by Ted Bell
He hauled back on the stick and instantly initiated a vertical climb, standing the Lightning on its tail and rocketing skyward like something launched from Canaveral in the good old days. He deployed chaff aft and switched on all the jamming devices located in the airplane’s tail section. He was almost instantly at forty thousand feet and climbing, his eyes locked on the missile track displayed on his radar and thermal imaging screens. Its unverified speed, Hawke knew, was Mach 3.
It was closing fast.
The deadly little bastard blew right through his chaff field without a single degree of deviation. The Chinese weapon was not behaving in accordance with MI6 and CIA assessments of their military capability. With every passing second, his appointment with imminent death went from possible to probable. He’d have to depend on the Lightning’s jamming devices and his own evasive maneuvers if he was going to survive this attack.
He nosed the F-35C over and put it into a screaming vertical dive. He was now gaining precious seconds. The Hong Qi would now have to recalculate the target, alter course, and get on his six again. He’d known from the instant the SAM missile appeared on his screen that there was only one maneuver that stood any chance at all of saving him.
A crash dive.
Straight down into the sea.
Hairy, but sometimes effective, Hawke knew from long experience. To succeed, he had to allow the deadly missile to get extraordinarily close to impacting and destroying his aircraft. So close that when he pulled out of the dive at the last possible instant, the nose of his airplane would be so near the water’s surface that the missile would have zero time to correct before it hit the water at Mach 3, vaporizing on impact.
“You’ve got to dip your nose in the water, son,” an old flight instructor had told him once about the maneuver. “That’s the only way.”
The missile had now nosed over in a perfect simulation of Hawke’s maneuver and homed in on the diving jet. He watched it closing at a ridiculous rate of speed.
His instruments and screeching alarms were all telling him he was clearly out of his bloody mind. The deeply ingrained human instinct to run, to change course and evade, clawed around the edges of his conscious mind. But Hawke had the warrior’s ability to erect a firewall around it, one that was impenetrable in times like this.
It was those few precious white-hot moments precisely like this one that Alex Hawke lived for. At his squalling birth, his father had declared him “a boy born with a heart for any fate.” And, like his father and grandfather before him, he was all warrior, right down to the quick, and he was bloody good at it. His focus at this critical moment, fueled by adrenaline, was borderline supernatural . . . his altimeter display screen was a jarring blur, but he didn’t see it; the collision-avoidance alarms were howling in his headphones, but he didn’t hear them. His grip on the stick was feather light, his breathing calm and measured, his hands bone dry and surgeon steady.
His mind was now quietly calculating the differential between the seconds remaining until the missile impacted the Lightning and the seconds until the aircraft impacted the sea. Ignoring everything, the wail of the screeching sirens and the flashing electronic warnings, the pilot began his final mental countdown.
The surface of the sea raced up at him at a dizzying rate . . .
Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
NOW!
He hauled back on the stick.
The nose literally splashed coming up, and he saw beads of seawater racing across the exterior of his canopy. He’d caught the crest of a wave pulling out of the dive . . . He felt the G forces building . . .
You got to dip your nose in the water, son.
Made it.
He barely registered the impact of the missile hitting the water over the roar of his afterburners. But he heard it, all right. He was in the clear and initiating a climb out as he visualized it: the SAM vaporizing upon contact with the concrete hard surface of the sea at such speed . . .
The G forces were fierce. He began his quick climb back to his former below-the-radar altitude.
And that’s when his starboard wingtip caught a huge cresting wave that sent his aircraft spinning out of control. Where the hell had that come from . . . He was suddenly skimming over the sea like a winged Frisbee. He felt a series of severe jolts as the fuselage made contact, and he instinctively understood that the aircraft was seconds away from disintegrating right out from under his doomed arse . . .
He reached down to his right and grabbed the red handle, yanked it, and the canopy exploded upward into the airstream and disappeared. The set of rocket motors beneath his seat instantly propelled him up and out of the spinning cockpit and straight into the black night sky.
Seconds later, his primary chute deployed and he had a bird’s-eye view of his airplane as it metamorphosed into varying sizes and shapes of scrap metal and disappeared beneath the waves.
Along with the five hundred million in the lockbox, he thought. Not only had his mission just gone straight to hell, it was a very bloody expensive failure.
He yanked the cord that disengaged him from his seat and watched it fall away as he floated down. Moments later his boots hit the water. It was cold as hell, but he started shedding gear as quickly as he could. He was unhurt, or it seemed that way, and he started treading water while his life jacket inflated. So far, so good, he thought, managing to keep his spirits aloft surprisingly well for a downed airman all alone in this dark world.
Normally, there’d be an EPIRB attached to his shoulder harness. Upon contact with the water, it would immediately begin broadcasting his GPS coordinates to a passing friendly satellite. Normally, he could just hang out for a while here in the South China Sea and wait for one of Her Majesty’s Navy rescue choppers to come pluck him from the soup and winch him aboard. Normally. But, of course, this was a secret transit and he had no distress radio beacon, no EPIRB. He had exactly nothing.
He knew the water temperature was cold enough to kill him eventually. The thermal body suit he wore would stave off hypothermia long enough for him to have a slim shot at survival.
He spun his suspended body through 360 degrees. Nothing of note popped out of the darkness. No lights on the horizon, no silver planes in the sky. Nada, zip, zero. Nothing but the vastness of black stretching away in all directions . . . no EPIRB equals NO hope of immediate rescue. He was some fifty miles off the southern coast of mainland China.
If he was lucky, and he usually was, he was in a shipping channel. If not, sayonara. He looked at his dive watch, whistling a chirrupy tune about sunshine and lollypops. Five hours minimum to sunrise.
He began to whistle a song his father had taught him for use at times like this.
Nothing to do but hang here in frozen limbo and wait to see what happens next.
And maybe pray a little.
CHAPTER 7
The White House
“IT’S THE PRESIDENT,” the First Lady said, gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles shone bone white through her pink skin. “I can’t seem to wake him up.”
“Is he breathing?”
“Yes, I-I think so. His chest is moving.”
“Don’t worry. We’re on our way up now. The whole team. Stay calm,” Ken Beer, the White House physician said, and the line went dead.
“TOM,” SHE SAID, shaking him by the shoulders. “Tom, wake up, damn it!”
Nothing.
Had he taken something? She scoured the bedroom and medicine cabinet for empty vials. Nothing. She’d seen him depressed before, but the mood swings were getting terrifying lately. Still, suicide? No. Out of the question. He would never do that. Too narcissistic. Far too invested in his place in history and his date with destiny, the showdown with China coming up in Hong Kong next month.
It had been two days since the disastrous meeting in the Situation Room. The entire household was abu
zz with rumors about what had really happened in there. Her assistants and household spies were reporting back to her with everything they were picking up. He was drunk. He was stoned on meds. He was losing his marbles. He wasn’t fit to be president. 60 Minutes was doing a segment called “The Incredible Vanishing President.” He was sick. It was dangerous. He had early-onset Alzheimer’s just like Ronnie Reagan. They had to rally round him. They had to protect him . . .
Blah-blah-blah.
And then her reverie was broken as the private quarters was suddenly full of people. Secret Service, medical techs with defibrillators, portable EKGs, and God knows what all. Ken Beer was running the show, which was good; she’d had total confidence in him since that incident aboard Air Force One the year before.
She tried to read something into Ken’s expression, but he had his game face on. All business. He had taken her aside after his initial examination and asked her if she wanted a lorazepam. She’d refused, but wondered if maybe she needed one. He looked so . . . gone . . . lying there, all the IV tubes and EKG wires taped to his chest and—
“Okay,” Ken said, taking her by the arm and walking her quickly into the sitting room where they could speak privately. “Here’s the deal. His vitals are good. Strong. But he’s in a coma. I don’t think it’s a stroke. No coronary issues. I’m having blood work done right now, but I don’t want to wait for it. You with me?”
“Keep talking.”
“Right. He’s going to Walter Reed right now. Okay? That’s the best thing for him. The safest, most conservative option. I’ve already called it in.”
“Is he going to come out of it? The coma?”
“Qualified answer? Yes. He’s going to come out of it. Listen. Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of him. Do you want to ride in the ambulance with him?”
“Of course I do, Ken. Do you even have to ask me that?”
“Sorry. My mistake. The president’s already on his way down to the South Portico. Let’s go.”
TOMMY CHOW MET his U.S. handler at the Capitol Grill for drinks the afternoon the president was admitted to Walter Reed Hospital. The Grill was a mecca for secretaries, staffers, lobbyists, and bureaucrats of every stripe and strata in D.C. Tommy knew one of the Chinese waiters, a guy who always made sure they got a quiet table in the back. Even if they were noticed, and it was very unlikely, a low-level staffer from State and a noncelebrity chef from 1600 having a martini or three wouldn’t cause anyone’s radar to light up.
“Is he dead yet, T?”
George, his State Department friend, whispered to him after they’d finished one drink. George (he never used his last name) was tall and thin, with brown hair parted neatly down the middle. He had thick black eyebrows over a large straight nose, thin lips, and a receding chin. He was always nattily dressed in a three-piece Brooks Brothers suit, preppy striped bow tie. Somebody named Tucker Carlson was his fashion muse, he’d once told Tommy Chow. Tucker who?
George, ex-military, and a semi big shot at State, had one of those thin fake smiles that made you hate him instantly. He had a degree in aeronautics from Stanford and a law degree from Yale. He was also one of those guys who truly believed he was always the smartest guy in the room.
The kind of guy who usually got caught. Which was fine with Tommy, as long as he didn’t take Tommy Chow down with him.
“CNN is now saying he’s still fading in the ICU. Matter of hours. True? Or false?” George said with a fake quizzical expression.
“No. You know damn well he’s not dying.”
“So. False information. Bad, Wolf Blitzer, bad, bad, bad. Snow White’s poisoned jalapeño pie didn’t do the trick, huh, little Tommy? C’mon. Let’s take a little stroll around the nation’s capital.”
“It’s raining, George.”
“Yeah. It does that. Man up, little buddy. You need to get out more.”
Chow paid the check as always and they left the noisy Grill, now filling up with good-looking girls who’d all come to Washington from the provinces, looking for a job but down on their knees praying every night for a lobbyist or even a senator or two.
Chow was silent for the first few blocks. Now they had sought shelter under the trees near the reflecting pool. No one around.
Chow was saying, “Shit. I just don’t know what happened. After the navy taster had approved the president’s tray, I stirred enough bad mushroom puree into that meat sauce to kill both of us.”
“Maybe it’s your sense of proportion. We know you want to do this slowly and methodically. Diluted to a degree where there’d be no forensic trace. But time is running out. McCloskey is the most hawkish man to occupy the Oval Office since Reagan. He wants his Gorbachev ‘tear down that wall’ moment with Beijing and he wants it before he leaves office.”
“Ah, the all-important legacy,” Tommy muttered.
George said, “Look, McCloskey is scheduled to make a major policy statement at the All-Asia Conference in Hong Kong next month. That speech will set the tone for America’s position vis-à-vis China for the balance of his term. My people think McCloskey wants an excuse for a showdown with Beijing. So you need to act. Sooner rather than later.”
“Okay, fine, sooner. Just give me some time.”
“As long as you understand our friends have zero desire to see this president’s face at the All-Asia Conference in Hong Kong. It’s next month, for God’s sake, T. They want their mandate executed. As they put it. The operative word in that sentence being ‘executed.’ Got it?”
“You think that’s news to me? You think I haven’t been trying? What is this? You want me discovered? There are mechanisms in place to protect him, navy culinary experts watching the entire kitchen staff. These are people who know the fucking difference between murder and bad shellfish, George. Is that what you want? I don’t think so. Fingers pointing at me? I’m a fucking Chinese national, remember? High on the list of likely suspects? You think?”
“I think I’ve got news for you, my friend. Our Mandarin friends grow impatient. They want this over. Not now, but right now.”
“Listen. What the hell am I supposed to do? He’s in goddamn Walter Reed Hospital. Surrounded by his Secret Service agents. He’s untouchable. Shit.”
“Listen to me. You’re a goddamn Te-Wu assassin. First in your class at the Xinbu Te-Wu Academy. That’s why you got this assignment. Just do what you have to do.”
“I will. When and if he gets out of ICU and recovers and comes home, I’ll make sure he doesn’t just get another really bad case of food poisoning. Trust me. Until next time, okay?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“Not good enough, my friend. This op is only a small fragment of a far, far bigger picture. The Mandarins are . . . complicated. And the Chinese military’s hatred for this goddamn country is reaching a feverish pitch. Someone’s got his blood up, and that someone is General Moon.”
“Yes, I know. General Moon and his grand plan. Spring Dawn and all that happy horseshit. What is it? When is it? Who the hell knows? I’m just a hired hand in the kitchen.”
“Not at all, T. Your reputation and skills are deeply respected. It’s just that, here, you have no need to know more. You have your mission, I have mine. Accomplish yours so I can do mine. Now. Understand?”
“Oh, I do, believe me.”
“At any rate, we like this guy, Vice President Rosow. The veep seems a far more reasonable fellow than the POTUS. Amenable, let’s say. You know, philosophically and politically speaking. We can work with him, is what they think. They want Rosow at that Hong Kong conference. Moreover, and more important, they want Rosow in the Oval, Tommy. ASAP. It took a very long time to get you in position down in that damn kitchen. Now it’s time to act. ASAP.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“What?”
“No one says ASAP anymor
e. It’s embarrassing.”
“Really, Chow? In that case, I’ll put it in a phrase even you can understand . . . chop-chop!”
“Does the expression ‘go fuck yourself’ have any meaning for you, George? That’s a question.”
“Tommy. Listen to me, you stupid sonofabitch. The world clock is ticking down, little man. Tick-tock. They want this done. Take him out. You’ve got until noon Friday. That’s what they said.”
“How the hell am I supposed to get to him when he’s propped up in bed over at Walter Reed? Surrounded by Secret Service. I can’t fucking do it. And you damn well know it.”
It was starting to rain more heavily, a hard cold rain. Unlike his friend, Tommy Chow had no umbrella. The tall, thin State Department man stepped into the street and started trying to hail a taxi, talking to Tommy out of the side of his mouth.
“Not my problem. Thanks for the cocktails, pal. Keep in touch. Oh. Your family back home in sunny Beijing? The PLA guy I work for? He says I’m supposed to tell you they’re doing great. Living the good life. Make sure you keep it that way.”
“You asshole.”
“Yeah. Like you. I fit right in at State that way. Being an asshole, I learned early, is the perfect credential for an aspiring politician who’s for sale. Oh, look. Here’s my cab. See you around, T. And don’t forget what I said.”
He climbed inside the taxi, collapsing his umbrella as he did. As he pulled the door closed, he heard Chow’s voice calling.
“Forget what?” the round little man said over the heavy rain.
The thin man stuck his head out the window, smiled, and said, “ASAP.”
CHOW TURNED AND walked back to the scant cover of the trees. What he really wanted to do was walk away from the whole thing. Catch a cab to Reagan and board the next thing smoking for Bermuda. He had a bad feeling about this. He had no assurances he’d survive no matter which way this went. He was going to be an inconvenient man when it was over. He should run. Brazil, Argentina. Find a job in a good restaurant and start over. To hell with Beijing and whatever new political catastrophe they were planning . . . he could run.
