"Can't keep radar lock like this," Hot Rock grunted, half-rolling to the right, then abruptly left again.
"Never mind; bogey's too close now, anyway," Two Tone snapped. "Hotshot, I suggest you get us off the killing floor here."
Flanker 67
Too late, Tai thought in fury as he watched one of the SU27s erupt into flame. The fire ignited Tai's heart as well, but he coldly shifted his attention to his target the Tomcat that had fired the killing missile. He snapped directions over the radio, and he and his wingman sheered off and headed in for the kill.
Tomcat 302
"Lobo, my love," Handyman said, "we got two Flankers who love the looks of your ass--not that I blame them."
"It's our ass, sweetheart," Lobo said, watching the radar, then looking over her shoulder and pulling the Tomcat into a hard climb. She spared a glance at the fuel indicator as well. Still okay, although that wouldn't last long if she didn't get off the afterburners.
"They got lock," Handyman said, businesslike, although the alarm in Lobo's helmet told her all she needed to know.
"Chaff," she said, and felt the small bump as the foil bounced out of the Tomcat, hopefully to confuse the seeker-head on the incoming missile. To increase the odds of that happening, Lobo changed the trajectory of her climb as well. A moment later, she felt the violent jolt of the shock wave coming after her.
"Nice job, but they're closing," Handyman said. "Good position, too."
Meaning they were diving in on the Tomcat. "I don't give a damn, I'm not going fishing anymore," Lobo snarled.
"Okay by me."
"Where the hell is my wingman?"
Hot Rock's voice came over the radio, calm as the surface of the South China Sea. "I'm just a little busy at the moment, ma'am."
Tomcat 306
Two Chinese fighters above him and on his tail, water less than a thousand feet below, no place to go, nowhere to run.
This was great.
They couldn't get him. They scissored him, they bounced him, they tried to herd him into a pincher. He slipped out of everything. Wing-sweep control set to manual, he took precise command of his airframe, adjusting speed and balance with exquisite finesse. Cannon shells whipped all around him, but none touched.
The only problem, the only niggling uncertainty, came from the knowledge that his lead, Lobo, was also confronting multiple bogeys. She was a terrific pilot, of course, but she was also trying to get in a kill of her own. Generations Of experience, not to mention the instructors in flight school, taught that the best defense was a good offense. Lobo flew that way.
And she expected her wingman to help, if he could.
But I can't, he thought. I'm overloaded with bogeys, anybody can see that. I can't help her at all.
Hornet 108
"Thor, break left," a voice snapped over the headset.
Thor didn't even think about it. He slammed the aircraft into a hard left turn. A moment later, he glimpsed a fierce explosion from the corner of his eye.
"Splash one Flanker," Bird Dog said coldly. "You okay for the other, Thor?"
Thor looked back at the Flanker still hanging onto his ass. It was the same plane that had taken Reedy out. "You bet I am," he said.
Tomcat 304
Bird Dog turned his attention away from Thor and focused it on the ACM farther down. He knew that his taking a Sparrow shot at one of the bogeys harassing Thor had been chancy from five miles out, but it had been the only assistance he could render from that distance. Fortunately, the missile had functioned exactly as intended, and so had Thor.
Now for the real thing. Bird Dog switched his attention to the low-altitude dogfights, and his weapons selector to "guns."
Tomcat 302
Lobo kept trying to climb out, but the Flankers were faster than she was in the vertical mode. When flying one-against-two, the main goal of any fighter pilot was to keep both bogeys on the same side of your plane, To never get caught in the middle.
Easier said than done.
The intel was right about that, dammit. In fact, as she recalled, an SU-30--cousin to the bogeys On her tail--had been the first jet aircraft to break the sound barrier in a vertical climb. Still, she found this situation unbelievable. She was used to having the upper hand in any attitude battle; although the Tomcat wasn't king of the sky in an angles fight, it had always ruled in the vertical plane. Always. Until now.
Unfortunately, in the horizontal field, things were even worse. The Flankers really were as nimble as Falcons. She had all she could do to keep them from boxing her in. Looking to the left, she saw Hot Rock below her level, a pair of Flankers trying to get position on him. Still no help there.
After what happened the last time she was shot down, Lobo hadn't been sure she'd be able to strap a Tomcat on again, far less fight. Time and hard work had put that fear to rest. In fact, she'd once again become convinced that she was invulnerable, too damned hot a pilot to be shot out of the sky again, ever. Now she was beginning to wonder if that was true.
Flanker 67
Tai heard the radar-lock alarm in his helmet, but ignored it. Just one second more. One second more and his targeting pipper would close on the American jet. Just- There was a terrific concussion, the rear of his plane leaping up, making him fight the stick. Hit? Had he been hit? Pivoting his head wildly, he saw the fireball behind him, and the F-14 behind that, and knew his wingman had been destroyed. The Tomcat was stooping on him at tremendous speed, taking full advantage of gravity and momentum.
From hunter to hunted in half a second. Tai jerked the stick left, then hard right, rolling out of the line of fire as tracers flickered past him, deceptively beautiful in the twilight.
Tomcat 302
"It's Bird Dog!" Handyman cried. "He splashed one of our bogeys, Lobo!"
"Peachy," Lobo said, hearing the anger in her voice and wondering at it. So someone had saved her butt, and that someone happened to be the ever-cocky Bird Dog. Was she so petty she'd begrudge him her thanks? Hell, her eternal gratitude? Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the second Flanker that had been pursuing her was now busy evading Bird Dog. Good luck to him.
She turned her attention to her wingman, who had problems of his own.
Hornet 108
"Got you," Thor said as his targeting pip centered between the Flanker's vertical stabilizers. He triggered the cannon, and watched the metal spine of the Flanker split open as if torn by a can opener. Flames and debris gouted from the wound, and Thor banked away hard to avoid sucking any of it into his engines. At the same time, he saw the Flanker's ejection seat shoot up and turned his own jet in that direction. "Long way down, bozo," Thor said.
Below, he could see the flicker and flash of jet exhausts against the dark water. Then he glanced at his fuel indicator, and cursed. He had no juice for more fighting. Not even close. Hell, he'd be lucky to reach the Texaco in time to keep from ditching the plane.
He radioed Homeplate, and was reassured by one bit of news Four more good guys were bustering in, due in as many minutes.
"Godspeed," he said to the fires below, and turned his tail to the setting sun.
Tomcat 304
The Flanker was a terrific airplane, no doubt about it. But it was dead meat, and Bird Dog Robinson was going to be the butcher. He had the speed, the trajectory, the weapons and the experience. The Flanker was racing away at low altitude, undoubtedly fearing to take advantage of a marginal speed advantage for fear of simply moving out of gun range and into the grasp of a Sidewinder. Out of the frying pan, so to speak. Of course, Bird Dog was more than happy to use the cannon on this guy. That would be just fine, and he matched the Flanker swoop for swoop, not allowing him to pop up, not allowing him to jink free. Cut left. Bird Dog followed. Cut right. Bird dog moved the stick that direction ...
... and for once, his Tomcat didn't turn. No, it turned, but much too slowly. The Flanker vanished off the targeting ring.
What the hell?
A sense of foreboding
drenched Bird Dog like ice water. Even as he pulled back to regain altitude, he twitched the stick to the left and got quick response. Back to the right. Very slowly, the plane started to roll in that direction.
"Catwoman?" he said over ICS, "We got systems trouble here or what?"
There was a brief pause, then a cool-voiced response "Losing hydraulics in the left wing, Bird Dog. Down to forty percent, and falling."
"Why?"
"How the hell would I know? Maybe the warranty ran out."
Oh, Christ, mechanical failure. If the plane weren't fly-by-wire, if the controls were linked directly to the flying surfaces, right now the left rudder pedal would be flapping like the tongue of an untied shoe.
"By the way," Catwoman said, "that Flanker? I think he's in love with us, because he's coming back for more."
Flanker 67
Fai didn't bother wondering why the American had failed to press his earlier advantage to its conclusion. All that mattered was he'd made a mistake, and it would be his last.
Pulling the SU-37 up and around as hard as he could, squeezing his belly muscles against brown-out, Tai used the Sukhoi's swiveling exhausts to full advantage. In an instant he was on the F-14's tail, bringing his cannon to bear. The Tomcat cut left. Tai cut left. The Tomcat straightened slightly, then cut left again. Tai followed it, patiently trying to join the enemy plane and the gun pipper in the firing ring on his HUD.
Again, the Tomcat cut left; he was practically in a spiraling dive now. No wonder the American had bounced Tai and his wingman from high altitude. Take away that advantage and the man was not much of a pilot. He just kept turning left, turning left, turning left ...
Turning into the sights of a better pilot flying a better aircraft.
Tomcat 304
"We got-!" Catwoman's voice cut off as the Tomcat began to shake and bounce. A strange whistling roar filled the cockpit, and the few loose parts of Bird Dog's flight suit began to flap wildly. Bird Dog was filled with fury. Getting taken out by a missile was bad enough, but he wasn't going to go down to guns. No way was he going to be shot down like some World War one-era biplane pilot; give some PRC hotshot bragging rights for years to come. No way.
He pulled the shuddering Tomcat even farther to the left, skating it on the edge of a spin from which he knew he would never recover, not without right rudder. "Catwoman?" he cried over ICS. "Catwoman-?"
Flanker 67
Tai's glee turned to shock when he saw a piece of the Tomcat, a service panel or chunk of wing, come hurtling back at him. It looked as big as a hangar door, and if it got sucked into the greedy intake of one of his AL-35s ...
He broke off hard, cursing the fates, yet certain that it didn't matter, the Tomcat was dead anyway.
Tomcat 302
Lobo was ten seconds from closing on Hot Rock and his pursuers when she glanced over her shoulder and saw something stunning. Somehow, in only the last half minute, circumstances there had reversed themselves. The bogey was hurtling past Bird Dog's F-14, which was itself dropping in a messy half turn, its aspect loose and wobbly. Pieces of metal were floating up off it.
"Shit!" Lobo said, making her decision instantly. Hot Rock was still being hunted by the other two bogeys, but at least his goddamned plane was intact. She knew where her services were required.
Yanking her Tomcat into a hard left turn, she reversed direction and started to climb out. To her relief, Bird Dog's plane had steadied and was now flying along straight and level, about five hundred feet above her. To her left, the Flanker was also turning, but for some reason he didn't appear to be in much of a hurry. Perhaps his plane was also damaged.
"Bird Dog!" she cried over the radio. "You okay?"
"Hydraulic damage; can't turn right. Took some hits. Think Catwoman's hurt. Am I in one piece here?"
"I'll know in a second. Coming up on your six."
She glanced to her left again. The bogey had completed its turn, far out over the ocean. Lobo realized why and shouted, "Bird Dog! Break! Break!"
He did so instantly, dipping hard left, evidently the only direction he could go, the perfect direction. Lobo blasted straight over his Tomcat holding steady on course.
"Incoming!" Handyman cried. Lobo glanced back just long enough to see an incandescent white dot swooping toward her.
Then she did the only thing left to do.
Flanker 67
Tai was shocked to see his missile take out the wrong aircraft--then he was delighted, because the victim was the Tomcat he'd intended to destroy in the first place. The fool had flown right into the line of fire, and presented the heatseeker with a better home in which to nest.
Afterimages of the explosion floated in his vision. Evening was deepening toward night. A night he would remember for a long-
His gaze, automatically conducting its scan of instruments, halted on the radar screen. Four new returns had appeared, approaching from the east. Four more American fighters, fresh and fully loaded with fuel and weapons, versus his SU-37 and the two planes wasting their energy on the other Tomcat. Even if the odds were evened up, the Americans had more fuel and weapons.
The radar showed nothing coming in from his own country. Anger swelled up inside him, blurring his vision before he pushed it back. Some of his officers were weaklings and cowards, no doubt about that. But there were others who had vision, and will. They would prevail.
Tai spoke briskly into his radio. The time had come to break off and return home, wait until they had numerical superiority. Return, rest, and prepare to fight another day. Prepare to push the arrogant Americans back out of Asia, and destroy their ill-gotten power. It was inevitable.
For as Sun Tzu taught, Of the four seasons, none lasts forever.
10.
MONDAY, 4 AUGUST
1700 local (+3 GMT) Bethesda, Maryland
When Tombstone walked into his house, he was greeted by a sharp-planed face not unlike his own. "Uncle Thomas," he said, pleased.
His uncle held out his hand, and they shook. "This isn't a social visit, Matthew, sorry to say. Joyce and I were just discussing some business. It involves you, too."
Tombstone peered around the corner into the sitting room. Tomboy looked back at him, her expression grim, yet there was something else shining in her eyes. The kind of fierce excitement he recognized from any number of combat sorties. "Uh-oh," Tombstone said. "What is this?"
"They're sending me to China," she said. "To Jefferson."
Tombstone turned toward his uncle. "What for?"
"Better sit down, Matthew." Thomas Magruder led him into the room and sat him next to his wife, then took a chair Opposite. The admiral, the most Powerful man in the navy, was wearing civilian clothes. All at once Tombstone realized he hadn't seen his uncle's car in the driveway, or even on the street. This visit was incognito. "What is it?" he demanded.
"Things are heating up over in Hong Kong," his uncle said. "Early this morning our time, an American Air Force jet used for NOAA research was shot down outside of Hong Kong. Jefferson got involved again; this time there was a real tangle. We lost some, Matthew-"
"Who?" Tombstone asked.
"Chris Hanson, Randall Carpenter, Benjamin Rogers."
Tombstone had steeled himself, and was surprised--and guiltily relieved--that only one name was familiar. Still, that one name rocked him. "God, not Lobo."
"She's MIA. Carpenter is KIA; Rogers is presumed KIA. One Tomcat down, and one Hornet. That's all I have right now."
Tombstone was faintly aware of Tomboy sliding her arm through his. "What's our response? From Washington?"
His uncle hesitated. "As you know, dealing with the PRC requires exceptional delicacy. Nobody wants to start a world war." Tombstone snorted. "Nobody here wants to start a world war," his uncle amended, face hard. "And the Chinese absolutely deny responsibility for the shoot-down, just as they did for the LadY of Leisure massacre. Frankly, that's got me a little puzzled. It's not like them to deny the things they do; they typically ju
st make transparent excuses or refuse to discuss it at all."
Tombstone shook his head. "Batman must be livid."
"Of course. But he'll do what's right, just as you would if you were in his place. And right now, that means waiting. When the North Koreans shot down a civilian airliner, it didn't lead to war, and this shouldn't either."
"What's the Air Force's position on it?"
"What else? They wish they'd had the chance to tangle with the Flankers, instead of us. But their wings are tied in that part of the world." His uncle paused. "Speaking of the Air Force, what else have they found out about your little UAV?"
Tombstone's eyebrows rose. He looked from his uncle to Tomboy, then back. "You know?"
"I was fully briefed on the background before I came up here. Just finished briefing your wife. We're all on the same page now."
"Not exactly," Tombstone said, and described what the DARPA kid had discovered about the bogey's nation of origin. Then he took a deep breath and added, "But here's the trick It was loaded with electronics from one of Uncle Phil's companies."
His uncle blinked, then shook his head. "Don't be thinking 'treason,' Tombstone. The PRC has been buying up technology for years. American, Japanese, you name it; if they want it, they simply buy it. It's perfectly legitimate."
"Legitimate?"
"Good for business," his uncle said expressionlessly. "Good for international relations. It's not like anyone's letting them buy weapons, after all."
"Just the means to make them."
Thomas Magruder sighed. "As far as Phil's concerned, the odds are he didn't even know who the end buyer was, far less what the components were going to be used for. No man in the world was more committed to democracy and free enterprise than he was."
"Maybe that's why he was killed," Tombstone said, suddenly both relieved and excited. "Maybe he figured out where the technology was going, and what for, so they murdered him."
"That occurred to us," his uncle said somberly. "We're checking out the possibility."
Tombstone suddenly sobered, too. "But ... from what the DARPA kid told me, this bogey was years ahead of what we thought anyone else was capable of, never mind China. So even with the right parts, how could they.." He noticed that his uncle's face looked grimmer than ever. "What?"
Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON Page 14
