The Art of War c-17

by Keith Douglass

  “Missile inbound.” Bird Dog saw its plum of smoke.

  Tomcat 104

  Rat leaned forward in her seat fighting the pain in her arm and chest. It was a tremendous pain unlike anything she had ever experienced. She looked down at her right arm, which was covered with blood and twitching. Shrapnel from the MiG had slammed into her right elbow and a bone protruded through her flight suit. She felt dizzy and sick. For a moment, she looked up at the shattered glass in her cockpit. Cold air was rushing everywhere around her. Most of her controls were smashed.

  “Brad,” she spoke in a faint voice. “It hurts… hurts real bad.”

  “Hold on, Johnnie. We’re heading back to the boat. Hang on!”

  He heard a few faint murmurs followed by a throaty cough.

  “I’m not going home, Brad,” she forced her words. “I’m so cold….”

  Her head bobbed again and her vision blurred. This is it. It’s over. In the last seconds before blackness closed in. In a split second, she thought of her husband and her daughter.

  Tomcats 110 & 100

  Southern Gulf

  Two of the Iranian F-5s detected the Hornets breaking for the Floggers and disengaged the Tomcats, leaving a classic 2v2 engagement. But two still bore down on Bird Dog and his wing. The Iranian Sparrows fired by the F-5s had just missed both Tomcats, resulting in the two aircraft having become separated. Bird Dog was to the north and his wing was heading due south, swinging out to meet one of the F-5s that appeared to be setting up a “hook.”

  Tomcat 110

  “He’s closing fast, Music. Coming down our port side low.”

  “I’ve got him locked. Let’s keep him guessing.” Music knew that the closure was too extreme for a Sparrow shot, but also knew that the tone over the F-5 driver’s headset would make him nervous and might cause him to make a fatal mistake.

  ZOOM! Bird Dog’s head snapped back to his left as the jet whizzed by and started a turn into him.

  “Got ’em!” Music hollered. “Coming around right. He’s climbing some.”

  Bird Dog started a hard high-G left turn, then nosed up about ten degrees before dropping his nose down below the horizon. “Keep your eye on him!” If this worked, the two fighters would end up head-to-head. It was a classic two-circle fight where both fighters executed hard lead turns into one another at the merge. The trick was who could bring his nose around faster to place a heat-seeker on the other. Bird Dog was gambling that he would emerge first. But if he didn’t, his second bet was that the F-5s pilot, like many American pilots in the early days of Vietnam War, didn’t fully understand his missile’s envelope. In either case, Bird Dog would gun him with his superior all-aspect AIM-9M Sidewinder.

  “Tally” called Bird Dog. “Switching to heat.” The F-5 was still pulling out of its turn when Bird Dog’s Tomcat nosed around. The warble of the Sidewinder’s seeker screamed in his headset, meaning a good lock. “Fox Two on the northern F-5.”

  The missile loosed from the rail seconds before one sprang from the bottom of the F-5. Both raced after each other’s host, snaking across the sky. Bird Dog was first to react, jinking his Tomcat left, than right, while his RIO popped streams of phosphorous flares.

  “Missed! Missile’s vertical.” Music called.

  Bird Dog’s missile exploded on the starboard wing intake of the F-5, sending the plane into a slow right turn back toward the U.A.E.

  “We hit him, but he’s still flying. He’s heading home.” Bird Dog recovered and entered a hard left slice turn, quickly setting up another shot on the F-5. “Fox Two!” The F-5 had little chance. The Sidewinder ran right up its port tailpipe, bisecting the plane in a fireball.

  “Good kill!”

  Tomcat 100

  Five miles south of Bird Dog

  “We missed!” the Rio called, still watching his Sparrow head aimlessly toward the U.A.E. The F-5 had managed to defeat it, through maneuvering and chaff, but had now decided to head home, no match for the better-trained Americans.

  The Pilot pulled his Tomcat’s nose up and pressed his throttles through to afterburner. “Let’s get this bastard. He’s not getting away that easy.”

  “Sparrow, your dot.”

  “Fox One, southbound F-5. Switching to heat.” The P3 thumbed his selector. “Fox Two.”

  Both missiles raced toward the F-5 just seconds apart. The pilot detected the incoming Sparrow and ejected, leaving his empty plane without a chance. The Sparrow hit first, ripping the F-5s right wing from the fuselage, followed moments later by the Sidewinder tearing through the port engine. The F-5 crumbled, then began to roll before disintegrating.

  “Splash One F-5, southbound, angels eight.”

  Tomcat 104

  30 miles from Jefferson

  Morrow looked at his displays. He was still too far for her in this condition.

  “Lobo,” he called over the tactical. “Move in and check out Rat. She’s not responding.”

  “Roger, be there in a flash.”

  Morrow clicked his mike again. “Come on, girl. Talk to me.”

  “Tell Doug, I… tell him… I… Hanna…” Her head fell against the headrest then hung off her left shoulder.

  “Johnnie! Johnnie! Respond!” Morrow closed his eyes.

  Tomcat 104

  Flight Deck of Jefferson

  Morrow shut down his remaining engine and hit the canopy release button, then started to loosen his restraints. He had to see what was wrong with his RIO. Lobo had said that the back canopy was shattered and that she could see splotches of red on the instrument console. In her estimation, Rat was either unconscious or dead.

  Fastball managed to escape just as one of the flight surgeons scaled the right side of his Tomcat and peered into the backseat. “She’s alive — for now,” the flight surgeon shouted down at the corpsmen following him up the bounding ladder. “Come on, people — move! I want her in surgery in the next three minutes. Tell the orthopedic surgeon and neurologist to stand by. If we move fast enough, we may be able to save this arm!”

  Morrow leaned back into his cockpit and lowered his head. His squadron had lost two aviators — would Rat make it three? Taking a deep breath, he fought the urge to throw up. Was it his fault? Should he have seen those MiGs or at least anticipated that they would be there? The long-range contacts had been a mere diversion for the MiGs on the deck.

  “Damn it,” he swore and punched the side of his Tomcat. Rat couldn’t die — she just couldn’t.

  He turned his gaze toward Iran. The gray-blue waters of the Persian Gulf were rough tonight, the big warship rising and falling in the swells. Somewhere out there, he thought, an Iranian pilot is telling his squadron mates about the “great shot” he had gotten on an American Tomcat. A good shot, they’d say, but “not a kill.” How ironic.

  Iranian Tomcat

  Wadi glanced at his fuel gauge, and saw how critically low he was. The last stretch of afterburner had done him in. He had forgotten how easy it was to lose track of time and expend fuel.

  No matter, the second wave was launching now. As he had planned, the initial strike would return to base, refuel, and then relieve the second wave. They could keep this up almost indefinitely, until the American aircraft carrier and cruiser were worn down.

  Reluctantly, he turned away from the fur ball of aircraft radar contacts. He clicked on his mike. “First flight, bingo.” One by one, the aircraft broke off from their engagements and turned back for the base.

  As he came in, he saw the fuel trucks lined up, waiting to begin the refueling. He taxied into position next to the first one, eager to be off the ground and back in the air.

  While the refueling truck positioned itself, a technician scurried up the boarding ladder and offered him a high sugar, high protein snack and a drink of water. He gulped both down. Then he glanced over at his wing. Two of the refueling technicians were poking uncertainly at the fueling port, a look of concern on their faces. Fury boiled over in him. After all he had done, to be s
tymied by incompetence on the ground was too much to bear. He stood up, leaned out of the cockpit, and said, “You’ll fuel this aircraft or you will die. You understand that?” He was so angry he almost leaped out onto the wing to complete the refueling himself.

  The technicians drew back. Fear flooded their faces.

  “What is wrong with you?” he screamed, now almost oblivious to everything around him. “Refuel my aircraft!”

  Finally, one of them spoke, his voice trembling. “We… we cannot, sir. The fuel pump ports… they’re welded shut.”

  Wadi took his pistol out of his survival and shot the man. Then he turned the second. “Refuel my aircraft.”

  The technician shuddered, aware that he would die within the next five minutes. “It is… it is impossible, sir.” He shut his eyes and composed himself for death.

  Wadi put pressure on the trigger again, then a sick feeling of horror swept over him. Those bastard Russians — had they dared? He scrambled out of the aircraft onto the wing, shoving the dead technician out of the way. He put his hand into the fueling port himself, and his fingers scrabbled against a mass of immovable metal.

  Up and down the flight line, the other pilots were encountering the same problem. And he knew with a cold, dreadful certainty that every aircraft now in the air, all of his second precious flight, would also have fuel ports welded shut. They could sustain the battle for another fifteen minutes, but after that, it would be impossible.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  United Nations

  New York

  Friday, May 7

  1800 local (GMT –5)

  After only two days of being accompanied by bodyguards everywhere she went, Ambassador Wexler was already seriously tired of it. At Brad’s insistence, the men followed her everywhere, and it seemed she could do nothing to countermand his orders. For the millionth time since she had called Brad from the restaurant, she wondered what it was in his background that gave him so much power. More and more every day, it was becoming clear that Brad was not exactly who she had thought he was.

  Oh, he was still the perfect aide. There was still fresh tea brewed, insightful comments on current affairs. But lately she had begun to notice a hardness in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. And the man who accompanied her everywhere belonged to him.

  Brad had also nixed dinner at any of her favorite restaurants, and so she and T’ing had taken to dining at each other’s homes. He proved to be an excellent cook with a fondness for French cuisine and the tact to express appreciation for the deli sandwiches she usually produced.

  This evening, dinner was at his townhouse located in a fashionable section of Manhattan. While she tried to mask her irritation at the security measures, she knew he could tell that something was on her mind. Finally, she told him what was bothering her.

  He listened to her rant, saying nothing and showing no indication of understanding. When she’d finished, he said “You who are so perceptive in so many matters are so naive in others. Can you imagine that your government would acquiesce to your preferences about your personal safety? You gave up that freedom when you accepted this post, Sarah. You are now part of a greater purpose, with greater responsibilities. And these are not your choices alone to make.”

  Sarah’s jaw dropped. “Maybe in your country, but not in mine,” she said firmly. She said it with more force than she intended, and when she thought about it, the reason for that was anger. Anger, because at some level she suspected T’ing was right. She took another bite of her salad, and made a show of selecting just the right morsels as she considered her next move. “And who does he report to, do you think?”

  “Secret Service, on temporary loan to the CIA,” T’ing supplied immediately.

  Wexler kept her face impassive. “How do you know this?”

  T’ing shrugged. “You depend on your government’s investigation, as it is reported to you. Not so with us. We know who Brad Carter is — we have known for some time.” Seeing the anger start in her face, he raised one hand. “Our friendship aside, Sarah, surely you must understand that if your own government is lying to you, it is not my place to correct that. Indeed, would you even have believed me? And furthermore, I have always disapproved of your decisions in this matter. That you have been protected, even though you do not wish to be, has been of some… of some comfort… to me.” He dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth.

  Just then, one of T’ing’s guards appeared in the doorway. He spoke rapidly in their language, then disappeared again. T’ing grew very still. Then he stood abruptly, came to her side of the table, and tendered her his arm. “Come. We must go. You’re not safe here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “My men are—”

  “—already dead,” he finished. “I have just been so informed.”

  Wexler reeled in horror. Although she had come to detest their presence, the fact that they had been killed shook her profoundly. “Why? Where?”

  T’ing’s grasp on her arm tightened. He effortlessly pulled her to her feet, though she tried to resist. They proceeded to the back of his townhouse to a closet. He opened the door, then popped a side panel. She saw a stairway leading down. “Come on.” Still holding her elbow, he escorted her forward and led the way down the stairs.

  The stairs terminated in a garage, but not his garage. It was, she surmised, the one for the townhouse that backed up to his. And in it was a Mercedes, black, with no trace of diplomatic tags or insignia on it.

  One of T’ing’s bodyguards was already there, standing by the door. Another was behind the wheel of the Mercedes. T’ing opened the back door, and handed her into the car behind the driver. He reached over her, fastened her restraint harness, and walked around to get in on the other side. He spoke in his own language, and the driver replied. The garage door began lifting. Two more bodyguards were outside, evidently having completed a search of the area. One of them slipped into the front passenger seat, and without further ado, the driver took off. Almost immediately, the radio crackled. T’ing turned her. “We are being followed. Please, hold on to the armrest and do not be alarmed.”

  Almost before he finished speaking, the Mercedes slewed violently across two lanes of traffic, over the median, and begin heading back in the opposite direction. A matching Mercedes fell in behind them, and she saw one three cars ahead. The sheer precision and planning for this contingency astounded her. Had T’ing taken the threats far more seriously that she had? Evidently so.

  “What the hell is going on?” she demanded, choosing anger over fear. “Quickly, drive to the police station. I want those men—”

  T’ing interrupted her. “It would be of no use. And it does not matter whether they seek you or me, though I suspect the latter. Whoever they are, they killed your bodyguards, which makes me believe that you are the target. But,” he said, with a delicate shrug, “either is certainly a possibility.”

  She twisted around to look behind. “Are they still there?”

  “No.”

  “Then where are we going?” she asked, doubts assailing her now. What if this was all some subtle plot, everything from their developing friendship leading up into the events of tonight? Had she been foolish, thinking him a friend? Was it even possible?

  As though he could read her mind, T’ing looked over, his face grave. “We are going to the United Nations,” he said. “The security forces there have been alerted. You’ll see them appear as we approach. You understand?”

  She nodded, satisfied, and leaned back against the seat for a moment.

  “Down!” T’ing snapped suddenly, and he thrust her down across the seat and covered her body with his. The back window shattered, cascading glass fragments down them. Wexler stifled the scream that started in her throat.

  T’ing muttered something that sounded like a profanity, and snapped out another command. Then he said, “Chinatown.”

  Wexler started to protest, then realized she had no better plan of action. T
he exit was immediately ahead, and evading whoever was behind them would be far easier in Chinatown than on the interstate. She shivered, the nearness of her escape coming home to her.

  Why? Was it the Iranians, indignant over her treatment of their ambassador on the floor of United Nations? Or some disgruntled radical group who disagreed with her position? She debated a for moment asking T’ing, then realized it didn’t matter. Safety first — then she would deal with everything else.

  Chinatown

  Wexler thought she knew Chinatown, but the one she dined in, shopped in, and toured was clearly not the same entity T’ing was familiar with. They were quickly off the main tourist venue and into the very heart of the neighborhood, winding down dark, crowded streets with exotic smells wafting past them. She and T’ing were flanked by his bodyguards and the crowd gave way easily before them. She noticed that T’ing nodded every so often to someone, and acknowledged an occasional hand raised in greeting. Just how deep did his roots run in this part of New York City?

  The men led her to a restaurant whose name was shown only in Chinese characters. It was small, but the air-conditioning was brutally cold when she stepped through the door. A hostess stepped forward, clad in traditional garb, but the manager or owner saw them and rushed forward to displace her. He and T’ing exchanged a few words, then they were led immediately to the back, past the rest rooms and kitchens and out through a back door. The room behind the restaurant was about the same size as the main room but she noticed it had a steel security door at one end, all the windows were barred and shuttered, and there was a faint odor of disuse about it. Some restaurant supplies were piled in a corner on pallets, so she surmised this must be a storage room of some sort. But it was clearly not like any storage room she had encountered before.

  In one corner, a couch and a few chairs were haphazardly arranged. T’ing led her there and said, “Now we wait.”

  The couch looked clean and serviceable, so she sat down. “Wait for what?”