Just then the ship leaned into him, as if it were about to capsize and collapse on top of him. For a moment the commando felt victorious. Despite his imminent death, the ship would be lost. But it did not fall on him. Instead it was listing in a tight turn. The next wave hit his scooter like a ramp and he was launched into the air, completely losing contact with the machine. But now the railing of the sponson was just above his head, brought closer by the list. He reached for it, latching firmly to the metal bar with both hands. In a moment he had crawled onto the safety of the platform. He quickly pulled the line connecting him to his cargo, lifting the heavy bag over the railing as the ship steadied itself on a new heading, still steaming faster than he could have imagined. Below him, the scooter flopped twice more before the line snapped. It was immediately sucked below the hull to be minced by the screws.
The commando shook the water from his bristly crew cut and stripped off his dry suit, flinging it overboard. Then, without hesitation, he hefted the olive green US Navy issue seabag containing his cargo over a shoulder and entered the hatch leading into the labyrinth that was the USS Bush.
Slammer and HOB had completed their first intercept as Bandits for Tiny and Skids. They were cruising back to CAP when Banger came up on the radio. “Lion One, knock it off. Repeat knock it off!”
His stomach lurched. Surely nothing could have happened to Tiny in the thirty seconds since their last merge? “Lion One copies. Lion One knock it off.”
To his relief Tiny answered immediately, “Lion Two, knock it off.”
He keyed the radio again. “What’s up Banger?”
“Something going on back near Bush,” the E-2 controller responded. “Alpha Whiskey wants you two to give a helo high cover while he chases something down. Tanker’s in high holding to top you off.”
Slammer sighed. Would they ever get a chance to train properly? “Rog. Lions rendezvous over Mother, twenty-five thousand.”
Tiny acknowledged, “Copy, see you there.”
General Yongsheng sat at an immaculately ordered desk in the middle of his spacious office in Guangzhou. A glass enclosure separated him from the activity of the tactical control center surrounding him. The bunker, buried deep underground, was similar in function to the CIC on Bush, though far more sprawling. Huge monitors and maps covered the walls. Hundreds of uniformed personnel bustled to and fro.
The General glanced at his personal monitor. As he had anticipated many months ago, the Americans had responded to the enticement of his thinly disguised provocations by parking a ship directly in the middle of the South Sea, as it was referred to by the People. As the commander of this region, and protector of the sea, he was taking it upon himself to make clear that interlopers were no longer tolerated. Years of planning were coming together. He had lured the intruders to precisely this position, at precisely this time.
He checked his watch. Biédòngduì had left the the Qing an hour ago. He would know soon if the mission was a success, and assuming that it was—which he did—he would reveal the details to Beijing first thing the following morning. There would be no doubt the General was personally responsible for removing the last barrier to the People’s claim. The South Sea would unequivocally belong to China once the American navy was gone, and he would surely sit on the Politburo in the next session. After that, the sky was the limit. Fortune always favored the bold.
Far across the room a printer spat out a single piece of paper. It was immediately retrieved by an analyst who read it quickly. He turned on his heels, sprinting to his superior with the paper held at arm’s length, as if it might catch fire. The process was repeated four times, taking three minutes to work its way up the chain of command till finally a colonel burst through General Yongsheng’s door. “Sir!” he exclaimed, presenting the paper.
The general stood and snatched the message, scanning it quickly, his blood running cold. “What does this mean, ‘…prosecuted by enemy helicopters…?’ Are they under attack?”
He could afford to lose the commando. It would be impossible to trace the Biedongdui back to the Southern Theater Command and, more importantly, himself. But the loss of a submarine, even an older Qing class, would not go unnoticed. His unsanctioned activities could only be claimed if successful. The penalty for failure would be swift and fatal.
“We do not know sir. We have been unable to raise them by any means,” the colonel answered. “We have observed their fighters scrambling back from training missions.”
His heart palpitating, the general reread the last sentence of the terse message. “Commencing evasion tactics.” Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. A distraction of the highest order was just what the situation demanded.
“Launch the fighters from Hainan,” he barked.
“How many?”
The general slammed his hand on his desk. “All of them! They are in our sea, hunting one of my submarines. Go chase them away!”
He might snatch victory just yet.
In the darkened cabin of a US Air Force electronic surveillance aircraft, technicians hunched over sophisticated Signals Intelligence equipment. The crew of the RC-135 Rivet Joint aircraft had lifted from Guam with the rising sun and now, after the 2,000 mile commute to their orbit station just 200 nautical miles southeast of Bush, they captured and quickly translated the order from Guangzhou to Hainan. In under five minutes, the intel was transmitted directly to the CIC on Bush.
Quick was holding firmly to Slammer’s ball cap, marveling at the speed the ship was capable of. As fast as they had cruised during the transit, this felt at least twice as fast. She turned to query Tumor, yelling as loud as she could over the rush of wind. “What the hell is going on?”
He was holding his camo hat to his head, a look of wonderment on his face. “I don’t know, Nugget. Never seen a ship move this fast before.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when a team of Yellow Shirts sprinted at full speed toward the two Rhinos. The flight deck PA system blared, “Now launch the Alert-Seven fighters! Hot vector three-six-zero. Contact Strike on button three.”
Quick spun her head in disbelief, turning to confirm with Tumor. Her WSO was already cramming his head into his helmet, motioning frantically for her to do the same. As soon as her chin strap was fastened his voice bellowed into her ears. “Close the damn canopy and get those engines started, Nugget! This is a no-shitter.”
She glanced right to see her plane captain gesturing urgently to start up, then chanced a glance to her left and saw Lips creeping forward toward the Cat. A few moments later she completed her own short taxi forward as Lips and Chigga launched in a roar and a thud. Their wheels just barely left the deck when they banked to the right, turning planform over the bow in full burner. Quick felt the shuttle take tension on her launch bar and she followed the Yellow Shirt’s command to go full power. Before she could contemplate what was happening, she was flung from the Bush, turning so tightly she felt she was doing a pylon turn around the ship’s bridge, racing after Lips and Chigga just ahead of her into who knows what. She barely possessed the capacity to process the radio transmissions as Tumor checked in with Strike.
“Copy airborne, Lion Four. Rendezvous overhead Mother with Lion flight, angels two-five.”
“Tumor, what the hell’s going on?”
His answer did nothing to quell the craziness. “I know what you know, Quick. We’re joining up with Slammer and the others at twenty-five thousand, overhead the ship. Be a good wingman and join up, shut up, and follow your lead. Got it?”
She nodded, even though she knew he couldn’t see. “Yessir.” Her muscle memory took over and she pitched up pure vertical, rocketing into the clear blue sky to join the other Lions waiting overhead.
The commando endeavored to match the mad sprinting and sense of purpose of the sailors flooding the passageways as the klaxon horn and the call to general quarters repeated. He had been given no map to follow, but he knew his targets were deep below the waterline. Whenever he came
to a ladder with sailors streaming down, he followed, holding the fifty kilo sea bag at arm’s length as he stumbled down with the relentless tide of humanity shoving and jostling to reach their battle stations. The commando assumed the Qing had been detected. Which was unfortunate. But the chaos worked in his favor. He rushed lower and lower with every minute, trying his best to act like he knew where he was headed.
The CIC Officer spun his chair, addressing Ghost. “Sir, Rivet Joint reports sixteen Flankers called for taxi in Hainan.”
“Sixteen?” the Admiral repeated, incredulous. “Jesus Christ! How’re we doing?”
“We’ve got ten airborne and a dozen more manning up as we speak. We’ll be working three Cats to get them off ASAP sir. Twenty minutes max.”
They were all aware, however, that the Flankers in Hainan were just 300 nautical miles north. Once they launched, it would take but fifteen minutes to reach Bush. Time and numbers were not working in Ghost’s favor.
Ghost looked to his aide. “Anything?”
The aide shook his head. “Sir, we’ve tracked the Military Attaché down to a cocktail party at the French embassy. For Op Sec we are not calling his cell phone. They’re trying to locate and drag him to the land line.”
“I don’t give a shit about Operational Security right now son. I want the Chinese to hear every word I say to that man. Dial his cell immediately and let me know the second you have him.”
While Slammer focused on flying formation on the airborne tanker, he’d listened as HOB got a download from Strike on the tactical picture. Topped off, he and Tiny watched the tanker peel away to service the other squadron’s fighters stacked below them.
A few minutes later Lips and Quick joined the Lion flight overhead the ship at 25,000 feet. Slammer addressed them all on the Blacklion tactical frequency using the secondary radio. “Listen up Lions, Slammer is the Lead. Quick is Lion Two, Tiny is Three and Lips you got Four. Check in now; Lion One.”
Quick checked in immediately and the others followed in rapid succession.
“Roger that,” Slammer acknowledged. “Loose cruise while we monitor the situation. One of our helos picked up a Chinese sub near Bush and started tracking it with sonar. Apparently, that pissed off some folks back in the Motherland and now we’ve got word there’s Flankers taxiing to launch in Hainan to join the party. Don’t know yet how many. We’ve got a bunch of Shrikes, Valions and Tomcatters trying to get off the deck to join those already airborne. Check in with call sign to acknowledge.”
He released his thumb from the mic switch to hear “Two…Three…Four.”
“Lion flight,” Banger interrupted on the primary radio. “Alpha Whiskey directs you to proceed three-six-zero, one-hundred to establish CAP.”
“Lions copy,” Slammer answered. They were being moved a hundred miles north of Bush as the first layer of protection. He grinned behind his mask, keying the intercom to speak with HOB. “Sure as shit better than letting Tiny beat up on us, isn’t it?”
“Hell yes!” his WSO responded. “What’s going down?”
“Just a bunch of guys trying to show who’s got a bigger dick. Happens all the time. They launch a couple jets, we intercept. We all parade by the ship together, wave at each other, and everybody goes home to tell how awesome they were.”
He looked out the cockpit to his left and right as he leveled the wings heading north, ensuring his three wingmen were on board. This cruise had sure as hell gotten interesting in a hurry. A wave of sorrow pierced the adrenaline rush and it took him a moment to identify its source. JT. Jesus he missed JT right now.
The commando’s progress slowed dramatically. Shortly after a second and third series of announcements had been made, each compartment’s watertight doors had been slammed closed, their handles dogged hard to secure them. The commando was able to unlatch two of them and scurry through while the nearby sailors removed their fire fighting and emergency equipment from storage lockers. But by the time he breached the third hatch, all the personnel were outfitted in their gear, poised for any catastrophe. With each passing moment, his transit though their spaces in regular uniform became increasingly conspicuous.
But he had spotted the international symbol for radiation posted on a bulkhead. He was close. He felt the ship shudder with three distinct thuds as three more fighters were launched.
The commando ignored the men and women adjusting their clear face masks into position as he strode to the fourth hatch. As he raised the bar to open it, one of the men started yelling at him and he discerned “Lee,” the name on his uniform, amid the strange sounds. But he couldn’t understand the rest of the exhortation, so he ignored it, sweeping through the hatch. As he turned to close it, he saw the sailor speak into a radio. He did not have much time.
Back in the air, Slammer brought his flight of four up to 35,000 feet as they transited north to their CAP. Every thirty seconds Banger would update with the same transmission: “Lions, Banger, picture clear.”
Five minutes in, Slammer asked the status of the other fighters launching from the Bush.
“Three airborne, three more taxing to the Cats. There should be sixteen to play within a few minutes,” Banger replied.
Seconds later, Banger came back. “Lions, new picture. Single gorilla group CAPing, north, two-hundred fifty miles. Rivet Joint passes sixteen Flankers launching, currently rendezvousing overhead the field at Hainan.”
Christ! This was not the normal scenario at all. Sixteen Flankers was massive. The jolly picture of joining with a pair of Flankers for pictures and formation flying quickly morphed into something entirely less charming. He’d never been in the air with this many fighters before.
He keyed the intercom to speak to HOB. “Sure hope they launch those other fighters soon. This is turning into a huge shit-storm fast.”
He shook his head, thinking of Quick and HOB. A month ago they were just finishing up training in Virginia Beach. Now they were snuggled into explosive ejection seats, carrying live missiles, flying six miles above the South China Sea. And there was a massive wave of the most advanced enemy fighters gathering like an apocalyptic storm just a few minutes from their position.
His four Rhinos were alone and unafraid a hundred miles from Bush, who herself was naked and vulnerable, separated from her normal blockade of picket ships by the high speed dash out of Singapore. As usual, the politicians had painted them into a corner and it was up to those at the tip of the spear to sort the crap out.
Quick felt as though she were having an out-of-body experience, hovering over her cockpit. From a safe distance she observed herself manipulating the controls of the Super Hornet. She watched herself flick switches and push buttons, checking the status of all the sophisticated equipment and weapons. She heard herself confer with Tumor, both of them agreeing the jet was full up, all systems go, properly configured for…for, for whatever came next.
She had caught up to the tactical picture, assimilating the radio status updates as she flew a comfortable formation on Slammer’s right wing. But a huge part of her consciousness was having trouble accepting this was actually happening, that it wasn’t some complicated simulation.
Banger refreshed the picture she was slowly painting in her mind. “Lions, Alpha Whiskey is pushing the Shrikes, Valions, and Tomcatters to CAP abeam your positions. We’re setting up a wall, twenty miles between CAPs. Lions in the middle. Lion One, Slammer, you’re overall Mission Commander.”
“Lion One copies all. Understand we have all fighters airborne?”
“Negative Lion. Three to launch. They’ll join on CAP.”
“They’d better hurry the fuck up,” Tumor said across the intercom. He didn’t sound any more irascible than he did poaching in the sun on deck. She found that strangely comforting.
“Say weapons status?” Slammer transmitted.
There was a pause before Banger responded, “Alpha Whiskey confirms weapons status remains Yellow and Tight.”
She could hear the frustration
in Slammer’s reply as he acknowledged, “Copy, Yellow and Tight.” They could shoot only if shot at first.
Tumor spoke from the rear cockpit again. “Keep the Master Arm down, Quick. But don’t forget where it is. Intercept and escort. Same as we trained, except nobody’s shooting anyone. Got it?”
“Got it,” she answered. Her mind played the scenario of her flying escort formation off the wing of a Chinese Flanker over and over. Just seeing a foreign fighter from a few feet away would be the biggest thrill of her life.
The commando heard more shouts from behind the hatch he had just passed through. Surely he was being tracked by security personnel now; they would be on him within minutes. At this point they must think he was a wayward sailor refusing to report to his battle station, but if they cornered him carrying his bag, the whole mission would be a complete failure. He didn’t know where he was in relation to the reactors, but he must be close. His explosives would be sufficient to do massive damage even if he was unable to position them adjacent to the core.
He turned a corner and spotted a ladder heading up. He shrugged the bag off his shoulders, leaned it against a corner, and scrambled up the ladder as the handle to the hatch behind him lifted. He deftly unscrewed the tiny circular handle protecting the top of the ladder like an old fashioned submarine hatch, then heaved it open and lifted himself through. Once his feet hit the metal deck he slammed the hatch shut and spun the handle. He could hear his pursuers’ feet stomping up the ladder just below.
Lions of the Sky Page 29
