d be taking on a country, rather than a druglord.”

  McEntire dropped his feet to the floor with a thud. “He’s still the same asshole.”

  “If things go the way they’re supposed to go,” Kimball said, “nobody sees us anyway. Who cares if we go up against Lon Pot or the next Burma?”

  “The odds change,” Wilcox said. “Lon Pot has already bought himself four Burmese squadrons for sure. There might be more. After the twenty-seventh, they’re fighting for him.”

  “And what about before the twenty-seventh? If they’re already bought?”

  “They’ll be confused. The squadron commanders won’t want to commit themselves until they know which way the wind is finally going to blow.”

  Kimball leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. His eyes seemed particularly blue and particularly penetrating as they stared into Wilcox’s.

  “Bottom line, Wilcox. If we don’t initiate sorties before the deadline, what?”

  Wilcox hated the requirement of uttering the party line. “We call it off.”

  “Well, shit,” McEntire said. “We’re home free, then. We made us a few bucks, got the demo tour, and go home without risking the guys. Good-fucking-deal.”

  Wilcox thought he read sarcasm in McEntire’s statement, but he was not certain.

  Kimball still had an eye-lock on him. “But you don’t agree with the big boys?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t want to see Lon Pot convert Southeast Asia into his own playground. We’d see official sanction of his poppy-growing.”

  Kimball swung around to look at his partner. “Sam Eddy?”

  “You and I need to talk by our lonesomes.”

  “Take a walk,” Kimball said.

  “Hey, it’s my room,” Wilcox protested.

  “Go down to the lounge.”

  “They only serve tea.”

  “Drink tea.”

  Wilcox got up, grabbed his suit jacket, and headed for the door.

  Kimball called after him, “Keep in mind, Wilcox, that we can’t trust you anymore. You keep fucking with the story.”

  “You didn’t trust me before.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  *

  Henry Loh met with his commanders.

  Jake Switzer, a wizened and weatherbeaten ex-American whose F-4 Phantom had been shot from under him over Vietnam, and who had decided to walk away from his parachute landing rather than go back to the Marines at Da Nang, led the First Squadron. The unit, composed of four HAL Maruts and one Mirage 2000, was housed at Shan Base near Mong Tung. The well-camouflaged and equipped airfield also maintained several helicopters and seven transport aircraft.

  The Second Squadron, composed of three MiG-23s and four elderly MiG-19s, was hidden away at Muang Base on the Nam Tha River in Laos and was commanded by Pyotr Burov. A seasoned veteran of the Soviet conflict in Afghanistan, Burov had been a colonel in the Red Air Force at the time of the coup. It had occurred to him shortly after the coup’s failure that his safety, his future, and his financial success might be better assured elsewhere.

  The Chinese, Kao Chung, headed the Third Squadron of the Prince’s Dragon Wing, the only wing currently. Chung had done most of his flying for the Chinese air force in the Fantan, a redesign of the MiG-19 which the West called the F-6bis. Now, he commanded a force of five Mirage 2000s, three Super Frelon helicopters, and six multi-engined, well-abused transports. Sited in northern Thailand, his squadron occupied what was known as Chiang Base.

  There was another squadron, called the support squadron, composed primarily of tankers and transport craft for supplying the hidden bases, and Loh oversaw its operation.

  The hierarchy of command in the Dragon Wing was meeting in Loh’s headquarters at Shan Base. His headquarters was a Quonset hut concealed in the trees alongside the single runway and the interior was baked with the heat of day.

  “At seven o’clock in the morning of the twenty-seventh,” Loh briefed them, “Colonel Mauk will make an announcement on Rangoon radio. This will coincide with proclamations made by several army and police leaders. Mauk will say that the alteration in direction is positive and that his units will not interfere with a change in leadership.”

  “They will stay on the ground?” Chung asked.

  “No. He will launch all aircraft before making his speech, and he will urge his fellow senior commanders to join him. He will also inform them that their units are grounded. Any aircraft taking off will be shot down.”

  Since Mauk commanded most of the Union of Burma Air Force strike aircraft, comprised primarily of Lockheed AT-33As and propeller-driven SIAI-Marchetti SF.260MBs, it seemed unlikely to Loh that any commander would oppose him.

  “We will want show of force,” Loh said. “The First Squadron will make its presence known in the north and the Chin State. The Second will fly high-visibility missions through southern Shan and along the coast. The Third will stay close to the southern coast and Rangoon, but not intrude unless I learn from Mauk that it is necessary. Within hours, by nine o’clock, I should think, 1 will notify you of airfields which have capitulated, and where you may land for refueling.”

  Pyotr Burov seemed less optimistic than the others. “What if this passive transfer of power does not occur? Mauk could betray us. Some of the helicopter commands may join with the army in opposition.”

  Loh grinned at the Russian. “If it occurs, it will make our day more interesting. Micah Chao will be in Rangoon, directing our
efforts there, and he will keep me informed. I will instruct you and your flight elements if assistance is necessary at any point.”

  “And on the twenty-eighth?” Switzer asked.

  “In the morning, I will fly to Bangkok and bring the Prince back. In the afternoon, we will proceed with the reorganization as we have discussed it. Jake Switzer will assume command of Dragon Wing, with the First Squadron and two T-33 squadrons of the UBAF. Pyotr Burov will have the new Lotus Wing, including the Second Squadron and the SF 260s.”

  Burov did not appear enthused about adding ten dual role strike/training craft to his new wing.

  “And Kao will assemble the Moon Wing with his Third Squadron and the helicopter companies.”

  “What of Mauk?” Chung asked. “You have promised him a command, have you not?”

  “Of course,” Henry Loh replied, “but his usefulness will have come to an end.”

  *

  It was after 11:00 P.M. when the Kappa Kat finally landed. Jimmy Gander was Hawkeye One, and it wasn’t until Gander shut down the twin turbofans that Kimball felt the tension go out of his shoulders.

  He crossed the ramp in the darkness and stood next to the command craft as the canopies raised. Walt Hammond and Wes Overly chocked the wheels and set the tie-down lines.

  Soames climbed out of the lead controller’s seat first, hefted a leg over the coaming, and came slowly down the ladder rungs.

  “Smooth as silk, Kim.”

  “Hell, A.J., I’m beginning to worry if something doesn’t go wrong.”

  They waited for Gander, Wagers, and Contrarez to descend from the cockpit, then they all headed for the lighted cargo bay of the C-141. It had become their mobile briefing room, as well as warehouse and workshop.

  Kimball spun around to check the perimeter and counted all four guards. He had doubled the guard contingent. No one was allowed to look at the aircraft without an escort.

  Inside the transport, Tex Brabham was passing Cokes around, and Sam Eddy was finishing a joke which must have been good. It drew a few heartfelt guffaws.

  Kimball walked to the front end of the bay and scrambled on top of a missile crate. He turned to look at the faces aimed at him and raised two thumbs.

  “Good show, guys. Not one hitch. Alex, how did your end go?”

  Hamilton was dressed in a lightweight blue suit, but he had pulled his tie off. “Sam Eddy made a credible presentation. I outshined him, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” McEntire said.

  “There was one general,” Hamilton said, “by name of Abassi, who kept giving Sam Eddy this come-on look. I think he’s in love.”

  “What he is,” McEntire said, “is needy. He’s looking for a little cash in hand to help him make up his mind.”

  “We going to do that?” Soames asked. “Grease palms?”

  “I’m not much in favor of it,” Kimball said, “but you all know this part of the world. If a little baksheesh is expected, when and if the negotiations get further along, I suppose we’ll have to oblige.”

  “We could give round-trips to Hawaii, instead,” McEntire suggested.

  “That might do it, Sam Eddy. Okay, in half an hour, we’ll change the guards, then get everyone else to the hotel for a few hours. Sam Eddy and Alex will handle the debriefing, which is scheduled for six in the morning. With luck, we can be wheels-up by 7:30 A.M.”

  Kimball dropped off the packing crate and sat on it.

  “We’ve got one more snag,” he said.

  “What’s one more, with all we’ve had?” Halek said.

  “This one could be intense.” He told them what he and Sam Eddy had learned from Wilcox. “I told the man from Washington we wanted to get your reaction before making a decision. He’s waiting for it.”

  “So the sucker’s a wannabe dictator, in addition to a druglord,” Mabry said. “I move that we put him down for the count.”

  “And longer,” Keeper added.

  “You’re missing the point,” McEntire said. “We’re going to land in Rangoon the day after their air force changes ownership. We may be cancelled out, or we may be talking to brand-new generals.”

  “Or we may land in the middle of a civil war,” Kimball added.

  “Or?” Soames asked. “There’s got to be another choice. What have you and Sam Eddy cooked up?” Kimball told them about it.

  When he finished, Gander said, “Doesn’t bother me. Go for it.”

  The reaction was unanimous, and Kimball broke up the meeting.

  They climbed into the vans that had been loaned to them and headed for the hotel. Kimball was sitting next to Billingsly, who leaned over and said, “Your girlfriend called.”

  “Cathy?”

  “Cathy? Who’s Cathy?”

  “You said”

  “I know what I said. A.J.’s all screwed up.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about, Connie?”

  “Susan called. I told her you’d call when we got back to the hotel.”

  Jesus. Now, Billingsly and Soames had him lined up with Susan McEntire. He eyed Billingsly under the light of passing street lamps, but the man stared straight ahead, maybe just a little embarrassed.

  When he reached the hotel, and then the third floor room he shared with McEntire, he waited until Sam Eddy had crawled into the bathtub before calling Phoenix. It was noon there.

  “Kimball Aero Tech.”

  “Hey, Andrea.”

  “Kim! God, am I glad to hear your voice. Let me get Susie.”

  She came on a few seconds later. “You son of a bitch! You didn’t tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “It was in the papers.”

  “What was in the papers?”

  “The crash. Who was flying? Sam Eddy?”

  “No, it was me.”

  “Damn it, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Susie. A couple bruises. What’d the papers have to say?”

  “Nobody was mentioned by name, not even the company. But damn it! We can read between the lines, Kim. You should have told me, so I could call the wives.”

  Kimball sighed. He wasn’t thinking very straight. “You’re right, Susie. I’m sorry.”

  “Sam Eddy’s a son of a bitch, too. I talked to him right after the crash, and he didn’t say a word.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  He told her about the doctor. “My prognosis is so good I’ll have insurance agents calling day and night.”

  “I’m relieved,” she said. “How is Sam Eddy doing?”

  “He’s in the tub, splashing water all over hell, and singing, We’ll Sing in the Sunshine.”

  “That’s his theme song, all right,” Susan said. “But he looks all right?”

  “I’m not going to go in and peek. He’s fine.”

  “You call me immediately if there’s any more problems. Especially a crash! Goddamn it!”

  “I do apologize, Susie. I had too much on my mind, and I forgot the courtesies.”

  “To hell with the courtesies. There’s people here who love you, Kim. Don’t let them down again.”

  Dial tone.

  Kimball replaced the phone as Sam Eddy came out of the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy white towel.

  “Did you know,” McEntire said, “that I kept the rest of that cough syrup?”

  “No lie? The Johnnie Walker syrup?”

  “You want a shot?”

  “We flying in the morning?”

  “Nope. We’re passengers.”

  “Just one, then.”

  McEntire poured them each a shot.

  Kimball took his glass and a sip of the liquor. The warm liquid slithered down his throat.

  McEntire pulled back the covers on his bed and slipped into it.

  “Sam Eddy, you understand women, right?”

  “Wrong. I’m the first to admit it.”

  “But —”

  “It’s your dilemma, buddy,” McEntire said, “
but I figure you’ll work it out.”

  Christ! Everyone knew more than Kimball did.

  *

  On the night of July 22, Crider reached his contact in Alexandria again.

  “I’m here,” the man said, his voice tinny on the phone.

  “And I’m here,” Crider said. “What did you find out?”

  “You’re in the right place. They’ll be in New Delhi tomorrow morning.”

  “Shit. That doesn’t give me any time at all.”

  “And then Dacca on the twenty-sixth.”

  Crider tried to think of contacts he might make in Bangladesh, but a first run through his memory was not encouraging. Maybe he could get the ordnance he needed out of Sri Lanka.

  “And after that?”

  The man read off a list that ended in Manila. “But you can’t wait much longer, Crider.”

  “Don’t use my name.”

  “Sorry. The contractor is expecting results, and damned soon.”

  Crider looked at his watch.

  “We’re too short of time here. It’ll have to take place in Dacca.”

  “Do it right.”

  “Don’t sweat it. All the world is going to hear about this one.”

  He had decided to be less subtle.

  Turbulence

  Fifteen

  Kimball had been a little more relaxed in New Delhi, Jimmy Gander thought. He and Hamilton had handled the brass and delivered the product presentations. And Hamilton, in fact, was becoming pretty proficient at the public relations thing from the way Kimball had praised him afterward.

  Which was all right with Gander. He didn’t want to be pressed into service as a glad-hander; he wanted to fly the missions, even if he had to play mama in the Kappa Kat as he had in India.

  From the post-demonstration briefings conducted by whoever had served in the presentation role in Chad, Pakistan, and India, it was apparent that the Alpha Kat/Kappa Kat combination had impressed the observers for the most part. They oohed and aahed over the stealth and propulsion technology. Many appreciated the maneuver specifications and the vertical combat ability. Still, there seemed to be some reservations on the part of old-time air force commanders in regard to the tactical requirements, just as there was back in the U.S.

  People, whether they were military aviators or not, were always resistant to change. When the F-4 Phantom was introduced, pilots generally reacted negatively. They didn’t like the thought of the guy in the back seat (GIB). Pilots wanted to do it all; particularly not share victories with some navigator, but the reality was that the increased sophistication of the radars and weapons systems meant that the pilot didn’t have time to do it all. He needed someone else to handle radar and weapons. And after they acclimated to it, the pilots came to love McDonnell Douglas’s F-4, the American fighter with the highest production record of any American strike aircraft.