The Air Force, the most junior of all the military services, coveted all the satellite programs. Senior Air Force staffers continually pointed out that the outer reaches of the earth’s atmosphere were still within their area of expertise. Space-based sensors, weapons — indeed, anything that flew — ought to belong to them. In one series of white papers, they’d argued that satellites could be used as forcefully in a “presence mission” as any carrier battle group.
Satellites in presence missions. Vice Admiral Magruder snorted in disgust. According to the officers that wore light blue suits, the mere rumor that a satellite was focused on a particular region would give a two-bit dictator reason to worry. They’d immediately stop slaughtering their own populations in the name of ethnic cleansing and become peaceful members of the world community.
For some strange reason, the rest of the military community failed to agree that a satellite could be as visible a symbol of U.S. intentions as a carrier battle group or amphibious task force sitting within view of the coast. While all services agreed that air superiority was a necessary precondition for a successful land campaign, no service except the Air Force believed that air power could eliminate the need for ground combat.
What would the “Air Farce” want next? Satellites flying in formation like F-14’s? A satellite equivalent of “Top Gun” school? Vice Admiral Magruder smiled at the thought and wondered if he could hornswoggle some junior Air Force officer into seriously proposing the concepts. The resulting flame war and embarrassment would be worth watching. Now that he was safely out of the Pentagon and back in an operational command, the political machinations and aspirations of others were a good source of flag-level jokes.
No, despite the invaluable information that satellites provided, they were far too vulnerable and weather-dependent to replace the Navy in presence missions. Besides, assuming that satellites would serve as a deterrence to hostilities depended on one assumption of doubtful validity — that the country supposedly being deterred knew that satellite was there. And for the third-world countries that currently teetered on the edge of violence, that was a mistake.
On the other hand, China was hardly a technological backwater. While its society was rigidly stratified, with millions of people living in unimaginable poverty, the most populated country in the world had devoted a large percentage of her GNP to military advancements. Along with her purchases from Russia, Japan, and Korea, she was quickly developing a high-tech military-industrial complex of her own. Analysts at highly classified briefings had speculated that China’s international intelligence network was becoming a significant concern, particularly in light of the United States’ relatively lenient policy of granting political asylum to almost any Chinese national who claimed it. Undoubtedly, China had the means for determining when U.S. satellites were providing surveillance on the area, and Vice Admiral Magruder wouldn’t rule out the possibility that they were also tapped into the satellites’ maintenance schedule. Maybe satellites could deter the burgeoning regional — and soon, international — power.
But deterrence required understanding why a country was doing whatever it was doing, and unraveling the chain of logic that underlay China’s political and military decisions was an almost futile task. Steeped in centuries of military tradition, and following the tenets of such brilliant military-political thinkers as Sun Tzu, the Chinese agenda was undoubtedly a subtle one.
“Get me a secure line to General Emberfault,” the senior Magruder said, referring to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “He’s probably already gotten reports on this from other sources, but I want him to hear it from us. It’s my battle group that’s on the line out there, and I need to know what I can do to protect it.”
“I didn’t see it myself, Admiral, but I sure felt the blast.” Bird Dog Robinson shifted uneasily in the hard plastic chair. The buzz of adrenaline from the bolter and his trap was starting to fade, leaving him feeling dopey and slow. He was tempted to rest his elbows on the government-issue table and support his head with his hands. He was still in his flight suit, although he’d ditched his ejection seat harness in the Handler’s office on his way down to CVIC for debriefing. Despite the air conditioning in his Tomcat and in CVIC, dried sweat glued his Nomex shirt to his back, and it was starting to itch. With the Admiral sitting in on the debriefing, a fresh trickle of sweat had started down the middle of his back.
“I thought I saw a blip of something, Admiral,” Gator volunteered. “Tomboy saw it, too, but it was there and then gone so fast, I can’t be certain. Could have been a sea-skimmer, though — the speed seemed right, from what I can remember.”
“We’ll take another look on the mission tapes. None of our surface ships picked up anything, not even the Aegis. Not that that decides it one way or the other. You boys had the advantage of altitude.” Rear Admiral Magruder frowned slightly. “The perennial look-down problem of the AWG-9 surfaces again. The F/A-18 Hornets and the F-14F have gone a long way toward correcting the deficiency, but the versions of the F-14 we’re still flying in the Fleet have a tough time on low-altitude contacts.”
The Admiral glanced back at the debriefing sheet Bird Dog had filled out. “The rock — anything unusual about it?” the Admiral asked.
Bird Dog looked down, unable to meet the eyes of the Commander of the Carrier Group. The Admiral’s voice had a hard-edged impatience to it. If the lack of information irritated him, what would the highly decorated pilot say if he knew how Bird Dog felt during that last trap? He shifted again in his seat, certain that Admiral Magruder would be as disgusted with him as he was with himself.
“Nothing. Still just a rock with a tank on it. I thought I saw a couple of guys standing on the tank, but we were still fairly high. If they were waving and cheering for the American way of life, I missed it,” Bird Dog said.
Immediately, he wished he could recall the words. Fear did that to him, for some reason. His mouth opened before he thought, and inappropriate words came tumbling out before he could think. But this was a serious matter, and the admiral had a reputation for being a serious guy. Someday, Bird Dog’s smart-ass mouth was going to get him in trouble.
“Sorry, Admiral,” he mumbled, and stared at his shoes.
Tombstone stared at him silently for a few moments. Then he said, “You remind me of my old wingman, Batman. Same sense of humor, and same sense of timing. I bailed him out more than once in briefings.” The barest trace of a smile twitched at the corner of the admiral’s mouth. “Lieutenant Commander Flynn? You saw this contact, too, I understand?” Tombstone asked the tiny redheaded RIO.
“Yes, Admiral. The AWG-9 just got a couple of hits on it, barely enough to paint a trace. Whatever it was — if both paints were even the same target — it was going like a bat out of hell. Then again, it could have just been two clots of sea clutter that happened to pop up one right after the other.” She shook her head. “I can’t give you a solid answer, sir. I’m sorry.”
“What’s your gut feeling about the contact?” Tombstone pressed. “You’ve got good eyes, Tomboy. You were trained by the best, after all.”