by Robert Gandt
“The base commander.”
“Bass, you’re a one man train wreck. How did you ever make major?”
“By being the best fighter pilot in the Air Force, sir.”
Boyce shook his head. “And the best fighter pilot in the Air Force will be court-martialed because he’s too stupid to follow orders.” He put down the file. “As I see it, Major, it’s come down to this. You’ve got two career options left.”
He left this thought hanging in the air while he unwrapped a fresh cigar. Bass waited, watching him like a cat staring at a Rottweiler.
Half a minute passed.
“Uh, I believe you said something about options, Captain?”
Boyce gave the cigar an appreciative lookover, then wet the end of it. “Option one, I comply with the request of General Buckner, who—and I quote his exact words—now wants your sorry ass shipped back to Kadena so he can convene your court martial. He figures you’re good for five to ten in Leavenworth.”
Bass’s face was turning a shade of gray. “And the other option. . .”
“Volunteer for the mission to China with Commander Maxwell. If, by some rare happenstance, you actually live through the operation, I will intercede with the general and try to keep you from serving hard time.”
Bass stared at him. “That’s coercion.”
“Correct. Do you know what the inside of a six-by-eight cell looks like?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Then your decision is pretty easy.”
For a long moment Bass stood there, wrestling with his choice. He could visualize the interior of a prison yard at Leavenworth. He could also visualize what it might be like to be caught as a spy in China. Neither choice filled him with joy. His shoulders slumped. He wished he had never arrived on this damned boat.
“Okay,” he said in a low voice, “what do you want me to do?”
<>
“You wanted to see me, Skipper?”
Maxwell looked up from his desk. Standing in the open door was Bullet Alexander, wearing a flight jacket over his khakis. Maxwell waved him in. “Close the door and take a seat.”
Alexander sat opposite Maxwell. He glanced around the room, his eyes stopping at the photograph on the desk. It was a snapshot of Maxwell and Claire. They were sitting on a motorcyle. In the background was a boat dock and a body of water. “That the chick who makes you slam doors and beat up punching bags?”
Maxwell glanced at the snapshot and nodded. “That’s the one. You can knock off the counseling. I’m over all that.”
Alexander kept looking at the photo. “Looks like a cool bike. A Harley?”
He nodded. “An old ninety-five Low Rider. I keep it in my dad’s garage in Fall’s Church. Claire and I used to ride on the weekends along the river, down to the Chesapeake.”
He lay the photo face down on the desk. He looked at Alexander. “What would you say if I told you I was turning the squadron over to you for a while?”
“I’d say you had a lot of trust in your XO. Or else you’re in some kind of deep trouble.”
“Maybe both. I’m going off for a few days on a special assignment.”
“One of those don’t ask, don’t tell jobs?”
“Something like that.” He watched Alexander for a reaction.
Alexander nodded, his expression not changing. “I see where this is going. You’re worried about whether I’m ready to run the outfit, right?”
“Should I be?”
“Hell, Boss, with a possible war starting with the ChiComs, leaving your outfit in the hands of some dude who just checked in, yeah, I can see how you might be worried.”
Maxwell gave it a second, choosing his words. “You may not realize it yet, Bullet, but not everyone in the squadron is crazy about you. There’s at least one guy who’d like to see you blow it and get shipped back where you came from.”
“My onboard warning system has already picked up hostile signals from Craze Manson.”
“Then you ought to know he’s telling all the junior officers that you’re a carpetbagger who hasn’t earned his credentials. He’s going to do everything he can to make you look bad.”
“That’s nothing new. I’ve been dealing with assholes like Manson ever since I got my wings and went to my first squadron.”
“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. CAG can get someone to step in and run things. I’ll make sure it doesn’t reflect on your fitness report.”
“Look, Brick, I don’t give a damn about Craze Manson. Tell me what you think. Do you want me to stay?”
“I picked you for this job. I haven’t changed my mind yet.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“What about Manson?”
Alexander smiled his toothy smile. “Leave Manson to me.”
<>
Boyce caught up with him on the way to the flight deck. Maxwell carried a duffel bag with his flying equipment, extra clothing and toilet gear. On the outside of his flight suit was his leather shoulder holster with the ancient Colt .45.
Boyce looked at the pistol. “Lot of good that’ll do you.”
“You never know. It saved me on the ground in Yemen, if you remember.”
“I remember. With your sterling marksmanship, you almost blew away B.J. Johnson.” Boyce paused, and his voice grew serious. “Look, Brick, this is a different kind of war. If it turns ugly, just get the hell out. I need you alive here and back here on the Reagan.”
Maxwell nodded. “Keep an eye on my squadron, CAG.”
“Don’t worry about your squadron. You’ve got Bullet Alexander.”
He didn’t know how much Boyce had heard about how the new XO. They stepped onto the escalator that took them to the deck edge. “Bullet’s still getting his feet wet,” he said. “Some of the guys might try to give him a hard time.”
“I know Bullet. He worked for me back in VFA-87 when I was XO and he was a lieutenant new to the squadron.”
“You didn’t you tell me you knew Bullet from before.”
“You’re his boss. I wanted you to form your own impression.”
“So? How did he handle himself in your squadron?”
“Well, we had some young hotshots who thought Bullet was getting a free ride. You know, the old bullshit about the black guy getting special treatment. They figured that it would be great fun to humiliate him in one-vee-one ACM exercise.”
ACM—air combat maneuvering—in its purest form was one-on-one dogfighting. It separated the amateurs from the pros. Maxwell said, “And did they humiliate him?”
“Bullet worked his way through the roster, flying against one pilot after the other. After he’d finished kicking each guy’s ass, he’d present him with an eight-by-ten glossy from the HUD tape showing his tail superimposed in Bullet’s gunfight. For extra measure, he’d autograph it for them.”
Maxwell threw his head back and laughed. “That’s ballsy.”
“I think your squadron will be just fine.”
They reached the top of the escalator. A short, red-lighted passageway led to the flight deck ladder. A C-2 COD was waiting to fly Maxwell and Bass to Taiwan.
The two men shook hands at the base of the ladder. Boyce clapped Maxwell on the shoulder and said, “Go get the Black Star, Brick. And come back alive. That’s an order.”
Maxwell picked up his bag. He knew that was as close as Boyce could come to being sentimental. “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”
He stepped up to the darkened flight deck.
CHAPTER 12 — CHINGCHUANKANG
USS Ronald Reagan
Taiwan Strait
2015, Saturday, 13 September
“Is this gonna hurt?” asked Bass.
Maxwell looked at him in the darkened cabin and nearly laughed. Strapped into the rearward-facing seat, wearing the floatcoat and cranial protector, Bass looked like an alien creature.
“Relax,” said Maxwell. “When the catapult fires, just go with it.”
<
br /> In the dim light, Bass’s eyes appeared as large as Frisbees. Maxwell knew the feeling. For a pilot, sitting backwards like a piece of cargo while being catapulted off a ship was the ultimate feeling of powerlessness.
He felt the rumble of the two turboprop engines going to full thrust. The airframe of the C-2A COD—Carrier Onboard Deliver aircraft—was vibrating like a tuning fork.
“What’s happening?” said Bass.
“You’ll see.”
“When is this thing going to—”
Whoom. Bass’s head snapped forward as if he had been tackled. He lurched into the straps that bound him to his seat. In three seconds the COD traveled the length of the catapult track, accelerating to 120 knots.
Maxwell felt the catapult stroke end. The nose of the COD lifted, and the landing gear clunked up into the wells.
Bass raised his head. “Are we dead?”
“That was nothing. Wait till you sit through a carrier landing.”
“Screw the landing. That was the last boat I’m ever gonna be on.”
Maxwell peered through the window on the opposite side of the cabin. He saw only blackness outside. No lights, no horizon, no sky. The COD was showing no navigation lights, droning northwest over the strait to Taiwan. They were bound for Chingchuankang, the air base nestled in the central mountains of the island.
The cabin was silent except for the metallic hum of the turbine engines. Bass settled into a contemplative mood, no longer his talkative self.
Maxwell had come to like the young Air Force officer. He guessed that beneath the flippant exterior, he was probably a competent fighter pilot. Over the years he had learned to spot the little nuances by which pilots revealed themselves—the way talked with their hands, the way they described their own experiences. Boyce had seen it too, or he wouldn’t be taking a chance on Bass.
Bass’s voice broke the stillness. “You know how I got roped into this. But you seem like a pretty sane guy. Why the hell are you doing this?”
“I’m a tourist at heart. I’ve never been to China and this seemed like a good chance to have a look around.”
“I take it back. You’re not sane. In fact, you guys are all nuts.”
“Now you know the truth.”
“I should have let your boss send me to Leavenworth. At least I’d get three meals a day, regular hours. They’d let me do crossword puzzles, maybe even shoot some pool. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, if you like bread and water.”
“Do you know how the Chinese will treat us if they catch us? Fish heads once a day, bamboo under the fingernails, electrodes on the nuts to make us talk.”
“Being a prisoner isn’t our best option.”
“Being dead sucks too.”
Maxwell nodded. At least they were talking about it. It was healthy to vent their fear, to make jokes about that which terrified them. They were embarking on a trip into unthinkable danger. Maxwell didn’t want to calculate how slim their chances really were.
Silence fell over the cabin again. Bass’s question slipped back into Maxwell’s mind. Why are you doing this?
He had given a flippant reply, carefully avoiding the truth. Because I have nothing to lose.
Everyone important to him was gone. No children, no wife, no family except an aging father. His astronaut wife, Debbie, had been taken from him in a fiery accident one sun-strewn day at Cape Canaveral. His own career as an astronaut had come to an abrupt end. He’d lost Claire Phillips once back in time, then she returned like a fresh wind to his life. Now he’d lost her again and—
He caught himself. Knock it off, Maxwell. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. He had been decorated for bravery in two wars. He had put his life on the line as a test pilot and astronaut. Had he done it for no higher reason than that he had nothing to lose? Was courage nothing more than an act of hopelessness?
Hell no. There had always been more to it than that. It was a private set of beliefs, an ingrained code that was peculiar to the warrior class. Men like himself and Red Boyce and, he hoped, Catfish Bass, followed a calling that transcended their own lives. They were patriots and warriors, in that order.
With that thought he told himself to quit thinking. Too much thinking before going into action dulled your senses. Let it go. Just do your job.
He felt the drone of the turboprops change pitch. The nose of the COD tilted downward. In the darkness below lay the island of Taiwan.
<>
The clamshell door in the aft cabin swung open. A short, ramrod-straight figure stood in the darkness on the tarmac.
“Welcome to Chingchuankang.”
Maxwell recognized the voice and his heart sank. Oh, shit.
“Colonel Chiu,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
Chiu didn’t bother shaking hands. He gave Maxwell and Bass each a peremptory nod. “Follow me. Your bags will be brought to you.”The base was blacked out. There was no light spilling from windows, no illumination on the sprawling ramp, no taxiway lights. The COD had been nursed to its parking spot on the darkened tarmac by an unlighted follow-me jeep.
Chiu led them to his vehicle, a Suzuki four-wheeler in military drab. As Maxwell’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the ramp, he could see aircraft dispersed on the ramp—helicopters, C-130s, single-engine utility airplanes. Sandbagged gun emplacements were sited at regular intervals around the perimeter of the ramp. Taiwan’s central base for special operations, Chingchuankang, was on high alert.
Driving the Suzuki himself, Chiu headed across the ramp. He made no conversation while he drove, speeding past sandbagged security posts with guards wearing black greasepaint and full combat gear, to a sprawling one-story complex. More sandbags, a machine gun post, and half a dozen grim-looking troops guarded the entrance.
Through a light-sealed inner door, Maxwell and Bass followed Chiu into an illuminated hallway. Squinting in the harsh fluorescent light, they entered a capacious room with charts covering three walls. At a row of computers sat half a dozen technicians. On one wall was a large flat-panel screen with blinking symbols that displayed, Maxwell presumed, a real-time military overview of Taiwan and coastal China.
In the center of the room, on an elevated platform, was a three-meter-square plaster-and-cardboard facsimile of an air field. The miniature base contained runways, hangars, buildings, a water tower, revetments, gun emplacements, even missile batteries.
Chiu saw Maxwell studying the model base. “Do you know what you’re looking at?”
Maxwell was impressed. “Chouzhou.”
“The most accurate reproduction we could make, based on reconnaissance photos and the knowledge of defectors who worked there.”
Maxwell caught the note of disapproval in Chiu’s voice. His opinion of defectors hadn’t changed.
“When does the operation go?”
“Soon. Within forty-eight hours. It has been given the highest priority by our. . . current head of state.” Maxwell caught the note of distaste. He wondered if Chiu had a dislike for the new president of Taiwan, or if he just hated women in general.
Bass was looking at the model, shaking his head. “Jesus, this looks like something from Mission Impossible. How are we going to get in there and out again without getting our asses shot off? This place is more heavily defended than downtown Beijing.”
Chiu gave him a cold look. “That is my concern, not yours. Your task will be to deal with the airplane, nothing more It will be my responsibility to insert you into the base at Chouzhou.”
“Your responsibility?” said Maxwell. “Does that mean that you—”
“I am in command of the raid,” said Chiu. “This is a Taiwanese operation, using our troops and equipment. Everyone—” he gave each man a glower, “—will take orders from me. Without question. Is that understood?”
Maxwell felt himself bristle. No, it wasn’t understood. Something had gotten lost in the mission description. Taking orders from a raving tyrant who hated women and Americans and all
other living things wasn’t part of the job.
For several seconds he kept his silence, weighing whether to tell Chiu to go stuff his model base and his mission and his orders, understood or otherwise, straight up his bunghole.
Bass watched him, a curious expression on his face.
Maxwell took a deep breath. The mission comes first. Humor this asshole.
He gave Bass a barely perceptible nod, then he turned to Chiu. “Understood, Colonel.”
Chiu wasn’t finished. “If the United States had not abandoned Taiwan, this operation would not be necessary. The war would be won already.”
“You’ve not been abandoned, Colonel. The U.S. is supplying most of Taiwan’s ships and aircraft and ordnance. We trained your pilots. The Reagan Strike Group is still on station in the Strait.”
“Will they deliver an attack on Chinese air defense sites?”
“Not without provocation.”
“Will they engage the Chinese Air Force when we insert our team into Chouzhou?”
“You know the answer. The United States is not at war with China.”
Chiu shook his head in disgust. “Talk. All empty talk. For fifty years the United States assured us they were our ally. In the final analysis, that’s all it was. Talk.”
Maxwell was getting a quick picture of Chiu. He was obviously a man with a mountain-sized chip on his shoulder. It was hard to figure who he hated the most, China or the United States. It didn’t matter. “Look, Colonel, we’re here to do a job, not discuss foreign policy. If you don’t wish to include us in the operation, that suits me. We’ll return to the Reagan tonight.”
Chiu’s eyes narrowed. He was about to deliver another blast when he stopped and fixed his attention to something in the hallway behind them.
“Our team of foreigners is complete,” he said. “Gentlemen, meet the defector who will take us to the Black Star.”
Maxwell looked over his shoulder. He abruptly lost interest in the model air base, the charts on the wall, the tactical display. His eyes riveted on a rich tumble of black hair, flashing almond eyes, a smile that erased all his anger.
She wasn’t wearing the baggy fatigues and the clunky boots. They had been replaced by snug-fitting Levis, white sneakers, a T-shirt that bore the likeness of, Maxwell presumed, some rock musician. Maybe a dead scientist. He couldn’t tell.
