However, Vietnam had upped the ante in mid-1994, when it had taken delivery of a squadron of SU-27 Flankers. The Flanker was a Russian-built multipurpose fighter aircraft used for air intercept by the former Soviet Union’s ground defense forces. There were six versions of the advanced fighter, all produced at Komsomolsk in the Khabarovsk Territory. While the basic airframe had entered service in the Soviet Union in 1984, new versions of the Flanker were reportedly under development. Interestingly enough, in 1991 the fighter had been observed undertaking ground attack roles as well.
The Flanker was also the first Soviet aircraft to make a non-VSTOL landing on a ship. That particular development had caused immense concern in the U.S. military establishment, since the Soviet Union had relied on its land-launched aircraft as the mainstay of its air power until then. Being tied to land bases naturally limited Soviet strategic options in pursuing domination of large areas of the world, and had helped to limit efforts at expansionism. But with a potent carrier air wing and fighters in its inventory, the Soviet Union could dramatically expand its theater of influence — and combat. Fortunately, the Evil Empire had collapsed under its own corruption before developing a truly workable carrier aviation program. Engineering details, such as developing a reliable catapult steam system, had stymied them long enough.
Equipped with afterburners and a relatively traditional airframe containing titanium components but no advanced stealth composite materials, the Flanker was a tough, versatile fighter. It would have been a deadly adversary flying from a carrier, and was no less potent as a land-based fighter in the relatively constrained waters of the South China Sea.
Still, Tombstone reminded himself, this was Vietnam’s backyard. There was no good reason for the country not to conduct surveillance on an American battle group in their pond. Given Seventh Fleet’s orders to exercise FON peacefully, it would not be appropriate to provoke a confrontation unless the battle group’s safety was at stake.
“VID and watch him. Unless his wings are dirty, I’m not opposed to a fly-over look-see,” Tombstone said finally.
“Yes, Admiral. The Hornet should be in position any minute now.” The two aircraft were closing in on each other at a thousand knots.
“Tomcat 201, airborne,” Tombstone heard a woman’s voice drawl. Tomboy, flying as RIO in the alert five. He felt a momentary irritation that he hadn’t known she was launching, and then realized his feeling was ridiculous. Why would they have told him who the alert five crew was? And, to be honest, if it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have cared.
“Homeplate, Jigsaw One.” Another RIO’s voice cut in on the circuit, a hard edge of excitement in the tone. “This ain’t no MiG! It’s an SU-27—a Flanker, two-seater version. Wings are clean — no weapons on this boy — and Chinese insignia on the fuselage and tail. I’m moving off to his right, about five hundred yards away. Looks like he’s headed your way,” the Hornet conducting the intercept said.
“Roger, Jigsaw One. Escort him on in,” the calm voice of the carrier TAO answered.
“Chinese!” Tombstone said thoughtfully. “I’d heard there were some Chinese aircraft down there with a detachment conducting training, but what are they doing flying operational missions with Flankers out of Vietnam?”
In 1991, Tombstone recalled, China’d taken delivery of the first eight Flankers. Since then, the remainder of the first order of twenty-two had been delivered. Intell sources believed that China might buy up to twenty-eight more of the agile, fast fighters before Russia closed the door on foreign sales. Other sources reported that China was developing her own prototype advanced fighter, code-named the F-10.
It’s supposed to be years away from being fully operational, Tombstone thought. But that’s what I thought about the JAST program, too, and I’ve got two of them sitting on my deck right now. No sure bets on anything these days.
“This would be the Flanker-C or -1B — those are the two-seater versions,” an intelligence officer chimed in. “The C version was primarily a trainer, but it was fully combat capable. The 1B was the fighter-bomber that was supposed to deploy from their carriers. And Admiral, while the Flanker is equipped for in-flight refueling, the Chinese have had notoriously little training in it. If they wanted to come out and take a look-see at us, they’d probably rather be launching from Vietnam than China’s southern coast. It’s a hell of a lot closer, and they can get out and take some pictures with their onboard stores.”
“Let’s not get completely convinced by the tail artwork. A Flanker is a Flanker, be it Chinese or Vietnamese,” Tombstone said. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, let’s play this one like pros. The Flanker — whoever he belongs to — gets a look as long as he plays nice. But keep that Hornet on him every second. Something starts looking hinky, I don’t want us scrambling for cover.”
A whiff of light, clean perfume floated through the air. Tombstone turned to find the source.
“Good morning, Admiral,” Pamela said, stepping over the knee-knocker threshold to TFCC. “The Chief of Staff told me I’d find you in here.”
“We’re a little busy right now, Miss Drake,” he said, momentarily grateful for the subdued red lighting in the operational center. Damn it, he couldn’t afford to be distracted right now!
“I’ll stay out of the way,” she answered, moving over to an unoccupied corner of the tiny space.
While his nose quickly became accustomed to the scent of her perfume, and Pamela was now out of his direct line of sight, Tombstone could feel her in TFCC. Apart from the normal physical sensations and memories just thinking of her generated, her presence was doubly uncomfortable with Tomboy flying CAP on the unknown contact.
As much as he tried to deny it, there was something about the female aviator that inevitably drew his eyes to her. Tomboy had been his RIO when Jefferson had faced down the Russians on the Kola Peninsula, and during their mission over the Polyamyy submarine base. Their Tomcat had taken a hit, and they’d punched out. Tomboy had come out of it with a broken leg and an extended hospital stay.
She’d been lucky. Not every female pilot had been, he thought. Lieutenant Chris “Lobo” Hansen had been shot down on the same mission. The militia that’d captured her had gang-raped her and left her naked and shivering, displayed in a wire cage. When the Marines rescued her a few hours later, she was already deep into psychological and physical shock.
Tombstone had heard from Tomboy that Lobo had completely recovered and been sent to an instructor’s billet at Top Gun school. There’d been some talk of barring her from further combat duties, but in the end the Navy did the right thing. Lobo had finished her tour as an instructor, and had received orders to VF-95 as the Safety Officer. Whatever else the Navy had learned from the integration of women into combat squadrons, it was that there was only one personnel policy that worked — treating each and every aviator as a professional. Tombstone approved.
He wondered if he’d feel the same if it had been Tomboy who’d undergone the same experience. Involuntarily, he remembered how her head barely came up to his wings on his chest, and how her voice sounded over the ICS. A pilot and regular RIO were always close. During combat, the RIO’s voice merged with the pilot’s thoughts, until every comment from the backseat sounded like his own mind. Was that what he was feeling? The traditional psychic bond between two aviators that depended on each other in the air? Or was it something else?