Strike Zone

by Dale Brown

  Well, Kick could be back home or in the other plane. That would make him happier.

  “Hawk One, be advised we have a pair of Chinese Sukhois, that would be J-11s similar to Su-27s, coming south toward the task force,” said the plane’s copilot, Captain McNamara. He gave their bearing, altitude, and approximate speed; the figures were duped on the display. If he changed course slightly he could intercept them in roughly five minutes.

  “Hold your present course, Hawk One,” said Zen from the other plane, as if reading his mind.

  Starship acknowledged, though he chafed a bit. He really didn’t appreciate having a babysitter.

  “Looks like they want to see how low the Aussies can track them,” said Kick. The J-11 pilots had tickled their afterburners and plunged toward the waves, riding down in an extremely low-level track; so low, in fact, that Starship wasn’t entirely sure the Russian-made fighters weren’t skipping on the water.

  HMAS Maryborough was one of Australia’s finest destroyers, an American-built ship of the Oliver Hazard Perry class. Outfitted very close to the American standard, the Maryborough packed a competent Mk 13 SAM system; its SM-1MR missiles could take out a target at twenty-five nautical miles, but was arguably better at defending against medium- and high-altitude attacks than the wave-top dash the Sukhois were attempting. While it was academic—the Australians weren’t about to fire at the Chinese planes—it did make for an interesting few minutes.

  “I’m amazed they’re not flaming out,” said Kick, monitoring the Chinese hot dogs from his screen. “The radar says they’re six feet above the water. They’re going to slam into the hulls of the ship if they’re not careful.”

  “They’ll pull up, watch,” said Starship. They did—though a little later than he thought, the lead plane ripping so close to the Maryborough’s antenna mast that it undoubtedly wobbled in the wake.

  “They’re out of their minds,” said Kick.

  “Typical Chinese bullshit,” said Zen from Raven.

  “Gentlemen, let me remind you we are supposed to be flying silent com,” said Colonel Bastian from the pilot’s seat of the Pennsylvania. “Please keep unnecessary chatter to a minimum. We have twenty-five minutes to the start of the show.”

  Aboard Brunei Badger 01,

  over the South China Sea

  1230

  THEY WERE WITHIN visual range of the Asean task force—cleared to fly above courtesy of the prince’s rank and their theoretical status as members of the Brunei air force—before Mack got a chance to take the helm, but as soon as he did he started making up for lost time. After a bit of straight and level to get the feel of the plane—sucker flew like a big ol’ Caddy, fins and all—Mack decided to see how good a job the riveters had done lashing the Soviet metal together.

  “Hang on,” he said, and he tipped his right wing and slid the big Russian bomber downward. It didn’t quite knife through the air—the action was a bit more like an ax head hurtling down a slope—but after the relatively placid flight north it felt like a roller coaster. Mack rode the plane down through fifteen thousand feet before rocking level.

  His nose started to float up as he tried to put her into a hard turn—it was a big plane, and the hydraulic controls felt very different from the fly-by-wire gear he spent most of his time with. But a sigh from Miss Kelly over the interphone circuit chased off any hint of doubt; Mack tensed his biceps and the big plane moved smartly through the sky, right where he wanted her.

  “That boat looks so small,” said Miss Kelly. “What a view.”

  Mack’s view—both of the ocean and of Miss Kelly—was not nearly as expansive as he would have liked, but it would do. The Thai destroyer she admired was off his right wing, bow nudging away the swells.

  “We are in an exercise area,” said the prince. “We must be careful.”

  “Not a problem,” said Mack. “You think we can make it through a roll?”

  And without waiting for an answer, he flicked the stick—well, more like leaned on the old-fashioned wheel yoke that served as a stick—and pushed the big old bomber through an invert.

  Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea

  1233

  ZEN DOUBLE-CHECKED their positions on the SITREP in his flight helmet, then flipped the main view back to the feed from the nose of Hawk Two, the Flighthawk still sitting under Raven’s wing. The computer had finished the prelaunch check and was holding.

  “Hawk leader, we’re ready when you are,” radioed Dog from the Pennsylvania.

  “Hawk leader copies,” said Zen. “Hawk One? Status?”

  “On course. Twenty minutes from alpha point,” said Starship. Alpha was an arbitrary spot sixty seconds from Chinese territorial water where Starship would start his dance.

  “Hawk leader copies. Raven?”

  “Raven is ready. We’ll initiate launch maneuver at your command.”

  “Hawk leader copies.”

  A quick glance at the instrument panel. Green, green, green. You could write a tech manual using these readings.

  “Initiate launch maneuver.”

  “Raven,” said Major Alou, piloting the plane. The mother ship began a gentle dive, which increased the separation forces as the Flighthawk was launched. Zen turned over control to C3, authorizing the launch—standard practice—and waited as the EB-52 nosed downward, picking up momentum.

  And then he was in the air, speeding away, going through a system check, nudging the Flighthawk out ahead of the EB-52. He climbed upward, the blue bulb of heaven spreading out around him. Major Stockard was sitting in a seat in the bay of the massive Megafortress, but his mind soared through thirty thousand feet, climbing up over the shimmering Pacific, looking down at the world as God looked down on His universe.

  Upstairs on the flight deck, the Megafortress crew quickly ran through their own checks, making sure the electronics link between the two planes was at spec. The pod the Flighthawk carried was a shallow, rectangular box fitted under the fuselage area; it looked a bit like a sculpted pizza carrier. Most of what was in the pod were small but powerful amplifiers, tuned to work with a specific set of signals picked up by an antenna (actually a matrix of antennas generally spoken of as one) that would be cranked out of a second box that looked like a parachute pack at the rear of the small plane. The pack and antennas changed the flight characteristics of the aircraft, though C3 had been programmed to compensate so well that Zen wouldn’t “feel” a difference unless he put the small plane through some very hard maneuvers. The antenna and its filament mesh stretched nearly one hundred yards and could be jettisoned by verbal command.

  A series of test tones shot back and forth as the techies upstairs took the measure of their gear. Satisfied that they had a good feed, Zen leveled his Flighthawk off at 39,573 feet and opened up the antenna. Raven began tracking slightly east, anticipating the Flighthawk’s turn once it reached their target orbit.

  “Hawk leader, we are zero-five from alpha,” said Dog. “Looking for a gono go.”

  “Roger that,” said Zen.

  He clicked the interphone and queried Penn’s radio operators to make sure they were set. Alou and his copilot, meanwhile, completed a weapons check, making sure they were prepared for the worst.

  “Hawk One is at alpha,” said Starship.

  “Roger that,” Zen acknowledged. “Colonel, we’re go.”

  “Let’s do it, gentlemen,” said Dog. “Raven, you’re silent com. Talk to you guys when we all get home.”

  Aboard Brunei Badger 01,

  over the South China Sea

  1244

  “WELL, MAJOR, YOU’RE an excellent pilot,” said the prince as Mack finally relinquished the controls for the trek back. “I must say, you put this old plane through its paces.”

  “Ah, you should see me in an F-22,” Mack told him. “But I like this old plane. Solid. Big. Solid.”

  He saw Miss Kelly looking back at him and smiling. He gave her a big Mack Smith smile, then checked his watch.

&n
bsp; They’d be back just in time for cocktails at the club the prince had taken him to last night.

  Delightful.

  Mack took off his headset and loosened his restraints, thinking he’d stretch his legs a bit. But as he started to get up, the prince put his hand out.

  “Wait, please,” said bin Awg. The indulgent smile he had worn constantly since Mack met him had drained from his face. Mack slid back into his seat and grabbed his headset in time to hear a position and a vector.

  “Chinese planes,” explained the prince. “J-11 interceptors coming south toward the exercise area.” He reached to the side and pulled up a flight board, handing it to Mack. “Major, please, if you could check our fuel situation. I believe sheet two would be appropriate,” he added, referring to one of the matrixes that showed how much flying time the plane had left for different flight regimes. “I would like to show these Chinese pilots that the Brunei air force is not entirely without representation in the area.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Mack, snugging his seat belt.

  Aboard Penn, over the South China Sea

  1244

  DOG GLANCED AT the multiuse display on his left, which was set as a sitrep to show the position of the Megafortress and its Flighthawk, as well as any other aircraft nearby. The Flighthawk was about a quarter of a mile from Chinese airspace south of Yulin on Hainan, just completing a turn to the east after discharging a packet of electronic tinsel, or chaff, which could be easily detected on the Chinese radar. They’d launch the Hellfire in sixty seconds.

  “J-11s are running south toward the Australian frigate,” said the copilot, Captain McNamara, relaying word from the radar operator. “Another one of their mock attacks.”

  “They’ll have to fend for themselves,” said Dog. “I’m more worried about that civilian,” he added, referring to a small private plane flying at about twelve thousand feet on almost the exact path the Flighthawk was taking. “I don’t want to hit him with the missile.”

  “Shouldn’t come close,” replied McNamara.

  “Hawk One, this is Penn,” Dog said. “Ready to make your run?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You see that civilian?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Delay your event for ninety seconds.”

  “Hawk One,” acknowledged the pilot.

  The RWR panel on the Megafortress buzzed as one of the self-defense units on the island switched on radar used to guide Hongqi-2B missiles, a Chinese surface-to-air missile that was essentially an upgraded version of the Russian V-75 SA-2. The weapons system was potent but fairly well understood by American analysts and easily defeated by the onboard ECMs, or electronic counter measures, carried by Penn.

  But that wasn’t why they were here.

  “Looks like we have their attention,” said Dog. “Radio the flight information back to the ASEAN ships over the clear channel,” he added. Raven was monitoring the frequency and would hear the information.

  “I’m being tracked,” said Starship. His voice sounded less haughty than it customarily did—but only slightly.

  “Steady as you go,” said Dog. “Let’s get that civilian out of the way, then fire your missile as planned. Be very careful of your position.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brunei

  1245

  STONER GOT INTO the car and gave the driver the address, settling back in the seat as they headed toward the outskirts of the capital, Bandar Seri Begawan. The day had started steamy and was now as hot and muggy as a Finnish sauna; the Toyota’s air-conditioner was cranked, but Stoner’s white shirt was still pasted against his neck.

  Oil had made the kingdom prosperous over the past decade or so, but in some respects Brunei remained unchanged. The spirit of the people was still generous and reverent; Islam gave the society an ordered and calm quality. Even in the city, the population was relatively small, especially for Asia; the crowds that were familiar in Hong Kong or Beijing, for instance, were missing here.

  They turned up a road that bordered on the jungle and stopped in front of a large, white building. Stoner got out, told the driver that he would be back, and walked inside. The man at the security desk took his name, then made a phone call. His Malay was so quick and accented that Stoner couldn’t follow what he was saying, though he assumed he was calling the man he’d come to see, John Conrad.

  “You will wait,” the man told him.

  Stoner nodded. In a few minutes, a large Anglo with a very bright red face rushed into the reception area, nearly out of breath.

  “Conrad,” he said. “You’re Stoner?”

  The CIA officer nodded.

  “Ah, good. Come with me. We’re off.”

  “Off?”

  “We’ve got to get to Kampung Ayer,” he said in a thick and proper English accent. “That’s where our acquaintance is.”

  A few minutes later, Stoner found himself in the stern of a small water taxi, speeding toward the floating island that lay in the mouth of the capital, an ancient tongue stuck in the ocean’s shallow bay. Built largely on stilts, the water village, a maze of wooden promenades and buildings lashed together with thin ropes, was home to more than thirty thousand people. The air had a pungent odor; the water went from deep blue to an almost coppery red as they drew closer to the village.

  Conrad gave the taxi operator a few directions and they began threading their way through a narrow lagoon. Two turns later, they stopped in front of a large white structure that looked like an American double-wide trailer. The rusted tin roof boasted two large satellite dishes at its apex.

  “Off we go,” said Conrad.

  Stoner got out. The taxi backed up and sped off.

  “We’ll get another, don’t worry, old chap. Plenty hereabouts.”

  The two men walked up the plankway to the building. Stoner was surprised to find a cool interior and a thick, new-looking carpet. A young man sat at a desk that could have been a reception area at a better doctor’s office in the U.S.

  “Cheese in?”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Conrad. Please go.”

  Stoner followed Conrad through the door into what looked like a small den. A large TV screen filled one side; CNBC was on. Near the television a man in shorts and T-shirt sat on a leather couch, a phone at his ear. He had a pair of laptops out—one on the floor, one next to him on the couch. Conrad pushed over a large chair for Stoner, then got another for himself. The man on the phone—Cheese—continued to talk for a while, mentioning some sort of stock he wanted to short—then finally concluded the conversation.

  “Listen, I got to go,” he told whoever was on the other line. “I have MI6 and the CIA sitting in my office. Yeah, looks like I got big trouble.”

  He punched the phone, then rose, jabbing his hand toward Stoner. “James Milach. They call me Cheese because I made a killing in Kraft. No shit.”

  Stoner shook his hand. “Stoner.”

  “Beefeater told me. You figure it out yet?” he added, turning toward Conrad.

  “Still working on it.”

  “Thinks he may be related to Conrad, the author. Except what he doesn’t know is, Conrad was Polish,” said Cheese, sitting back on his couch.

  “There is a possibility I’m related,” Conrad told Stoner. “And the author traveled through here. I, of course, was raised in London. Unlike Cheese, who is so obviously an American. Though he has settled in rather well.”

  Cheese wasn’t paying attention. He looked at the laptop, then studied the stock screen at the bottom of the TV. “I hate these stinking time delays.”

  “I’ve been trying to come up with a list of chip fabricators,” Stoner said. “Ones that are active in Asia, that have custom capabilities but would work quietly for another country. I’ve looked into official sites, but I’m told that—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Beefeater told me all about it. I can help. Hang tight a sec, okay?”

  Cheese grabbed his phone and quickly punched a combination of numbers. “Hey, scr
ew what I told you yesterday. Dump ’em. Yeah. I don’t care. Buy IBM or Intel. Whatever. Just do it. Quick.”

  “Cheese spends an inordinate time thrashing about in the stock market,” said Conrad.

  “Why don’t you just use your laptop and make your own trades?” Stoner asked.

  “Oh, I do. But sometimes when you want to make certain moves, brokers are useful. You may have to spread things around. It’s more a hobby these days. Then again, there’s always hope I’ll come up with something to beat Kraft and get a new nickname.”

  Conrad chuckled.

  “So you can help?” said Stoner.

  “Chip fabricators. Processor chips doing really high-grade stuff. Not a lot of them in Asia that aren’t, you know, say, under a government’s thumb. My bet would be Korea,” said Cheese.

  “Yes,” said Stoner. Another officer had checked on the Korean plants very extensively, and had assured him they weren’t involved.

  “All right, so forgetting Korea, what do we have, right?” continued Cheese. “We’re talking very high-end processors and no questions asked. Right?”

  Stoner nodded.

  “I know of a factory in Thailand. I’d start there.”

  “Others?” asked Stoner.

  “My assistant will get you a list. But forget it. If it isn’t that Thai place, it isn’t anywhere. Anything you need, they’ll do. Of course, if you look at the customs records, what few there are, you’ll see they only make chips for VCRs and TVs, that sort of thing. Don’t believe it.”

  “Can they do memory chips and CPUs? Specialized work?”

  “One of their partners was a Taiwan company owned by Chen Lee. You hear of him?”

  “No.”

  Cheese smiled. “His company ever goes public, you want a piece of it. He’s the king of salvage. Anyway, he withdrew his financing or something about a year ago. I don’t know the whole deal. Supposedly it was a top operation, though why they located there, I wouldn’t begin to guess.”

  “Maybe so nobody would come around asking questions.”