As he went through two thousand feet, Mabry began a shallow turn to the left.
“Three’s flying,” Vrdlicka said.
“Two’s off,” Halek reported.
A few heartbeats later, Soames heard McEntire’s voice. “Four.”
“And Five,” Gander said.
The monstrous transports took more time, and they had a greater interval because of the air turbulence they created. Two minutes went by, the Kappa Kat already at ten thousand feet, before Sam Miller reported in to Hamilton on Tac Four.
“Atlas One’s clear, Papa,” Hamilton said. “He’s starting his turn.”
“Roger, Flamethrower.”
Both of the transports would turn to the right, heading for the sea and international airways.
“Atlas Two’s wheels-up,” Hamilton said.
“Roger that. Tell them to have a nice trip, Flamethrower.”
Soames flicked on the radar, cutting back to a thirty-mile scan, and filtering out a lot of ground clutter. He immediately saw seven blips, five of them in what appeared to be normal airliner traffic lanes, and two of them flying as a pair. They were turning toward the transports, which they could see on their radars.
None of the KAT planes had squawked an ID, and none of them appeared on the screen.
“One’s clear, Hawkeye.”
Soames felt relief for the first time in three hours.
“Atlas has company coming, Cheetah. Pair of interceptors at Mach one.”
“Vector me, Papa, then shut down.”
“Go to one-nine-seven.” Soames switched his radar set to passive.
For the next nine minutes, he longed to switch to active and see what was going on. Mabry continued to climb, settling in on a northerly course.
“Hawkeye, One. I think I surprised the hell out of these guys.”
“Tell me, One.”
“They’re a couple of Royal Thai F-5s, and they thought they were in the driver’s seat, coming up on the Starlifters. I snuck up behind them, hit my landing lights, and gave them a five-round burst of twenty mike-mike above their heads. I think they’re trying to clean up the cockpits now.”
“What’re they doing?”
“They got the message. They can’t see me, now, but they know I’m here somewhere. They’re diverting from the Atlases and heading in the direction of Ubom. I’ll stay with them for a little bit, then catch up.”
On Tac Four, Miller reported to Hamilton, who passed it on. “Papa, thank One for them and tell him they’re feet wet. He can leave anytime.”
On the primary tactical channel, Soames said, “One, Hawkeye. They’re clear.”
“Roger, Hawkeye. I’m saying bye-bye.”
“All Bengals, form on me. I need a second’s squawk from everyone to locate you.”
One by one, the IFF transponders came on, and Soames locked their positions into his computer memory. As long as they maintained heading and speed, the computer could guess where they were.
*
Wilcox had been in Bangkok since early in the morning. Immediately after arrival, he had crossed from the international terminal to the domestic terminal to reassure himself that the KAT planes were still there. They were, nicely corralled by yellow tape.
He had then taxied into the Embassy, checked in, and called Langley only to have Ted Simonson ream him out.
“What the hell, Ted?”
“I’ve got a major general under lock and key. I don’t know what the hell to do with him.”
“Jesus. One of ours?”
“Hell, yes, one of ours.” Simonson told him about Kimball’s call and the predetermined set of telephone contacts Kimball had discovered between someone named Crider and the head of Air Force Intelligence.
“I don’t know what your man Kimball is doing, but I couldn’t very well turn him down on this, Ben. If Crider’s responsible for the sabotage of the airplanes, Dixon’s in deep. Now, I don’t know what to do.”
“Is Dixon talking?”
“Hell, yes. He’s talking about having my balls bouncing around his tennis court.”
“Keep him quiet for a few more hours, and I’ll run down Kimball.”
Before he even had a chance to start making calls, though, the Thai police contacted the Embassy about dead Americans at the Oriental Hotel, and Wilcox got caught up in that.
He went to the morgue with a delegation from the Embassy, expecting to find Kimball and McEntire laid out on the slabs. He had never seen the faces on the bodies before. One had a full red beard, and the other had nasty burn scars covering his right cheek and temple.
Then the Thai police got him involved with the others they had arrested at the hotel. There were three of them, and they were all carrying false passports, and none of them were talking. They didn’t know the dead men, and they didn’t know anything. According to the hotel registrations, there had been a sixth American man, but he was nowhere to be found.
With the false passports and the refusal to cooperate, the State Department people found it difficult to assist them, and for the time being, they were left to the whims of the Thai prosecutors.
It was after 6:00 P.M. by the time he got back to the Embassy and began calling the Airport Hotel. No one was answering the room telephones there. The front desk reported that the Americans were probably shopping or taking in the nightlife. The clerk had seen them leaving by twos or threes.
For the next three hours, Wilcox had called Kimball’s room at the hotel every twenty minutes. He was getting madder by the minute. He knew damned well Kimball was responsible for two dead men.
At 9:40 P.M., one of the communications specialists said, “They just shut down Don Muang. There’s been some kind of accident.”
Wilcox didn’t think anything about it for twenty minutes. Then it slowly dawned on him that the KAT aircraft were at Don Muang. Kimball and accidents were never coincidences.
He ordered a technician to get the tower for him.
After a slightly heated discussion about his power to ask questions, the supervisor finally gave in and said, “No, Mr. Wilcox, they are not here.”
“Not there?”
“They took off against orders. We turned the problem over to the Royal Thai Air Force.”
Wilcox slammed the phone down, picked it up, and called Langley.
“Simonson.”
“Get hold of somebody at the NSA and find out where the satellites are.”
“What’s going on, Ben?”
“Kimball’s on the loose somewhere. I think we’ll want to watch the Muang Base.”
“Kimball’s gone? With his airplanes?”
“With his airplanes.”
“Shit. See if I ever let you run an operation again.”
*
“Okay, Bengals, listen up.”
Gander tightened his harness straps and shifted the oxygen mask to reseat it. He pulled his visor down.
“In a second, I’m going to go active and see what we’ve got around. If we’re clear, we follow plan A. Bengal One, with Two and Three will go after Shan Base again. If our information’s correct, the Fragrant Flower compound and its airstrip is eleven miles southeast of Shan. Four and Five will take it out.”
They had decided to pass on an attack against the Muang Base in Laos, the third target given to them by the man from Washington. Kimball and McEntire figured the aircraft would have been moved by now, just as they had been moved from Chiang Base. The Fragrant Flower target was a new one.
Gander looked ahead to see the guidelights of McEntire’s plane ahead and to the left of him. A half-mile to the left were Kimball, Halek, and Vrdlicka. They were all at 12,000 feet, some twenty thousand feet below the Kappa Kat which had climbed away ten minutes before.
Below them, the hills weren’t distinguishable from the blackness of the jungle. A few rivulets of water winked occasionally.
“Going active,” Soames said.
A split second later, Soames said, “Hey, Jesus Christ! Flight o
f three closing on you. Eight miles dead ahead. Goddamn it! Three of you are radiating. Scramble! Scramble now!”
Gander took one glance at his transponder. It was off.
McEntire’s guidelights went off, and he concentrated on trying to stay on his leader’s wing, chasing a shadow.
McEntire climbed. Going almost vertical.
Gander hauled the stick back, eased in throttle, and stayed with him.
“Data feeds are in,” Soames called. “Weapons free. Arm ’em up. Infrared says Mirages.”
Keeping his eye on McEntire, and following him through a roll to the right, Gander reached over with his left hand and armed all of his pylons.
“One. Got a lock on the lead hostile. Gone.”
A flash of brilliant white on Gander’s left evolved into a missile trail. Gander rolled upright, still behind McEntire, but apt to lose him at any moment. Every time the lead airplane went below the horizon, it disappeared from Gander’s sight.
“Shut down those damned transponders,” Soames ordered.
A chorus of negatives told Hawkeye that all the transponders indicated they were turned off.
“Something’s fucked up,” Soames said.
With the data feed from the Kappa Kat appearing on Gander’s screen, he could see what it was. McEntire was radiating a blip. So were two of the aircraft in the other element.
To the north, three blips were spreading out as they approached.
One abruptly disappeared. Through the canopy, Gander saw the explosion, white and orange, maybe six miles away.
“Down one,” Soames reported.
“Stay with me, Five,” McEntire said, pulling his nose up and climbing again.
“Like snot on a doorknob, Irish.”
They climbed high and fast, trying to get altitude on the aggressors.
And then, boom! They were into it. McEntire launched two missiles, but the Mirage dodged them, diving beneath them. Gander pushed his nose down and had him in the gunsight for a half second, and fired off thirty cannon rounds. The tracers all fell far behind the target.
McEntire rolled right and went into a tight right turn, coming back. Gander rolled hard, jockeyed the stick back, and stayed with him.
“One, Hawkeye. You’ve got a Mirage tight on your six. Pull Gs!”
On his CRT, Gander saw the blip that must be Kimball. A second blip was a thousand yards behind him.
McEntire swung toward the blips and firewalled the throttle. Gander bounced in his turbulence for a second before he could find the spacing. He shoved his own throttle forward, but McEntire had gained a couple thousand yards on him. “He’s got a radar lock on you, One,” Soames said.
“Break left, Cheetah,” McEntire ordered.
The blip on the screen hung there for an instant, then slipped sideways.
McEntire launched two Sidewinders.
The hot exhaust stung Gander’s night vision as he followed the trails converging on the hot red exhaust of the Mirage, praying.
Wham!
Both missiles slammed into the Mirage, and it blew apart in streaks of yellow and blue.
“Thanks, Irish,” Kimball called.
“Anytime, buddy.”
And then from above and a thousand yards behind him, Gander saw the streak of a missile homing on McEntire.
“Hot one coming at you, Four,” he called. “Break right.”
McEntire broke right, but not soon enough.
The missile almost lost its heat source as Bengal Four turned her exhaust away from it, but it passed close enough for the proximity fuse to detonate the warhead.
Gander saw the missile’s explosion, followed quickly by the eruption of the Alpha Kat’s fuel cells as hot splinters of shrapnel penetrated the fuselage.
The Alpha Kat blew up in a thousand pieces.
Gander was still at full power, and he whipped the control stick back.
He felt the pieces of debris striking the wings.
And saw the Mirage directly above him.
Too close for a missile.
He triggered off a long burst of twenty millimeter rounds.
The tracers lanced out, reaching, stitching to the right, missing the fuselage, cutting a wide path in the wing.
The right wing peeled away from the Mirage, and the fuselage whipped hard to the left, then spiraled down into darkness, trailing a long blue flame behind it.
Gander retarded throttle and rolled to his right.
“There, you son of a bitch,” Gander said to himself.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not nearly enough.
*
Henry Loh had been scheduled for the next flight of fighters. He was in the main house with Lon Pot and Dao Van Luong, staying close to the radio in Pot’s office, when Chung announced the intruders on his Mirage’s radar screen.
Loh had grabbed the microphone and yelled, “Attack, attack, attack.”
Then he leaped out of his chair and ran from the house. In the compound, he yelled for pilots and slid behind the wheel of a pickup.
Jean Franc and one of his countrymen dove into the back of the pickup.
The guards at the gate barely got them open before he shot through and started careening down the hill toward the airstrip. Loh nearly turned the truck over a couple of times when it tried to climb out of the ruts of the road.
Dao had alerted the mechanics at the strip, and the remaining three Mirages were being started as they arrived. He slid the pickup to a stop, hopped out, and ran toward his fighter.
Precious seconds were lost as he was helped into his pressure suit and parachute. He scrambled up the ladder and into the cockpit, strapping in and hooking up.
He dialed the radio to Shan Base’s frequency.
“Rose One, Amber One.”
“Rose, go Amber,” Switzer called.
“We are under attack here.”
“We’ll scramble now. Rose out.”
He switched to Chung’s frequency.
“Jade One?”
There was no answer.
“Jade One.”
Nothing.
“Jade Two or Three?”
Again, nothing.
Loh looked to his right and saw that Franc and the other pilot were in their cockpits, the canopies closing.
He closed his own, scanned his instruments, and released the brakes. The gyros were still coming up to speed. He turned on the radar set.
The Mirage eased forward, onto the asphalt of the runway, and he turned to line up with the center of it. He held the brakes and ran up the engines, watching the tailpipe temperatures.
The runway lights came on.
He could not help thinking that, though the money was nice, he was about to launch his reputation as a fighter aircraft ace, and that was much better.
*
Kimball was numb.
The Alpha Kat flew herself, an extension of his nerve endings. His mind felt absolutely clear, but his body was detached, off on its own, responding as directed, but unaware of heat, cold, pain, elation.
“One and Three, you’re still radiating,” Soames told them. “Get rid of the transponders.”
“While we’re waiting,” Soames went on, his voice so steady it was deadly, “Five, you have the lead. Two, you’re his wingman. You’re off to Target Two. Go to heading three-one-five, angels one-one. Meet Hawkeye Four on Tac Three.”
“Five,” Gander replied.
“Two, gone,” Halek said.
Kimball’s mind told the aircraft to level its wings, enter a slight climb, and then begin a wide turn to the right.
Sam Eddy. Damn, buddy, I don’t know if I can do it without you.
His body reacted to Soames’s instructions. He pulled his flight gloves off and dropped them on the floor. His left hand found the leg pocket of his flight suit that contained the multipurpose knife. His right hand left the control stick in position and popped open the screwdriver blade of the knife. He had to loosen his harness in order to lean
far enough forward to work on the transponder’s face. He turned up the cockpit lighting enough to see the screws. It was an awkwardly shaped screwdriver but within a minute, he had withdrawn the two screws.
He got his fingernails behind the faceplate and tugged. The transponder came out of its sleeve, and he dropped it between the seat and the fuselage side. Collapsed the knife and shoved it back into his leg pocket.
“Good, One. You went away,” Soames said. “Come on, Downhill, snap it up!”
Kimball’s body dimmed the cockpit lights once again and retightened his harness straps.
“All right, Three! I lost you on the radar.”
“Damned glad to hear it, Hawkeye,” Vrdlicka said. “Cheetah, can I have a light?”
Kimball turned on his guidelights, and a few seconds later, Vrdlicka eased up beside him.
Where are you, my friend?
He scanned the HUD. His circle was bringing him up on due south. The speed was steady at 550 knots. Altitude 8,750 feet.
“Weapons status?” Soames asked.
“One. Four Hellfires, one Sidewinder, one AMRAAM. I’ve got six hundred rounds of twenty mike-mike.”
“Three. Full load, less one Sidewinder and fifty rounds of twenty.”
“All right, good. We’re about to make our first pass at Target One. We are now northeast of the compound, and I am changing the pre-flight plan.”
That was almost a surprise. The dogfight had carried them farther north than he had realized. Originally, the tactics had called for the first run on Target One by McEntire and Gander from the south.
McEntire.
Sam Eddy, my friend.
All the good ones leave me.
“Vector me,” Kimball said as he double-checked his armaments panel.
“One-eight-five should be right, One. Go now.”
Kimball eased out of his turn on the heading, pushed the nose over, and started down. He saw two strings of runway lights appear in the darkness.
“Three, trail formation. Give him a thousand yards.”
“Roger that,” Vrdlicka said.
Kimball deployed the night vision lens and activated the infrared sensor. Pulling his infrared reader down, he found three hot spots right away. The area around them was painted pale green. The asphalt runway, still carrying the heat of day, stood out against the landscape, and the runway lights were green pearls. On the left, higher up a hillside, was the large compound. There were a few lights on in its interior buildings.
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