by Dale Brown
“Yes.”
Patrick reached over to his left instrument panel, opened a red safety cover, and flipped a switch. “Pilot’s consent on.”
Brad did the same on his right instrument panel. “Consent switch up.”
“Hit the ‘ENGAGE’ box, then watch your eyes.” Brad hit the screen, and seconds later there was a tremendous flash of light as a HARM missile shot from its launch rail and sped off into the dark sky. Patrick looked over and saw Brad rubbing his eyes. “I warned you. That missile motor is pretty big. Your eyes should be okay in a minute.” Seconds later, just as his eyes cleared, the “SA-N-12” warning went away. “Good shooting.”
“It’s just like a video game,” Brad said. Another warning sounded. “Missile launch! SA-11, one o’clock!”
“Unreel the decoy,” Patrick said. Brad touched a computer soft key on the screen, which deployed the ALE-50 towed decoy from a canister in the tail. Patrick glanced out the right windscreen. “See that bright light that looks like a really bright star? That’s the SA-11.”
“You can see it coming at us?” Brad exclaimed.
“We’re not sure if it’s homing on us—it could be one of the other Excaliburs,” Patrick said. “Watch that spot on the windscreen. If it doesn’t change positions, it’s heading for us.”
“I don’t see it moving . . . it’s gone!”
“The motor burned out. Now it’s coasting in on us. Give me a burst on the AESA.” Brad activated the radar with a nervous touch on the screen. “Left chaff, now,” he said calmly, and as Brad hit the touch screen, Patrick threw the bomber into a tight right turn. Brad thought his head was going to snap off his neck! “Check trackbreakers and SPEAR!”
Brad had to refocus his eyes on the proper MFD. “Trackbreakers active!” he said finally. “SPEAR active!”
“Right chaff, now!” Brad fumbled but finally hit the soft key, barely in time before Patrick started another hard break. “I think it missed.”
“It missed us, but it got the decoy,” Brad said. “The ALE-50 is down. Should I send out the other one?”
“Better hold it for our egress,” Patrick said. “Looks like we’re feet-dry.”
“Huh?”
“Back over land,” Patrick said. “One more squeak of AESA.” Brad activated the radar until they got a nice clear radar image that was almost photograph quality, then switched it to standby. “Well, well, looks like we have our first ship at one o’clock. Looks like a big one. Can you make it out on the Sniper?”
Brad activated the Sniper targeting pod and zoomed in on the target. “It’s big, that’s for sure. Can’t tell if it’s a carrier or what.”
“Designate it and let’s see how she sails with a JASSM in her,” Patrick said. Brad touched the image on his screen, selected an AGM-158, and confirmed the selection. The middle bomb doors came open. “Missile away!”
As they flew closer, it was apparent now that the target was not a warship, but a container ship. “You have a few seconds,” Patrick said. “Scan left and right and see if there are any better targets.
Brad swiped his finger on the Sniper image left, which tracked the camera in the same direction. “There!” he shouted. “That definitely looks like an aircraft carrier!”
“Designate it,” Patrick said. “It’ll ask if you want another launch or redesignate the missile in the air. Select ‘RE-DESG.’ Good . . . right on time. Switch to the missile seeker.” Brad did, and he got to watch the JASSM plow right into the aircraft hangar opening on the left side of the carrier. “I don’t know if that was the Chinese or Russian carrier,” Patrick said, “but you nailed it.” A tremendous fireball erupted off in the distance, and on the Sniper image it appeared as if the carrier listed almost all the way to the right like a toy boat caught under the faucet in the tub as more explosions erupted.
“Good shooting, Brad,” Sondra radioed. Her Excalibur was ten miles to the south. “We’re releasing on Fushan air base now. Give us a couple seconds before you launch.”
“Roger,” Patrick replied. He saw the brief indication of Sondra’s AESA radar being activated, then the alerts that two JASSMs were in the air. He waited a few seconds, then said, “Clear to release on Fushan, Brad.”
“Roger.” Brad touched the green triangle around Fushan air base, selected and confirmed two JASSMs, and let them fly. At the same moment, Brad saw a blinking box around one of the other Excaliburs. “What does that mean, Dad?” he asked.
Patrick looked, then took a deep breath. “Blinking coffin box—Jacobs got hit,” he said. Patrick threw the Excalibur into a hard right turn. “Get your head back in the game, Muck,” he told himself half aloud. “Two more JASSMs and three HARMs left. Let’s see if we can find where they supposedly moved those DF-21Ds around Huizhou.”
“Fighters inbound!” Brad shouted excitedly. Two airplane icons appeared to their north, both with triangles on their nose indicating the approximate detection range of their radars. “J-15s. They’re heading right for us!”
“Keep on looking for the DF-21s,” Patrick said. “I’ll keep an eye on the fighters.” But it was obvious the fighters were headed right for them. “Their radar isn’t painting us, but they’re still heading in—they must be tracking us with infrared,” he said. He selected both aircraft icons, then selected and confirmed one AIM-9X for each bandit. “Forward bay doors coming open.” Two missiles dropped free of the forward bomb bay and streaked off into space. Both fighters peeled off in different directions after obviously detecting the missile launches.
“Got it, Dad!” Brad shouted. There in the Sniper image on Brad’s MFD were what appeared to be two transporter-erector-launchers, sitting in an open field barely concealed by trees. “I’m going to select them . . .”
“Hold on,” Patrick said. “That looks fishy. They’re just sitting out in the open. Scan around a little.” Brad moved the camera left and right, and, sure enough, several hundred yards farther east there was another set of two launchers, but these appeared to be concealed with camouflage netting, they had more vehicles surrounding them, and there were warm spots on the engine compartment and in various places around the vehicle—Brad could even see a few persons walking nearby.
“But which one is it?” Brad asked. “They both look real.”
“You’re the gunner today, Brad,” Patrick said. “Choose one and . . .”
The “MISSILE WARNING” alert sounded. Distracted by the DF-21 discovery, Patrick had allowed the two J-15 fighters to close in directly behind them! “Chaff! Flares!” he shouted, and as soon as he saw Brad’s finger touch the screen he yanked the stick left and back and hit the afterburners, starting a rapid climb into their pursuers. They felt a loud hard thrumming on the left wing, and seconds later they got a “FIRE NO. 1” warning message on their MFDs. “Fire on number one!” Patrick shouted. He pulled the throttles out of afterburner, retarded the number one engine throttle to cutoff and hit the fire extinguisher button. Seconds later, the fire warning went out.
“What do I do? What do I do?” Brad shouted.
“First, relax,” Patrick said. “Check the engine instruments. I’m going to try to find that fighter.”
“Say your status, Zero-Three,” Sondra radioed.
“Got one on my tail somewhere,” Patrick said.
“On the way.”
Patrick activated the AESA radar briefly, but there was no sign of the Chinese fighter. “No sign of him,” he said. “Do you still have the DF-21s locked up?”
Brad checked his displays, and sure enough the Sniper pod was still indicating it was locked on. “Yes!”
Patrick made a slight left turn until they could see the image of the DF-21. “Nail them,” he said, and seconds later the last two JASSMs were in the . . .
And at that instant a thunderous BRRRAAAPPP! sound could be heard that seemed to run up the length of the left side of the Excalibur from tail to nose. The pilot’s side window and left windscreen exploded, showering Patrick first with glass
and then with triple hurricane-force winds. His body was being shoved left and right like a rag doll held outside a moving vehicle by the massive wind pressure.
“Dad!” Brad screamed. His flight training immediately took over, and he put his hands on the control stick and throttles, pulled back power, pushed the wing-sweep level forward, and started a climb. It sounded as if he was standing inches away from a freight train thundering past him at full speed. He couldn’t tell the extent of his father’s injuries, only that he was helpless and wounded, and he was just inches away and couldn’t do anything for him. “Oh, God, Dad! . . .”
Brad then saw it on his MFD—the J-15 was back, lining up for another missile shot. Brad tried to turn into the fighter, but it was as if the controls were half frozen, and he had no maneuverability. They were almost inside the radar cone . . . the “MISSILE WARNING” was blaring, now blinking . . . they were well inside the radar cone now . . .
. . . and just then a coffin box appeared around the J-15, then disappeared.
“Looks like your tail is clear, Zero-Three,” Sondra radioed. “You guys okay?”
“We got one engine shut down, and we got hit up the left side,” Brad said. “I don’t know if Dad got hit, but he’s out.”
“Roger,” Sondra said. Brad couldn’t believe how calm she sounded, and that helped him start to get control of his shaking arms and knees. “I’ve got you in the NVGs. I’ll come up on your left side. You just fly the airplane. Head east.”
The farther east they headed, the more radar warnings they got, and soon the radar warnings were almost constant—and then the indications of fighters approaching from both the north and south began.
Sondra pulled up alongside Brad’s stricken bomber, and Lisa Mann, her copilot, examined the damage. “You’re leaking fuel, you might be getting an engine fire on number two, and you might not be able to fully sweep your wings all the way forward,” Mann said.
“What do we do, Sondra?” Brad asked.
“You just fly the airplane, Brad,” Sondra said. “Your job is to stay on my wing.”
“But those fighters! . . .”
“Stay on my wing,” Sondra repeated. “If we get hit, remember your ejection procedures.”
“But what about my dad!”
“Brad, don’t think about that,” Sondra said. “Stay on my wing, and if we get hit, remember your ejection procedures.”
“But I can’t just eject without doing something!” Brad said. “Maybe I can pull his ejection lever right before I pull mine.”
“Just stay on my wing, Brad,” Sondra repeated. Now there were at least a half-dozen fighters screaming in on them from three sides. They were going to be enveloped any second. There was a tremendous flash and a brief mushroom of fire down below . . .
. . . and then, one by one, the enemy fighter icons began to disappear, and the radar warnings ceased.
“Masters flight, this is Spirit Three-Zero on GUARD,” Lieutenant Colonel McBride radioed on the international emergency frequency. “Switch back to the command channel.” Brad switched the number one radio back to the secure command channel. “Masters flight, Task Force Leopard, check in.”
“One,” Brad replied.
“Two.”
“Three.”
There was a slight pause in memory of Sam Jacobs, and then Tom Hoffman replied, “Five.”
“We’ll be inbound past you in a second,” McBride said. “Your nose is clear.”
“Negative, negative!” Sondra responded. “Three-Zero, I’ve got fighters inbound from the east. They look like they’re on your tail!”
“They are, but they’re Republic of China fighters, not People’s Liberation Army,” McBride said. “They’re going to clear a path for you guys while the rest of Task Force Leopard takes care of the targets you guys didn’t get. There’s a tanker waiting at the second ARCP in case you need it.”
“You guys followed us out here? Why didn’t you say something?”
“You nuts had your radios turned off or tuned to some other freq, and you never answered us,” McBride said. “That’s okay—there was a lot of screaming and yelling from Honolulu all the way to Washington that you missed out on, but since we couldn’t stop you, we figured we’d better join you. The Taiwanese were more than ready to help, and the Philippine and Vietnamese air forces are patrolling as well in case any more PLAAF fighters want to play.”
“Thanks, guys,” Brad said. “You really saved our butts.”
“You didn’t think we were going to let you come out here and get all the glory, did you?” McBride said.
Brad looked over at his father, pinned to his ejection seat, covered in glass and blood, his head being jerked back and forth uncontrollably by the strong slipstream, and there was nothing he could do to help him. He certainly didn’t feel like he was getting any glory right now.
EPILOGUE
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF THE GENERAL STAFF, PEOPLE’S LIBERATION ARMY HEADQUARTERS, BEIJING, CHINA
THREE DAYS LATER
“The plan is simple, sir,” Admiral Zhen Peng, commander of the South Sea Fleet of the People’s Liberation Army Navy, said. “First, we must complete the destruction of the island of Guam. Our first attack did not do enough damage. But many of the Patriot air defense systems were destroyed and have not yet been replaced, and of course the bombers that carried air-to-air missiles are no longer there. We still have a quantity of AS-19 nuclear missiles ready to load on our surviving H-6 bombers, and they can make short work of the air base on Guam.” General Zu Kai said nothing, only staring into space, an almost burned-out cigarette in his fingers.
“Second, we punish every nation that assisted the Americans on that attack against Guangzhou,” Zhen went on. “Taiwan, the Philippines, and Vietnam must pay for their involvement. A series of strikes against their most important air and naval bases must be undertaken immediately. Third, we threaten immediate nuclear retaliation for any nation that dares to attack us again. We should have responded to the attack on Guangzhou with an attack against the Aleutians or Hawaii, but no matter—we will make it clear to the Americans that their most important Pacific bases will become nothing but charred ruins if they . . .” And the connection was suddenly cut.
“Another thing that does not work around here,” Zu said half aloud. He walked over to his bulletproof office window. He could see several plumes of black smoke and winks of fire off in the distance, probably from more protests. The daily numbers of civilian casualties were no longer counted in the hundreds from these clashes—they were now in the thousands. And yet not only did the protests not stop, they only grew and multiplied.
There was a knock on the door. “Come,” Zu ordered, and his deputy chief of the general staff, General Sun Ji, entered. “I was speaking with Admiral Zhen a moment ago, and we were cut off,” Zu said. “Get him back on the line for me.”
“I am afraid that is impossible, sir,” Sun said.
“Why?”
“Zhen has been arrested for treason and dereliction of duty, sir,” Sun said. “He has been sentenced to summary execution.”
“What?” Zu thundered, shooting to his feet. “Who ordered this? I did not order it! Was it that popinjay Gao? I will beat that man senseless with my own bare hands before I throw him in prison! I said, who ordered Zhen’s arrest, Sun?”
“I did, Zu,” a voice from the outer office said, and to Zu’s complete surprise, Zhou Qiang entered the office.
“You!” Zu cried. “I thought you were dead!”
“Next time you want someone dead, Zu, do it yourself to be sure the job is done properly,” Zhou said. “Zhen will not be the only one receiving summary execution tonight.”
“Why, you bastard!” Zu shouted, and he whipped open a desk drawer, picked up a NORINCO Model 77B that he always had stashed away there, aimed, and pulled the trigger . . . and nothing happened.
“You should always check yourself to see that your personal weapons are loaded, Zu,” Zhou said. Zu’s
eyes bulged in disbelief when he turned to the only man who had access to his office and desk at any time—his deputy chief of staff, Sun Ji, who was standing behind Zhou, his hands behind his back, smiling. Sun motioned behind him, and several soldiers came in, put Zu in handcuffs, and pulled him out.
“I am glad that nightmare is over,” Zhou said. He turned to Sun. “You will take over as chief of the general staff. I will be sure to recommend the position to the Central Military Committee.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sun said.
“I will leave you to deal with the Russians as to the sinking of their precious aircraft carrier Vladimir Putin by the Americans in Zhujiang Bay,” Zhou said. “Frankly, I hope they choke on it. What did they expect by making a deal with a megalomaniac like Zu?”
“Had I been asked, sir, I would have advised Zu against dealing with the Russians,” Sun said. “They cannot be trusted.”
Zhou studied Sun for a few long moments, then said, “Neither can you be trusted, Sun.” General Sun blinked, but stood with his hands behind him at parade rest. “Maybe no one can be trusted these days. When no one can be trusted, perhaps China’s response should be to do what it has always done in its thousands of years of history: retreat into itself. Lock itself away from the modern world, whether that modern world is seventeenth-century Portugal, nineteenth-century England, or twenty-first-century America.” He shook his head. “I am going home, Sun. Tomorrow is the first day of China’s future. Remember that.” Sun snapped to attention as Zhou shuffled out of the chief of the general staff’s office and departed.
After Sun heard the outer office door close, he relaxed from his brace, went over to Zu’s desk, sat down in his chair, and put his feet up on the desk.
“You are a senile, hopeless, tottering old man, President Zhou,” General Sun said. “You need to be thrown out into the gutters along with the Politburo, the Central Committee, and all you other political has-beens. If you cannot keep up with the modern world, you should be eliminated.” He found one of Zu’s cigarettes and a lighter and lit up. “And I am just the man to make that happen.”
