Condition Green Tokyo 1970. Neil Goble

      The characters in this book are fictitious as are the situations in which they are involved, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. The "Overseas Detachment" and other organizations and offices portrayed herein are likewise fictitious and to the author's knowledge have no real-life counterparts (with the obvious exceptions of named political parties, governmental offices, etc., in which cases this fictional accounting is not intended as a reflection on the actual leaders or officials thereof).

      PRINTED IN JAPAN

      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

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