Condition Green Tokyo 1970

1

CAPTAIN JOE HOLIDAY SWUNG THE BAT INTO a ninety-degree turn, and felt again the queasy feeling he got in his stomach every time he penetrated Communist China. It all looked the same below from 90,000 feet, but his Computer Position Indicator told him he'd just left The People's Democratic Republic of Viet Laos, at 0624: 37 ZULU time, Saturday, 19 April 1970.

Welcome to China, he said through his mike to Captain Ben Hart in the back seat.

No welcoming committee yet, Ben answered. But somehow I have the feeling that we're being watched.

Hope so. That's part of the game.

Today's mission was short, but about as simple and safe as catching cobras bare-handed. SAMOS reconnaissance had indicated a new type Surface-to-Air Missile site at Nanning Airfield, and a probable new IRBM site at Meng-Tzu about two hundred miles west, near the Burma-Viet Laos-China border. DIA—Defense Intelligence Agency—wanted close-up photography of each, plus a recording of the SAM radar's tracking signal and its missile guidance telemetry in a non-simulated combat situation.

And while you're up there, Major Patton had added at the briefing, see if you can't tease a fighter-interceptor into taking a pot-shot at you. We never have got a good recording of that new Firefly AI radar in tracking mode. At 90,000 feet, Joe and Ben would get only one crack at a good recording, for the interceptor would have to zoom to get in range, then recover to lower altitude. That suited Joe just fine; one crack at it was ample.

Here he comes, Ben warned. He's singing our song.

Ben switched the signal into Joe's headset, a sound of bumblebees in his helmet. The Airborne Intercept radar was still searching for them, not yet locked on for the kill.

Get ready for the last verse, Joe cautioned, though Ben would be ready.

The swarming bees abruptly became a single mosquito whining in Joe's ear. He let it persist for a fraction of a second.

Now! he shouted. He pushed the Bat into a speed dash and veered right, as Ben pushed a button to release a burst of chaff into the spot just vacated by the Bat. Part of the chaff blossomed into a tinfoil cloud which would appear, to any radar, as an aircraft; another part of the chaff plummeted quickly downward, like a diving aircraft, which was part of the plan.

The shrill of the tracking radar ceased, and was replaced by the sizzling of the search mode again.

Shook him, Joe said with relief. Shook me, too!

Recording looks good. Glad that's over with.

But next comes the tricky part, Joe reminded him. Better hit that button again.

Captain Hart released another bundle of chaff, part of which floated and part of which dived. And here's Sammy now, he noted.

'Bout time, Joe said. We're well within range. How's he doing?

Ben consulted his oscilloscope monitor, which showed that the electronically sectoring scan of the surface-to-air missile guidance radar was aimed slightly left and to their rear. Hasn't picked us out yet, he advised.

Keep me posted.

He's coming up on us now, Ben said quickly.

Button, button, Joe said, knowing Ben would already have acted.

The tracker was back on them in an instant. Didn't fool him, Ben advised.

Joe frowned, and checked their position. It was about time to hit the deck, anyway. Going down, he said. Give 'em a pigeon.

Thar she blows, Ben said a moment later, after dropping another chaff bundle to the rear and firing a decoy missile ahead.

Joe put the Bat into the same sort of dive their chaff had simulated earlier, hoping the ChiComs would think they were repeating their previous trick.

They're tracking the pigeon, Ben said happily as they passed through 50,000 feet. They think we're chaff.

Joe grunted. He was glad they hadn't had to use the false target generator, which would have given the tracking radar so many phony targets its computer would have had a migraine. But it also would have revealed to the ChiComs their ace-in-the-hole, and the purpose of a reconnaissance mission is to collect, not divulge, information. The decoy would destroy itself in three more minutes, if it didn't get shot down sooner. And before it blew itself up, it would throw out a bundle of floating and diving chaff of its own. The pigeon, as Joe and Ben unofficially called it, was a good actor.

Two missiles fired, Ben said. Man, listen to that crazy telemetry.

Music to my ears, Joe said, leveling off at 300 feet above ground. So long as it's not coming my way. My, won't they be surprised to see us! They were below the effective coverage of any radar now, lost in the ground clutter, and coming right up on the runway at Nanning Airfield. The SAM site was just off the far end. Joe tried to put down an insane impulse to touch his wheels down on the Nanning runway.

Don't you think we ought to shoot at least one touch-and-go? he asked.

Can't do it, Ben said. The active runway's already full.

Joe looked again. Sure enough, a fighter-interceptor was just starting its take-off roll ahead of them.

Joe decided to race him. The ChiCom interceptor was halfway down the runway when Joe brought the Bat across the touchdown point 50 feet high, and Joe figured to pass him at about the three-quarter mark.

The interceptor's nose dipped suddenly and its pilot spun his head around to stare at the Bat; Joe figured he'd just got the word from the tower. The ChiCom pilot resumed his task of taking off as the Bat passed overhead with cameras whirring, but Joe knew it would be too late. The distraction had cost the ChiCom pilot a thousand feet of precious runway and several knots of ground speed.

The Bat photographed the SAM guidance radar from a range of 50 feet. It also photographed the interceptor cartwheeling into the SAM control center seconds later, spewing its flaming fuel over half the site.

Get all that on tape? Joe asked when he could catch his breath.

I hope you realize Peiping will probably issue its 4,673rd 'serious warning' because of that, Ben scolded with mock concern.

Hope I'm still alive to hear about it, Joe said, still hugging the ground with the Bat.

Should be duck-soup from here on, Ben said. Relatively speaking, that is.

Which was true. Meng-Tzu and the new IRBM site were only seven minutes away as the Bat flies and were right on their exit route. They had low-altitude photography of the missiles and startled faces and were out of China before Nanning could scramble another fighter off the ground.

Major Patton, their mission briefer, was waiting to greet them at the Thailand recovery base. Thailand was the West's last firm foothold in Southeast Asia, a festering thorn in the Communists' belly; the Malaysian government remained pro-West, but was weakened almost to the point of collapse after six years of incessant harassment by Communist guerrillas and dissident Chinese.

What in hell have you two been up to? Patton asked accusingly as they climbed out. For about the last ten minutes it's been echoing all over China that somebody bombed Nanning. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?

Now really, Joe chortled. How could an unarmed reconnaissance plane bomb anybody? We just teased them a little bit, like you said we should.

They'll simmer down when they piece the story together, Ben predicted. We got a picture of the culprit that blew up the SAM site. One of their own boys.

How'd the mission go? Major Patton asked.

Routine, Joe lied. Just like you briefed it.

Let's see, Ben said, ticking the mission requirements off on his fingers. We got the AI radar in search and track modes, the SAM radar tracker, its missile guidance telemetry . . . .

Wow! Major Patton interrupted. How close was it?

No sweat, Joe said. They were after a decoy.

. . . . low level photos of Nanning's runway and the SAM site and its radar, Ben continued, except it's not there any more.

A pity, Patton said. That's the trouble with reconnaissance. No sooner than you get the data, it's obsolete.

Maybe they'll rebuild, Joe injected.

. . . . and low-level of the IRBM's. It's all right there, Ben finished, pointing at the data capsule which the Bat carried kangaroo-style in its belly. The capsule could be ejected from the air to waiting hands on the ground if necessary, but today it wasn't necessary. With a runway handy, personal delivery is better. Another little trick Joe could do with the capsule was blow it to smithereens by remote push-button control, should it ever fall into the wrong waiting hands.

Patton was pounding Joe and Ben on their shoulders. The whole ball of wax, by God, he exclaimed happily. That's wonderful! Great!

Easy, easy, Ben protested, No judo with the kudos, please.

Yeh, we'd settle for just a couple of medals instead, Joe said.

And a one-way ticket back home, Ben added.

Patton ceased pounding and scratched his head. Gee, I'll sure give it some thought. Meanwhile, how about a drink?

It came to Joe that, right now, a drink was what he needed most of all. Minutes later, they were toasting their success over the Stag Bar at the Officers Club. Major Patton was more subdued now, as if he truly were giving Ben's request some thought.

Your relief crew didn't show up, he said slowly, swirling his drink.

That's just dandy, Joe groaned. Ginger's expecting me back tonight.

And Nancy me, Ben added. How come no show?

Hey, they aren't lost are they?

No, no, nothing like that, Patton reassured him. Just got a twix from Tokyo. Seems your Lieutenant Rogers has come down with some sort of bug, and the Flight Surgeon's grounded him for two weeks.

Joe snorted. Probably VD, knowing Jack. Or a bad case of malingeritis, so he can hang around and make love to Sally while the rest of us are out risking our asses.

I doubt that, Ben chuckled. You know Sally only has eyes for you, Joe.

Hold it, hold it, Patton broke in, spreading his arms to silence the two. If Ginger's your wife, and Nancy's yours, then who the hell is this Sally?

Our secretary, Ben said.

Aha! Patton smirked. The plot thickens!

Also the daughter of the U.S. Ambassador to Japan, Joe added. A lovely creature. And, undoubtedly, Jack Rogers' target for tonight.

Jack's the world's greatest cocksman, according to Jack, but Sally's partial to Joe here.

Don't I wish, Joe muttered.

Just wait 'til she hears about that drag race you had with Wun-Hung-Lo. She'll be crawling all over you!

And when will that be, with no relief in sight?

Ben raised his eyebrows. Good question. Major Patton?

Hmm? Oh, oh yes. Well, you can be doubly glad you had a good mission today. I guess we won't be needing the Bat anymore for awhile, so you're free to take it back to Tokyo on schedule. Today, if you like.

I like, Joe said.

Mustn't keep the girls waiting, Ben said.

Nor our new boss, either, Joe added.

That's right, Ben said, remembering. Major Pointer and family arrive from the States tomorrow, don't they?

Yup. Their first overseas tour, save England. And old watashi here is their sponsor.

You're supposed to meet them and introduce them to the inscrutable wonders of the Orient? Patton quizzed.

Precisely, Joe nodded. Just one little catch, though. Major Pointer hates Japan.

Before he's even seen it?

'Fraid so. Seems his old man was a P.O.W., and from the tone of his letters, he's never forgiven the Japanese for what they did to him.

So Joe's got to be a s'koshii careful about extolling the virtues of life in Japan, Ben said, or he's apt to get brained.

Oh, I'll be careful, Joe said. You know me.

Yeah, I know you, Patton chuckled. You're the guy that probably started World War III about an hour ago.

Patton was only joking about that, Joe knew, but it gave him unpleasant food for thought on the long flight back to Koyota Air Base near Tokyo. Their reconnaissance missions would more likely prevent a war than provoke one—but if the Japanese ever found out it was one of their guests who stirred up the ruckus in China today, they'd scrap the Security Treaty in a minute and kick the whole U.S. Air Force out on its collective ass. That's how delicate the current political atmosphere is. The U.S.-Japan Security Treaty expires in just a few weeks; the U.S. wants it revised and renewed for another ten years, whereas the local leftists would kill it tomorrow if they could.

That's why the Japanese didn't even know the Bat existed, and why it was kept under wraps—and painted black, and never allowed to take off or land in Japan except at night without lights.

2

JOE. WE'RE GOING TO BE LATE, GINGER Holiday whispered anxiously, tugging at her husband's sleeve as Mrs. Kimiko Sakamoto poured them another round of green tea. Explain to them, Joe! We'll miss the plane! Look, it's a quarter past twelve already!

Joe grinned as he stretched out his cramped legs, smoothing the creases in his uniform caused by squatting on the floor cushion. It seemed Ginger was always in a state of agitation. Worry, worry, worry, he laughed. Their plane's not due for 20 minutes. Even if we didn't leave till they landed we'd still beat the Pointers to the terminal. Besides, he said, winking at his hostess, I've got to have another of Kimiko's scrumptious rice cakes.

Men! Ginger groaned, holding her head. She turned to Kimiko for support. I can just see our friends now, stepping off the plane at Koyota all haggard from their trip and a loudspeaker says, 'have your passports, visas, 90 copies of your orders, American currency, baggage claims, marriage license, car insurance, and customs forms ready as you enter the terminal, husbands without families on the left please, families without husbands on the right please, bachelors in the middle please, and concurrent travelers on both sides please. Obtain your new duty phone number from your sponsors please,' she paused for breath, then raced on, and Mrs. Pointer will whisper, 'But where are our sponsors, Dick!' and he'll say, 'Now don't worry Alice, they must be here someplace . . .'

Ginger . . .

"And 30 minutes later we show up and there'll be the Pointers, sitting in the middle of the terminal floor on their suitcases, crumpled, their eyes glazed; alone in a strange land, they won't