by Tom Clancy
* * *
Several flights of Chinese fighters took off from bases near the Taiwan Strait and headed out to meet the flight of Hornets racing over the South China Sea toward land. ROC Air Force planes flying combat patrols over Taiwan raced out to intercept them, launching AIM-120s from just south of the centerline, and then crossed it, heading into China’s side of the strait. This broke up the attack on the Marine jets, but it created a massive air-to-air battle that lasted more than an hour in the strait.
More PLAAF planes from bases in Shenzhen and Hainan flew out to meet the approaching aircraft, thinking them to be flown by ROC pilots, not by U.S. Marines. Four of the Marine jets with air-to-air munitions left the formation to engage the Chinese, launching medium-range missiles from distance and shooting down three J-5s before the Chinese even fired back.
An F/A-18 was blown out of the sky just twelve miles off the coast of Hong Kong, the victim of a J-5’s radar-guided missile, but two more J-5s were shot down by American missiles seconds later.
The remaining strike force flew on, low and fast, shooting over container ships at five hundred knots.
* * *
Four U.S. nuclear submarines had moved south of Hong Kong in the past forty-eight hours from their patrol areas in the Taiwan Strait. As the American aircraft approached Hong Kong, Tomahawk cruise missiles launched from all four subs sprang from the black water, arced into the sky, and flew toward SAM batteries along the coast.
The Tomahawks were successful, knocking out several AA launchers along the path into Victoria Harbour and beyond.
* * *
At 2:04 a.m. there were ten strike aircraft still together in a tight trail formation as they shot through Victoria Harbour in the center of Hong Kong. At an altitude of only three hundred twenty feet they passed the Peninsula hotel at five hundred miles an hour, and the roar of their twenty jet engines broke windows and woke virtually everyone asleep within a mile of the channel.
Their flight path took them through the center of Hong Kong for the simple reason that the hills to the north and the high buildings, as well as heavy sea traffic, would muddle the radar picture in China for a time, and Chinese missile defenses in Shenzhen would not be able to lock on and fire SAMs on the low aircraft until they crossed into the mainland.
But more frontline PLAAF fighters appeared on radar, sending the last two air-to-air fighters peeling off from the trail and heading to the northeast. A flight of six Su-27s engaged them over Shenzhen. Both Marine pilots scored air-to-air kills, and within ninety seconds of the fight starting, the two surviving F/A-18s that had been battling J-5s over the South China Sea joined the fray.
SAMs destroyed two Hornets over Shenzhen, but both pilots ejected safely. Two more Hornets were destroyed by air-to-air missiles; one Marine ejected, but the other pilot crashed into the side of Wutong Mountain and died.
The four Marine aircraft shot down six Chinese planes and slowed the others, putting them precious minutes behind the strike force.
The strike force of ten crossed the border to mainland China, and eight of the ten jets climbed off the deck and to ten thousand feet. Only Cheese and Trash stayed low, flying through the dark, focusing virtually all their attention on the green-hued terrain through their NVGs as it raced by below them.
* * *
Adam and Jack sat in their rented apartment in northern Guangzhou. They had been doing exactly the same thing, virtually nonstop, for the past two days: watching the China Telecom building. They had long-distance photos of K. K. Tong on his twelfth-floor balcony, as well as dozens of other personalities, many whom Ryan had been able to identify on the database on his laptop from photo-recognition software.
Jack’s call to Mary Pat Foley the day before, coming on something like his thirty-fifth try to get a satellite call through, had been the culmination of Adam’s work to hunt down the organization Zha had worked for in Hong Kong, an organization, it was clear, that was directing the attacks on America.
Since that time they continued to amass intelligence in the hopes that when Jack returned to Hong Kong and flew back to the United States, he could give it to Mary Pat and increase pressure on the Chinese government to arrest Tong or at least shame them into stopping the attacks.
Ryan had no expectations whatsoever of what was about to happen.
He was only half awake, propped in a chair by the window with the camera on a tripod in front of him and a wool blanket around him, when something caused his heavy eyelids to open. Off to the north, way beyond the China Telecom building by a mile or two, a flash of light came from rooftop level. Jack thought at first it was lightning — there had been rain on and off for days — but a second and a third flash appeared near the same area.
A low rumble made its way to him, and he sat up straighter.
More flashes, now to the northeast, and more noise, louder now.
“Yao!” he said, calling to Adam, who slept on a mat on the floor just a few feet away. The CIA man did not move at first, so Jack knelt down and shook him.
“What’s up?”
“Something’s happening. Wake up!”
Jack went back to the window and now he saw the unmistakable sight of tracer fire, anti-aircraft cannons shooting into the sky. Another flash to his north and an explosion now, and then a clear missile launch from the ground to the north.
“Oh my God!” Jack said.
“You don’t think we’re attacking, do you?” asked Yao.
Before Jack could answer, a sound like the sky being ripped apart came from behind their apartment building. It was a jet engine, or more likely a lot of jet engines, and the sky now was alive with more streaks of light.
Jack knew Mary Pat would have tried to warn him before an attack came, but he also knew that sat-phone communications were seriously degraded. He had also told her he was “about a mile” away from the building, which was an exaggeration, but he knew Mary Pat had a near-direct line of communication with his father, and he knew his dad had more important things to worry about than his son’s getting arrested in China near the nerve center of the Chinese cyberattacks.
Now it seemed America was attacking a building less than a half-mile from where Jack Ryan, Jr., was staying.
While Ryan was still trying to process the images and sound around him, Adam Yao grabbed the camera and the tripod and said, “Let’s go!”
“Go where?”
“I don’t know,” Yao said, “but we’re not staying here!”
They were prepared to bug out quickly in the event of a compromise; they had most everything in the apartment packed up in a pair of duffel bags, and Adam’s car downstairs was gassed and ready to go. Together they threw the rest of their belongings in their bags and flipped out the lights, then began rushing to the stairs.
SEVENTY-SIX
The two anti-SAM Hornets had peeled away from the four JDAM-carrying Hornets and fanned out, making themselves sitting ducks, but using their advanced electronic countermeasures and their HARMs to lock on to and destroy SAM sites as they revealed themselves.
Trash and Cheese were as low as they could possibly fly below and behind the eight other jets. They raced up the Pearl River, which went right through the center of downtown Guangzhou; they passed skyscrapers on either side of them, their wingtips sometimes not more than a hundred yards from the wall of a building. Then they broke north, turned over the city, and anti-aircraft guns began firing in their flight path. The sparkling tracers arced and whipped around the sky in front of them. Trash saw SAM launches in the distance, and he knew they were targeting the HARM Hornets above him, but he also knew if he was called in to drop his bombs, he’d have to expose himself and he’d have the worst of both worlds — the anti-air and terrain threats down here at the deck and the SAM threats a little higher.
The four strike fighters with the JDAMs came over the radio now one at a time, and announced they had no GPS signal, which was critical to guide their smart bombs all the way to impact. After ju
st a few more moments Trash heard over the radio the plaintive calls of one of these Hornet pilots; he’d been hit by a SAM and was ejecting. An anti-SAM Hornet launched on the missile battery, but more SAMs raced into the air. Another strike pilot went defensive against a missile launch; he broke out of what remained of the group as he began jinking and diving and firing chaff.
Another pilot carrying JDAMs was forced defensive, and he dropped his weapons stores so he could maneuver. This pilot’s wingman stayed in the flight, and he was the first to line up for a bomb run on the target.
He still could not get the GPS signal in his aircraft, and this told him his JDAM would be flying blind, but he could still drop it dumb and hope for the best.
He began a diving run on the target from fifteen thousand feet.
Four miles south of the China Telecom building, the Hornet was hit by anti-aircraft fire. Trash watched from his position over the river five miles to the south, as the aircraft erupted in a flash of light and then fell off to the side, its left wing tipped down toward the city, and then nosedived toward the buildings below.
Trash heard a clipped “Ejecting!” and saw the canopy fire off, and then the pilot shoot into the air.
The tracer rounds only increased ahead with the success of the shoot-down. Another strike fighter had to dump his stores and escape back to the south.
* * *
Now Trash realized it was down to him and Cheese. The remaining JDAM Hornet would never get around for another attack run before he too had to dump his weapons and exfiltrate the area now that the frenzy of SAM and AA in the sky, along with a new report of approaching bandits from the east, had turned Guangzhou into nothing more than a threshing machine for American aircraft.
Just as Trash knew that he and his flight lead were up, Cheese’s voice came over the radio.
“Magic Flight, commence attack run.”
“Magic Two-Two, roger.”
Trash and Cheese rose together to one thousand feet, switched to their bomb loadouts, and selected the mode to drop their Mark 84s nearly simultaneously. Trash knew four tons of iron bombs on a single twelve-story building would be devastating, though it would not bring it down to the ground. He just had to follow Cheese’s flight in, and together they would slam a total of eight tons of high explosives, a four-ton impact point within a four-ton impact point, and completely devastate the building.
Cheese said, “Ten seconds.”
A burst of flak right in front of Trash’s canopy caused him to jack his head back reflexively. The wings of his aircraft wiggled and he lost a few feet of altitude, but he pulled back up and leveled off just as Cheese spoke.
“Bombs away.” Cheese dropped, and a second later both of Trash’s Mark 84s separated with a clunk and the aircraft immediately felt lighter. High-drag chutes deployed from the tail section of each bomb, slowing them and allowing the Hornets to separate to a safe distance before detonation.
Trash raced away from the impending frag pattern.
He saw ahead of him the glowing jet engines of Cheese’s Hornet bank hard to the left and head for the deck, trying to put distance between himself and the explosion to come.
A flash to the north caught his attention. “Missile launch!” he said.
Cheese said, “Magic Two-One is defensive! Missile tracking!”
* * *
From the parking lot of the apartment building Jack Ryan watched the dark planes race overhead. Ryan had seen no bombs drop, but almost instantly the China Telecom building a half-mile away exploded in a rolling ball of flame and smoke and debris.
A roar shook the ground under his feet, and a rolling mushroom cloud of fire and gray-black smoke rose into the air.
“Holy shit!” Jack said.
Yao screamed at him, “Get in the car, Jack!”
Jack climbed in, and Adam said, “I don’t want to be the only guy driving an American around Guangzhou right now.”
As he fired the engine, both men looked up in the sky at the soft boom of an explosion miles to the north. In the distance, a burning fighter plane tumbled toward the city.
* * *
Magic Two-One is hit!” Cheese said just moments after Trash dove his aircraft to the deck. “Flight controls not responding! I’ve got nothing!”
“Punch out, Scott!” Trash shouted.
Trash saw Cheese’s aircraft roll to the right and flip upside down, and then the nose tipped down, just eighty feet above the city.
He did not eject.
The aircraft slammed into the street, nose first, at more than four hundred miles an hour, and it broke apart in a cartwheel of disintegrating metal, glass, and composite material. An explosion of jet fuel arced behind it, swirled along with the cartwheel, and only died out when the plane rolled into a drainage culvert and foamy black water engulfed the wreckage.
“No!” Trash screamed. He had not seen an ejection or a chute; his rational mind would have told him there was no way Scott could have punched out without him seeing it, but still Trash looked up in the sky above him as he passed the wreckage at four hundred twenty knots, desperately searching the night sky for a gray canopy.
He saw nothing.
“Magic Two-Two. Magic Two-One is down, at my coordinates, I… I don’t see a chute.”
The call back from the CIC was succinct: “Roger Two-Two. Understood Magic Two-One down at your location.”
There was nothing Trash could do now for Cheese; he had to get the hell out of there. He shoved the throttle forward, past the full power detent, all the way to the max. Afterburners kicked in instantly, nearly standing the aircraft on end, and he felt his helmet pressed hard back against the headrest as his thrust increased and the twenty-five-ton jet rocketed into the night sky.
The young Marine’s eyes darted around the displays in front of him. Altitude three thousand, four thousand, five thousand. The HUD spun like a slot machine.
He checked next on his vertical moving map display. He watched Guangzhou slip slowly below his aircraft. Far too slowly for Trash’s taste. He wanted to put time, space, and altitude between himself and the scene of his action.
Six thousand feet.
At this moment all of Trash’s focus was inside the aircraft. His threat indicators were clear at the moment, other than a flight of bogeys seventy miles to his east and heading away, no doubt toward the Navy F/A-18s attacking the ships in the strait.
Seven thousand feet.
He was over the southern part of the city now.
A beep in his headset brought his attention to his HUD.
He glanced down and saw that he had been lit up by a SAM radar to the southeast. Within two seconds another radar painted him from directly below his aircraft.
“Missile launch.”
He pulled hard to the left and then the right; he went inverted over downtown Guangzhou, pulled five g’s as he leveled out and banked to the right, firing flares and chaff in a long wide arc.
It did not work. A surface-to-air missile exploded twenty-two feet from his left-side wing, sending shrapnel through the wing and fuselage.
“Magic Two-Two is hit! Magic Two-Two hit!”
His left engine fire light flicked on. It was followed instantly by an audio warning. “Master Caution,” and then an instant later, “Engine Fire Left. Engine Fire Right.”
Trash wasn’t listening to Bitching Betty anymore. His HUD flickered off and on and off again, and he struggled to take in as much data as he could read when it was on.
Another SAM was in the air. His displays and his HUD were failing, but the warning came through his headset.
Trash fought to hold the aircraft level, and he pushed the throttle forward to the detent and beyond, trying like hell to gain a little more airspeed.
His stick felt sluggish, and his throttle had no effect.
The dead F/A-18 lost all lift, the nose pitched forward, and the aircraft rolled to port. Trash looked out through the blank HUD, past the canopy glass, and he saw his entire fiel
d of view filled with the twinkling lights of a city. As the plane tumbled down through the sky, however, his view out the canopy went dark. The lights were replaced by impenetrable blackness.
Somehow, in the terror of the moment and the fight to keep his head together and do what he had to do, Trash realized his plane was corkscrewing down to earth to the south of the city where the Pearl River Delta splayed out toward the sea.
The lights of Guangzhou and its suburbs.
The darkness of the river, its tributaries, and the farmland of the delta.
“Magic Two-Two is ejecting!”
Trash quickly removed his NVGs from their bracket on his helmet and threw them to the side, then reached between his knees, grabbed the ejection control handle with both hands, and pulled up. This fired two gas impulse cartridges below him, and the gas shot through pipes throughout the cockpit and performed a variety of automatic functions. It turned on thermal batteries in the ejection seat, it pushed a piston to disconnect the emergency restraint system, it flipped internal switches to initiate the canopy jettison system, and it caused another impulse canister to fire, which pulled Trash’s shoulder harness tight against his seat, holding him into the proper position to eject safely.
The last function of the gas was to spray through the inlet of the catapult manifold valve to fire the.75-second-delay cartridge-actuated initiator housed there.
This delay cartridge released its gas, which was piped to the ejection gun initiator.
The initiator fired the ballistic latches on the canopy and the catapult, and it pushed the seat up guide rails. The movement upward caused another impulse cartridge to be exposed, and this was fired by the head of the ejection gun initiator gas.
As Trash and his seat shot up the rails, his emergency oxygen turned on, his emergency beacon switched on, and leg restraints clamped down around his shins.
Till now, Trash had been propelled up by gases, but as his seat reached the top of the guide rails the rocket motor below him fired, shooting him out of his cockpit and launching him upward more than one hundred fifty feet.