Fatal Terrain

by Dale Brown

  radios, and charts for almost the entire West Coast with him,

  because that's how he had prepared for a flying mission. After

  ten trips, he'd learned to navigate by compass and speedometer

  and left the GPS satellite navigation gear at home; after fifteen

  trips, by compass and tachometer and currents; after twenty

  trips, by compass alone; after twenty-five, by bearings off

  landmarks; just off feel and birds and whale sightings

  thereafter. Now, he could sail just about anywhere with con-

  fidence and skill.

  The man thought that perhaps flying could also be just as

  uncomplicated and carefree as this, the way pilot-authors Rich-

  ard Bach and Stephen Coonts wrote about it, but in his ten

  thousand-plus hours of flying he had never done it that way.

  Every sortie needed a flight plan, a precise schedule of each

  and every event and a precise route to follow. Every sortie

  needed a weather briefing, target study, and a crew briefing,

  even if the crew had flown that sortie a hundred times before.

  Hop in and go? Navigate by watching birds and listening for

  horns? That was for kids, for irresponsible captains. Plan the

  flight, then fly the plan-that had been the man's motto I for

  decades. Now he followed birds and looked for whales.

  Almost an hour later, just as the eastern sky began to shoN

  signs of sunrise, the man shut down his engine, threw a sea

  anchor out by the bow to keep pointed into the wind, pou red

  a cup of coffee, stuck a granola bar in his shirt pocket, and

  got his gear ready for fishing. Halibut and salmon were run-

  ning now, and he might get lucky with live sardines on a big

  hook with one-hundred-pound test and a little weight. He cast

  out about a hundred feet, couched the pole, set the reel clutch,

  sat out on deck surveying the horizon. . .

  . . . and said aloud, "What in hell am I doing out here? I

  don't belong here. I hate fishing, I've never caught a damned

  thing, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I like boats,

  but I've been out here an hour and I'm bored. I'm wet, I'm

  cold, I'm miserable, and I feel like tying the fucking anchor

  FATAL T ER RAI N 9

  around my neck and seeing exactly how long I can hold my

  breath underwater. I feel like shit. I feel like-"

  And then the cell phone rang.

  At first he was surprised at the sudden, unexpected noise.

  Then he wa

  s angry at the intrusion. Then he was curious-

  who knew his number? He'd left his home number on the little

  slip of paper at the general store, not the cell phone number.

  He was even outside max range of the Newport 'cell site-he

  didn't think he could get calls way out here. Puzzled and still

  a bit peeved, he retrieved the phone from his fanny pack,

  flipped it open, and growled, "Who the hell is this?"

  "Good morning, General. How are you, sir?"

  He recognized the voice immediately, of course, and it was

  s if the sun had just popped out and the skies had turned clear

  and blue, even though it was still gray and cold and wet out

  here. The man opened his mouth to ask a question, answered

  it himself-dumb question; he knew they could find his num-

  ber easily enough if they wanted-so remained silent.

  "How are you doing, sir?- the voice repeated.

  Always friendly, always disarming, always at ease, the man

  thought. This was obviously some kind of business call, but

  with this guy there was always time for business later. Always

  so damned polite, too. You work with a guy for, what, almost

  ten years, and even though there's an age and rank difference

  you expect to be on a first-name basis and can the "sir" stuff.

  Not this guy, at least most of the time. "Fine ... good," Brad

  replied. "I'm doing ... okay."

  "Any luck out there?"

  He knew I was out fishing? That was odd. It was no state

  secret or anything, but he hadn't told anybody he was fishing,

  or given out his phone numbers, or even told anyone he was

  living in a little trailer in Nowhere, Oregon. "No," Brad re-

  plied.

  Too bad," the voice on the phone said, "but I got an idea.

  Want to do some flying?"

  The sun that had come out in his heart a few moments

  before was now setting his soul on fire, and Brad fairly leapt

  to his feet. The waders suddenly felt as if they weighed a

  thousand pounds. "What's going on?" Brad asked excitedly.

  "What are you up to now?"

  "Look to the south and find out."

  Brad did-and saw nothing. He had a brief, sinking feeling

  10 DALE BROWN

  that this was all a hoax, some complicated and brutal joke. .

  ... but then he felt it, that sound, that feeling. It was a

  change in the atmosphere, an electricity flowing through the

  air stirring and ionizing the moist sea breeze. It felt like an

  electric current flowing through nearby high-tension power

  lines, a snap of unseen force that made little hairs stand up on

  your skin. Then you feel the air pressure rising, of a thin col-

  umn of air being pushed ahead like air streaming out of a giant

  hypodermic needle aimed right at you, the plunger being

  pushed by what could very well be God's thumb, but was,

  Brad knew, a very human construct ...

  ... and then the overcast parted and the clouds disgorged

  a huge black aircraft. It was low, pointed, and very deadly-

  looking. Brad expected it to roar past him, but instead it hissed

  by like a giant ebony viper on the move across a jungle floor.

  Only when the monstrous vehicle had zoomed past him, barely

  a hundred feet above the Pacific and almost directly overhead,

  could he hear the thunder of its eight turbofan engines ... no

  Brad realized with faint shock, not eight, only four engines:

  but four huge engines. The aircraft banked hard to the left,

  showing its long, thin fuselage, its long, low, swept-back V-

  tail ruddervators, its wide wings tipped with pointed tip

  tanks-and yes, it carried weapon fairings on its wings,

  stealthy pods that enclosed externally-carried weapons. It was

  not only flying, but the damned beautiful creature was anned.

  "What do you think, Brad?" retired Air Force Lieutenant

  Colonel Patrick McLanahan asked on the cell phone. "You

  like it?"

  "Like it?" retired Air Force Lieutenant General Bradley

  James Elliott gasped. "Like it? it's the.. .1' He had to be

  careful-last he knew, the EB-52 Megafortress defense-

  suppression and attack bomber was still highly classified.

  . . it's flying again!"

  "It may be the only model flying in a few months, Brad,"

  McLanahan said. "The Air Force let us play with a couple.

  We need crews to fly them and commanders to organize a new

  unit. If you're interested, climb aboard the Gulfstream. that'll

  be waiting for you at Newport Municipal in two hours' i' '

  "I'll be there!" Elliott shouted as the Megafortress climbed

  back into the overcast and disappeared from view. "I'll be

  there! Don't you dare leave without me!" Bradley James El-
>
  liott dropped the phone onto the deck, quickly stepped forward

  A AL TER RAI N 11

  to the bow, began reeling in the sea anchor, swore because it

  wasn't coming in fast enough, then simply detached it from

  the bow cleat and dropped it overboard. He did the same with

  the fishing rod. The cold diesel engine was cranky and

  wouldn't start on the third try, but thankfully it started on the

  fourth, because Elliott was ready to jump out and run all the

  way back to Newport. After seeing the Megafortress again, a

  new Megafortress, he felt light and happy enough to give walk-

  ing on water a try.

  It was back. It was really back ... and so, with the grace of

  God, was he.

  OVER THE SOUTH, CHINA SEA, TWO HUNDRED MILES

  SOUTHWEST OF PRATAS ISLAND

  SUNDAY, I 8 MAY 1997, 2200 HOURS LOCAL

  (17 MAY, 1300 HOURS ET)

  "Doors coming open! Stand by! All hands, secure loose items

  and prepare for exposure!"

  The rear cargo doors of the Yunshuji-8C cargo plane mo-

  tored open at one hundred and twenty seconds time-to-go in

  the countdown. Admiral Sun Ji Guorning, deputy chief of staff

  of the People's Liberation Army of the People's Republic of

  China, was standing in the forward section of the cargo plane

  as the temperature of the cargo hold, already below freezing,

  suddenly dropped nearly fifty degrees almost in the blink of

  an eye. The ice-cold wind swirled around the huge cargo hold,

  tugging at legs and arms as if trying to pull the humans out

  into the frigid sky. Yes, it was mid-May over the generally

  warm, relaxing South China Sea, but at 30,000 feet just before

  midnight, the air, rushing into the plane at over a hundred

  miles an hour, was still bone-snapping cold. The roar of the

  Y-8C's four Wojiang-6 turboprops, at 4,250 horsepower per

  engine, was deafening even in the thin air.

  The senior naval officer, like the other engineers and tech-

  nicians in the cargo bay, was dressed in a sub-Arctic snowsuit,

  layered over an oceangoing exposure suit that was required to

  be worn anytime they were flying outside,, safe gliding range

  of land. Sun also wore a fur-lined aviation helmet with an

  12 DALE BROWN

  oxygen mask and cold-weather anti-fog goggles. Sun marveled

  at some of the soldiers working on the cargo inside the plane

  they wore parkas and boots but no gloves, and they took only

  occasional gulps of 100-percent oxygen from the masks dan-

  gling down on the sides of their faces as they worked. These t

  men, obviously born in the punishing cold and high altitudes

  of Xizang and Xinjiang Provinces of western China, were very

  accustomed to working in cold, thin air.

  Sun Ji Guorning was one of a rare breed in the People's

  Liberation Anny-a young, intelligent officer with vision. At

  the age of only fifty-three, Admiral Sun, known as the "Black

  Tiger" because of his noticeably darker, almost Indian-like

  complexion, was by far the youngest full flag officer in the

  history of the People's Republic of China. He was at least

  fifteen years younger than any other member of the Central

  Military Commission and thirty years younger than his supe-

  nor officer, General Chin Po Zihong, the chief of staff. Sun's

  family were high Party officials-his father, Sun Ran, was

  minister of the State Science and Technology Commission, in

  charge of restructuring and modernizing China's vastly out-

  dated telecommunications infrastructure.

  But Sun had not earned his post merely by his family's

  powerful Party connections, but by his utter devotion to the

  Party and to its leadership, first as commander of the South

  China Sea Fleet, then as former hard-line premier Li Peng's

  military advisor, then as chief of staff of the People's Liber-

  ation Army Navy (PLAN), and now as first deputy chief of

  the general staff and certainly its next chief, possibly even the

  next minister of defense. The Black Tiger was truly one of the

  fiercest officers in the huge Chinese military.

  As deputy chief of staff, Sun's main goal was to modernize

  the huge People's Liberation Army, to drive it into the twenty-

  first century. He had been executive officer several years ear-

  lier aboard China's most ambitious blue-water naval project,

  code-named EF5, the destroyer Hong Lung, or Red Dragon.

  The Hong Lung was an amazing warship, equal to any other

  warship owned by any nation on earth. The ship had been the

  spearhead of an ambitious plan by the chief of staff, High

  General Chin Po Zihong, to occupy several of the Philippine

  islands, and had been destroyed in fierce attacks by the United

  States Air Force and Navy, including bombardment from outer

  space. But until the final crushing blow, the Hong Lung had

  FATAL TERRAI N 13

  controlled the sea and airspace in the southern Philippines for

  hundreds of miles.

  That was the kind of military power China needed to suc-

  ceed in the twenty-first century-and Admiral Sun Ji Guorning

  was going to make it his career to see to it that China devel-

  oped the technology to meet the challenges of the future.

  "Sixty seconds to release! Navigation data transfer in pro-

  gress. Pilots, maintain constant heading and airspeed and con-

  form to prelaunch axis lin-@dts.-

  The soldiers backed away from the cargo as the countdown

  neared an end. Sun did a count of the men in the cargo bay-

  six had gone in, and he counted six, plus himself. Accidents

  were easy and common in this kind of work, but it would not

  look good for an accident to occur with the deputy chief of

  staff aboard.

  "Stand by for release! All hands, Prepare for cargo release!

  Five ... four. ... three ... two ... one ... zero. Release!" Sun

  heard several loud snap! sounds and a slight burble through

  the fuselage; then, slowly, the cargo began to roll backward

  through the cargo bay and out through the open clarnshell

  doors.

  The "cargo" was a Chinese M-9 rocket, an intermediate-

  range ballistic missile. Admiral Sun Ji Guoming, as chief of

  development for the People's Liberation Army, was conduct-

  ing yet another experiment on the possible future deployment

  of the M-series tactical,baiiistic missiles on nonconventional

  platforms. For years, other countries had experimented with

  alternative methods for deploying missiles to make them less

  vulnerable to counterattack. The most common was rail-

  garrison or road-mobile launchers, and China relied heavily on

  these. But although the missiles were transportable, they still

  needed presurveyed launch points to ensure an accurate posi-

  tion fix for their inertial guidance units, which meant that the

  'launch points could be known and attacked.

  The advent of satellite-based positioning and navigation

  greatly increased the accuracy of military weapons-at any

  moment, even while moving in an aircraft, it was possible to

  Capture Position, speed, and time from the satelli
tes, dump the

  information to a missile or rocket, and be assured of previously

  unbelievable accuracy. If the weapon could get position up-

  dates from the satellites while in flight-and the M-9 missile

  Sun had just launched could do just that-the weapon's ac-

  14 DALE BROWN

  curacy could be improved even more. And if the missile con-

  tained a TV camera with a datalink back to the launch aircraft

  so an operator could lock onto a particular target and steer it

  right to impact, pinpoint accuracy was possible.

  Sun stepped back through the cargo bay, waving away sev-

  eral soldiers who cautioned him not to go back there, and

  walked right to within a few feet of the edge of the open mouth

  of the cargo bay. What he saw was absolutely spectacular.

  The M-9 missile was suspended vertically below three sixty-

  foot parachutes, fitted with strobe lights so he could see where

  they were in the darkness. He knew that as the 14,000-pound

  missile fell, it was receiving yet another position update from

  the American Global Positioning System satellite navigation

  constellation, and gyros were compensating for winds and mis-

  sile movement, and were aligning the missile as vertically as

  possible. Sun's cargo plane was about two miles away now-

  the missile could just barely be seen under the three chutes-

  when suddenly a long white tongue of fire and smoke appeared

  from under the parachutes. The three chutes deflated as the

  weight was taken off the risers, then they cut away completely

  as the M-9 rose up through the sky.

  A perfect launch! Sun had proven-again, for this was his

  seventh or eighth successful air launch-that it was possible

  to launch a ballistic missile from a cargo plane. No special

  aircraft was necessary. Any cargo plane-military or civilian-

  could do it, with the right modifications. All of the avionics

  needed to transfer satellite navigation data to the missile was

  in a "strap-down" container that could be transported with

  ease and installed in less than an hour.

  Sun signaled that he was clear of the opening and that it

  was safe to close the cargo doors, hurried forward, and entered