Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON

by Keith Douglass

  To his relief, when he finally spotted the two aircraft that were making the racket, they didn't look like the one that had fired the missile. These had angular bodies, double vertical stabilizers, and wings that pointed in the right direction.

  Then he spotted the red stars on their undersurfaces, and his fear doubled. Chinese fighters, not American.

  But the jets were searching in the wrong place, a mile or two to the south. Without the Gulfstream itself to focus on, they seemed to be searching around almost arbitrarily, close to the water, possibly trying to make sense of the debris that had fanned across the surface of the South China Sea.

  George debated what to do. There were flares in one pocket of the life vest; he could draw attention in his way in an instant with those. But ... one of these maniacs' friends had shot down the Gulfstream; what would they do to him if they picked him up?

  The jets began to spread out, circling. Then he saw more jets moving in from the southeast, pair by pair, at a much higher altitude. At least eight planes up there. But this group didn't circle; it continued straight east, heading further out to sea.

  Fighter planes, nothing but fighter planes. Where were the rescue helicopters, the slow search aircraft, the boats?

  Maybe, George thought, he should just keep floating along here until a fishing vessel came along.

  Down in the water, a brown shadow cruised past his dangling feet. It had a blunt, squared-off snout, and dark stripes on its flanks.

  Dr. George groped wildly in the pocket of his life vest.

  1230 local (-8 GMT) Tomcat 302 South China Sea

  "Well, here they come." Handyman's voice was dry over the ICS. Lobo thought he sounded like a bored suburbanite announcing the arrival of neighbors for the annual block party. "Six new bogeys, altitude thirty thousand feet, bearing zero one zero. Flankers, by their radar. And they aren't searching for anything but favorable position."

  Hot Rock's voice came over tactical "Lobo? Did you happen to notice we're getting a tad outnumbered here?" His words were flyboy-cool, but under them his voice was as tight as a spool of cable. Lobo reminded herself that her wingman hadn't tasted combat yet. Never knew how anyone would react to the real thing until it happened. She wondered if the tension in his voice was the product of eagerness, or of fear ... and which would be better. "Backup's on the way," she said. "And remember, we're just here to hang around, not to fight. So stay cool."

  "Tell them that."

  Looking up through the canopy, Lobo spotted six double-wide vapor trails etching across the blue. Her skin tightened. For any fighter pilot, altitude almost always equaled power. But today she didn't have the option of seeking the high slot, not if she was going to perform her assigned duty of protecting the area where the jet had gone down. If what had happened to Lady of Leisure was any indication, the biggest danger to potential survivors would come not from a highflying jet, but from a boat or helicopter. Still ...

  "I hate this," she said over ICS.

  "Lobo," Handyman said, "high or low, you can out-fly anyone in the sky. You got that?"

  She blinked. "Thanks, Handyman." Switching to tactical, she said, "Okay, Hot Rock, get ready to start searching."

  "What a grand idea."

  "Relax. Reinforcements are ten minutes out. Keep tight this time, Hot Rock. Welded wing unless somebody starts something."

  "Welded wing, roger."

  Lobo clicked off. Easy to tell her wingman to relax, but she was facing a bit of an inner chill herself; couldn't deny it. The last major air battle she'd been in ... well, she'd ended up punching out of her plane. And then, of course, spending some quality time with a Russian militia.

  And later still, spending a lot more time getting her head shrunk. She hoped it was the right size for whatever came up now.

  1240 local (-8 GMT) Hornet 108 South China Sea

  "I always thought Hornets were speedy," Major "Thor" Hammersmith growled, thumping the throttles of his F/A18 with the heel of his hand. "Come on, you bitch."

  "We're getting there," his wingman, Reedy, said in the voice that had earned him his call sign. "Besides, we were told to grab for altitude at the same time."

  "Yeah, yeah." All Thor wanted to do was shoot down a bad guy. The last major military action he'd been involved in, down in Cuba, he'd gotten his ass blown out of the sky while he was refueling. Refueling! Spent the rest of that little affair tied to a chair while different Cubans pounded on him and used him to taunt the U.S. Navy. Not any Marine's idea of "participation."

  Not that he was planning on starting a fight here. No way. But these assholes had blasted an innocent American yacht to pieces the other night, then actually ripped a chunk out of Jefferson--accidentally or otherwise, it didn't matter--and now they'd shot down a commair with a missile. How brave. How warrior-like. Well, Thor's Hornet was loaded down with air-to-air missiles, so if the Chinese were ready to try their luck against the big boys, Thor was ready for them.

  He knew that more than half the planes awaiting them were the latest model Flanker. Rumor had it that although these Flankers were as big as F14s--or "Turkeys," in Hornet driver parlance--the Russian fighters handled more like F/A-18s. In the case of the SU35, they supposedly handled better than Hornets.

  That's what he'd heard. But what you heard and what you knew, well, they were often two different things. And Thor Hammersmith knew that nothing could beat an F/A-18 in a close-in knife fight. Nothing.

  He thumped the throttles again. Tried not to think about the rate at which his two F404-GE402 turbofans were gulping down precious fuel. That was the Hornet's biggest disadvantage compared to the Turkey Hornets had short legs.

  It would be just his luck to get in a punch or two in an air battle, only to have to run away again to gas up. Not that there was going to be any fight, mind you.

  1242 local (-8 GMT) Tomcat 306 South China Sea

  An axiom of dog-fighting stated that all else being equal, a lone fighter plane was a victim, while a pair acting in concert was like a two-headed snake It saw everything, and could bite in any direction.

  As wingman in the so-called "welded wing" formation, Hot Rock's primary job was to be the rear head of the snake, keeping his lead safe. In the event of an actual battle, he would fly in tandem with Lobo, protecting her vulnerable back from attack so she could concentrate on her primary job shooting down enemy aircraft. His own weapons load would serve mostly as a backup to hers.

  That was why most fighter jocks preferred the "loose deuce" formation, developed by American pilots during the Vietnam war. In loose deuce configuration, the two fighters kept a great deal more space between them, and depending on circumstances, one or the other might become the primary attack plane, with the second flying in the support and backup role.

  Although he'd never admit it, Hot Rock not only liked flying, welded wing, he preferred the wingman slot. It was challenging from a piloting standpoint, because a wingman had to not only anticipate his lead's movements so as to maintain proper relative position on her, but do so while constantly scanning the surrounding sky for enemies.

  This meant the wingman had to leave the most crucial battle decisions up to the lead.

  And that was fine with Hot Rock, because such an arrangement almost eliminated the possibility that he might make a bad tactical error.

  He followed Lobo as she flew a grid search pattern, drawing an invisible tic-tac-toe board over the approximate area where the business jet had gone down. Looking down at the water, Hot Rock glimpsed the occasional fleck that was a drifting cushion or other piece of flotsam. He was hoping to see a flare or spreading dye marker, or even a life raft. Nothing.

  Of course, it was difficult to concentrate on searching the water, because he and Lobo were not alone in the air. Apart from the eight bogeys far overhead, two more were hurtling around at virtually this same altitude, probably conducting their own search. Twice already, Hot Rock had gotten a much closer look at them than he would have preferred as the Flankers
cut across the Tomcats' path.

  He toggled the radio to tactical. "Viper Leader, they're going to be just above us on the next pass," he said.

  "I know that." Lobo's voice was curt. "Be ready, but ignore them."

  Hot Rock started to reply, then toggled to ICS. "'Be ready, but ignore them'? What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means to keep your finger over the weapons selector," Two Tone said. "I'll let you know when you need it."

  "You mean 'if.'"

  "Right."

  Tomcat 302 South China Sea

  "Here they come," Lobo said, eyes locked on the two Chinese aircraft crossing from her right. She felt sweat prickling her scalp as they closed in, everything moving too fast--and then the Flankers thundered overhead, so close the shock of their passing gave Lobo's Tomcat a savage yank. For once, she was glad for the tight fit of the cockpit.

  "Assholes," Handyman said dryly.

  "Looked like SU27s," Lobo said, as if she'd had all day to study the Chinese plane going by. "Guess they left the top-of-the-line fighters in the high-altitude hairball."

  "Yeah. Probably all the missiles these two are carrying are low-budget models, too," Handyman said. "Now I feel a lot better about having them playing chicken with us. It's- Lobo! Flare at two o'clock!" she looked to her right and saw it, a red spark burning bright and hot even against the sunny sky. She immediately put in a call to the carrier. "Homeplate, Viper Leader. We've spotted an emergency flare. Repeat, an emergency flare; looks like it came from the area where the plane went down."

  "Viper Leader, this is Admiral Wayne. Maintain overhead orbit until SAR arrives. Don't start anything, but make it clear we're involved, understood?"

  "Roger." She rolled her eyes. Involved? What did that mean? "What's the ETA for SAR?"

  "Fifteen minutes," Homeplate said. "Be advised a Luhu-class destroyer just pulled out of the harbor and is making flank speed to your datum. ETA twenty-five Minutes."

  Tomcat 306 South China Sea

  "A destroyer?" Hot Rock said, switching to ICS. "Great." He knew that China's Luhu-class ships were new, fast, and armed with Crotale anti-aircraft missiles, among other treats. And the ship was already close enough to take part in any air battle. Of course, so were CVBG14's destroyer and AegIS cruiser, with their over-the-horizon firing capabilities ... but still, in a missile situation, a difference of seconds was all anyone needed. Any ship leaving Hong Kong would already have the drop on both American support ships.

  "We got other problems at the moment," Two Tone said. "Like the fact that those two Flankers are coming back around on us."

  "They're just doing the same thing we are," Hot Rock said, forcing his dry lips to move. Circling the flare."

  "And what about the six dudes overhead?" Two Tone asked. "Why do you suppose they're there? Tour guides?"

  "Doesn't matter." Hot Rock's hands weren't just sweaty inside his gloves now--they were slathered, and shaking a bit. Had been ever since those goddamned Chinese fighters galloped past, close enough to kiss. He sharpened his voice. "Our orders are to keep things clear for SAR, so we keep things clear for SAR."

  "But what if the Chinese get their SAR here first? Because I'm picking up a low-level return, bearing ... same bearing and distance as the destroyer. That's gotta mean the Chinese launched a helo. And guess what? It's going to get here before any of our eggbeaters do."

  9.

  MONDAY, 4 August

  1245 local (-8 GMT) Flanker 67 South China Sea

  Tai Ling gazed down through the golden haze of sun on water, searching for his prey. He couldn't visually pick out the four fighters circling far below. His look-down radar showed they were there, and their relative positions, but he wished he could see them with his own eyes. It would make it much easier to recognize the signal when it came. He didn't know what the signal would be, exactly, but he'd been told that it would be unmistakable.

  He'd also been told that the Americans, unbeknownst to themselves, would be the ones to give it.

  Speaking of Americans ... Tai's radar also showed the approach of four more fighter aircraft from the direction of the aircraft carrier.

  The sight of those blips filled him with a strange emotion half eager anticipation, half sick hope. The anticipation was the natural sensibility of any trained fighter pilot facing his possible first real dogfight. The hope was inspired by the unremitting memory of Hua Shih's SU37 exploding into a burning comet in front of him, its beautiful skin punched full of 20mm cannon holes. From Tai Ling's cannon.

  Although Tai knew that what he had done was essential in the long run, that didn't make accepting the fact any easier He had shot down one of his own men. His own section leader, in fact. And he'd done it from the trusted position of wingman.

  The fact that he had himself been promoted to section leader following Hua's "flame-out and crash" only made the memory of that day more bitter. Perhaps making a true, man-to-man kill on an American plane would clean the slate, would erase the shame of what he'd done. Had to do. Perhaps even Hua would understand and applaud.

  Focused again, Tai returned his attention to the radar and willed the Americans to come closer.

  1246 local (-8 GMT) Tomcat 304

  "Scimitar Leader to Viper Leader," Bird Dog said over tactical. "We're fifty mikes out. Copy?"

  "Copy, Scimitar Leader. Don't hurry on our account. I've always wanted to get a nice, long, close-up look at a Flanker. Or two."

  "We're buster, Lobo. Just hang in there."

  "Copy." Her damned voice was all business. "By the way, the inbound PLA helo is going to get here in less than a mike. You're the War College brain; what do you advise if it makes a play for the survivor?"

  "Just do what you did the other night," he said. "Those are our orders Just let the helo know you're there. Make life uncomfortable for it. Shiloh advises two Seahawks are en route. ETA fifteen mikes."

  "Um, Mr. Dog, it seems to me that if I run interference on this helo like you say, the Chinese could make a pretty good case that the USA is interfering in a benevolent SAR attempt."

  "Not after what happened to Lady of Leisure," Bird Dog said. Two sharp clicks indicated acknowledgment of the message. Then the ICS came on. "I don't think she liked your advice, boss," Catwoman said.

  I didn't either, Bird Dog thought, but didn't say. How could anyone justify risking the lives of American pilots, not to mention a damned expensive aircraft, in order to guard a chunk of water in which a person might or might not be floating around alive?

  But then he remembered how he'd felt as he drifted helplessly in the warm Atlantic, waiting to see who was going to pick him up first--the Cubans or his own people. Remembered that, and was glad he'd kept his lip zipped for a change.

  But his imagination was a different matter. When he visualized Lobo flying around out there at suicidally low altitudes, doing a job better suited to prop planes or helos, his anger and frustration surged up again, and he thought, Hang on, Lobo, just hang on.

  1247 local (-8 GMT) Tomcat 302

  There was nothing worse than flying this low in a fighter plane. Lobo ached for altitude, for the superior speed and maneuverability that attitude conferred.

  Right now the two SU-27s were living up to their NATO nickname, flanking her and Hot Rock throughout their long, constant turn, as if escorting the American planes. The Flankers were large craft, with twin vertical stabilizers and graceful, recurved fuselages ... in fact, they looked disturbingly like Tomcats. She mentally reviewed what she knew about their capabilities Twin afterburning Lyulka AL21 turbofans each providing almost thirty thousand pounds of thrust--compared to the 27,000 pounds available to the Tomcats--which gave the Chinese planes a top speed of Mach 2.35 as compared to Mach 1.88 for the Tomcat. The SU27 had a better ceiling, too. According to the latest intel, the Flankers also turned tighter than Tomcats, and had radar equipped with look-down, shoot-down capability.

  And these were the old models. The SU35s and SU37 up above had, reportedly,
even higher performance numbers.

  In other words, for the first time since early in the Vietnam war, it was possible the American aircraft in any given air battle were not intrinsically superior. It was actually possible that the Tomcat was out-matched, not only in turn radius but in pure, brute power.

  On top of that, Homeplate had warned them to be on the lookout for an "unidentified fighter aircraft of unknown abilities." Whatever that meant.

  Not that Lobo was frightened by either the known statistics or the unknown variables of the situation. Regardless of how swell a pilot's hardware was, the plane was no better than the pilot. And that was where nobody could touch the United States Navy.

  Still ... there was no denying that this situation sucked.

  She looked over her right shoulder, gazing down at the water on the inside of her steady turn. There was a small red-and-white dot floating on the water. The survivor, presumably, although there had been no more flares. She wondered what the poor schmuck thought about this private air show. Assuming he or she was still alive.

  "Lobo," Handyman said, "I've got a visual on that Chinese helo. I hate to ask awkward questions, but what are we supposed to do if it ignores us? Shoot it down?"

  "I wish," Lobo said.

  Hornet 108

  "Let's get horizontal," Thor said into his oxygen mask. Toggling the radio, he reported to Homeplate that he and Reedy had arrived on site, at an altitude of fifty-two thousand feet--all they could manage, but still below the ceiling of the Russian planes. He and Reedy started circling well outside the orbit of the six bogeys, trying to look innocent.

  But Thor could see the enemy, the dying light of day flashing silver-gold off the lower surfaces of wings and canards as the Flankers circled. Six of them, not to mention the two older models far down below, dancing with Lobo and Hot Rock just above the water.

  Bad position. And a bad fuel situation for him and Reedy.

  Who cares?

  Thor ran his thumb over the weapons selector switch and waited for something to happen.