by Dale Brown
Again.
Again.
Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea
1444
ZEN CHECKED HIS fuel state, then hit the mike switch.
“I think we’re just about wrapped up,” he told Alou. “I won’t jettison the antenna until we’re ready to refuel,” he added. “Looks like, oh, ten minutes?”
“Roger that, Hawk Two,” said Alou. “Be advised we’re intercepting communications now between a ground controller and a flight of Chinese F-8IIs—hang tight.”
While the pilot and the officer handling the intercept data sorted through the radio traffic to figure out what was going on, Zen brought his Flighthawk south and began descending. He had to visually inspect the area where the antenna would fall to make certain it wouldn’t hit anyone—or be retrieved before it sank.
“F-8s are coming out to say hello,” Alou told Zen. “Going to afterburners. Apparently pissed off about something that happened south of us, over the ASEAN fleet. Let’s go ahead with the refuel.”
“Roger that. Preparing to drop trailing antenna,” said Zen. He checked his screen, went to the sitrep, then let the computer take the bird, holding it at 8,500 feet when he gave the command to release the antenna. A puff of smoke rippled from the rear of the Flighthawk; a set of charges no larger than firecrackers blew the mesh into sections, destroying any value it might have for an enemy. The metal that didn’t disintegrate settled in the water.
“J-8s are in radar range,” said Alou.
“Roger that.” Zen took back control of the Flighthawk, climbing upward. He passed through fifteen thousand feet going toward twenty-five, where Raven was waiting with its probe already out for the refuel. It took a few minutes to climb and line up correctly, moving in toward the waiting straw like a kid homing in on a root beer float in an old-fashioned ice cream shop. Zen throttled back, hit his computer-generated marks, then prepared to give up control to the computer, which would fly the actual refuel. But just then the RWR buzzed in his ear, warning him that the Chinese pilots had turned their radar into targeting mode, as if they were preparing to fire guided missiles at the EB-52.
“Coming at us hard,” said Alou.
“Holding off on refuel,” said Zen. He rolled out to defend his mother ship.
One F-8—still on afterburner—shot in from the northwest, riding about a quarter mile away from the EB-52 at nearly the exact same altitude.
Four hundred meters sounds like a lot, but it’s not a particularly wide margin when one plane is doing 380 knots and the other is up well over 600. It was ridiculously close for the Shenyang F-8. While admittedly fast—the delta-shaped arrow could top Mach 2.2—the Chinese design had the turning radius of an eighteen-wheeler pulling three trailers and none of the finesse.
As it came across Raven’s bow, its pilot threw the plane into a hard turn north, probably surpassing nine g’s. It was a wonder he didn’t pass out.
Meanwhile, the other F-8 took a slightly more leisurely approach, backing off his throttle and trailing his partner by a good ten miles. He turned slightly and took a course that would take him directly beneath Raven.
By maybe two feet.
“Could be he needs some gas,” said Alou.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Zen. “I’m going to get in his face.”
“Hang back. Better that he doesn’t try turning and hit into us.”
“All right. Look, I’m going to have to refuel.”
“Yeah, roger that.”
The second F-8 pilot, perhaps finally realizing that he couldn’t share the same space as the EB-52, banked about five miles from Raven’s tail. Zen pushed back toward Raven as the Chinese planes pulled north.
“Let’s do the refuel while they’re running away,” he said.
“Bring it on in.”
But Zen had no sooner started up toward the boom when the F-8s turned back and headed toward the Megafortress.
“What’s with our friends?” asked Zen.
“Who knows,” said Alou. “Maybe they’re looking for flying lessons.”
“I’ll give them some cheap. You want to refuel?”
“Go for it. Delaney’s trying to talk to these idiots and see what they’re up to.”
About a mile from the back of Raven, one of the F-8s drove up near Zen’s right wing, closing the distance from about a hundred yards, obviously curious about the U/MF. Zen didn’t blame him, actually; the little plane looked more like a UFO than a conventional aircraft. He switched over to the frequency the Chinese aircraft were using.
“Get a look at the future, my friend,” said Zen, broadcasting in the clear in English.
“You must be very small to fit inside,” answered the Chinese pilot.
His English was a little difficult to make out, so Zen’s laugh was delayed. It was obviously intended as a joke—the Chinese had had the opportunity to meet Flighthawks before.
“No, I just sawed off my legs,” Zen answered.
He continued on his flight path into the refueling probe, which was jutting out the rear of the EB-52. Just as he got to within twenty yards, the F-8 jiggled in front of him. Apparently caught in the wind sheering off the Megafortress, the Chinese plane jerked down and then up, finally tipping on its right wing and swooping away. Zen had to slide back, afraid he was going to hit the idiot.
“Say, guys, no offense, but you have to stay clear, okay?” said Zen. “We’re working here.”
The lead F-8 took offense at his tone, telling him the sky belonged to everyone.
“Well, yeah,” said Zen. “But if you want to stay in it you better stand back. Even we haven’t figured out a way to get two airplanes in the same place at the same time yet.”
He brought his Flighthawk up, but before he even started to close got a proximity warning. The F-8 leader flew under the Flighthawk and crossed in front, missing both planes by no more than twenty yards.
That was just a prelude for the maneuver by his wingman, who took his F-8 close enough to the wing of the Megafortress that it looked like he was going to try docking on the Flighthawk cradle. He stayed under the big plane, making it impossible for Zen to refuel.
“I’m tempted to use the cannons,” Zen said to Alou.
“Makes two of us. How’s your fuel?”
“I can’t do this all afternoon.” The fuel panel showed that he was well into his reserves, with only ten minutes of flying time left.
“Should we be polite?” asked Alou.
“Give it a shot. If they don’t move off, break left hard. I’ll drop in and we’ll hook up before they can get back.”
As Alou asked the Chinese pilot in English and Mandarin Chinese to stand clear so they could refuel, the lead F-8 returned, taking up a position under the other wing. This ruled out Zen’s plan.
“All right, that’s it,” said Zen. He pushed the slide on the throttle and whipped the Flighthawk forward, riding in between the F-8 on the right and the Megafortress. The Chinese pilot got the message and began to duck off to the right. But as he did, his flight leader lost his nerve and jinked downward as well—right into the other plane’s wing.
A turbulent rumble of air shook all four aircraft. Zen thought he had hit the belly of the Megafortress—he’d been closest to the EB-52—and slammed the Flighthawk downward as quickly as he could.
For a long half second, he wasn’t sure where anyone else was. He felt a disconnect between his mind and body—his eyes were plummeting with the Flighthawk while his chest was taking a few g’s from the other direction, Alou trying to climb out of trouble.
By the time Zen pulled upward, Alou had steadied the Megafortress. It hadn’t been hit.
“All right. I have to refuel,” said Zen. “No more fooling around.”
The warning tone was loud in his ear, the Flighthawk pleading for gas.
“Roger that,” said Alou.
“Chinese aircraft are down,” reported the copilot. “I see one, I have two chutes. Good chutes. Lucky bas
tards.”
“Thank God for that,” said Alou. “Even if they don’t deserve it.”
Aboard the Dragon Prince, South China Sea
1500
FROM THE AIR, the small tanker looked no different from the average commercial vessel plying the South China Sea. A small gray tarp, frayed at one edge, flapped in the wind on the starboard side; the masts were in disrepair and the paint near the waterline clearly needed to be scraped and reapplied. Anyone who followed the ship for any length of time would realize that the engines had a habit of spewing dark smoke at unpredictable intervals, but they would also notice that the crew, while relatively small, was motivated and disciplined. The flag that flew from the mast was Malaysian, though of course in these days of international shipping, any observer might guess that was more a matter of convenience than a clue to its ownership. The Dragon ship—its actual name was Dragon Prince, though few used it—was to all outward appearances just one more small merchant vessel trying to make a living in the difficult business of international shipping.
But as the old Chinese proverb put it, appearances were often meant to deceive.
Chen Lo Fann stood on the bridge of the Dragon Prince, waiting. An American satellite had just inconveniently passed overhead, delaying their launch. They had to wait another ninety seconds to make sure that it was well out of range.
Chen Lo Fann waited stoically, willing the time to pass. There was no doubt in his mind that their chance had passed by today; he hoped Fate would provide another tomorrow.
“Commander?”
Surprised, Chen Lo Fann turned. “Professor Ai, why are you on the bridge? Shouldn’t you be with your controls?”
“You need to listen to this,” said the gray-haired scientist.
Chen Lo Fann nodded, then followed as Professor Ai led the way below to the compartment where the intercepted information was compiled. He stepped quickly to the panel at the right and flipped a small toggle switch, allowing an intercepted radio transmission to be broadcast onto the deck.
The words were in Chinese.
A search-and-rescue operation.
One of the Communist planes had gone down!
“Two of the planes collided,” said Professor Ai. “They will send a rescue craft, a Harbin flying boat. It is their usual procedure.”
And so, thought Chen Lo Fann, there is such a thing as Fate.
“Yes,” he said. “Let us refine our plan.”
Aboard Raven
1503
ZEN COMPLETED HIS refuel and pushed the Flighthawk away from the belly of the big plane, looping over the wide expanse of water. The two Chinese aircraft had crashed roughly five miles from each other, the planes zigging away after the collision. One of the F-8s had lost its wing, and its jock had hit the silk within seconds of the mishap; the other pilot had stayed with his plane though a good hunk of a tail fin had been sheered off. That pilot was just now hitting the water; Zen banked and approached him from the west.
The Chinese had shot down Quicksilver, killing four of Zen’s friends and nearly killing his wife; while the reviews showed that the attack was a mistake, Zen nonetheless held the Chinese responsible. If they hadn’t been overly aggressive, his people would still be alive.
On the other hand, his duty was to help rescue these jerks.
“Do you have their exact position?” Zen asked Alou as he watched the first pilot hit the water.
“Negative. If you want to go over them and get some GPS readings, we can alert PRC rescue assets,” said the pilot.
“Have they scrambled SAR units yet?” Zen asked.
“We’re working to figure that out, Hawk leader.”
Zen slowed the Flighthawk down as he took a wide bank to swing over one of the Chinese pilots, who was struggling with his gear. The air-to-ground attack mode on the Flighthawk’s radar gave a precise reading of cursored objects as part of the data set; intended to target GPS-guided munitions in coordination with the Megafortress, it could also help in the SAR role. Zen told C3 to find the pilot in the water; the computer popped a little red halo around his head and plotted his exact location.
“Got Idiot One,” said Zen, uploading the information as he brought the Flighthawk back in the direction of the other pilot. At about two miles, he saw a yellow splotch appear on the waves—the pilot had inflated his life raft. “Idiot Two is alive and well.”
“Hawk leader, be advised we have a pair of Chinese aircraft—uh, J-11s or license-built Su-27s—coming out in our direction,” said Alou. “Looks like they’ve been tasked for search and rescue. We’ll attempt to contact them; at present they’re outside of radar range but we have some telemetry on them. Going to take them a bit to get down here.”
Zen acknowledged. As he orbited back, he saw that the second Chinese pilot had not yet inflated his raft.
“Either one of our friends is having trouble with his gear, or he likes to swim,” Zen told the others.
The pilot remained a small dot in the water as he approached. Zen tucked lower, easing down below five thousand feet to try and get a better look at the pilot. He was going about 220 knots and couldn’t get much of a visual; he came back around, speed dropping through 200 and altitude bleeding away, but the cam caught only the top of the man’s head. Just as he pulled off, Zen thought he saw the Chinese pilot’s arm jerk up; if it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t have known he was alive.
“He’s alive but definitely having trouble with the sea,” said Zen. “Where are those SAR assets?”
“Still trying to get a direct line to the Chinese. They’re not answering our hails. They’re on your radar now.”
“Yeah. More idiots. Can we get a helicopter up from one of the ASEAN frigates?” Zen asked.
“We’re working on it, Zen. Looks like we’re out of their chopper range. Hang tight.”
Zen flew a racetrack orbit over the two men, a simple, lazy oval in the sky. Raven had already made two broadcasts over the international UHF Mayday frequency, using the Chinese planes’ call signs, but had not received answers. Zen clicked into the SAR circuit himself and gave it a shot, telling the downed pilots he had their locations and help was on the way.
“Thank you,” came a staticky reply. “Is Commander Won okay?”
“I’m not sure who is who,” replied Zen. “I can see two men down. One of you is in a life raft. The other is just in the ocean.”
The reply was garbled, but Zen made out the words “malfunction” and “problem.”
“Get this,” said McNamara, Raven’s copilot. “The Chinese are warning us off.”
“Tell them to fuck themselves,” Zen replied. He overheard Alou transmitting to the Chinese fighters personally, giving the location of the two downed planes and telling them that the planes had collided with each other. Alou added that they were standing by to assist.
The answer from the Chinese was rather emphatic.
“Their weapons radars are active. We are spiked,” said McNamara, meaning that the radars had a lock on the Megafortress, and the interceptors’ missiles could be launched at any time, though they were probably about ten miles outside their optimum range.
Ten miles equaled a bit less than a minute at their present course and speed.
“They are jerks, aren’t they?” said Alou.
“Incredible,” said Zen. He was tempted to tell Alou to open the bomb bay doors and target the PRC fighters with their AMRAAM-plus Scorpions. But it was no more than a quickly fleeting thought.
“I think we should tell them they’re being assholes,” Zen suggested. “And in the meantime, offer to pass on messages to their comrades. Give them IDs and stuff. We can break the ECMs on launch. If we don’t shoot the idiots down.”
“I concur. You want to talk with the pilot in the water?”
“Sounds good.”
The Chinese pilot’s name was Lieutenant Tzu—or something reasonably close. He gave his unit identification and the plane he’d been flying to Zen to pass on. At th
e same time, he asked again about his flight leader.
“He’s definitely in the water, and he’s moving around,” Zen told him. “But his raft doesn’t seem to be working.”
The pilot said something that was overtaken by static. Zen thought he was asking if he could drop a life raft. That was impossible, since the EB-52 hadn’t been rigged for rescue missions, and didn’t carry gear that could be dropped out to pilots. The Flighthawks had no gear at all.
“We’re sorry, but we don’t have that kind of gear aboard. We’ll keep an eye on him,” Zen explained.
“Give me the direction,” said the other pilot.
The two men were now about six miles apart; surely it would take several hours for Lieutenant Tzu to reach his comrade. But the idea was a noble one, and Zen gave the lieutenant the heading, circling around a few times to make sure he understood.
The J-11s, meanwhile, had decided to play nice. They’d turned off their weapons radar and were asking for vectors to their downed airmen. Alou and McNamara used the computer’s translator module to help communicate as they spoke with them; it turned out to be faster to go back and forth in Chinese than to struggle in English. A Harbin Z-5 seaplane was being scrambled and was en route.
Scrambled was a relative term—the aircraft was only now leaving its base, and at top speed—300 knots—would take an hour and a half to arrive. More than likely, it would be more than two.
The J-11s, meanwhile, were near bingo.
“The Chinese want to know if we can stay aloft over their pilots while they go and refuel,” said Alou. “They’re just about out of gas.”
“Well, what the hell did they send them down here for if they didn’t have enough fuel to do anything but spin around and go home?” asked Zen.
“You’re asking me to explain the logic of the Chinese command system?”
“Do we have enough fuel ourselves?”
“Tight. We’ll have to try and arrange a refuel as we head south,” said Alou. “We can do it, though. Mission commander’s call.”
