Sword of Shiva (For fans of Tom Clancy and Dale Brown)

by Jeff Edwards

  The starboard engine was fodded out and he’d lost a shitload of fuel, but the quadruplex fly-by-wire controls were still responding to his commands if he didn’t push his injured bird too hard. When he’d gone through initial Hornet flight training at NAS Lemoore and the advanced pipeline at NAS Fallon, everybody had talked about how tough the Super Hornet was. Well, the aircraft was definitely living up to its reputation for being able to take a punch.

  But rugged airframe construction and multiply-redundant systems hadn’t been enough to save Poker. Rob had seen the Chinese air-to-air missile punch right through the canopy of Poker’s Hornet, blasting the entire cockpit section of the plane into titanium shrapnel. And Rob had reefed his own Hornet back around quickly enough to watch the remains of his flight leader’s aircraft cartwheel into the sea.

  No ejection. No chute. Not that he’d expected one. He’d known from the instant of the missile impact that Owen ‘Poker’ Dowell was dead.

  But any thoughts of grief had vanished from Rob’s consciousness almost as quickly as they had appeared. He had turned his attention—and his fury—on the Chinese bastards who had just blown his mentor and friend out of the sky.

  Rob had no idea why the Chinese pilots had opened fire. It had been a routine intercept, two Navy F-18’s turning back two pairs of Bogies at the edge of the 300 mile defensive Combat Air Patrol perimeter.

  They’d gotten close enough to eyeball the inbound aircraft, and identified them as Chinese J-15’s, confirming the classification provided by the E-2D Hawkeye flying Airborne Early Warning support for the Midway air wing.

  There had been at least a dozen similar intercepts over the past week or so, as the Chinese probed the edges of the USS Midway’s air defense envelope. But the Chinese Bogies had always turned back, and there had never been any sign of real trouble.

  And then they had blasted Owen Dowell without warning. There had been no radar spikes, no fire control acquisition alerts. Just a sudden fireball as Poker took a missile right in the lips. Probably that made the Chinese missile some kind of infrared homer, or something else which didn’t require an active seeker that would have alerted the sensors in the Super Hornets.

  Rob didn’t give a damn about any of the technical details. He had concentrated on going after the treacherous fucks who had just killed Poker.

  Now, as he made his approach toward the Midway, Rob could no longer remember much about the engagement. He knew that he had shot down two of the Bogies, and damaged a third. He knew that he had taken a hit somewhere in the mêlée.

  He knew that his wings were bare of weapons, and his 20mm gun was completely out of rounds. Most of the details of the dogfight had faded with his anger, but he had definitely emptied the full magazine on the bastards.

  He checked his range to the carrier. It was time to call in, so he keyed his radio circuit. “Strike—Two Zero Nine at fifty-two. Single engine, state four point three.”

  His report, as short and cryptic as it might have seemed to non-aviators, told Strike Command everything they needed to know. Monk was 52 miles away from the carrier, coming in on one engine, and he was down to only 4,300 pounds of fuel.

  Strike responded immediately. “Roger, Two Zero Nine. Flash Ident.”

  Monk toggled the switch that gave his aircraft’s IFF transponder an extra burst of transmit power. This would cause the symbol for his plane to flash briefly on the aircraft carrier’s tracking display, verifying his identity, and making it easier to spot him among the cluttered radar signatures of the busy air pattern.

  He checked his fuel again. He’d be cutting it close. A healthy Super Hornet burned about 1,100 pounds of gas during a routine landing pass. Monk didn’t know what his current burn rate was, but his aircraft was definitely not healthy, and his fuel usage was bound to be higher than normal.

  He had survived the dogfight, and limped most of the way home. Was he going to get this close to the carrier, and then run out of fuel before he could land? Wouldn’t that be some fucking irony?

  There was no way for him to know how badly his airframe was damaged, or whether or not the canopy would open if he had to punch out. If the canopy was jammed shut, the ejection seat’s solid fuel rocket would slam him into the underside of the acrylic bubble at about 12g’s. As Poker used to say, hamburger all over the highway.

  He gave his head a quick jerk to clear his mind. It was time to stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong. He needed to concentrate on keeping his plane in the air. Aviate, navigate, communicate. That was all he needed to do. Aviate, navigate, communicate. Forget about all the shit that could kill him.

  His Squadron Rep’s voice came over the radio. “Two Zero Nine—Barnstormer. Alright buddy, let’s work the list.”

  Back on the carrier, Chuck ‘Barnstormer’ Barnes was armed with a copy of the NATOPS systems handbook and checklists for the F/A-18E aircraft. Like all Navy pilots, Monk carried a pocket version of the checklist in his cockpit, but the content of the short list was pared down to a bare minimum, for rapid and easy use. Flying a jet aircraft didn’t leave time for reading lengthy technical write-ups, so multiple-failure situations were not covered. Major emergencies called for the full NATOPS manual, and Chuck Barnes was ready to talk Monk through the list of in-flight checks and emergency procedures.

  By the time they had done all they could do with the checklist, Monk was coming up on the 25 mile mark. It was time to check in with the carrier’s Air Traffic Control Center.

  He keyed the radio again. “Marshal—Two Zero Nine at twenty-five. Single engine, three point seven.”

  “Roger single engine,” Marshal replied. “We’re going to bring you straight in.”

  That was a comforting, if obvious decision. Monk was being given clearance to bypass the air traffic control pattern (the stack), and proceed directly in for a landing approach.

  He didn’t have enough fuel to wait his turn in the stack, even if he hadn’t been flying on one engine. As usual, there was a tanker orbiting the carrier at 3,000 feet. The standard procedure would be to rendezvous with the tanker, take on some gas, and make his final approach with a comfortable fuel margin. But one of the many flashing red tattletales on Monk’s up-front control display told him that several components of the Super Hornet’s fuel system—including the extendible fuel probe—were failing real-time function checks. The decision not to risk an in-flight refueling had been made way above his pay grade.

  Monk was down to 3,200 pounds of fuel by the time he was five miles out, and it was becoming clear that he would need to trap on the first try. If he missed the wire on the first pass, he might have enough gas to make it back around for a second attempt. They’d definitely rig the barricade if he had to make a second approach.

  No Navy pilot ever wanted to land that way, his plane caught in a giant nylon net like a fly trapped in a spider web. Not a good way to land, but it was better than ejecting.

  The carrier was visible now, a small dark shape in the distance.

  Monk spotted the ‘ball’ about three-quarters of a mile out, the colored lights of the Fresnel lens optical landing system. The orange meatball showed slightly below the green horizontal datum lights. He was a little low, but his lineup looked good.

  He added power to his one good engine and keyed the radio. “Marauder Two Zero Nine, Super Hornet ball, two point eight, single engine.”

  The Landing Signal Officer responded. “Roger ball.”

  The aircraft carrier that had looked so tiny just a few minutes earlier was growing rapidly, but Monk concentrated on the meatball, his lineup, and angle of attack. Meatball, lineup, angle of attack. Nothing else. Just like in training. Meatball… Lineup… Angle of attack…

  The LSO’s voice came over the radio. “Little power.”

  Monk edged the throttle forward on his good engine and his flight path shallowed a fraction. A few seconds later, his wheels slammed into the deck. He instantly shoved the throttle forward, his lone engine shrieking to
full power in case he missed the wires and boltered.

  His tailhook caught the number two wire. Not a perfect landing, but good enough. His body surged forward against his restraint straps as the arresting cable decelerated his aircraft, and brought it to a stop.

  He was down.

  A yellow shirt ran toward him, giving the throttle-down signal. Monk brought the port engine back to idle, and the voice of the Air Boss boomed over the radio. “Two Zero Nine—Boss. We’re gonna shut you down right there.”

  Monk acknowledged the order, acknowledged the yellow shirt’s ‘chocks-in’ signal, and powered down his port engine. The silence in the cockpit was almost deafening.

  The flight deck crew was already moving toward his plane, bringing the tractor to tow Monk’s injured aircraft to its designated landing spot.

  And then, with his plane safely on deck, Monk’s bladder cut loose and he pissed in his flight suit.

  Great… He would hear about that for the rest of his fucking career. No one would ever talk about the two Bogies he had downed, or the third that he’d shot holes in, or how he had kept a severely damaged plane in the sky for 300 miles, and then managed a difficult trap.

  All he’d ever hear about was how he had wet his fucking diaper.

  But no one ever mentioned the urine soaked flight suit. No one ribbed him about losing control of his bladder. No one even hinted at changing his callsign to Potty Boy or Diaper Man. If Rob’s temporary lapse of continence was discussed by anyone, he never heard a word of it.

  And no one ever called him Nugget again.

  CHAPTER 37

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

  WASHINGTON, DC

  SUNDAY; 30 NOVEMBER

  8:33 PM EST

  President Wainright strode into the Situation Room, accompanied by a Secret Service Agent. The agent took his usual station in the corner as the president dropped into his chair. “Would someone kindly tell me just what in the hell happened?”

  The Sit Room Duty Officer opened his mouth, but Admiral Casey, the Chief of Naval Operations, responded first. “It was an aerial combat engagement in the Bay of Bengal, Mr. President. Two F/A-18 Super Hornets off the USS Midway were vectored in to warn off four Chinese J-15 strike fighter aircraft from the aircraft carrier Liaoning. Planes off the Midway have conducted ten or twelve similar intercepts over the last week or so. Until now, they’ve always ended peacefully, with the Chinese fighters heading for home after the Hornets show up.”

  “We’re not sure why it went differently this time,” he said. “All we know for certain is that the J-15s opened fire on our Hornets, and an air battle ensued. One of our Hornets went down and the other one took some damage, but made it back safely. At least two of the Chinese planes were destroyed. A third Chinese aircraft was damaged, but it was still in the air when it passed out of our radar coverage, so that one probably wasn’t a kill.”

  The president stared at the CNO. “We are positive that our pilots didn’t shoot first?”

  The Secretary of Defense, Mary O’Neil-Broerman, answered. “Absolutely positive,” she said. “We have the report from the Hornet pilot who survived, and his account is confirmed by the recovered sensor data from his onboard computers. It’s further corroborated by the mission tapes from the E-2D Hawkeye that was providing Airborne Early Warning for the carrier at the time. I haven’t seen the data myself yet, sir, but we have it directly from Admiral Zimmerman that the Hawkeye’s radar tracks show conclusively that the Chinese aircraft attacked without warning or provocation. One of our Super Hornets was destroyed by the first missile hit. The other Hornet engaged the Chinese fighters and sent them packing.”

  The president raised an eyebrow. “Our pilot was outnumbered four to one, and he managed to get the upper hand?”

  SECDEF nodded. “Yes, sir. I have it on good authority that he pretty much kicked their collective asses, Mr. President.”

  “Well, it certainly sounds like it,” the president said. His voice was calmer now.

  “Okay, what are we doing about it?” he asked.

  This time, it was the CNO who spoke. “For the moment, Mr. President, USS Midway is doubling her Combat Air Patrols, and extending her defensive air perimeter by an additional twenty miles. Also, the screening ships in the strike group are on full alert, with Rules of Engagement that allow them to engage any potentially hostile air targets that ignore radio warnings and attempt to penetrate the carrier’s screen.”

  No one at the table remarked on the fact that the word “targets” had just entered the conversation for the first time.

  “I see,” the president said. “Are these additional measures enough to protect our carrier?”

  “Frankly, Mr. President, they’re probably not adequate,” the CNO said. “But that’s about as far as we can go without putting our forces on a more aggressive footing.”

  The president turned to face him. “What do you suggest, Admiral?”

  The admiral pursed his lips. “With all due respect, sir, our people are flapping in the breeze right now. If they’re going to fight, we should take them off the leash and let them carry the battle to the other guys. If they’re not going to fight, we should pull them out of the area before any more of them get killed by so-called neutral forces. At the risk of mixing my metaphors, we need to fish or cut bait, Mr. President. You can’t win by waiting for the other guy to shoot you in the head, and then deciding whether or not you want to shoot back.”

  “This is not meant to be a combat operation,” the president said. “We put the Midway strike group in the Bay of Bengal to act as a stabilizing influence.”

  “Then I think we can safely say that it’s not working, sir,” the admiral said. “The Midway’s presence didn’t stop the Chinese from blasting the hell out of the Indian aircraft carrier. It didn’t stop them from trying to penetrate our carrier’s airspace. And it didn’t stop them from shooting at our defensive air patrols. I don’t know what we’re accomplishing over there, but we’re definitely not stabilizing the situation.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Horace Gilmore, adjusted his eyeglasses. “I have to agree, Mr. President. The Chinese don’t seem to be interested in stability. They’ve taken shots at our Navy and the Indian Navy. And now they’ve got a dedicated surveillance satellite sitting right over the operating area, watching every move we make. Every time we launch a helicopter or refuel a ship, they see it. If you ask me, sir, they’re tooling up for major combat operations.”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” the president said. “Right now, that’s just speculation.”

  “You’re right, sir,” SECDEF said. “We don’t know it for a fact. But we probably won’t get ironclad confirmation until it’s too late. What the CNO said is true, Mr. President. If you wait for the other guy to shoot you between the eyes, you may not be alive long enough to get off a shot of your own.”

  The president shook his head. “I’m not letting anybody buffalo me into making a hasty decision on this.”

  The National Security Advisor spoke up. “Sir, it’s not my place to make military policy, and I don’t want to buffalo you into anything. But this is one of those cases where we don’t get to choose the timetable.”

  The president looked at him. “What do you mean, Greg?”

  Brenthoven looked at his watch. “I remind you, sir, that the Indian government intends to carry out their Shiva attack on the Three Gorges Dam in just about forty-five hours. If the Chinese response is anywhere close to what we think it will be, we may be looking at a significant nuclear exchange in southern and eastern Asia.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” the president snapped. “I’m just trying to focus on one crisis at a time.”

  “Understandable,” Brenthoven said. “But I don’t think we can really separate one problem from the other. Anything we do for, with, or against China will impact India. Anything we do for, with, or against India will impact China. And if we try to maintain the sta
tus quo, India will press forward with their plans to devastate Central China.”

  Brenthoven lifted a hand with all five fingers extended. “As I see it, we have five possible courses of action here…”

  He folded down a finger. “One—we do nothing, and hope that India is bluffing about the Three Gorges attack. Of course, if it turns out that they’re not bluffing, the USS Midway strike group will be fairly close to ground zero when the nukes start flying.”

  He folded down a second finger. “Two—we actively try to stop India’s attack on the Three Gorges site. This essentially means taking direct military action against India. It also means aligning the United States with China, who happens to be the aggressor in this whole bloody mess.”

  A third finger went down. “Three—we leak the plan for the Three Gorges attack to the Chinese government, and trust to China to protect the dam. This is risky for several reasons, one of which being that the Indian government will pretty much know that we did it. This falls short of actually attacking India, but they will definitely move the United States over to their ‘enemies’ category.”

  He folded the fourth finger. “Four—we agree to India’s terms, and throw in on the side of the Indian military. This means direct military action against China, but at least we wouldn’t be siding with the aggressor. Also, as China has attacked our forces and India has not, it makes more sense from a political and foreign policy standpoint.”

  The last finger went down. “Five—we pull our forces out of the region immediately, and hope that there aren’t mushroom clouds all over Asia by this time next week.”

  Brenthoven lowered his fist. “I hate to say it Mr. President, but General Gilmore, Admiral Casey, and Madam Secretary are right. It’s time to either take decisive action, or get the hell out of there and cross our fingers.”