by Tom Clancy
It was dawn in the air, if not yet on the surface, when a flight of four PRC fighters came off the mainland, heading east, followed five minutes later by four more. These were duly tracked by the American ships at the extreme range of their billboard radars. Routine track numbers were assigned, and the computer system followed their progress to the satisfaction of the officers and men in the CIC of Port Royal. Until they didn’t turn. Then a lieutenant lifted a phone and pushed a button.
“Yes?” a groggy voice answered.
“Captain, Combat, we have a flight of PRC aircraft, probably fighters, about to cross the line, bearing two-one-zero, altitude fifteen thousand, course zero-niner-zero, speed five hundred. There’s a flight of four more a few minutes behind.”
“On the way.” The captain, partially dressed, arrived in the combat information center two minutes later, not in time to see the PRC fighters break the rules, but in time to hear a petty officer report something:
“New track, four or more fighters coming west.”
For the purposes of convenience, the computer had been told to assign “enemy” designator-graphics to the mainland fighters and “friendly” symbols to the Taiwanese. (There were also a few American aircraft around from time to time, but these were electronic-intelligence gatherers and well out of harm’s way.) At this point, there were two immediately converging flights of four each, about thirty miles apart, but with a closure speed of over a thousand miles per hour. The radar was also tracking six commercial airliners, all on the east side of the line, minding their own business as they skirted the agreed-upon “exercise” areas.
“Raid Six is turning,” a sailor reported next. This was the first outbound flight off the mainland, and as the captain watched, the velocity vector turned southward, while the outbound flight off Taiwan bored in on them.
“Illuminators coming on,” the chief at the ESM console said. “The ROCs are lighting up Raid Six. Their radars seem to be in tracking mode.”
“Maybe that’s why they turned,” the captain thought.
“Maybe they got lost?” the CIC officer wondered.
“Still dark out. Maybe they just went too far.” They didn’t know what sort of navigation gear the ChiCom fighters might have had, and driving a single-seat aircraft over the sea at night was not a precise business.
“More airborne radars coming on, easterly direction, probably Raid Seven,” the ESM chief said. This was the second flight off the mainland.
“Any electronic activity from Raid Six?” the CIC officer asked.
“Negative, sir.” These fighters continued their turn and were now heading west, back for the line, with the ROC F-16s in pursuit. It was at this point that things changed.
“Raid Seven is turning, course now zero-nine-seven.”
“That puts them on the - 16s... and they’re illuminating ... the lieutenant observed, with the first hint of worry in his voice. “Raid Seven is lighting up the F-16’s, radars in tracking mode.”
The Republic of China F-16s then turned also. They’d been getting a lot of work. The newer, American-made fighters and their elite pilots comprised only about a third of their fighter force, and were drawing the duty of covering and responding to the flight exercises of their mainland cousins. Leaving Raid Six to return, they necessarily got more interested in the trailing flight, still heading east. The closure rate was still a thousand miles per hour, and both sides had their missile-targeting radars up and running, aimed at each other. That was internationally recognized as an unfriendly act, and one to be avoided for the simple reason that it was the aerial equivalent of aiming a rifle at someone’s head.
“Uh-oh,” the petty officer on the ESM board said. “Sir, Raid Seven, their radars just shifted to tracking mode.” Instead of just searching for targets, the airborne systems were now operating in the manner used to guide air-to-air missiles. What had been merely unfriendly a few seconds ago now became overtly hostile.
The F-16s broke into two pairs—elements—and began maneuvering freely. The outbound PRC fighters did the same. The original flight of four, Raid Six, was now across the line, heading west on what appeared to be a direct line to their airfield.
“Oh, I think I know what’s going on here, sir, look how—”
A very small pip appeared on the screen, leaving one of the ROC F-16s—
“Oh, shit,” a sailor said. “We have a missile in the air ”
“Make that two,” his chief said.
Aloft, a pair of American-made AIM-120 missiles were now taking separate paths to separate targets.
“They thought it was an attack. Oh, Christ,” the captain said, turning to his communications. “Get me CINCPAC right now!”
It didn’t take long. One of the mainland fighters turned into a puff on the screen. Warned, the other jinked hard and dodged its missile at the last second.
Then it turned back. The southern PRC fighter element maneuvered also, and Raid Six turned radically to the north, its illumination radars now on. Ten seconds later, six more missiles were airborne and tracking targets.
“We got a battle on our hands!” the chief of the watch said. The captain lifted the phone:
“Bridge, combat, general quarters, general quarters!” Then he grabbed the TBS microphone, getting the captains of his two companion ships, both ten miles away, east and west of his cruiser as the alarm gong started sounding on USS Port Royal.
“I have it,” The Sullivans reported. That destroyer was outboard.
“Me, too,” Chandler chimed in. That one was closer to the island nation, but getting the radar picture from the Aegis ships via data link.
“That’s a kill!” Another ChiCom fighter took its hit and headed down to the still-dark surface. Five seconds later, an F-16 died. More crewmen arrived in CIC, taking their battle stations.
“Captain, Raid Six was just trying to simulate—”
“Yeah, I see that now, but we have a train wreck on our hands.”
And then, predictably, a missile went wild. These were so small as to be hard for the Aegis radar to track, but a technician boosted power, throwing six million watts of RF energy into the “exercise” area, and the picture became more clear.
“Oh, shit!” a chief said, pointing to the main tactical display. “Captain, look there!”
It was instantly obvious. Someone had loosed what was probably an infra-red-seeking missile, and the hottest target in town was an Air China Airbus 310, with two huge General Electric CF6 turbofans—the same basic engines as those which powered all three of the American warships—which looked like the sun to its single red eye.
“Chief Albertson, get him on guard!” the skipper shouted.
“Air China Six-Six-Six, this is a U.S. Navy warship, you have a missile inbound on you from the northwest, I say again, maneuver immediately, you have a missile tracking you from the northwest!”
“What, what?” But the plane started moving, turning left and descending. Not that it mattered.
The plotted velocity vector of the missile never wavered from the target. There was a hope that it would burn out and fall short, but the missile was going at mach 3, and the Air China flight was already slowed down, commencing its approach to its home field. When the pilot put his nose down, he just made things easier for the missile.
“It’s a big airplane,” the captain said.
“Only two engines, sir,” the weapons officer pointed out.
“That’s a hit,” a radarman said.
“Get her down, pal, get her down. Oh, fuck,” the captain breathed, wanting to turn away. On the display, the 310’s blip tripled in size and flashed the emergency code.
“He’s calling Mayday, sir,” a radioman said. “Air China flight triple-six is calling Mayday ... engine and wing damage... possible fire aboard.”
“Only about fifty miles out,” a chief said. “He’s vectoring for a direct approach into Taipei.”
“Captain, all stations report manned and ready. Condition O
ne is set throughout the ship,” the IC man of the watch told the skipper.
“Very well.” His eyes were locked on the center of the three radar displays. The fighter engagement, he saw, had ended as quickly as it had started, with three fighters splashed, another possibly damaged, and both sides withdrawing to lick their wounds and figure out what the hell had happened. On the Taiwanese side, another flight of fighters was up and forming just off their coast.
“Captain!” It was the ESM console. “Looks like every radar on every ship just lit off. Sources all over the place, classifying them now.”
But that didn’t matter, the captain knew. What mattered now was that Airbus 310 was slowing and descending, according to his display.
“CINCPAC Operations, sir.” The radio chief pointed.
“This is Port Royal, ” the captain said, lifting the phone-type receiver for the satellite radio link. “We just had a little air battle here—and a missile went wild and it appears that it hit an airliner inbound from Hong Kong to Taipei. The aircraft is still in the air, but looks to be in trouble. We have two ChiCom MiGs and one ROC F-16 splashed, maybe one more -16 damaged.”
“Who started it?” the watch officer asked.
“We think the ROC pilots fired the first missile. It could have been a screwup.” He explained on for a few seconds. “I’ll upload our radar take as quick as I can.”
“Very well. Thank you, Captain. I’ll pass that along to the boss. Please keep us informed.”
“Will do.” The skipper killed the radio link and turned to the IC man of the watch. “Let’s get a tape of the battle set up for uplinking to Pearl.”
“Aye, sir.”
Air China 666 was still heading toward the coast, but the radar track showed the aircraft snaking and yawing around its straight-line course into Taipei. The ELINT team on Chandler was now listening in on the radio circuits. English is the language of international aviation, and the pilot in command of the wounded airliner was speaking quickly and clearly, calling ahead for emergency procedures, while he and his co-pilot struggled with their wounded airliner. Only they, really, knew the magnitude of the problem. Everyone else was just a spectator, rooting and praying that he’d keep it together for another fifteen minutes.
THIS ONE WENT up the line fast. The communications nexus was Admiral David Seaton’s office on the hilltop overlooking Pearl Harbor. The senior communications watch officer changed buttons on his phone to call the theater commander-in-chief, who immediately told him to shoot a CRITIC-level flash message to Washington. Seaton next ordered an alert message to the seven American warships in the area—mainly the submarines—to perk their ears up. After that, a message went off to the Americans who were “observing” the exercise in various Republic of China military command posts—these would take time to get delivered. There was still no American embassy in Taipei, and therefore no attaches or CIA personnel to hustle down to the airport to see if the airliner made it in safely or not. At that point, there was nothing to do but wait, in anticipation of the questions that would start arriving from Washington, and which as yet he was in no real position to answer.
“YES?” RYAN SAID, lifting the phone.
“Dr. Goodley for you, sir.”
“Okay, put him on.” Pause. “Ben, what is it?”
“Trouble off Taiwan, Mr. President; could be a bad one.” The National Security Advisor explained on, telling what he knew. It didn’t take long.
It was, on the whole, an impressive exercise in communications. The Airbus was still in the air, and the President of the United States knew that there was a problem—and nothing else.
“Okay, keep me posted.” Ryan looked down at the desk he was about to leave. “Oh, shit.” It was such a pleasure, the power of the presidency. Now he had virtually instant knowledge of something he could do nothing about. Were there Americans on the aircraft? What did it all mean? What was happening?
IT COULD HAVE been worse. Daryaei got back on the aircraft after having been in Baghdad for less than four hours, having dealt with the problems even more tersely than usual, and taking some satisfaction from the fear he’d struck into a few hearts for having bothered him with such trivial matters. His sour stomach contributed to an even more sour expression as he boarded and found his seat, and waved to the attendant to tell the flight crew to get moving—the sort of wrist-snapping gesture that looked like off with their heads to so many. Thirty seconds later, the stairs were up and the engines turning.
“WHERE DID YOU learn this game?” Adler asked.
“In the Navy, Mr. Secretary,” Clark answered, collecting the pot. He was ten dollars up now, and it wasn’t the money. It was the principle of the thing. He’d just bluffed the Secretary of State out of two bucks. Miller Time.
“I thought sailors were crummy gamblers.”
“That’s what some people say.” Clark smiled, as he piled the quarters up.
“Watch his hands,” Chavez advised.
“I am watching his hands.” The attendant came aft and poured out the rest of the wine. Not even two full glasses for the men, just enough to pass the time. “Excuse me, how much longer?”
“Less than an hour, Monsieur Minister.”
“Thank you.” Adler smiled at her as she moved back forward.
“King bets, Mr. Secretary,” Clark told him.
Chavez checked his hole card. Pair of fives. Nice start. He tossed a quarter into the center of the table after Adler’s.
THE EUROPEAN-MADE Airbus 310 had lost its right-side engine to the missile, but that wasn’t all. The heat-seeker had come in from the right rear and impacted on the side of the big GE turbofan, with fragments from the explosion ripping into the outboard wing panels. Some of these sliced into a fuel cell—fortunately almost empty—which trailed some burning fuel, panicking those who could look out their windows and see. But that wasn’t the frightening part. Fire behind the aircraft couldn’t hurt anyone, and the vented fuel tank didn’t explode, as it might have done had it been hit as little as ten minutes earlier. The really bad news was the damage to the aircraft’s control surfaces.
Forward, the two-man flight crew was as experienced as that of any international airline. The Airbus could fly quite well, thank you, on one engine, and the left-side engine was undamaged, and now turning at full power while the co-pilot shut down the right side of the aircraft and punched the manual controls on the elaborate fire-suppression systems. In seconds, the fire-warning alarms went silent and the co-pilot started breathing again.
“Elevator damage,” the pilot reported next, working the controls and finding that the Airbus wasn’t responding as it should.
But the problem wasn’t with the flight crew, either. The Airbus actually flew via computer software, a huge executive program that took inputs directly from the airframe as well as from the control movements of the pilots, analyzed them, and then told the control surfaces what to do next. Battle damage was not something the software engineers had anticipated in the design of the aircraft. The program noted the traumatic loss of the engine and decided it was an engine explosion, which it had been taught to think about. The onboard computers evaluated the damage to the aircraft, what control surfaces worked and how well, and adjusted itself to the situation.
“Twenty miles,” the co-pilot reported, as the Airbus settled in on its direct-penetration vector. The pilot adjusted his throttle, and the computers—the aircraft actually had seven of them—decided this was all right, and lowered engine power. The aircraft, having burned off most of its fuel, was light. They had all the engine power they needed. The altitude was low enough that depressurization was not an issue. They could steer. They just might make this, they decided. A “helpful” fighter aircraft pulled alongside to look over their damage and tried to call them on the guard frequency, only to be told to keep out of the way, in very irate Mandarin.
The fighter could see skin peeling off the Airbus, and tried to report that, only to be rebuffed. His F-5E backed o
ff to observe, talking to his base all the while.
“Ten miles.” Speed was below two hundred knots now, and they tried to lower flaps and slats, but the ones on the right side didn’t deploy properly, and the computers, sensing this, didn’t deploy them on the left side, either. The landing would have to be overly fast. Both pilots frowned, cursed, and got on with it.
“Gear,” the pilot ordered. The co-pilot flipped the levers, and the wheels went down—and locked in place, which was worth a sigh of relief to both drivers. They couldn’t tell that both tires on the right side were damaged.
They had the field in view now, and both could see the flashing lights of emergency equipment as they crossed the perimeter fencing, and the Airbus settled. Normal approach speed was about 135 knots. They were coming in at 195. The pilot knew he’d need every available foot of space, and touched down within two hundred meters of the near edge.
The Airbus hit hard, and started rolling, but not for long. The damaged right-side tires lasted about three seconds before they both lost pressure, and one second after that, the metal strut started digging a furrow in the concrete. Both men and computers tried to maintain a straight-line course for the aircraft, but it didn’t work. The 310 yawed to the right. The left-side gear snapped with a cannon-shot report, and the twin-jet bellied out. For a second, it appeared that it might pinwheel onto the grass, but then a wingtip caught, and the plane started turning over. The fuselage broke into three uneven sections. There was a gout of flame when the left wing separated—mercifully, the forward bit of fuselage shot clear, as did the after section, but the middle section stopped almost cold in the middle of the burning jet fuel, and all the efforts of the racing firefighters couldn’t change that. It would later be determined that the 127 people killed quickly asphyxiated. Another 104 escaped with varying degrees of injury, including the flight crew. The TV footage would be uplinked within the hour, and a full-blown international incident was now world news.
