by Jeff Carlson
“We don’t know what’s happening yet,” Steve said.
“I think we do,” Marcus said. “I think there were times when our sun burned more powerfully than anyone’s realized, and it’s about to start again. Now.”
Drayer touched the cell phone on her belt as if to call for help, perhaps subconsciously.
“Don’t let him scare you,” Steve said. “In stellar terms, now doesn’t mean right now. It means during the next ten thousand years. Even if he’s right, the sun won’t change for centuries or millennia.”
“What if it does?” Marcus said. “If the solar max increases drastically, it could last for years. You can’t argue with their data.”
Steve laughed. “It’s revolutionary, and the whole phenomenon will have your name on it—our name,” he said, sweeping his hand through the air as if to include everyone who’d ever worked for ES2.
Kym was typing at her keyboard, but she looked at Steve, then turned to Marcus. From her expression, she was clearly conflicted. She wanted to share Steve’s excitement. But there was also fear in her eyes.
Marcus felt the same cold dread.
In a few minutes, if he could sneak a phone call, he’d warn Janet to meet Roell and stock up on food and bottled water. Batteries. She should pull as much cash as possible, too, and fill the tank in her car. What else?
Sunblock. Hats. People would strip the shelves of both as soon as the first TV interview said this morning’s flares might become a way of life.
Marcus wished he’d kept Roell with him, but Roell would be safer at Janet’s, wouldn’t he? There were no doctors within thirty miles of the array, much less police or grocery stores. He felt a cold glint of dismay as he considered how many people might require medical help.
“Who are you reporting to?” he asked Drayer.
“Director Schories.”
Marcus didn’t know who that was. “Does he report to the president?”
“Yes.”
“Call him. Call everyone. If we’re lucky, we still have time to brace for this thing.”
SOUTH CHINA SEA
Drew’s headset crackled with Bugle’s loud voice: “Watch that turbulence!”
“I got it.”
“Their fuel line’s jumping like a snake!”
“I got it.” Drew wrestled his jet into position against the rough predawn air, his engines howling. Overhead, the larger bulk of a KC-45 tanker bobbed in the same pockets of chop. On this side of the world, it was 4:38 a.m. Predawn was typically a quiet hour, but today the atmosphere was in turmoil. Trailing from the tanker’s port wing, fifty feet of semi-rigid hose snapped in the wind.
Drew failed to connect. “Damn it,” he said, peeling back.
“You’re losing your touch,” Bugle marveled. He was speaking on their ICS, the internal communications system. Bugle sat behind Drew in their EA-18G, a constant voice in his ear like a guardian angel—or a devil.
The sun formed a yellow spark on the ocean’s blue horizon. Far below, to the north, the contours of Vietnam and China were a green-and-brown horseshoe of coastlines against the multi-hued sea. White sand. Green surf. The darker expanses of deep water were spotted with the wake lines of tiny ships.
Drew might have scrubbed his refueling effort or delayed until they could climb to higher elevation, but they were already at 30,000 feet, an altitude that was normally above the weather, and both aircraft were moving at 300 miles per hour, a speed that let them slice through normal turbulence. Strike control hadn’t wanted to call off the KC-45 that flew out of Cam Rhan Bay with two fighter escorts. The America had fewer planes in the sky than it needed, so everyone was running double cycles. Drew needed to return to his sector.
Equally pressing were the orange bulbs on his warning and caution lights panel. His heading indicator and his artificial horizon were out, systems failures that had popped up since he’d launched three hours ago. Drew could fly his EA-18G without either system, but the malfunctions could be lethal if there were more.
How much abuse can she take? he thought.
An aircraft was always a she, a lover, not a tool. Their ladies were suffering. Three F/A-18s and another 18G had been downgraded from flight-ready on the America. Twice that many were undergoing emergency repairs. Various small burnouts were disabling their jets.
Steady, he thought, rising to a trail position off the tanker’s port wing. Unfortunately, the big tanker was doing everything except holding still.
In flight, an 18’s fuel tanks were accessed by a probe extending forward from the starboard side of the aircraft. It was all very sexual. The pilot was supposed to slip the probe’s nozzle into a basket at the end of the tanker’s refueling hose. This morning Drew felt like a rhino lumbering after a butterfly. He brought his jet up, then banked left and up again to chase the whipping hose—
The probe fit into the basket with a clunk that he felt throughout the aircraft. The amber light on the fuel pod turned green. His fuel gauge began to rise as JP5 rushed through the line into his jet and the tanks in his wings.
“Nice work,” Bugle said.
Another E/A-18G held position on Drew’s left, his wingman, 501, crewed by Giles and Wade. Set above and behind the tanker were its escorts, two USAF F-35s. Both types of aircraft were narrow, clean-edged darts, each one racked with more firepower and computers than many Third World cities.
Drew felt a twinge of pride at the sight. Comparing their jets to Chinese MiGs was like putting a Ferrari alongside a Subaru. But that’s if our aircraft are in one piece, he thought. We’ve got to find China’s EMP and shut it down. They’re beating us without even trying…
The green light on the fuel pod went amber. Drew detached and slid to the right wing of the tanker, buffeted by the wind.
Meanwhile, the guys in 501 rose for their own refueling effort.
Drew thumbed the ICS. “Your turn to work again,” he told Bugle. “We need to find something for Julie.”
“Christensen,” Bugle said.
“Say again?”
“Yesterday you were calling her Christensen, dude.”
“Shut up,” Drew said, thinking, Shit. He’s right. When had he stopped thinking of her as Christensen and allowed her to become Julie in his head?
The sky was definitely brighter now. The sun would light them up in minutes, which was good. They couldn’t trust their scopes. Phantoms and blind spots filled their radar, but in daylight, Drew could see for miles.
The Carrier Strike Group was a spectacular sight in the South China Sea, a nearly landlocked body of water between Vietnam, China, the Philippines, and Malaysia. Worse, China’s primary naval base was on Hainan Island, a broad hunk of rock protruding from China’s southwestern coast like a fist aimed at Vietnam’s side.
Not every ship was friendly. The coastlines were crowded with dhows—fishing boats, civilian craft, and ferries—any of which could be packed with explosives. Nor were the Chinese warships far away. The enemy had walked three of their destroyers to the edge of the U.S. strike group, almost daring to intermingle the two fleets.
If there was shooting, it would be a meat grinder.
Julie was aboard the most valuable target.
She was a distraction he couldn’t afford—a distraction he was glad to own. It had been too long since he’d felt like he might belong to anyone except Bugle and their fun, well-established friendship.
“Five Oh One’s complete,” Giles radioed through a burr of static.
Drew slid to starboard as his wingman came off the tanker. To Bugle, he said, “Giles just bought us another three hours, so let’s make something of it. I want a hard read.”
“I’m not out here to piss in a hose,” Bugle said, referring to their relief tubes.
The Navy spent upward of sixty million dollars apiece on their aircraft, yet hadn’t come up with anything more comfortable for a toilet. Leave it to Bugle to talk up the experience, Drew thought, shaking his head in disgust and admiration.
Coul
d I ever be more like him?
They dove toward the America’s northeast perimeter. Below, the ocean was torn by whitecaps. Drew scanned the dawn sky as well as watching his screens. A normal 18G was modified with one million dollars in electronic warfare systems. With every mission, Bugle also jacked in two ROMEO black boxes worth an additional two million dollars.
Three million bucks hadn’t been enough. They didn’t have conclusive evidence. Meanwhile, the world media was peppered with news about the solar max. Power outages had occurred in Denver and New York. Apparently it was a natural event, but Drew refused to accept this explanation. His superiors didn’t, either. They were trained to think the worst. They needed proof. Until then, they couldn’t even accuse the Chinese of using an EMP, although it was slowly picking them apart.
The perfect weapon, Drew thought.
Somehow they needed to turn the tables. It might be possible to jam the EMP if they understood its frequencies or nailed down its location. In the meantime, his first priority was to help the America and the Truman maintain the controlled zone into which no enemy assets could be allowed.
Because so many weapons were supersonic, this battle space was huge. The two aircraft carriers held the center of the controlled zone while nine Aegis destroyers, three cruisers, and two replenishment ships held station over an area of several square nautical miles. SH-60 Seahawk helicopters and buoys helped them hunt for enemy submarines, as did a classified number of their own attack subs.
The America and the Truman couldn’t ignore conventional threats, a fact that worked in China’s favor. Reacting to Chinese forces kept the Carrier Strike Group preoccupied, so not only did China feint at the America with ships and aircraft, they constantly adjusted their surface-to-air defenses on land and among their navy, shutting some off, turning others on.
“I’m picking up two Big Bird radars,” Bugle said, meaning two enemy SA-20 missile systems were tracking their aircraft.
“I see ’em,” Drew confirmed.
“Six Oh Two, this is Five Oh Four,” Bugle said on the radio, calling the E-2D Hawkeye plane acting as their control. “SA-20 active, bull oh four oh for seventy. SA-20 active, bull oh four five for sixty-five.”
“Roger, Five Oh Four,” the Hawkeye said. “Be advised we have two bogies out of Rex. Current position is bull three oh five for seventy-five. Hot. Heading one eight five.”
That’s straight at us, Drew thought. “Copy,” he said, wondering how close the Chinese pilots would fly.
Every second was a new game of nerves, a game in which the People’s Liberation Army Navy demonstrated they had blood like cold steel. Drew gave ’em that much. It was his highest praise, no matter if the swagger of the PLAN was all anyone had expected.
Vietnam had leapt at the opportunity to gain a friend against their most traditional enemy. As far as they were concerned, their war with the U.S. had been with a passing invader, but they’d been fighting China for two thousand years. They were determined to prevent the Chinese from assuming total control of southeast Asia.
Hainan Island was a metropolis of ship-building facilities, dry docks, and ports for China’s southern fleet. The island was also riddled with subterranean channels, allowing PLAN submarines to put to sea undetected. U.S. Command wasn’t positive how many subs the Chinese had deployed, in part because PLAN surface craft made as much noise as possible, sometimes to the point of having their crews bang on their ships with wrenches and pipes.
ROMEO believed Hainan’s ship-building activity was a cover for exotic weapons research. Orbital surveillance couldn’t penetrate the busy throngs of troops and machinery, and the island’s burrows were hardened against sonar and magnetic scans.
“Suppose the EMP isn’t on Hainan?” Drew said suddenly. “The Chinese do everything they can to keep us from getting close. Maybe it’s more sleight of hand.”
“The mainland’s too far away,” Bugle said.
“Not if their EMP’s on the coast. You need to isolate the next pulse so we can tell Christensen where to look.”
“I thought we were calling her Julie now,” Bugle said.
Drew ignored him. “We keep putting our attention on Hainan and coming up empty,” he said. “What if it’s so obviously the right place, it’s wrong? On the coast, they could truck an EMP from one disguised location to another. They—”
“I’m picking up that new signal again,” Bugle said.
“Show me where.”
“It’s gone.”
“Let me patch through to—”
“It’s back.”
“Six Oh Two, this is Five Oh Four,” Drew said on his control freq. “We’re getting a lot of noise. I’m breaking north to see if we can pinpoint a source.”
“Affirmative, Five Oh Four. Single group BRA three zero zero for fifty. Twenty-nine thousand feet.”
That meant the Chinese MiGs weren’t backing off, but Drew rocketed away from the U.S. ships instead of avoiding the enemy fighters. It took seconds to reach the fleet’s northernmost edge, where he settled into a new track with Giles and Wade in a combat spread about a mile off his port wing, heading west now instead of straight at Hainan—but at 480 mph, they’d be on top of the Chinese MiGs in a heartbeat if either set of planes altered course.
I should have said something to her, he thought.
Trying to escape the memory of her hazel eyes made him reckless. “Let’s get closer,” Drew said, banking his jet into a nose-high climbing turn.
“Sure,” Bugle said. “That way the fuckin’ bad guys can make quick work of us if they’ve got a fuckin’ death ray.”
Drew grinned. Was there anyone else he’d prefer to have at his back? “You must have slept through the theater brief,” he said. “The Chinese aren’t the bad guys, remember? They’re co-claimants for oil and fishing rights in international territory.”
“This whole thing is nuts,” Bugle said. “We’re wasting half as much fuel trolling around as anyone will ever pump out of the ocean floor.”
Drew had heard the same complaint aboard ship. It sounded smart, but it wasn’t true. “They think the oil deposits would feed mainland China for twenty years,” he said. “Besides, nobody’s here for oil. This is about national sovereignty. China filed with the ICAO years ago to run aircraft on Taiwan’s side of the Taiwan Strait. Then they did the same thing with Vietnam. It’s been one provocation after another.”
“Uh,” Bugle said, obviously flabbergasted at Drew’s motormouth.
“Here’s the real irony,” Drew said. “Between our consumers, labor forces, and energy markets, the U.S. and China generate a full third of the world economy. That’s right. You couldn’t separate us if you tried, but politically—”
“I’m reading a signal that’s off the charts!” Bugle yelled.
More of Drew’s electronics went dark. “I lost my radar,” he said, checking the rest of his displays.
Should I report an in-flight emergency? No.
“No, we’re okay,” he thought out loud as Bugle said, “The pulse is gone.”
Drew looked for the enemy fighters. He glanced across the sky for Chinese missile launches. An EMP could initiate an assault, taking down the aircraft that would protect Julie and the America. But he saw nothing. To his left, Giles and Wade remained airborne.
He radioed the E-2D Hawkeye first. “Six Oh Two, did you feel that? I think we were hit by a pulse weapon.”
“Negative,” the Hawkeye answered. “Negative. Stand by.”
Drew radioed Giles and Wade with practiced calm. “Five Oh One, say your status?”
Silence.
“Five Oh One, do you copy?” Drew banked toward his wingman as he switched to his ICS and said, “I lost my stores management systems.”
“Backseat is good,” Bugle said, meaning he had operable links to the ALQ-218 and NGJ electronic warfare pods on their wings. “Look.”
They’d flown so close to the other jet, Drew saw Giles working frantically inside his canopy
.
Giles pointed at his helmet and gave a thumbs down. Then he patted his console, made a fist, and flicked open his fingers. He was RTB—return to base. Giles’s aircraft peeled away from Drew, lurching once in an alarming, uncontrolled motion toward the water far below.
Drew raced after them. He wanted to pursue the Chinese pulse weapon, but Giles and Wade needed him to be their voice.
“Six Oh Two, this is Five Oh Four,” Drew radioed the Hawkeye. “Five Oh One is RTB NORDO. He’s taking the lead. He has a problem with flight control.”
“Those sons of bitches!” Bugle said.
“Stay cool. We’re fine.”
But if they were hit again, Drew didn’t know if either plane would stay in the air. Could he block a line-of-sight pulse from Hainan or the coast? One jet might save the other, so Drew decelerated as Giles flew toward the fleet. He hoped to cover Giles with his own plane.
The sun rose through the haze on the horizon. Daylight changed the ocean’s hue as Drew followed Giles through a line above the USS Hoyer, a cruiser on the America’s northeast perimeter.
Then the sky shattered with a white snap. The light dazzled Drew despite his visor, burning an imprint of the Hoyer’s lean shape into his eyes.
“What the hell was—!”
Bee bee bee bee bee bee. His radar altimeter was screaming. He was almost in the water. An instant ago, he’d been at 2500 feet, running above the Hoyer. Now he was at 1500 with the broad waves of the ocean directly below his aircraft.
Behind him, Bugle yelled, “Pull up! Pull up!”
Drew shook off his confusion and hauled on the stick, bringing his jet into a climb. “Where are Giles and Wade!?” he shouted as his radio filled with chatter and blaring static.
Three or four voices emerged from the noise:
“Rampage Four One Eight is in the water! Rampage Four One Eight is in the water!”
“Do you copy—”
“—systems down—”
Drew didn’t see Giles’s plane as he struggled for safe altitude, slamming through a rough current of wind to 2500 feet. Nor could he find the Hoyer. It was gone.
