Man of Honor

by Chris Malburg

  “We’re sitting ducks even when I get us in the water,” Helen yelled as the Mallard rolled toward the entry ramp.

  “Stop the plane!” Jack called over the engine roar.

  The Mallard seaplane’s side cargo hatch opened facing the oncoming Dongfengs. It was the PLA’s newest kill-machine with a turret on the roof for a big fat machine gun or rocket-propelled grenade launcher. The PLA entered the dock area with machine guns blazing.

  Jack heard the pfffttt of Helen’s rifle; except, this time, it was Crypto behind the scope. A hole opened in the driver’s side windshield of the lead vehicle. It swerved off track and ran toward the open dock then launched off into the harbor.

  Crypto held up a finger—one down then placed his eye back into the riflescope.

  Jack was back at the side hatch. He swung the machinegun around at the three remaining vehicles. The RPG launcher attached to one turret exploded under his withering armor-piercing fire. That was the real threat, Jack thought. The rest will be just small arms fire. Bad enough, but not sufficient to stop us.

  “Smitty,” Jack called over the din, “shall we take a walk?” His gesture was one that over the years of their partnership didn’t need explaining: One finger pointed at Smitty, then his thumb jerked back at himself. Finally, an emphatic pumping of his arm at the ground.

  “Yes, let’s,” Smitty said. Both men jumped down from the open hatch. Smitty led the way. Jack slung the heavy .50 caliber over his back and grabbed his own M4. They vanished behind the warehouse on a path toward the now stopped PLA trucks.

  “What were you talking to Hoffman about, Boss?” Smitty asked over the com link as they slipped into the cover of stacked shipping containers ready for loading.

  Jack listened as the others in the Mallard continued to occupy the hostile’s attention with well-placed shots. “It’s such bullshit. Hoffman says Rizzuto was the best Yankee shortstop ever. Everyone knows it was and always will be Derek Jeter.”

  It didn’t take more than two minutes for Jack and Smitty to get into position. Now, they had the PLA in a vise. Fire from the Mallard kept the PLA pinned down and immobile.

  “Don’t know about that, Boss. Rizzuto was MVP in 1950 and played in five All-Star games. Contributed to seven Yankee World Series championships.”

  Jack opened up with the machine gun. Its uranium-depleted armor piercing rounds shredded the closest Dongfeng’s outer sheet metal. He hosed the military light transport vehicle. One of the hot rounds pierced the gas tank. The small truck blew apart, scattering metal and body parts all around it.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jack said. “But Jeter was a 14-time All-Star. He won five Golden Gloves, five Silver Sluggers, two Gibbies, and two Hank Aarons. It’s Jeter, for sure.” Jack looked around the containers. “Okay, shipmate, let’s end this before someone gets hurt. We got a plane to catch.”

  Immediately, Jack shifted his attention to the last Dongfeng, the sole survivor. Another salvo from Jack and it blew apart too. The entire shipyard complex was again silent except for the sound of the burning trucks and the Mallard’s still-running engines.

  Jack and Smitty walked back toward the Mallard. Jack didn’t much like combat. Truth was, he hated it. Sometimes, fate turns the crank and makes it unavoidable. These guys were just following orders. Probably convinced we were here to attack their way of life.

  “Hey Jack,” Hoffman called back from the cockpit, “make sure everyone’s buckled in and the side hatches are secured. Then come on up here, please.”

  “You might want to grab the jump seat,” Hoffman said to Jack, now standing in the cockpit doorway. “Water’s dead calm, like glass.”

  Jack had just clipped into his seatbelt when he saw Helen shove the throttles forward an inch. The Mallard left the solid concrete ramp and floated freely, bobbing in the water. He noticed Helen didn’t need to be told what came next. Then the acceleration pressed him back into the jump seat.

  Water splashed over the side windows and onto the windshield. Helen didn’t waste any time finding an open stretch of water to use as a runway. “Hang on, everyone,” she said. “We’re heading into a stiff breeze.”

  The Mallard’s engines roared as she gained speed. Jack felt the bumpy ride even on the flat water. Like being in a speedboat with wings, he thought. Then everything seemed to calm down.

  “Just hit our inversion point,” Hoffman called. “We’ve got enough speed so the Mallard’s hull is raised up out of the water. Like a powerboat on a plane along the surface. Do not let up on the throttles, Helen…good…start the porpoise thing we discussed…now.”

  Then Jack watched as Helen pulled back on the control yoke. The nose rose just off the water. Then she pushed the yoke forward and the nose slapped back into the water. What’s she doing? wondered Jack. Isn’t the object to go up, not down? Rise up, slap back down. Rise. Slap. All the while the increasing acceleration compressed the seat against Jack’s back.

  The takeoff had Helen’s complete attention. Hoffman shouted over the din of the engine’s roar and the water sluicing by, “Flat calm water is the Mallard’s enemy. It’s called stiction. Holds the hull on the water. Porpoising breaks the water adhesion. Here we go.”

  This time, the nose rose and the hull broke free of the water. The Mallard seaplane accelerated like it had just dropped a lead weight. Into the night sky, Helen flew them in her first ever seaplane launch. Jack let out a relieved breath but kept his eye out for the telltale gray trails of any SAM missiles that might be coming after them. One leg of the journey down. How many more to go?

  * * *

  Chapter 34

  “Where is he now?” the Chairman of the Central Military Commission demanded. Finally, he had escaped the confines of his office in Zhongnanhai. The old exhilaration of being with his men on the front lines of the People’s battle coursed through his body. His hands tingled. His mind was hyper aware. His well-worn camouflaged battle dress utilities replaced his General’s uniform. A pristinely maintained Norinco Type 92 pistol rested comfortably in its worn holster strapped to his leg.

  “Sir, our radar reports Li Yong’s last position as fifty miles off the Chinese coast over the Yellow Sea.”

  The Chairman stood on the dock. The shadow of the Princess Fantasy loomed over him. He inspected the wreckage of his troop’s vehicles further down the battleground.

  “In a seaplane they reported?” the Chairman growled.

  “It seems so, sir. Where Li Yong’s abductors obtained such an aircraft remains a mystery.”

  The Chairman unrolled the map he had brought from Zhongnanhai and placed it on the warm hood of his own vehicle. He studied China’s coastline and the territories beyond. He raised a hand and extended his first finger. He drew a line from Tianjin harbor, straight across the Yellow Sea until it hit the nearest landmass. “Li Yong and his parents are escaping to South Korea. It is the only move that accomplishes his traitorous mission.”

  “Sir?”

  The Chairman of the Central Military Commission turned away from his map to face his chief of staff. “Li Yong is going to the United States from one of the American air bases in South Korea. Only America has sufficient computer resources for Li Yong to dismantle the coming attacks.”

  “So…the Americans kidnapped Li Yong and his parents?” the chief asked.

  The Chairman stared at the man’s naiveté. But instead of rebuking the man he saw justification for the military intervention he so badly wanted. “Yes…yes. Of course, that must be what happened. Li Yong and his parents would never leave our worker’s paradise voluntarily. He is the most valuable member of the PLA. It is Li Yong who designed the computer attack plans and launched the first wave of test firings.” The Chairman nodded his head. “Yes. That’s right. Li Yong understands his peril. Like every PLA officer who falls into enemy hands, he knows to place the People’s well-being ahead of his own. If he cannot take his own life for some reason, then he will welcome an attack on his kidnappers from his own PLA comrades.�
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  Even as he said the words, the Chairman felt his stomach clench tight. Why had he believed Li Yong that a pause in the automatic launch sequence was a good idea? A statesmanlike pause, the computer genius had pleaded. A small stumble, the Chairman now realized. But a stumble nevertheless. With Li Yong out of control, the risk has increased. Even so, stopping the attacks is a long shot even for Li Yong.

  “Of course sir. Li Yong must not suffer the humiliation of being taken alive by the Americans. Perhaps, even being made to work for them. Even if it means giving his life for the Motherland’s well-being—”

  “Especially, giving his life.”

  “Make contact with our agents in the United States.” The Chairman gave detailed instructions on how they should discover just where Li Yong was being taken and how they were to abduct him. “Failing that, just shoot him.”

  * * *

  Chapter 35

  “We’re headed to South Korea,” Hoffman told Jack from the right-hand pilot’s seat.

  Jack noticed from the jump seat Helen’s quick familiarity with the cockpit. Autopilot was on. She sat comfortably slouched in her seat, hands idly folded in her lap. But eyes always scanning the instrument panel then out through the windshield and back. “Does the Mallard have that kind of range?” Jack glanced over the instruments, found the altimeter. 7,000 feet. “Taking off out of that harbor must have used a lot of fuel.”

  “Coming out of Tianjin airspace on the coast I kept way low,” Helen said. “Beneath the radar ceiling to blend with the ground contour. When we reached the Yellow Sea, I climbed. Now, at this altitude, we max out our cruising range―”

  “About 600 nautical miles from where we were on the Chinese mainland to Seoul,” Hoffman said. “We should make it so long as we don’t have to dive down into the thick air.”

  Out the cockpit windshield, it was a calm night. The Yellow Sea below them reflected the full moon, lighting up the area. The compass heading showed a south-west direction bearing 220 degrees. “So we’re heading to Osan Air Base,” Jack said.

  “You know your Korean Peninsula,” Hoffman replied.

  “Been there once or twice. Osan is the home of the 51st Air Wing.”

  “Special Activities Division leaves nothing to chance on our assignments.”

  US-protected territory in an hour or so. Jack felt his shoulders relax from their hunched position. “Once we land, then what?”

  “It’s a direct shot from Osan to JFK airport in New York,” Hoffman said.

  “Once we land in New York, Li Yong will have precious little time to stop the next attacks—”

  “Gentlemen,” Diego Garcia—the former short order cook—stood at the cockpit threshold. “Anyone hungry? Seems whoever prepped the plane for us included provisions. I have tuna on whole wheat, peanut butter and jelly on sourdough, and turkey with Swiss on brioche buns.”

  Jack took a tuna sandwich and sipped a Gatorade while watching the moon reflect on the Yellow Sea. The sturdy and faithful Mallard flew on to Osan. The air was smooth and the autopilot kept the plane steady on course. Something stuck in the back of Jack’s mind. Was this too easy? How could that be? So many of the PLA died tonight. And we shot up the Chinese’ brand new cruise ship just when it was all loaded up and ready for its maiden voyage. They’re pissed, that’s for sure. Humiliated, more like it. He took a bite, then another sip. But the Chinese still hold all the cards. Less than four days from now, their next salvo of computer attacks launch. These won’t just be test firings.

  Then, from the dark, northern sky came two gray streaks with tails of fire. They overtook the Mallard then disappeared in the distance in less than two seconds. Leaving only the roar of their engines. “Holy shit,” Helen exclaimed. “What was that?”

  “Hard to tell at that speed,” Hoffman said. “Could be the Shenyang J-15 Flying Shark coming from the Chinese mainland.”

  “Where’d they go?” Jack asked, peering out of the cockpit windows.

  Hoffman gave a quick shrug. “By now, they’re five miles out and making a turn to come back. They’re doing way over Mach 1, easily 650 miles per hour at this altitude. The Mallard cruises at just 190. We’re sitting ducks.”

  “You think they mean to shoot us down?” Helen asked, flipping the toggle of the autopilot to off and grabbing the control yoke.

  “Affirmative. They don’t give a shit about keeping our precious cargo alive.”

  That’s our responsibility, thought Jack. Then out of the night sky, the two Chinese jets streaked across the Mallard’s nose, not more than fifty feet away. One second they weren’t there. The next second the jets filled the windscreen. Then they were completely gone. All in less than two seconds. Jack tugged at his seatbelt. The roar of the Chinese jet engines and the turbulence made the seaplane yaw left then right; nose up then down. Jack felt his stomach turn over on itself as the Mallard plunged toward the ocean. Helen struggled with the yoke. She worked quickly, expertly using the elevators in the tail and the ailerons in the wings to regain control. Finally, she leveled out the Mallard just 1500 feet above the waves.

  Jack could see the whitecaps on this otherwise calm night. “They’re turning. I can see the fire from their engines. This run won’t be just to annoy us.” He saw Helen push the yoke forward. Immediately, the Mallard dove toward the ocean again. “What’re you doing, hon?”

  “I’m using the one resource those Flying Sharks don’t have. We’re going to the Mallard’s natural habitat. See that little island at 10:00 o’clock off our nose? I figure we can skim the little waves and maybe get lost in their radar backscatter. When we get close enough to the island, with Hoffman’s help I’ll land and bury us in a small cove where those fast moving jets haven’t a prayer of finding us.”

  Jack watched through the windshield as the ocean seemed to rise up to meet them. Hoffman coached Helen on just what to do. Right when Jack thought they were going to crash, Helen yanked back on the control yoke. The G-forces pulled Jack down deep into his seat and his cheeks sagged around his mouth. The Mallard pulled up to level flight. “Some maneuver, sweetie.” Now the waves outside seemed to leap up to grab the Mallard’s hull. The little seaplane bounced and bucked over the surface but Helen kept it steady. The island was dead ahead.

  “Call Osan and tell them our situation, please,” Hoffman asked Jack. “The 51st Fighter Wing probably went on alert soon as the Sharks crossed over into the Yellow Sea.”

  Jack’s situation report was military-precise, calm, and direct. He put the mic back in its holder. “Okay. They’re vectoring four F-16s from the 36th Fighter Squadron to us. Should be here in a minute, thirty. They’ll either run the Sharks off or engage them.”

  “And maybe start a shooting war,” Hoffman said. Helen lowered the flaps. The little seaplane skimmed the waves then plowed into the water. The Mallard bucked and bounced on the water. It slowed quickly.

  “Increase power,” Hoffman ordered Helen. “Let’s quickly motor toward the nearest cove. Those trees overhanging the cove should provide good cover.

  “Nicely done,” Jack said. “No Chinese jets can find us in here.”

  “Not likely,” Hoffman said.

  “Those jets are going way too fast to make out much detail on the surface,” Helen said. “Even if they know where we went, they’re going to have other issues to deal with in about twenty seconds.”

  Jack went back on the scrambled radio to Osan Air Base, giving them the Mallard’s GPS coordinates.

  It was a warm, moonlit night. Gallagher had already opened both side hatches. Fresh salt air flooded the cabin. It didn’t take long before the roar of four F-16’s pounded over the water. Jack couldn’t see what was going on that high up. Just a lot of engine roar. Then there came a bright flash in the sky. Then another. “We got us a shooting war,” he said.

  They waited, wondering whose side got hit. Then the four F-16’s came screaming by the island. They had their wingtip navigation lights on. The lead pilot knew exactly whe
re to look. He wobbled his wings as he flew by.

  “Let’s finish this flight, shall we?” Hoffman said. “Just got off the horn with that pilot. He says they’ll escort us right onto the runway at Osan.”

  The Mallard’s port side engine began its vacuum cleaner sound. The warm engine quickly caught. Then the starboard engine wound up. Helen turned the Mallard toward open water.

  “Secure those side doors back there,” Hoffman called to Gallagher. “Give her some throttle.” Helen’s command of the little seaplane was more confident on her second water takeoff. The plane steadily gained speed; the hull came out of the water giving it even more acceleration. Since there was a light chop, there was no need to do the porpoising maneuver. Helen pulled back the yoke and the nose rose off the water.

  “You catch on awfully quick,” Hoffman told Helen.

  “She’s a dream to fly. Responsive, eager to please. Kind of like a Labrador Retriever.”

  Diego Garcia came back up to the cockpit and held out a sandwich to Helen.

  “No thanks.”

  “What?” Jack asked. “You haven’t eaten anything since we left Princess Fantasy?”

  “She’s worried,” Hoffman said. He pointed to the twin fuel gauges on the cockpit dashboard. “Even with the reserve, we’ll just barely make it to Osan. And that’s if we don’t do any fancy combat maneuvering on the way. We’ll have to stay low. Can’t afford the fuel consumption climbing would take.”

  Jack held out the sandwich, insisting. “Take it, hon. No combatant refuses food. You never know when you’ll get another chance. Come on. It’s turkey and Swiss.”

  Helen ate her sandwich and drank the Gatorade Jack held out for her. The four fighter jets surrounded the little seaplane as they all flew over the Yellow Sea.

  After 20 minutes, Jack heard the port engine cough. “That’s what it sounds like?”