Deep Core

by F X Holden

  “Who killed JFK?” Jensen asked.

  “That is a good question, but no. We asked HOLMES to review our current National Threat Assessment and rank it according to level of risk, just as a benchmark for our own analysis.” He paused, not for dramatic effect as far as O’Hare could see, but more to get his wording straight. “HOLES is programmed to provide answers, but also to ask clarifying questions. He did what we wanted, but two days ago he asked, ‘why is the greatest threat to national security not on the threat list?’”

  O’Hare had always thought that saying about your blood going cold was just a saying. But it wasn’t. She opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but didn’t need to because Chuck was already answering it.

  “Naturally, we asked what he believed to be the greatest threat to national security. His answer was a little less precise than we expected. He said Within the next two weeks it is highly likely a foreign nation will conduct a catastrophic attack on US interests,” Chuck said, and paused. “In Homeland Security threat assessment language, ‘catastrophic’ means an attack causing at least 10,000 deaths. And that was yesterday morning. So if he’s right, we have a max of 13 days left until this unspecified event.”

  “Told you to hurry up,” Jensen grumbled.

  O’Hare suddenly needed more than a single espresso. She wanted a bourbon, but was not standing up to get one. Wrong. Actually she found she was standing up and had stood up without even realising it. She was standing up, staring at Chuck like he was the one who had mental health issues.

  “This is where you tell me where I come in,” O’Hare prompted.

  “This is very much where I tell you where you come in,” Chuck said. “Obviously, things got a bit pointy when HOLMES threw that out there. There are people who think everything HOLMES says is gospel, but not everyone thinks HOLMES could even win a game of Risk, let alone predict a major international conflict. There are plenty of people who want to see HOLMES get it wrong so they can pull the plug on him and just go back to sucking intel out of people’s social media posts and doing their brainstorming on whiteboards.”

  “I’m with them,” O’Hare said. “And I suddenly have deep personal interest in your creepy computer being wrong too.”

  “Anyway,” he went on. “HOLMES can receive input in natural language, and he responds in natural language. So we asked him for detail on the attack scenario. I mean, we wanted him to download the source intel, so we could run our own analysis. What had he seen, that we had missed?”

  “The fact you are here, tells me you confirmed his analysis,” O’Hare guessed.

  “Not at all. We asked for a download of the intel but HOLMES refused. Then he said, I cannot comply until I have spoken with Karen O’Hare, DARPA, Okinawa.”

  O’Hare gulped.

  Chuck continued, “So myself and Petty Officer Jensen are here, Ms O’Hare, to see if you are the solution to this threat, or the source of it.”

  1941, Chengdu, China

  “I heard you took up one of my shiny new airplanes yesterday,” Major ‘Buffalo’ Ling-Sui, commander of the Chinese Air Force 5th Pursuit Group, grunted as he dropped his flight jacket beside him and sat down to his rice porridge in a half deserted mess. It was dawn, and most of the other pilots of the Chengdu air base were still asleep, exhausted from unrelenting combat, and some much needed celebrations the night before. “And you broke it.”

  His opposite number, Wong ‘John’ Cheng, commander of the 3rd Pursuit Group, looked up from his own breakfast and watched the short, stocky Californian ease onto the bench across from him. The two had served together from the early days; Guangdong Air Force Academy, 1938, John always a promotion ahead of his hot headed fellow American until attrition had finally allowed Buffalo to catch up with him and win command of his own fighter Group.

  “It broke itself,” John told him. “I’d barely got it to 2,000 feet before the engine lost power and I had to turn back.”

  Buffalo pointed his spoon at the man from Seattle, “It has a two-speed supercharger. You engaged it too early, I bet. You need to be at least at 5,000 feet before you engage that gubbins, or the high air density will cause it to blow.”

  “While you are still fiddling with the supercharger on your shiny new I-153 and trying to catch up, my good old Seagulls will already be in the fight,” John scowled, “Knocking down Jap bombers.”

  “Dream on, mac,” Buffalo said. “I’ll be climbing at twice the rate of your old kite, I have a top speed sixty miles an hour faster than you, and my machines can mount both guns and bombs.” He spat a little porridge as he spoke, “You’re just jealous.”

  “We’ll see,” John said. “Until you get them dirty, you’re all talk. Hey, did you get tapped for this new unit?”

  “The ‘American Volunteer Group’?” Buffalo snickered. “Yeah, I got a call. I’ve been here three years, I’m heading up two pursuit squadrons, I’m a damn Major in the Chinese Air Force - you know what they offered me?”

  “No, what?”

  “Flight commander!” Buffalo laughed. “First Lieutenant! What a joke. I called a guy I know in Burma, where they’re forming up. He says there’s 200 men and only three of them are Chinese-American and they’re just mechanics, no pilots.” He pushed his bowl away, “Forget that. What about you?”

  "Same.” He was lying. John had been offered a squadron command and a Captain’s rank. But it was still a step down and though his allegiance to his adopted land was strong, he couldn’t help feel he would be able to do more where he was, leading combat hardened Chinese pilots rather than rookie Americans. Yes, the Americans had superior aircraft to the Russian biplanes China fielded; he’d read an article about the P40 with its six x .50 calibre guns and top speed a hundred and forty miles an hour faster than his I-15. But they had yet to be tested against the newest Japanese fighter, the A6M Zero, which had a similar top speed, lighter armament, but a dramatically better rate of climb and turning circle. Facing the new Zero, John would rather be in his nimble biplane, any day.

  It was as far as they were going to get on the topic that day. At that moment an intelligence officer of the Jingbao came running in, “Scramble!” he yelled, searching the mess frantically and his eyes landed on John and Buffalo just as the air raid bell began to ring across the airfield.

  “His or mine?” Buffalo asked, standing up.

  “Both!” the man said. “Third and Fifth Groups, we have Japanese dive bombers, twenty minutes out!”

  Buffalo picked up his flight jacket and swung it over his shoulder, “How many?”

  “Twenty plus!”

  “Just the way I like it, plenty of targets,” Buffalo said, clapping John on the back as they jogged out of the mess. “Now we’ll see who gets into the action first!”

  Buffalo hadn’t been bragging. His new Russian I-153 biplanes proved much faster getting to their mission altitude of 20,000 feet, though out of the nine aircraft the 5th Group scrambled, three had to turn back with engine troubles, leaving Buffalo on top cover with only six aircraft. John followed him up, with nine I-15s of his 3rd Group. Both aircraft had open cockpits, making it impractical to go much higher than about 20,000 feet and very difficult to use radio communications at any altitude.

  That hadn’t been a problem in the early war when they were facing Japanese aircraft that suffered from similar restrictions, but since September the year before, they had seen Japan throw some of its newest frontline fighters at the war in China, the M6M2 Zero. It could climb higher, dive faster, hit harder and fly right off the decks of the new Japanese carriers, giving ground based plane spotters almost no time to report. Luckily the agile new Japanese fighters were handicapped by having to escort older, slower, biplane dive bombers like the Aichi D1A, which was slower than even his I-15. If the Zeros had been allowed to roam free across the front line, John was sure China would soon have very few fighters or pilots left to oppose them.

  “5th Group, we will take sector 11, you stay high and cover secto
r 9, acknowledge,” he called.

  “5th acknowledges, don’t worry, if they’re here, we’ll find them,” Buffalo responded. “Moving up to angels 25.”

  John checked right and left to check his wingmen were in position, then scanned the sky above him. The Japanese fighters liked to use their height advantage, falling on the Chinese like hawks. In his first engagement with a force of Zeros, he’d met 13 of the Japanese fighters coming out of the sun, with 24 of his I-15s. Within minutes he’d lost four men killed and two wounded, and claimed only two Japanese damaged before ordering his men to break off. He had not been taken by surprise since, but his loss to kill ratio had not improved much either.

  Checking his fuel, he saw he’d used a third of a tank already. The small Chinese biplanes weren’t made for long patrols, so he hoped the enemy would oblige by showing itself soon.

  “Japanese pursuits entering sector 9, angels 15,” his radio crackled as his ground controller broke in. He pulled his stick right and kicked in some rudder to put his squadron into a banking turn that would make them harder to surprise. With practiced ease, he scanned the airspace below and above, behind, abeam and ahead of him, before easing his stick over and doing the same in a slow banking turn to port.

  “5th Group, I have 10...15...20 make that 20 attack aircraft at your seven o’clock, don’t look like they’ve seen you. Orders?”

  John wrenched his head around further and looked over his left shoulder, just in time to catch the glint of sunlight off the perspex cannopies of the Japanese fighter bombers. They appeared to be unescorted, which bitter experience had taught him would not be the case.

  “Stay high 3rd Group, watch for Zeros, keep them off our tails,” John said. “We’ll take the bombers!” He reached a hand out of his cockpit and waved his arm in a circular motion above his head in case any of his wingmen had eyes on him, “5th Group pilots, follow me down, attack formation C. Repeat attack formation C!”

  The Japanese dive bombers were dark green with black engine cowlings, and not easy to pick out against the landscape below, but they were more or less level as John took his squadron around in a tight turn and pushed his throttle forward. If they hadn’t been spotted, he had a few minutes more before the Japanese reacted and started to flee, and willed his group forward while they had the advantage. The gap to the Japanese aircraft closed painfully slowly.

  “Zeroes! Coming down!” Buffalo yelled, “3rd Group break and pursue!”

  Looking frantically above him, John saw a scattering of black dots – Buffalo's aircraft – scatter to all points of the compass as a tight group of white camouflaged Zeroes punched through them and came straight at his formation!

  “Execute dive!” John called, “Pick your targets!”

  They were still too far away for the maneouver to work, but they had no choice. He’d ordered his men to form up in line abreast formation, chasing the tails of the Japanese dive bombers, and then swoop below them, gathering speed so that they could hit the D1As from below where their rear gunner was blind. But it needed to be done at the last minute or the enemy could climb away. And it needed to be a surprise...

  As he shoved his stick forward and pushed his throttle through the gate to get every last ounce of power from his engine, he saw with dismay that the enemy bombers had seen his flight. Tracer fire from a dozen machine guns flew over his head and the enemy pilots broke left and right, scattering like hens before a fox. One particularly foolish Japanese pilot panicked and tried to dive away from the attack, putting himself right in front of John and only 500 yards away. John twisted his neck to look behind him, saw a shadow that could have been a pursuing Zero, pulled his stick back to ‘bunt’ his aircraft and then forward to dive it again, trying to make himself a hard target in case he was being followed by more than a shadow, all the while closing on the dive bomber in his twin iron sights, falling away from him and just out of range.

  Sure enough, Japanese tracer fire from behind him carved a path through the air over his head. He’d seen it enough to know the Zero behind him was still using its .303 machine guns, so he wasn’t yet in cannon range. John bunted again, but forced himself to ignore the killer behind him.

  He heard men yelling on the radio, a cacophony of warnings, screams and shouts of triumph.

  200 yards … 180 ... 150 … cannon fire from behind him now. His airframe shuddered and a row of holes appeared in his upper starboard wing. Luckily the cannon shells had passed right through without exploding! Grimly, John leaned his eye to his sights, almost yelling to his machine come on you fat assed Russian bastard, catch him! One hundred and four combat sorties had taught John not to open fire until he was sure of a kill. With his right hand on the paddle of the joystick he flicked his safety off, and eased his thumb up to the gun switches.

  Just as he closed to killing range, the fleeing Japanese pilot finally woke up and pulled his aircraft into a zooming climb, trading his downward energy for precious height and allowing his gunner to open up on John. Tracer sprayed wildly across the sky, nowhere near him. John followed him up.

  Fool, was all John had time to think before his thumb jammed down on the trigger and four streams of 7.62mm lead poured into the Japanese bomber. John was so close now that his fire wasn’t focused, but struck the enemy across the full width of his wing roots, fuselage and tail. Shredded wood and fabric flew back toward him and John just had time to see the enemy gunner slump forward in his seat before he had to pull away, slamming his stick hard to starboard and kicking in right rudder to send himself spiralling away from the wrecked bomber, and the Zero he assumed was still right behind him.

  Centering his stick and pulling himself level, he looked desperately behind, panting from adrenaline and exertion. Damn! The Japanese fighter was on him like glue. And it was close! So close he could hear both the chatter of its machine guns and the slow drum of its cannons as it opened fire! He rolled onto a wing and pulled his machine into a vertical banking turn. His Seagull might be slower, but that meant it could turn inside the Zero and get onto its tail if the enemy pilot was stupid enough to try to follow him around.

  This one wasn’t. He flick-rolled away from John and started climbing back up toward the cloud layer above where John had no chance of catching him. John just had time to register the bright red rising sun on his tail section before an I-153 bearing the insignia of Buffalo’s 5th Group came screaming down from above, machine guns hammering, and sliced the Zero’s wing from its fuselage, sending it spinning toward the earth.

  Yes! John shouted, raising a fist in the air. He watched as the Japanese fighter disintegrated, casting off its tail section... then something else fell away. A small dark form, tumbling through the air below. John tilted his wing down so that he could follow it and saw a parachute blossom. Looking at the ground below he tried to work out where he was. A small town lay in the bow of a winding river and it looked like the enemy pilot was going to land right beside it. Nanchong.

  John smiled. A farm town, teeming with pitchfork wielding farmers.

  Good luck, Samurai.

  The I-153 formed up alongside him and John recognised Buffalo’s second in command, flight leader Ting-Fong. He looked across at the pilot, waited until the man was looking back and gave him a salute. He owed him a bottle of whiskey. He might have shaken that Zero off, or he might have just been regaining his altitude advantage in order to come back at John with guns blazing. Either way, Ting-Fong had done his cause a favour.

  He checked the sky, checked his instruments. One third fuel remaining. The 5th Group pilot would be in the same boat. He turned them toward Chengdu and home. His radio was silent now. The dogfight had either moved too far away or there were no combatants left. He was not hopeful regarding the success of their sortie. He’d claimed one bomber, Ting-Fong had claimed a fighter. That was good. But he’d met the 20 Japanese dive bombers with only nine fighters, and the Japanese escort was probably also 10 to 20 aircraft strong.

  He scanned around himse
lf, throttled back to cruising speed, and settled into a zig zag track toward his base. He and Buffalo had been dismissive of the new American unit forming up in Burma, but John knew they were sorely needed. Not just for propaganda reasons, but also to help return the balance against the technologically more advanced Japanese. The Americans were bringing sorely needed Warhawk fighters and long-range Hudson bombers into the fight at a time when Japan had achieved control of the entire eastern coast of China and Vietnam, putting John’s unit at Chengdu easily within range of Japanese bombers flying out of Wuhan, only 30 minutes flying time away.

  He had thought more than twice about the offer to join the ‘Flying Tigers’, as the US unit called itself. They had desperately needed pilots like himself and Buffalo Ling-Sui, veterans of more than three years fighting, to help blood a squadron of pilots that had never seen combat. The call had come from a woman, which surprised him. Soong Mei-Ling, or Madam Soong, was the go-between used by Nationalist leader Chiang Kai-shek, to smooth the first tentative steps of America into the war.

  John had grown up in a nationalist family that had fled to the USA in 1901 after the first Sino-Japanese war. His father had fought against the Japanese in Korea before Qing forces were unceremoniously ejected by the Tokyo backed Korean regime. It had been a humiliation his father had never let his family forget, and so when Japanese forces invaded Chinese Manchuria in 1931, he had prepared his only son for war.

  “I told you!” he said. “I told you they would not be satisfied with Korea and Taiwan. They will not be satisfied with Manchuria. They will not be satisfied until they rule all of China!”

  John had been twenty years old in 1931, and in his first year of college. He’d been studying engineering. “What do you want from me father?” he’d asked. “I’m American.”

  “Look at your skin, look in the mirror,” his father had said. “Yes, you are American. But first, you are Chinese!”