Or was it?
Clark — and Qin — knew the media hysteria about the efforts to rescue Lieutenant Campbell was a sideshow. Both commanders had the ability to juggle demands on their time and fleet resources. The Americans had another downed airman off Palawan, closer to Qin’s forces than to Clark’s, but there was a carrier in the Celebes Sea, and, for Qin, looking for a carrier in 120,000 square miles of sea space was better than looking for one in 600,000 square miles of open water off Luzon.
Johnson waited for an answer. “How many, Flip?”
Wilson considered the female aviators in CVW-15. The ones in the “pointy-nose” squadrons would have the highest exposure to enemy SAMs and fighters. Besides Olive, there were six other women, all lieutenants.
“Admiral, we have about half a dozen women in the Rhino and Growler squadrons. All or none could be scheduled for tomorrow night’s strike. Is there an answer you want me to give?”
Johnson pursed his lips and exhaled. He didn’t want to reach in and write the flight schedule for the squadrons. He wished that Hawaii had not asked and wondered if Cactus himself had asked the question or some busybody on the staff.
“Given the situation off Luzon, can you minimize the number for tomorrow night? Wait. Belay that. I didn’t ask the question. Schedule your people as appropriate. I’ll handle Seventh Fleet and Hawaii.”
“What are you going to tell them, sir?”
“Not sure, but I’ve got it. You’ve got a war to fight. I’ll pull something out of my ass or just forget the question. We have bad radio connectivity, and the sun is in my eyes. Yeah, that’s it. Press on.”
Wilson smiled. “Roger, sir. Meanwhile, we’ve gotta get Rip.”
“And hit Stingray. What do you think about the timeline to neutralize the Spratly outposts?”
Wilson didn’t like being put on the spot. Who knew what they would encounter, and Heaven’s Shield was still operational. He hedged.
“Four days, sir.”
The Big Unit nodded. “Concur, but you’ve got three.”
CHAPTER 52
Bai eased into a left angle of bank and looked down. Below was the lumbering Y-8, bright gray against the brilliant blue sea. The downed American was someplace below on a raft. With sharp eyes and calibrated sensors, maybe the Y-8 would find him in the next thirty minutes — before Bai’s fuel state required him to return to Blood Moon. Beyond the hazy green of Palawan, shielded by a wall of late afternoon cumulonimbus clouds over the island, were the Americans, far down on the southeast horizon. Rumor had it they were in the Celebes Sea, little more than an hour’s flying time from where he was orbiting at the edge of PRC territory.
Let’s get them! a frustrated Bai growled.
Regiments of fighters and bombers from the Southern Sea outposts, reinforced with bombers and support aircraft from the mainland, could overwhelm any defense the Americans could place before them. He hoped orders were coming in to the command post just now to do that tomorrow morning — but he didn’t expect so. His leadership was timid, Zhanjiang was timid! This moment in time called for bold action. Bai reflected that Chairman Mao had shown the way, yet the Party was going to miss this historic chance to assert itself against American aggression in seas that belonged to the People! Wait to be attacked by their precision weapons? No! Seize the initiative and go after them now. They are here, within reach!
Bai knew the Americans could exact a heavy price, maybe down a whole regiment of fighters or bombers, but they couldn’t handle three regiments attacking in a coordinated manner with volleys of sea-skimming cruise missiles. “If Zhanjiang would just allow us,” he muttered to himself under his oxygen mask. The more Bai thought about his commanders on Blood Moon, the less confidence he had in their abilities to plan and lead a bold attack to the distant Celebes — even if HQ gave the order. How much longer would they wait?
He had fifteen minutes of fuel before he and his wingman would withdraw. The Americans would come at night, maybe in a few hours. He wanted to leave the babysitting of the Y-8 to someone else and be on strip alert to meet the American attack. Circling this fat patrol aircraft dulled his senses. It was work better suited to the J-10 guys.
To the north, Bai saw one of the People’s Navy ships. Except for the People’s new aircraft carrier, one PLA(N) ship looked like another. He hoped this one had missiles that could down an American Super Hornet.
“Number four-six, Southern Control.”
Bai keyed the mike. “Control, number four-six is on station. Request orders.”
“Number four-six, return to base via briefed routing and altitude.”
Bai acknowledged the order and increased his turn to the west and into a setting sun, thankful that another flight of J-11s was inbound to protect the plodding patrol plane. However, the American was still out there. This flight had been a total waste, and Bai glanced at the live missiles on his wings he would have to bring home. How he wanted to shoot one, and less than 1,000 kilometers away were American targets! They would come tonight, and Bai Quon was ready.
As the sun touched the western horizon, USS Hancock headed into an area of low visibility in the central Celebes Sea — which a thankful Blower wanted in order to shield her from view. Pilots scheduled to fly patrols northwest of the ship in the Sulu Sea to assist with Rip’s combat SAR effort grumbled that it was going to be a dark night, with fog and low clouds making it darker. Getting back aboard was going to be challenging if the visibility fell any more, and, with no suitable divert fields, they needed every drop of airborne fuel. Tension was pervasive throughout the ship, with full-scale combat competing with weather for its leading cause.
Mother Tucker scheduled himself on the “pinky” launch for a Barrier CAP in the western Celebes. He knew the JOs talked behind his back that he always managed a day launch and very few night hours. Fuck ‘em, he thought. Mother was the damn CO, and rank had its privileges. The snot-nosed JOs could kiss his ass, and he was still a better warrior than the limp-dick Navy skippers. It was the cat shot—on combat-damaged catapults! — that Mother dreaded with a fear that now consumed him. Chances were his number wouldn’t come up; someone else would get a cold shot from a defective catapult, eject in front of the ship, and hopefully not get run over. If the airplane was not flying at the end—Hell, they fling us off on the verge of stall by design! — he probably wouldn’t react in time. He’d be mesmerized, traumatized, petrified by that black ink bottle ahead of him. The FA-18 was designed to rotate off the cat and climb away on its own, hands-off—a design feature that had saved him more than once. At least he’d been able to manage his fears — until now.
The ship slid the event launch time ninety minutes. His new launch time of 1915 was over an hour after sunset, and, with the lowering vis, it was going to be black, as black as he’d ever seen, as black as that night off SoCal when his knees shook and he struggled to maintain control. Blacker than a thousand midnights, blacker than the ace of spades… blacker’n shit. He’d heard them all in ready room banter over the course of his career, but nobody at the Beaufort Rod and Gun Club had seen black like this, on a damn carrier in the middle of nowhere in a frickin’ fogbank. The stupid Navy dumbfucks! Move the damn ship out of the fog! Idiots!