Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Patriot Attack

by Kyle Mills

  “It’s like flying a pig with wings, sir.”

  And they were carrying no missiles. Only the Gatling gun.

  “ETA to the target?”

  “About two and a half minutes.”

  It wasn’t enough time—the Chinese fighter was coming up on them fast and none of the F-15s was in a position to break away and engage it.

  His pilot rammed the stick forward and Smith found himself pinned to the seat as they dived. The jet shook like it was going to come apart as the Chinese fighter swung in behind.

  Smith wanted to look back at the warplane hunting them but the g-forces made it impossible. How close was it? Had it been able to match the ferocity of their dive? Did its pilot have a shot?

  His questions were answered a moment later when the cockpit was filled with the dull screech of an alarm. The aircraft behind them had radar lock.

  Smith braced himself and managed to find enough leverage to turn slightly in his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the plane only a few hundred yards back, using its superior maneuverability to counter their pathetic attempts to shake it. In the distance he could see the contrails of the ongoing dogfight, but individual planes were impossible to make out.

  Smith faced forward again, staring blankly at the back of the pilot’s seat. Did Takahashi know what was happening? Was he laughing while he watched the Chinese destroy their last hope?

  Smith’s teeth were clenched so tightly that he could hear them grinding together in his head. He closed his eyes and waited, but nothing happened. He assumed that waiting helplessly to be incinerated had thrown off his ability to mark time but eventually the seconds stretched out long enough to suggest that this wasn’t it. Finally, he opened his eyes and twisted around. The plane was still there, lined up right behind them.

  “Why isn’t he firing?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Could he have a weapons malfunction?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

  They leveled out and the J-11 disengaged, setting a course back to help his comrades.

  The first thing that came to Smith’s mind was that it was a trick. But to what end? That pilot could have killed them with the flip of a switch. Had Castilla managed to get through to his Chinese counterpart? Convince him to pull back?

  Smith looked past the plane hurtling away from them and squinted at the dogfight still in progress. As near as he could tell, there were only two Chinese aircraft remaining and both were being double-teamed by the surviving F-15s. It was time to make a decision. The J-11s weren’t going to last much longer, even with the plane coming to their aid.

  “Disengage!” Smith said, opening a channel to his men. “I repeat: disengage. Defensive actions only.”

  66

  Over Eastern China

  General Masao Takahashi adjusted the focus on his binoculars and panned them slowly across the jet’s side window. On both sides of him his men were doing the same with their naked eye—silently watching the events unfolding in the sky to the south.

  It was impossible to follow the chaos of the dogfight, or even to reliably differentiate between the US F-15s and the Chinese J-11s. What he could say with certainty, though, was that the Americans’ surprise attack had been successful. The odds were roughly even now.

  He dropped the binoculars and went forward to the cockpit where he grabbed a headset. “Connect me to Chengdu tower.”

  The pilot flipped a switch on the radio and then returned his attention to the windscreen, leaning into it and scanning the tangled contrails being created by the warplanes.

  “Chengdu tower. This is General Masao Takahashi in Prime Minister Sanetomi’s plane. Your aircraft have engaged a group of American fighters to our south. Please advise. What is the situation?”

  These communications were undoubtedly being monitored at the highest levels, and he could use that to keep the Chinese off balance. It seemed likely that President Castilla had already informed them that Takahashi was attempting to deliver some kind of weapon, using that as cover for the incursion into China’s airspace. Clearly they didn’t trust the Americans and had decided to stop them. All he had to do was make sure they stayed the course and unwittingly destroyed their only chance at survival.

  “Stand by, General,” a voice over the radio responded.

  “Tower, is this an exercise? Please advise. We appear to be within missile range. Should we change course?”

  “Stand by.”

  Takahashi isolated the mike and spoke to his pilot. “What is our ETA to Chengdu?”

  “We should be at the outskirts in fifty-three minutes, sir.”

  Takahashi looked out at the dogfight, now barely discernible on the horizon. The distance was nothing more than an illusion, he knew. The fighters’ superior speed would allow them to close it in a matter of seconds.

  Squinting into the sunlight, he focused on a contrail near the center of the chaos. There was something strange about it. Something different about the way it reflected the sunlight.

  “Binoculars!”

  One of his men rushed to bring him the pair he’d left on the seat and Takahashi put them to his eyes. A jolt of adrenaline coursed through him as he saw that a lone fighter had broken away and was on course to intercept them. He kept the lenses trained on it long enough to analyze the profile and confirm that it was American.

  “Tower, this is Takahashi,” he said into his headset. “One of the F-15s has broken away and is on course to intercept us. Connect me immediately to President Yandong. We are on a diplomatic mission and the prime minister is gravely ill.”

  “We are connecting you, General,” the voice responded. “Please stand by.”

  Another fighter broke away and gave chase. Takahashi watched, feeling the pounding of his heart ease slightly. It was Chinese and it was overtaking the F-15 at a rate that would put it behind the American fighter well before it got within range of Takahashi’s jet.

  Nothing could stop him now. Not the Americans. Not the Chinese. This was his destiny. They would land in Chengdu and while the doctors pronounced Sanetomi dead, he would release the weapon that would exterminate their entire useless race.

  Of course the Japanese government would insist on the immediate return of the prime minister’s body, and Takahashi would solemnly accompany it on its journey back to home soil. He would make speeches about his admiration for the politician, about his patriotism and dedication. In reality, though, he would be waiting for the first subtle signs of weakness in Chengdu’s infrastructure. For the confused and typically secretive reaction from the Chinese government as it tried to protect its power. And finally for the country to descend into chaos.

  The general watched the F-15 begin evasive action, but its maneuvers seemed awkward and heavy in comparison with the fighter hunting it. Any moment now the American threat—and indeed America’s domination of the world—would be over. The question was, what should he do about this affront? Would he magnanimously ignore it? No, that would demonstrate weakness. Perhaps the sinking of an aircraft carrier. A demonstration of not only Japan’s ability to defeat the American navy but its willingness to act in the face of aggression.

  The J-11 was locked in behind its prey now and Takahashi watched the American pilot futilely try to shake it off. Nothing he did, though, had any effect. Nothing could save the aircraft now.

  Takahashi counted the seconds in his mind as they ticked past, but the Chinese pilot didn’t fire.

  “Chengdu tower,” he said, trying to keep his sudden uncertainty from creeping into his voice. “The American aircraft is still on an intercept course. Are we connected to President Yandong?”

  No response.

  “Chengdu tower, I—”

  He fell silent when the Chinese fighter suddenly broke off and swept south.

  “Where is the nearest population center?” he said to the pilot.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Find out and change course for it
!” Takahashi said. He brought the binoculars to his eyes again but couldn’t find the F-15. Running to the back of the plane, he pressed the side of his face to one of the windows, trying to get a line of sight.

  The fighter was close and continuing to overtake them. Its gray paint scheme and dual tail fins were fully distinguishable despite the sun’s glare.

  “Sir!” the pilot shouted from the cockpit. “The closest significant population concentration is approximately fifteen minutes to the north.”

  Takahashi ran forward again and picked up a headset as his security men kept their eyes locked on the windows. “Put me on a channel monitored by the F-15 and change course for that city.

  “US military aircraft. This is General Masao Takahashi of the Japanese self-defense forces. We are diverting from Chengdu. What are your intentions?”

  Silence.

  “US military aircraft!” Takahashi repeated, starting to feel the unfamiliar sensation of panic rising in him. “I repeat, this is General—”

  He was thrown backward, slamming his head into the back of the empty copilot’s seat as the pilot suddenly banked right. For a moment, he thought the buzz filling his ears was a result of the impact, but it didn’t take long for him to recognize it for what it really was: the F-15’s Gatling gun.

  Takahashi crawled back to the headset on the floor, but the cable connecting it to the control panel had been severed. When he looked up, he saw the American fighter coming in from the east, the flash of the twenty-millimeter rounds fully visible through the windscreen. This time there was nothing the pilot could do. The bullets ripped through their wing, causing the jet to buck wildly. Takahashi managed to get into the copilot’s seat but a moment later the metallic screech of the wing’s structure tearing away filled the cockpit.

  The jet lurched sideways and Takahashi tried to get hold of the seat’s harness as the whistle of the air passing over the damaged aircraft grew deafening.

  The pilot wrestled with the stick for a moment but then just gave up and allowed the plane to spin toward the earth.

  67

  Over Eastern China

  Their first pass had been unsuccessful due to Smith’s insistence on micromanaging the targeted area. On the second, the pilot stitched a perfect line into the Japanese plane’s wing. As they streaked by, Smith twisted in his seat to watch the aircraft lurch violently and then begin to cartwheel.

  “Swing around!” he said and the pilot arced the F-15 north, allowing them an uninterrupted view of the crippled plane as it dropped toward the empty landscape below. The wing finally gave way, leaving a trail of shredded metal in the sky. The fuselage held together until impact, thank God. The wreckage—and presumably Ito’s weapon—remained confined to an area only a couple hundred yards in diameter.

  “Let’s do it,” Smith said.

  The pilot obliged by putting the plane into a dive, aiming at what was left of Sanetomi’s plane. There was no way to maneuver the weapon they carried once it was away, forcing them to get dangerously close to the target. They only had one shot at this and a miss—even a near one—wasn’t an option.

  “On my mark, sir.”

  Smith clutched the radio remote control in his hand. It looked like something better suited to a video game than dropping a thermonuclear weapon, but it was the best the mechanics back at Kadena had been able to come up with. If it worked the way they said it would, Ito’s weapon would theoretically be annihilated. The blast radius of the weapon was relatively small—no more than five hundred yards, with radiation strong enough to destroy the nanotech extending out another two miles. What could go wrong? Pretty much everything. The makeshift bomb release mechanism could jam. The antique weapon could fail to detonate. They could simply miss the crash site. Worst, though, was the possibility that a few of Ito’s bots could be blown clear with enough velocity to survive the radiation zone.

  Smith flipped the cover off the remote’s button. His stomach felt like it was trying to escape through his throat, and he knew it wasn’t just the speed of their descent unnerving him. It was the knowledge that millions of lives depended on a single movement of his thumb.

  “Now!” the pilot said and Smith depressed the button.

  There was a brief grinding sound and then the right side of the plane sprang upward as the weight beneath it disappeared.

  “It’s away!” the pilot said as he yanked back on the stick. Smith felt his G suit inflate, working to keep the blood from draining from his head with the force of the climb. His vision began to blur as the view transformed from the brown of the dead landscape to the unbroken blue of the sky.

  The flash was followed by a roar that drowned out the sound of the two Pratt & Whitney engines. The plane bucked violently in the turbulence and the sensation changed from one of flying to one of being thrown through the sky. Warning alarms that didn’t mean anything to Smith sounded as the pilot fought for control. The tail end of the aircraft pulled left, then right, and a moment later they were flipping end over end. The pilot continued to strain the engines, but they were useless in the air blast from the weapon. The g-forces subsided, as did the roar of the hot wind around them, but that was all Smith could be sure of as they continued to tumble.

  New alarms were added to the ones already sounding as more of the plane’s systems failed. Finally, the engines sputtered out. In that moment everything went strangely silent. There was nothing but the world spinning around them and the rhythmic thud of his own heartbeat.

  “We’re not going to make it,” the pilot said with admirable calm. “Good luck, sir.”

  The canopy above Smith blew open and he felt himself being ripped from the cockpit. The tail just missed him as the plane continued to go end over end. The pilot wasn’t so lucky. The back of his ejection seat was struck and both it and he were cut in two.

  Epilogue

  Arlington National Cemetery

  USA

  Jon Smith looked away from the young family crying over a flag-draped casket and instead gazed out on the tombstones gleaming in the sunlight. With the help of a quietly grateful Chinese government, his pilot’s remains and those of the other airman killed in the dogfight had been recovered. Both were being interred with full military honors.

  Of course, President Castilla couldn’t be here—it would have been suspicious for the commander in chief to show up to the funerals of two men killed in yet another vaguely described training accident. Fred Klein was absent too. As always, he preferred to remain in the darkness.

  And then there was Randi. No one knew where she was. The deaths of the people on her team—particularly Professor Wilson and his students—had hit her hard. She’d been last seen somewhere near the border of Cambodia and Laos, but since then there had been no word. Not that it mattered. She always reappeared eventually.

  That left him, or more accurately what remained of him, to quietly represent Covert-One. Mixed in with all the other uniformed servicemen, no one would pay much attention to a lone light colonel leaning on his cane for support.

  He turned back and watched as the flag was removed from the casket and carefully folded for presentation to the pilot’s wife. She would never know that her husband was directly responsible for saving the lives of millions of innocent people.

  One day, many years from now, the incident would be declassified so that historians could write theses and argue about its finer points over stylish drinks in stylish bars. He hoped someone would also have the presence of mind to formally recognize the people who had died. In his estimation, it was worth a few taxpayer dollars.

  Until then, though, Klein’s carefully laid plans for the cover-up were working. The crash of Prime Minister Sanetomi’s plane had been explained away as a bird strike, and the inevitable demonstrations by Japanese and Chinese conspiracy theorists had been quickly broken up by their governments. Asian newspapers were now dominated by pictures of Sanetomi’s successor smiling and shaking hands with President Yandong. Everyone seemed to understan
d that the xenophobia angle had been pushed too far, and compromise was beginning to carry the day.

  Ito’s facility was sealed off and would remain that way for centuries in order to let radiation levels subside. When the press noticed the rather uninteresting fact that Japan’s nuclear storage facility had been abandoned, the government would provide a bland story about concerns over structural instability.

  Greg Maple was in China searching desperately for any sign of Ito’s nanoweapon in cooperation with Chinese scientists. So far their luck was holding and he’d come up empty. The Chinese had restricted the area of the neutron bomb blast for miles in every direction and were calling it an accident at an underground nuclear energy lab. Of course, the world was suspicious that it was an atomic weapons factory but the fact that President Castilla was publicly backing the Chinese version of the story ensured that the controversy would blow over quickly.

  The only matter left to deal with was Takahashi’s military. Prime Minister Sanetomi’s successor had provided the United States unlimited access, and the commanders of the self-defense forces had little choice but to cooperate. It would take years to sort out what had been done, how it had been done, and what it would mean to the balance of power going forward. What really mattered, though, was that Ito’s weapon appeared to be dead and gone. Smith was happy to let the details be handled by others. He and his people had already sacrificed enough.

  Despite the cool weather, a sweat broke across Smith’s forehead and he felt his stomach start to roll over. It was a sensation that had become depressingly familiar and he had to concentrate to keep from vomiting. A few days ago, it was a battle he would have lost, but the intensity of the bouts was subsiding.

  The ceremony wrapped up and Smith mixed in with the crowd as it dispersed, relying on his cane to keep him moving forward. The radiation sickness brought about by his exposure at Ito’s lab and at the neutron bomb detonation site had been one of the most miserable experiences of his life. He’d been assured, though, that the acute effects would be behind him in less than a month. Of course his chance of getting cancer as he aged had risen to near 100 percent, but he’d never really pictured a future of golf, rocking chairs, and sunny porches. A shallow grave and a bullet in the back of his head seemed a hell of a lot more likely.