Alpha Kat

by William H. Lovejoy

  Only by innuendo, and that was not enough.

  But information was power, and right now, he could use the information in a better way.

  “Pictures?” Crider asked.

  “You know anything about a man named Lon Pot?”

  “Yeah. Runs drugs.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not much.”

  Dixon briefed him on Pot’s organization, including the names of his key advisors. “Pot moves around a lot. There’s three or more clandestine airfields. He’s got some hideaways in the jungle, up in the hills, and one place in Bangkok we know about, where his wife lives.”

  He gave Crider the address.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Crider asked.

  Dixon detailed the destruction of the airfield named Shan Base.

  “I think Kimball’s bunch conducted the air raid,” Dixon said.

  “No shit! He’s trying to put the old fart out of business, huh?”

  Dixon had also read the intelligence estimates that suggested Lon Pot was attempting to assume political power in the region, first in Burma, but he was not going to pass that on to Crider.

  “I think Kimball’s trying, yes. And I think there will be more attempts.”

  After a long silence, Crider asked, “So what do you want me to do? This isn’t part of our contract.”

  “You’re very creative,” Dixon said. “I want you to use your imagination.”

  *

  As soon as Dixon hung up, Crider used his imagination and began calling people he knew. He knew lots of people in Southeast Asia.

  By three o’clock, he had a list of weaponry in the region that he could get his hands on quickly, and he had a telephone number.

  He called it, but the man was not available. He left his name and a note of urgency.

  The telephone rang at 3:40 P.M.

  “Mr. Crider?”

  “That’s me. You’re Micah Chao?”

  “I am. What can I do for you, Mr. Crider?”

  “A couple of things, Mr. Chao. First, I’ll give you some phone numbers and names to call, so you can check my background. Second, I want to get together with you and with a friend of yours named Henry Loh.”

  “To what purpose, Mr. Crider?”

  “Mutual benefit. You wouldn’t want to see a repeat of what happened at Shan Base, would you?”

  “I will call you back in a half hour, Mr. Crider.”

  *

  Lon Pot had arrived at Fragrant Flower in midafternoon. He had had to run down Kao Chung at Chiang Base and have him send one of the Third Squadron’s Super Frelon helicopters to Bangkok to pick him up. Henry Loh had Lon Pot’s personal helicopter somewhere in southern Burma.

  Lon Pot did not appreciate that.

  His assistants were telephoning all over the country, attempting to locate Henry Loh and Micah Chao, but with no success.

  He had talked to Dao Van Luong who was in Mandalay. He had talked to Vol Soon, who complained that the army was becoming restive. The inaction was destroying their morale.

  At five o’clock, Henry Loh called.

  “Good afternoon, Prince. I had not known of your return to Fragrant Flower. Is that a good idea?”

  “It seems that I must manage the operation myself, Air Force Chief,” Pot said, without attempting to conceal his displeasure. “It all falls apart when I am gone.”

  “Still, your safety is my concern, Prince, and Bangkok would be a much safer place until after the transition.”

  Pot was mollified somewhat by Loh’s concern. “Where have you been all day? I have tried to find you numerous times.”

  “Micah Chao and I have learned many things today, Prince. We have learned, for example, the identity of the force that destroyed Shan Base, and —”

  “Who!” Pot demanded.

  “An American named Kimball.”

  “What! The Americans would not dare to intervene.”

  He was forced to keep his temper in check as Loh narrated the story of Bryce Kimball’s aircraft and demonstrations. He interrupted frequently for details about stealth airplanes and capabilities.

  “And these airplanes are now in Rangoon?”

  “That is correct,” Loh said. “There was a demonstration flight to show aerial capabilities a few hours ago. Colonel Mauk intends to commandeer them in the morning, after tonight’s demonstration, on behalf of the Burmese government.”

  “So that they will become ours?”

  “That is one possibility, Prince.”

  “What is another?”

  “They will become Mauk’s airplanes.”

  “Ah. And after all we have done for the man.”

  “I believe I can hold him in check, Prince, but it is a delicate situation.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need six Mirage aircraft that are currently in Sri Lanka, but which I can have here in two days. I have the pilots for them, and they will give us the balance of power we need over Mauk.”

  “Delays! Again, delays!”

  “We want your transition to power to be successful, do we not, Prince?”

  “What day are you suggesting, Henry Loh?”

  “August first.”

  “It will not be suspended again.”

  “No, Prince, it will not.”

  “How much do these Mirages cost me?”

  “They are used, but in immaculate condition. Sixty million dollars.”

  “Buy them. I will call Dao Van Luong.”

  *

  Derek Crider watched Del Gart at work.

  Gart was hunched over the table in Crider’s hotel room, examining the three transponders that Corey O’Brian had, as O’Brian termed it, filched in the afternoon. As soon as the fighters and command aircraft had taken off for the afternoon demonstration, the Burmese soldiers around the aircraft had been given a rest break and had promptly disappeared. The Americans had gathered in one C-141 to listen to the radio reports of the demonstration, and O’Brian simply climbed into the other transport, spent seven minutes searching through the spare parts boxes, and walked out with three transponders.

  They were small, about four inches wide by one inch high by nine inches deep. Gart said they were perfect for his purpose because they could be changed out so readily. On the back end of each were power and antenna connectors, and the whole unit slipped into a sleeve in the Alpha Kat’s stack of communications components. Two screws held it in place. With a power screwdriver, Gart estimated that he could change one unit for another in less than a minute.

  Blue smoke curled upward from the hot tip of a soldering iron resting in a wire holder next to. Gart’s hand. Alan Adage sat on the other side of the table handing small needle-nosed pliers, solder extractors, and components to Gart as he called for them.

  Wheeler had obtained two bottles of Kentucky bourbon on the street somewhere, and everyone had a glass of well-watered whiskey. Crider wouldn’t let them get stronger until the delicate work was done.

  He was on the bed, leaning back against the wall, and he was pleased with the day’s developments.

  He sipped from his bourbon glass.

  The phone rang at his elbow.

  He picked it up.

  “Mr. Crider,” he said.

  “We have a deal,” the voice he recognized as belonging to Henry Loh told him.

  “I think it’s a good one.”

  “Did you obtain the transponders?” Loh asked.

  “We’ve got them. There are only three, but that should be enough for you.”

  “Tell me again about the process.”

  Crider shifted the phone to his other ear. “The Alpha Kat takes off with the transponder operating, so that the control tower can track it. Before the exercise begins, the pilot shuts off the transponder, entering his stealth mode.”

  “Yes, I understand that.”

  Crider hoped that he himself did. He wasn’t really sure of the procedures used by Kimball, but he spoke with as much authority as h
e could muster.

  “We have modified the transponders by adding an integrated circuit. As soon as the pilot turns off the power, the unit will wait ten minutes, then begin transmitting again. However, the indicator light on the unit will not warn the pilot. Your radars will see him, plain as day, but he won’t know that.”

  “Excellent,” Loh said.

  Crider was certain that Loh didn’t give a damn one way or another who was flying the Alpha Kats. If Mauk was successful in grabbing them, Mauk’s pilots would go down. If Loh got hold of them, he could pull the transponders. If nothing else, Kimball’s pilots would bite the dust, proving to the world’s military that the aircraft were vulnerable and negating any sales Kimball might have lined up.

  Everyone wins.

  “The money?” Crider asked.

  “The money will be transferred tonight.”

  “Sixty?”

  “That is correct. And I am sending six pilots to Sri Lanka on the next flight out of Rangoon.”

  “The aircraft will be ready for them.”

  “And the other arrangements?”

  “As soon as my bank in Grand Cayman receives the electronic funds transfer, I will order the wire transfer to pay for the aircraft. And I will order the other transfers.”

  “That is good,” Henry Loh said and hung up. Crider thought so, too. His commission from the weapons broke on the deal was two million, and he would clear eight hundred thousand. He had to spread a couple hundred thousand among his contacts in Southeast Asia, to keep them friendly contacts. And he had to transfer a half million each to Chao’s and Loh’s accounts.

  *

  Kimball walked among the pilots on the darkened ramp and handed out their passports. Keeper, Cad well, Metger, and Greer stuffed the fake passports in the pockets of their flight suits. The three appeared subdued in an eager way, if that were possible.

  Tonight, as he had done last night, Kimball had drawn names out of Tex Brabham’s seven-gallon hat for the three open spots on the fighter roster. They all wanted to go, but there weren’t enough seats. He and McEntire had decided early on that the two of them would take every mission flight, but tonight McEntire stepped aside and a fourth name was drawn, Greer’s.

  “Everybody got it down?” Kimball asked. “Any part of the briefing we need to go over again?”

  The fighter pilots shook their heads.

  He looked over to Conrad Billingsly who, along with Sam Miller, Fred Nackerman, and Speedy Contrarez, would be aboard the Kappa Kat.

  Billingsly held up his clipboard with the checklist. “Got it all here, Kim.”

  “Let’s fire them up.”

  Kimball turned and headed for ought-eight.

  Twelve minutes later, they were lined up on the taxiway, waiting for takeoff clearance. While he waited, Kimball double-checked the coordinates of the target area.

  Target areas, he corrected himself.

  *

  Jimmy Gander watched as the last three Alpha Kats left the runway, their anti-collision strobes pulsing in the night.

  The rest of the group were still huddled around the ramp of the C-141. The ring of Burmese soldiers that had been attending them broke up at some officer’s command and headed somewhere for a rest break.

  Coffee, or tea, or opium, whatever they did on rest breaks.

  McEntire said, “I need two volunteers. That’s you, A.J., and you, Alex.”

  “I’d be happy to volunteer, Sam Eddy,” Soames said.

  “I’ve been hoping and praying for this chance to contribute,” Hamilton told him.

  “The three of us will go out to the target site for the demonstration, then come back here and sack out in the other Starlifter. In the morning, we’ll conduct the post-demonstration briefing.”

  “A.J. and I can handle it,” Hamilton said.

  “No. I want the three of us to stick together. Jimmy, you load everyone else in this bird and be off the ground in ten minutes.”

  Gander straightened his back, suddenly alert. He wondered if he had missed something during the briefing.

  “If the tower gives you any static,” McEntire said, “you tell them you’re part of the demo, monitoring the action. Hell, they don’t know any different.”

  “Am I part of the demo?” Gander asked.

  “Nah. You head straight for Bangkok. Kim and I want everyone … almost everyone … out of Burma tonight.”

  “Sam Eddy,” Tex Brabham drawled, “I’m going to go over to the other transport and camp out in the back until the demonstration’s done.”

  “No, Tex …”

  “Got to keep the rifles oiled, you know?”

  “Okay, Tex. Thanks,” McEntire said. “Jimmy, you hit the road.”

  Gander was going to protest, thought about who outranked who, and started up the ramp.

  He started barking out his own orders. “Mel, you’re in the right seat. Jay, you’re flight engineer. Walt, pull the chocks and get us cranked up.”

  Everyone started moving.

  As he pushed open the door into the crew compartment, Gander thought that training and discipline paid off every time.

  *

  Chiang Base, as identified on the satellite photographs provided by Wilcox, was located just over the border in northern Thailand, three hundred miles from Rangoon.

  It was a mere excursion for the KAT airplanes, barely a thirty-minute round-trip detour from the exercise area at Mach 1.5.

  The Golden Triangle was no longer simply the home of poppy growers. It had become a tourist mecca also. While the semiautonomous tribes that inhabited the area still operated under the governance of warlords, much as they had a century before, relationships between Bangkok and the north country had improved. Chiang Mai was essentially the capital of northern Thailand, and Chiang Rai, a hundred miles northeast of Chiang Mai, was the stepping stone into the Triangle for visitors. Deluxe resort hotels had blossomed in Chiang Rai, and another had been constructed in the heart of the Golden Triangle, overlooking Laos and Burma.

  The tourists came for the moderate weather, to examine in detail the cultures of the hill tribes, to explore the beauty of the rivers and forests, and maybe to find cheap sources for other nirvanas.

  The tourists hadn’t deterred the poppy growers at all. Record productions of processed opium still flowed southward into southern Thailand for export to the United States and Europe.

  Lon Pot’s Chiang Base was due west of Chiang Rai, near the base of the 7500-foot mountain dubbed Doi Pha Hom Pak.

  That was their only hot target tonight. Kimball had wanted to also hit a Lon Pot army post at Mawkmai, but the distances and extra time and ordnance loads couldn’t be easily explained in their demonstration schedule.

  Billingsly had a map overlay for Thailand on disk, and the Kappa Kat’s data-link had displayed it on Kimball’s CRT. Doi Pha Hom Pak was clearly designated. It was at the top of the screen, forty miles away from the blinking blue blip that was Alpha Kat zero-eight. The airspeed readout at the top of the HUD showed Mach 1.4. His altitude was 15,000 feet.

  “Hawkeye, One. You want to paint me a target?”

  “Coming up, One. Keying it in now.”

  Billingsly tapped the coordinates into his keyboard aboard the Kappa Kat, and a red cross suddenly appeared on Kimball’s screen.

  “Thanks, Frog.”

  “Anytime. Bengals, you’d better shed the speed. One, we’ve got hostiles on the other side of the mountain. Due north of the peak at angels twelve, heading zero-eight-four.”

  Kimball eased the throttle back and checked for the wingtip lights on either side of him. Everyone was in place. His altitude began to bleed off slowly.

  “You’re sure they’re hostile, Frog?”

  “Roger. The infrared signatures say Mirage 2000. Four of them. They’re turning back toward me now.”

  “What’s your situation, Hawkeye?”

  “I’m at three-nine thousand, fifty-five miles to your northwest.”

  “Take o
ne of mine as a CAP.”

  “Not just yet, Cheetah. We can go off the air and dodge these puppies for a little while if we have to. If they take me as bait, we’ll be able to pull them off you. You dump the ordnance first.”

  “Vector us in, Hawkeye. I’m showing six-zero-zero knots.”

  “Bengals Four and Five, go to zero-seven-zero and Tac Three.”

  “Four.”

  “Five, gone.”

  Contrarez took over control of Metger and Greer, who would make their ground attack from the east. The two fighters peeled off Kimball’s right wing, diving hard, and their wingtip guidelights disappeared.

  “Bengal One,” Billingsly said, “In two minutes, go to zero-zero-five.”

  Kimball tapped two minutes into his instrument panel chronometer and said, “Roger that, two minutes and zero-zero-five.”

  In an interlaced pattern, Kimball and his flight of three intended to attack from the south, spaced between the attacks from the east, then climb abruptly to the right to avoid the peak.

  “Bengal One, Hawkeye.”

  “Go,” Kimball said.

  “I just went to the two-two-oh radar scan and checked Muang Base. They’re flying a four-plane formation there, too.”

  “Waiting for us, you think?”

  “Roger, Cheetah. Ambush city. The hostiles here have turned back toward you, and they’re ignoring me.”

  “They’ve been told to stay in contact with the airfield,” Kimball guessed.

  “That’s the way I interpret it. They … hold one.” After a few seconds, Billingsly said, “I just read some probes by SAM radars. They’re expecting us.”

  “How many SAMs, Hawkeye?”

  “Six. They shut down again. They’re only radiating periodically.”

  “Let’s hold up a minute, Frog.”

  Using his controller, Kimball eased into a right turn. Glancing out the canopy, he saw that Keeper and Cadwell were staying with him.

  “Speedy, put Four and Five in a three-sixty,” Billingsly told Contrarez. Kimball heard the order since Tac Two was locked open, hot.

  “Frog,” Kimball said, “you want to give me any odds that Chiang Base has any aircraft in residence?”