“The word came from on high, paisan ” Samson said. “Too late to argue about it. They tell me ‘jump’—yada, yada, yada, you know the rest.”
“Pardon me for speaking out, sir, but if you want to send the Chinese a message — if you think, like I do, that the Chinese or some radical Japanese planted a backpack nuke on the Independence—then blasting through Chinese air defenses and destroying a couple missile bases will do the trick. They know full well that we won’t start a nuclear war, and we know that the Chinese don’t have the force structure to wage a nuclear war or stage a massive invasion.”
“Joe, I agree with you, but you’ve got to remember that the Independence and three other ships were blown up by a nuclear weapon, and we lost six thousand troops ” Samson said pointedly. “The Joint Chiefs think it was the Chinese, and if it was, it’ll be the second time in a month they’ve attacked American forces and the second time they used nuclear weapons. They’re obviously trying to force the U.S. out of Asia, and the President is not going to allow that. We’re lining up other options, but the President and Secretary of Defense definitely wanted the nuclear forces back on alert until we find out what bases we have available to us overseas and whether or not we can use the carriers.”
“Sir, I understand that the President wants revenge,” Roma said, “but no one out here on the line thinks he’s going to use nukes on anybody. It’s an exercise in futility” He paused, then: “General Samson, the recent skirmish against Iran, the attacks on the targets inside Iran and on that carrier — that was a stealth bomber attack, wasn’t it? You planned those attacks, didn’t you?” Samson didn’t answer right away, so Roma went on: “If so, sir, let’s do it again. Pick the targets in China that are the greatest threat to us or our allies, then send in the B-ls and B-2s. We’ll loudly kick ass for you, I guarantee it.”
There was what felt like a long, uncomfortable pause; then Samson said distractedly, “Stand by one, Joe,” and the line went quiet. Roma wished this conversation had never taken place — he was embarrassing himself in front of his mentor and superior officer. It sounded as if Joe Roma was squeamish about the possibility of using nuclear weapons, or going to war, which he definitely wasn’t. He also felt that perhaps he was being perceived as taking advantage of his access and friendship with Terrill Samson to voice his opinion, which he certainly didn’t need right now.
Suddenly, the line opened up again: “Paisan, you’re on the line right now with another fellow bomber puke. Joe Roma, say hello to Colonel Tony Jamieson, pilot type and ops group commander at Whiteman. Tiger Jamieson, meet Phone Colonel Joe Roma, navigator type, Stan-Eval chief at Ellsworth.” The two aviators exchanged confused “hellos.”
“You are not going to believe this, guys, but you both called me out of the clear blue sky, with no invitation or prompting from me or anyone, within five minutes of one another — and you both suggested the exact same damn thing,” Samson said, with obvious pride in his voice. “We’re busy loading nukes on both the Bones and Beaks, and two of the best heavy drivers in the business call to tell me I’m making a big mistake. Maybe I am.
“You asked about the attacks on Iran, Joe — Tony Jamieson was the AC on all of them, including the five-thousand-mile trek across Chinese, Indian, and Pakistani airspace.”
“You flew those missions, Colonel?” Roma asked incredulously. “I want to hear about all of the missions, sir. It’s exactly the kind of thing we’ve been preaching for years — the power of the long-range bombers, especially the B-2.”
“The Bone would have no problem doing exactly what I did, Roma,” Jamieson said. “We can cruise through Chinese airspace in anything we want — they don’t have the gear to detect us, let alone shoot us down. We damn well proved we can hit any target anywhere in the world, son— only problem is, the mission was classified, and when some little snippet of information leaks out, the President gets hammered for it. But yes, we sure as shit did it.”
“Who was your mission commander, sir?” Roma asked. “I’d like to talk with him, too.”
“You better ask the general about him,” Jamieson said, with a definite edge of sarcastic humor in his voice. “I don’t think I’m at liberty to discuss him. He was a good stick, knew his shit cold, but he scared the bejeezus out of me every time I stepped into the Beak with him.”
“Jamieson’s MC was a guy named McLanahan, Joe.”
“I knew a guy named McLanahan who won all those Fairchild Trophies in Bomb Comp a few years ago,” Roma said. “Kinda hard to forget that name. He won two Bomb Comps while flying B-52s, back when B-ls were the hot new jets to beat.”
“He’s the one,” Samson said. “He’s been working with me on another project, since the White House started getting all the heat about the B-2 raids over Iran. He flies a modified B-52 bomber that is unlike anything you have ever seen. When they grounded the B-2s, I talked the White House into sending a few of these modified B-52s over the Formosa Strait to keep an eye on the Chinese. The plan blew up in my face, although McLanahan’s BUFFs did okay.”
“Sounds to me like the brass effectively grounded all the heavy bombers, sir,” Jamieson observed. “Loading the fleet up with nukes means they won’t be flying if war breaks out with the PRC.”
“Looks that way, Tiger,” Samson said.
“So now the brass doesn’t believe anything you say, and so if you went back to them and tried to convince them to quit using nukes and plan some long-range strikes with conventional munitions, they probably won’t listen to you,” Jamieson added bluntly. “So where does that leave us?”
“I don’t know if my opinion means squat in the Pentagon or the White House anymore,” Samson said resolutely, “but I’m going to try to put a halt to this nuclear nonsense and get back to the business we’ve been in for forty years now — carrying big-time heavy iron to the enemy. I want you two to put together some attack sorties for us so I can go back to the Pentagon and give them some alternatives.”
“Now you’re talking, General,” Jamieson said happily. “We can get on the network and have some Bone and Beak sorties drawn up right away. ”
“Absolutely,” Roma said excitedly “Til pull some preplanned packages off the shelf and update them with the current intel — and I know, if the plans are approved, that we can generate some non-nuclear planes a hell of a lot faster than the nuclear ones.”
“That’s for damned sure,” Jamieson agreed.
“Then get to it, boys,” Samson said. “Make us proud!”
The Chinese People’s Liberation Army Air Force radar controllers aboard the Ilyushin-76 Candid, an ex-Russian airborne radar plane, spotted the first rebel attack formation just minutes after the aircraft launched from bases at Taichung and Tainan on the island of Formosa. “Attention, attention,” the controller called out excitedly, “enemy aircraft attack formation detected, one hundred twenty miles east of Juidongshan.”
The operations officer stepped back to the radar controller’s console and studied the display. Unfortunately, it was not a sophisticated display like what the American E-2 or E-3 Airborne Warning and Control System plane had — the targets appeared as raw radar data blips with simple numeric electronic identification tags attached, with no altitude readouts; speed, bearing, and distance were computed by centering a cursor over the target using mechanical X- and Y-axis cranks and reading the information off the meters. As the formation got closer to the mainland, however, the blips started to break into pieces — now there were at least four blips, which meant anywhere from four to sixteen attackers.