by Jeff Edwards
A flashing arrow on the HUD told him that the threat was four-o’clock low. He keyed his radio. “Two, spiked, four-o’clock low! Breaking right.”
Without waiting for a reply, he broke hard to the right, trading speed and altitude for a violently-sudden change in position. His g-suit clamped down on him like a python as the leg and abdominal modules constricted to keep the blood from pooling in his lower body. He grunted repeatedly through the turn, using voluntary muscle contraction to force blood pressure into his upper torso and brain. His cone of vision narrowed, but he knew where his physical limits were, and he didn’t come close to graying out.
The tone was silent when he rolled back into level flight. He had slipped out of the radar lock, for the moment at least.
The adrenaline in his veins screamed for him to go after the threat, find and kill whichever bad guy had locked onto his plane. But that was not his job.
He brought his nose back around to the left, and began to look for Grinder. He keyed his radio. “Two, naked and blind.” This is Hammer-Two. I have broken free from enemy radar lock, but I cannot see my flight lead.
Grinder’s reply came quickly. “One, blind. Furball.” This is Hammer-One. I can’t see you either. This fight is turning into a free-for-all.
Monk acknowledged the transmission. “Two.”
Grinder was right, this was a furball. The sky had become a seething cluster-fuck of shooting-dodging aircraft.
Monk checked his radar and then did a quick visual sweep. He spotted his next target, and began angling in for the kill.
* * *
USS Towers:
“All Stations—Sonar. Hostile torpedo has broken acquisition.”
On the Aegis display, Captain Silva watched the symbol for the enemy torpedo swerve away from the Towers. Finally, something was going right.
She was about to issue another order when the Sonar Supervisor’s voice came over the net again.
“All Stations—Sonar has multiple hydrophone effects off the port beam! Bearings one-zero-three, and one-zero-seven. Initial classification: friendly torpedoes!”
Friendly? That got everyone’s attention.
The Undersea Warfare Evaluator punched into the circuit. “Sonar—USWE. Say again the classification of the new torpedoes.”
“USWE—Sonar. They’re friendly, sir. U.S.-built Mark-48s, and they’re locked onto a new broadband contact, bearing zero-niner-zero.”
“Sonar—USWE. What’s the classification of your new contact?”
“USWE—Sonar. Classification unknown, sir. I’ve got plenty of blade noise and lots of broadband, but narrowband is too chaotic to get a read. Whoever he is, he just kicked it up to flank speed to get away from those 48s.”
Silva keyed her headset. “Sonar, this is the captain. Any sign of the sub that launched the Mark-48s?”
“Ah… Negative, Captain. Whoever our friend is out there, he’s running slick and silent. We’re not getting a peep out of him.”
“He can be as quiet as he wants,” the TAO said. “As long as he keeps that bad guy off our back.”
Silva nodded. “You’ve got that right.”
On the tactical display, two blue torpedo symbols were racing toward a hostile submarine symbol.
Silva raise an eyebrow. “If I ever find out who’s in command of that friendly sub, I’m going to kiss him on the lips.”
A junior Operations Specialist spoke up before he could stop himself. “Even if it’s a girl, Captain?”
Silva gave the young Sailor a mock glare. “Seaman, is that an indirect way of asking about my orientation?”
The Sailor’s ears turned bright red. “No, sir! I mean, no, ma’am!”
Silva turned back to the Aegis screen. “If our guardian angel turns out to be female, I’ll shake her hand and buy her a beer.”
“Sounds like a plan to me, Captain,” the Operations Specialist said.
Silva scanned the tactical display. “TAO, why did we stop hitting that surface contact?”
The Tactical Action Officer cleared his throat. “It’s not there anymore, Captain. SPY isn’t picking up anything big enough to make a radar return.”
“Okay,” Silva said. “Then our job is done. We’ll wait until the fighter boys have finished mopping up the enemy air cover, and then we move in and pick up survivors.”
This pronouncement was met with silence.
Silva examined the faces of the men and women around her. “I know what some of you are probably thinking,” she said. “But if we’re supposed to be the good guys, we damned well have to act like the good guys. When the fight is over, we’re not leaving any sailors in the water. I don’t care what color uniform they’re wearing.”
The TAO nodded slowly. “Aye-aye, Captain.”
Silva inhaled deeply, and let out a long breath. “Maybe this isn’t the kind of order Captain Bowie would have given. But it’s my order. And it is not subject to debate.”
The corners of the Tactical Action Officer’s mouth curled up in the barest suggestion of a smile. “You misunderstand us, ma’am. This is exactly the kind of order Captain Bowie would have given.”
There were silent nods of agreement around the compartment.
From somewhere in the semi-darkness, an unidentified voice spoke. “Alright, people. You heard the Skipper. Let’s get to it.”
* * *
Hammer-Two:
Monk watched his third kill of the night come apart in midair, scorched fragments of wreckage sifting down toward the dark ocean like flaming confetti. Counting the two J-15s he had nailed during his last mix-up with the Chinese, he now had five confirmed kills. Monk had just officially become an ace, but nothing in the world could have been further from his mind.
He didn’t care about honors, or awards, or bragging rights. He was looking for another Bandit to kill.
The mission had gone according to plan. The fighter sweep had cleared away enough of the hostile air cover to allow the strike package to get in and do its job. After ten or twelve air-launched Harpoon strikes, the Chinese aircraft carrier, Liaoning, wallowed powerless on the wave tops.
Through his night vision goggles, Monk could see the crippled ship low in the water, listing heavily to starboard, flames rising from her flight deck in several places.
Monk tore his eyes away from the burning ship, and went back to scanning the sky for another enemy aircraft. Three or four seconds later, he found one. Or rather, it found him.
The incoming missile must have been a heat seeker, because Monk’s threat warning receiver never detected any sign of enemy radar emissions. He was cruising low and fast when the missile struck. The shock was as hard and abrupt as a head-on car crash.
His helmet ricocheted off the inside of the canopy with brain-numbing force, and tattletales began flashing all over his instrument panel. The Super Hornet—lithe and nimble just a few seconds before—was suddenly a shuddering and dying beast.
The cockpit was filling with smoke, and his port engine was on fire. He was losing power and altitude quickly, and the black sea was rushing up to meet him.
He keyed his radio. “This is Hammer-Two. I am hit and going down. This is Hammer-Two. I am hit and going down.”
He released the mike and started to reach for the ejection handle between his legs. Then he caught sight of the Chinese aircraft carrier again, the flames billowing green through the lenses of his night goggles.
Maybe there was time to put his dying F-18 through one final maneuver. Nothing fancy: just a simple turn and a change of altitude.
The controls were nearly unresponsive now, and he was almost out of time. He fought the stick to bring his nose around to the left, and then pitched over into a shallow dive with the stricken enemy warship framed squarely within the window of his HUD.
Another nighttime approach on an aircraft carrier, but this time there would be no landing. No surge of deceleration as the arresting gear brought his plane to a straining halt. No coffee and friendly bant
er in the debriefing room. This was not going to be that kind of landing.
The burning form of the aircraft carrier was growing larger. The moment of impact hurtling closer.
He could do this. He could ride his Hornet all the way down, plunge his sword directly into the heart of the enemy. Bring it all to an end, in a furious cataclysm of fire.
Later, he would never remember reaching for the eject handle. But the yellow and black loop was suddenly in his hand. He wrapped his fingers around it, and pulled.
The canopy blasted clear, and the acceleration hit him in the lower spine as the ejection seat rocketed him out of his plane, and into the night sky. His universe became a maelstrom of darkness and rushing wind.
And then the drogue deployed, pulling his chute open, and he was floating down toward the ocean under an unseen dome of taut nylon.
Monk wanted to see the impact. He needed to see it. He prayed that he would be facing the right way when it happened.
Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe it was just the wind. But his parachute turned slowly as he descended, and the enemy ship swung into view as the instant of collision occurred.
His wounded Hornet rammed into the superstructure of the Chinese aircraft carrier at several hundred knots. Kinetic energy, the plane’s fuel load, and the remaining munitions synergized into an expanding sphere of flame and destruction.
It might not have been the death blow. Perhaps the missile hits had already done that job. But to Monk, it felt like the killing shot. The sight had all the brutal majesty of the stone that felled Goliath, or a stake pounded through the heart of some mythical monster.
For the first time since Poker’s death, Monk felt himself begin to smile.
“Okay, assholes,” he said quietly. “Now we’re even.”
CHAPTER 55
WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY; 02 DECEMBER
5:08 PM EST
The telephone on President Wainwright’s desk buzzed. He lifted the receiver.
“Mr. President, you have Premiere Xiao on the line. Your translator is patched in and standing by.”
“Thank you, Margie,” the president said. “Put me through.”
There was a brief silence, and then the light on the phone blinked from amber to green.
The president resisted the urge to clear his throat. He’d been mentally rehearsing this call for an hour, and he still hadn’t figured out how to say what needed to be said.
Everything was riding on this call. If it went well, maybe he could get China and India to back away from each other before this thing escalated out of control. If it didn’t go well…
He heard Xiao’s ancient voice, speaking in Mandarin. A couple of seconds later, the State Department translator repeated the Chinese leader’s words in English. “Good morning, President Wainright. I assume you are calling to apologize for the attack on our aircraft carrier.”
The president felt an instant surge of annoyance. They were three seconds into the call, and already the accusations were starting to come out. At least a half dozen responses popped into his head, none of which would help to calm the waters. He needed something firm, but not accusatory.
“The loss of the Liaoning was unfortunate,” he said. “And so was the attack on the USS Midway, which—you may recall—occurred two days before the incident with the Liaoning.”
Another pause before the State Department translator relayed Xiao’s words. “We made no move against your USS Midway until after you destroyed a satellite that was the sovereign property of the People’s Republic.”
The president’s annoyance ratcheted up another notch. So much for his hopes of a calm diplomatic dialogue. Fine. If Xiao wanted to play tit-for-tat, he’d discover that Dalton Wainright’s years in the Senate had given him certain skills in the shame-and-blame game. And then, maybe after they had bludgeoned each other senseless with blunt rhetoric for a while, they might actually get around to having a productive discussion.
“Premiere Xiao,” he said, “your people are apparently not giving you accurate information. I did not authorize the downing of your satellite until two days after your warplanes carried out an unprovoked attack against a pair of American aircraft on defensive patrol. Your planes shot first, killing one of our pilots, and destroying an F/A-18 jet. American naval forces in the region had done nothing to justify such an act of aggression.”
“You sided with our enemies—”
“We did not side with your enemies,” the president snapped. “I ordered USS Midway into the Bay of Bengal as a stabilizing force. I had hoped that our ships and aircraft could serve as a buffer between Chinese and Indian forces in the region. To give both of your countries a chance to cool off, and seek more peaceful solutions.”
The Premier’s translated words came a few seconds later. “Mr. President, I find it strange that you speak of peace. You have just destroyed every ship and aircraft in the Liaoning battle group. You did not damage our ships and planes. You eradicated them. You have struck directly at my country’s vital strategic assets. You have dealt a serious blow to China’s international military deterrence. Now, you wish to cast yourself as a peacemaker?”
Dalton felt his fingers tighten on the telephone receiver. He struggled to keep his voice even. “How this happened is no longer important,” he said. “What matters now, is what we do next. Do we continue down the road that we’re on? Or do we work together to find a solution to this crisis?”
“You cannot have it both ways,” Xiao said through the translator. “Your country’s John Adams spoke of holding the sword in one hand, and the olive branch in the other. But we both know, President Wainright, that you are no John Adams. And if we are to speak frankly, you are not even his lesser son, John Quincy Adams.”
The words did not just sting. They burned like acid. Because they were true.
If they had come from a different man, they might not have wounded so deeply. Coming from some middleweight bureaucrat, Dalton could have written them off as ill-spirited bluster. But Xiao Qishan was not a middleweight bureaucrat. He was old now, and in the waning days of his political career, but what an extraordinary career it had been.
Xiao had done more to drag China into the twenty-first century than any other man, living or dead. He had earned his place in history. He would be remembered as a great leader. A forward-thinking man of action and results.
Dalton Wainright had no illusions about his own place in history. He was not a great leader. In the future, when he was remembered at all, he would appear as a footnote to the careers of greater men. He knew that, and the knowledge was not pleasant.
Still, he struggled to keep the anger and hurt out of his voice. “I am no John Adams,” he said into the phone. “As you have so graciously pointed out, I am not even John Quincy Adams. I am a small man, sitting in a chair that is too large for me. But make no mistake, Premier Xiao, I am sitting in this chair. I don’t pretend to lead my country with wisdom and greatness, but I do lead it.”
His fingers were painfully tight around the handset of the phone. “For all of my shortcomings, I intend to discharge my duties. I will not accept threats to the security of my country. And I will not accept unprovoked attacks against allies of the United States of America.”
The translation of Premiere Xiao’s response came a few seconds later. “Are you suggesting that China is not an ally of the United States?”
“That is entirely up to you,” the president said. “But if you want to be treated as our ally, it’s about time that you begin to act like our ally.”
There was a long delay before Xiao’s words came back through the translator. “Is that the sound of your saber rattling, Mr. President? What are you suggesting? Are you hoping to intimidate me with veiled hints?”
Dalton’s fist came down on the polished timbers of the Resolute desk. “Goddamn it! I’m not hinting at anything. I’m not suggesting anything. I am outright saying it. The People’s
Republic of China is dangerously close to being at war with the United States of America. Is that clear enough for you, Premier Xiao? War.”
He could hear his voice rising, assuming a strength and assurance that he had not felt since taking the oath of office. He waited for the translator to repeat his words in Mandarin, and then he continued before the Chinese leader could respond.
“There will be no more skirmishes,” the president said. “There will be no more diplomatic intimidation. If Chinese forces throw so much as a snowball toward any US person or asset, military or otherwise, we will answer with war. If you continue to press your attacks against the Republic of India, we stand by our allies, and we will bring the fight to your door. So you need to decide right now… Are you prepared to go to war against the United States?”
There was a long silence, and Dalton could hear his pulse hammering in his ears.
Then, Xiao’s aged voice spilled a torrent of Mandarin. “I will not be spoken to this way! You will not—”
President Wainright hung up the phone, slamming the receiver back into its cradle without waiting for the rest of the translation.
He took several deep, slow breaths. When he thought his heart rate was a bit closer to normal, he lifted the receiver and punched the number for the Situation Room Duty Officer.
“This is the president,” he said. “Round up the Secretary of Defense, and get the National Military Command Center on line. I want the full battle staff in the Situation Room in half an hour.”
He lowered the receiver again, and then glanced at the nineteenth-century John and Thomas Seymour clock near the east door. A little over an hour left before India launched the attack against the Three Gorges Dam, and then this thing was really going to get ugly.
CHAPTER 56
GREAT HALL OF THE PEOPLE
TIANANMEN SQUARE
BEIJING, CHINA
WEDNESDAY; 03 DECEMBER
6:31 AM
TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’
First Vice Premier Lu Shi pushed his chair back from the conference table and got to his feet. “The loss of the Liaoning cannot go unpunished. We will crush them!”
