Whatever it was down there, it was damned big. "I wonder what they're going to make of this back at U Feng," he said to Malibu.
"Damned if I know. Want me to call it in?"
"Let's finish the run first. Good God! There's no end to them! Just what the hell have we found anyway?"
"General Hsiao! Major Sai is calling! The Burmese radio operator pressed the telephone handset against his ear. Around him, other men in Burmese army uniforms sat at the radar consoles which filled the Mong-koi control tower. Through the large, inward-slanting windows of the tower, the Mong-koi runways could be seen, flat, straight-lined slashes through the jungle. "He reports two American aircraft over his position!"
"American aircraft? What kind?"
The radio operator spoke briefly into the radio before turning again.
"Sir! He doesn't know."
Peasants, Hsiao thought. Peasants who could scarcely tell the difference between a jet interceptor and a helicopter. Most of the soldiers in the People's Army now fighting in northern Thailand had been recruited from the ranks of militias formerly in the service of the various warlords of the Golden Triangle. Major Sai had, until recently, been working for the notorious Khun Sah, a Burmese drug lord widely known as the Prince of Death.
His United Shan Army still dominated much of eastern Burma.
That would not be the case for very much longer. Once Hsiao's agents controlled Thailand, he would be able to dictate his own terms to the likes of Khun Sah.
"American reconnaissance aircraft," Hsiao said. "From the carrier at Sattahip."
"Major Sai requests instructions, General," the operator said. "Shall he open fire?"
SA-7 missiles might down one of the planes, but killing two was unlikely.
More probably the planes would flee, bearing precise coordinates for the point at which they'd been fired upon. "Tell him to do nothing. Support will be there in a few minutes."
"Yes, sir."
Hsiao sensed the ponderous bulk of General Kol coming up beside him.
"General Hsiao?" The Burmese sounded worried. "What are you planning?"
Hsiao looked past the fat general, his eyes seeking the shadowed forms of several MiGs parked beneath the patchwork cover of layered camouflage netting.
Ignoring Kol, he snapped an order. "Colonel Wu!"
"Sir!"
"Do we have a patrol ready to go?"
"Yes, general. Four aircraft are fueled and standing by."
"Scramble them."
"At once, General!"
"General Hsiao" Kol began, but he stopped when the former Chinese intelligence officer turned a cold gaze on him. He swallowed, then made himself continue. "General Hsiao, perhaps it is not wise to antagonize the Americans. After all, a plan so broad, so complex. To shoot down American fighters here, now…"
"Your concern, General," Hsiao said quietly, "is this base and the Burmese forces we have in the field. The Americans are my concern."
"But if attention should be called to this air base-"
"It does not matter, Kol," he replied, omitting the formal use of the Burmese general's rank as a reminder of who was in charge. "After tonight it will not matter what the Americans know… or their That puppets!"
Kol lowered his gaze. "Of course, General."
The mournful wail of a siren could be heard faintly through the windows of the control tower. Across the tarmac, Chinese aircrews were wheeling the first of four J-7 fighters onto the runway. Hsiao could see four pilots, already wearing their green form-fitting pressure suits, dog-trotting toward their planes with their helmets under their arms.
"In any case," Hsiao continued, "there is nothing to worry about. So far as anyone else is concerned, this will simply be one more minor border incident."
The first Chinese pilot clambered up a ladder and slid into his cockpit.
Crewmen detached power lines and wheeled the starter cart out of the way as the engine coughed into life, the whine rising above the moan of the siren.
The canopy came down as the Chinese MiG started to roll.
Hsiao nodded to Wu, who was pressing a headset against one ear. "Have them stay at treetop level all the way to the target, Colonel. Perhaps we can surprise our American friends."
Moments later, the first two J-7s shrieked off the runway.
"How about one more run?" Batman asked. He pulled the Tomcat into a sharp, banking turn to port. They had turned to cross the greatest concentration of heat sources, crossing the area from south to north. This had taken them close to the Burmese border, though they were still south of that invisible line.
"Fine by me," Malibu replied. "I don't really fancy visiting Burma anyway."
"Two-three-two!" Taggart's voice exploded over Batman's headset. "Bogies incoming, bearing three-four-oh at one-four miles!"
That put the targets across the line, well into Burma. "Rog," he said.
"How many?"
"Two bogies," Taggart replied. "Repeat, two bogies. I think they're low. Keep losing them in the ground clutter."
"Stay on 'em, Malibu! You have them?"
"No joy, Batman… no! Got 'em! Two bogies, range now one-zero miles.
Shit, Batman. They're coming straight in!"
Batman hauled back on the stick, clawing for sky. Whatever was about to happen, he wanted some room to maneuver.
The bogies kept coming.
CHAPTER 9
"Let's split up and see if we can get a better look at these guys," Batman said. He kept the F-14 in a sharp, twisting climb. The jungle fell away beneath the Tomcat as sunlight flooded the interior of the cockpit.
"Roger that," Taggart replied. "Not too far, though. Don't want to lose you."
American aircraft did not generally use tight-knit wingman formations but preferred the system known as "loose deuce." Having one of the two planes well out in front of the other, and a mile higher or lower, improved the chances of spotting the enemy, as well as giving two sets of aircraft radars a better look at the target.
"Range eight miles," Malibu called from the backseat. Batman leveled off at nine thousand feet, already searching the northwestern horizon for some visual sign of the approaching planes. "Still coming, speed six hundred knots."
"Okay. Call up the Jeff and tell them we have a situation here. I think we'd-"
"Shit!" Malibu exploded. "We have four bogies now, repeat, four bogies!"
They must have been flying wingtip to wingtip and hard on the deck to confuse the Tomcats' radars.
"Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Tomcat Two-three-two," Batman radioed.
"Do you copy, over?"
"Two-three-two, Homeplate," a voice answered moments later. Radio communications with the Jefferson were being relayed through a Hawkeye circling near Bangkok. "We COPY."
"Homeplate, we have four, repeat, four bogies closing from three-four-oh at six hundred. They're coming in over the line!"
"Copy, Two-three-two. Break off and RTB."
"Rog," Batman said. "You copy that, Price? Time to get out of Dodge."
"I don't think they're going to let us, Batman," Taggart said. "Tell you what. Get down on the deck while I run interference."
Batman thought about it for a brief moment. Taggart's suggestion made sense. Tomcat 232 was carrying two Sidewinder missiles in addition to the TARPS pod, not enough for a sustained dogfight if it came to that. Taggart was carrying eight missiles, and had greater maneuverability as well.
"Where the hell are our escorts anyway?" he snapped.