Empire Rising

by Rick Campbell

  The subway emptied into a parking lot abutting a two-lane road leading away from the station. The two couples in front of Christine continued toward one of the cars, while Peng and Christine turned right toward a passenger drop-off and pick-up area. From the corner of her eye as they made the turn, Christine noticed someone following about a hundred feet behind them. She squeezed Peng’s hand.

  “I know,” Peng said. “He was on the platform waiting for the train.”

  Christine stared ahead as they walked, fighting the urge to turn and get a better look at the man following them. Her brief glimpse had captured few details—a Chinese man of medium height and build wearing a black leather jacket over blue jeans.

  Peng quickened his pace, which Christine matched, and during a subsequent turn to the right, Christine noticed the man was the same distance behind them, matching their pace exactly. As they headed down the final stretch of sidewalk, a black sedan turned the far left corner of the parking lot, speeding toward the pick-up area.

  Peng spoke firmly. “When I say, run to the car. Understand?”

  Christine nodded, then glanced behind her again. The man was speaking into the sleeve of his jacket. When he spotted the approaching sedan, he began sprinting toward them, pulling a pistol from inside his jacket.

  “Run!” Peng shouted as he spun around, pulling his pistol from inside his jacket.

  Christine broke into a sprint as the black sedan squealed to a halt at the pick-up area. Two shots echoed in the darkness and Christine felt a sting in her right arm. Her upper body twisted to the left and she lost her balance, tripping and falling onto the pavement. She hit the sidewalk hard, rolling to a stop a few feet later. Peng was suddenly there, dragging her to her feet as a second black car turned the corner of the parking lot. Its blue-tinted headlights switched to high beam as the car bore down on them. Christine resumed her sprint toward the waiting sedan, glancing briefly behind her. The man who had been following them was sprawled facedown on the sidewalk.

  Peng reached the car first, opening the rear door. Christine dove inside and Peng jumped in after her, the tires squealing as the sedan sped away with the door still open. The door slammed shut as the sedan took a hard right, followed by an immediate left.

  Christine buckled her seat belt as the car took another hard right, turning onto a highway entrance ramp. Her body pressed against the car door as they sped up the curving ramp. The car’s trajectory straightened and she sank into her seat as the sedan accelerated. Over the driver’s shoulder, she noticed the speedometer passing two hundred kilometers per hour and climbing.

  They were speeding along a three-lane expressway suspended above the water, a causeway connected to a shoreline glowing in the distance. Atop the concrete barriers on both sides of the expressway, lamp poles bathed the causeway in yellow light, reflecting off the water’s black surface. Behind them, a car’s blue-tinted headlights were soon joined by an identical pair.

  The headlights disappeared frequently as Christine’s car weaved in and out of traffic, but it didn’t take long to realize the blue lights were gaining on them. Peng spoke to the driver in Chinese, his words short and strained, then turned to Christine, his eyes dropping to her arm. It wasn’t until then that she remembered the sting that had caused her to trip and fall. Following Peng’s eyes, she noticed the right sleeve of her tan sweater was stained dark red.

  There was a hole in the sweater and Peng ripped a tear into the sleeve to get a better look. Blood was oozing from a bullet hole in her arm. Peng glanced around the back of the sedan and surveyed her clothing, searching for something he could use as a tourniquet. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything he could use or tear into a suitable bandage.

  “We’ll take care of it once we reach the transfer point.” He continued talking in Chinese to no one in particular. With two cars in pursuit only seconds behind, Christine wondered how they would make a successful transfer, whatever that entailed.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked.

  Peng turned and pointed toward a bright group of lights on the approaching shoreline. “Kiev.”

  His answer confused her. Kiev was the capital of Ukraine. Yet he had pointed to the coast not far away. Straining her eyes, she noticed an object illuminated under the bright lights. Slowly, the silhouette of a ship formed.

  An aircraft carrier!

  An aircraft carrier was tied up along China’s coast. She was about to ask Peng to explain when their car sped beneath a green traffic sign. Beneath the Chinese symbols, the English translation announced the exit for the Binhai Aircraft Carrier Theme Park, and the answer became clear.

  The aircraft carrier looming in the distance was the Kiev. After the fall of the Soviet Union, China had purchased the Kiev and her sister ship Minsk, both carriers rusting alongside their piers. CIA analysts initially thought the Kiev and Minsk would be refurbished and enter service in the PLA Navy, but the two carriers were instead turned into tourist attractions. In the distance, Christine could see jet fighters on the deck of the carrier, static displays instead of functioning aircraft.

  There was a loud pop and a bullet hole appeared in the back windshield, a dozen cracks spidering outward from the small hole. Two more holes appeared and a second later the windshield shattered into a thousand pieces, the glass ricocheting inside the back of the sedan. Peng pushed Christine’s head down and yelled, “Stay down.” He turned and aimed out the back window, firing off three quick rounds.

  Christine clamped her left hand over the bullet hole in her right arm, listening to the terse conversation between Peng and the driver between shots. The left window shattered beside her. The cars behind were gaining on them. Christine looked up as they passed beneath a sign announcing the fare for the expressway. Peering over the driver’s shoulder, she spotted an eight-lane toll plaza spanning the expressway. They were traveling at 220 kilometers per hour, barreling toward toll lanes barely three meters wide, separated by concrete barriers painted with yellow and black stripes.

  They weren’t slowing down. Christine dropped her head as Peng swung his arm over her, shooting out the side window now instead of the back. Her eyes met Peng’s for a split second as he ducked down, dropped an empty magazine from his pistol, and inserted another. He chambered a round and sat back up as he yelled to the driver.

  Christine jerked forward against her seat belt as the driver hit the brakes, followed a second later by a jarring veer to the left. There was a loud crunch accompanied by a metallic screech, and Peng ducked down again, holding his hand up and firing out the side window into the car that was crunched up against theirs. Christine saw the tollbooth flash past them as their car passed through, creating a shower of orange sparks as the side of their car scraped the concrete barrier. At the same time, an explosion rocked their sedan, illuminating the night sky a reddish orange hue.

  Christine peered out the back window as a fireball billowed upward from the toll booth, and chunks of metal and concrete bounced down the expressway after them. The other car had impaled itself on one of the concrete barriers between the toll lanes. Christine breathed a sigh of relief, cut short as the second car emerged from beneath the fireball, rocketing through one of the toll lanes.

  Peng pushed Christine’s head back down and resumed firing through the back window as incoming bullets pinged off their car’s metal frame and thudded into upholstery. Christine felt the car begin to slow and she looked up, wondering if they were approaching the exit to the Binhai Aircraft Carrier Theme Park. She noticed a hole through the headrest of the seat in front of her. Their driver was slumped over the steering wheel, blood oozing from the back of his head.

  In less than a second, several things went through Christine’s mind. The first was that they were still traveling over two hundred kilometers per hour. The second was the gradual drift of the car across the three-lane highway toward the right side of the road. The third was the realization that either she or Peng would have to jump into the front of the speeding se
dan and take control of the car.

  Christine turned to Peng as he continued firing out the back window. “The driver’s been shot!”

  Peng fired off another round at the car behind them, which was gaining steadily.

  “What?” he yelled as he turned his head toward Christine.

  But before she could reply, her face was splattered with warm blood. Peng’s head jerked forward and blood started pouring out the left side of his head. It seemed as if time slowed down for the next few seconds; Peng’s face went slack and his eyes turned vacant, then he slumped forward into her lap, blood pulsing from his head onto her slacks.

  It was suddenly clear which one of them would have to jump into the front seat. But just when she thought the situation couldn’t get worse, the driver slid off the steering wheel, pulling it clockwise as he fell toward the center of the vehicle. The car careened sharply to the right, directly toward the concrete barrier along the side of the road.

  Her car would impact the barrier in only a few seconds, insufficient time for her to climb into the front seat, or even undo her seat belt and reach forward to grab the steering wheel. She barely had time to brace for impact.

  Christine jolted forward as the car crashed into the concrete barrier. The sharp sound of cracking concrete and crumpling metal filled her ears, ending a second later; it turned peacefully quiet and it felt as if she were floating in air. The front of the sedan tilted downward, then plunged into the dark lagoon surrounding the aircraft carrier Kiev, moored a hundred yards on her left.

  The car sank into the lagoon, tilted down at a thirty-degree angle. Cold black water began pouring into the car through the broken side and back windows. Christine took one last breath as her head sank beneath the water’s surface.

  Looking around through murky water with her hair suspended beside her face, she could barely see as she sank toward the bottom of the lagoon. But she didn’t need to see; she could feel her way out of the sedan and swim to the surface. She fumbled for the seat belt release, finally locating it. But it wouldn’t unlatch, no matter how hard she pressed it. Guessing it was the weight of her body due to the downward slant of the car, she pushed against the front seat with her legs, sliding her body back into the seat, easing the strain on her seat belt. She pressed again firmly, but the latch still wouldn’t release.

  Christine’s desperation mounted. She couldn’t hold her breath for much longer. She gave one final shove with her legs, pressing her body back against her seat, then pressed down on the seat belt release with all her strength. But it still didn’t unlatch.

  As she looked up toward the blue-tinted light shimmering on the water’s surface, she became light-headed. The loss of blood and the sudden exertion, combined with the depleting oxygen in her lungs, had taken its toll. As her thoughts faded into darkness, she saw a bright flash of metal and felt strong hands slipping under her shoulders.

  19

  USS NIMITZ

  Night was retreating across the Pacific as Captain Alex Harrow stood on the Bridge of his aircraft carrier, supervising preparations for flight operations. Pointed into the brisk thirty-knot wind, USS Nimitz surged west into the darkness, plowing through ten-foot waves. Fifty feet below, a myriad of colored lights illuminated the Flight Deck, as the last of the first four F/A-18 Hornet fighter jets, its engine exhausts glowing red, eased toward its catapult. Along the sides of the carrier, additional Hornets were being raised to the Flight Deck from the Hangar below. As the twenty aircraft in Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle prepared for launch, Harrow knew that twenty miles to the north, George Washington’s air wing was doing the same.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Leland Gwenn pushed forward on the throttles, easing his single-seat F/A-18C toward the carrier’s bow. In the darkness, he watched the Director’s yellow flashlights guide him toward the next stage of preparation for launch—the Director lifted his hands over his head, then pointed toward the Shooter.

  The Shooter, also wielding yellow flashlights, continued guiding Leland forward, finally raising his right arm, flexed at the elbow, dropping it suddenly. Leland responded by dropping the Hornet’s Launch Bar, which rolled into the CAT Two shuttle hook as the aircraft lurched to a halt. The Launch Petty Officer disappeared under Leland’s jet, verifying the Launch Bar was properly engaged, and a moment later the Shooter raised both hands in the air. Leland matched the Shooter’s motion, raising both hands to within view inside the cockpit, giving the Shooter assurance Leland’s hands were off all controls. The Shooter pointed his flashlight to a red-shirted Ordie—an Aviation Ordnanceman—who took his cue and stepped beneath the Hornet, arming each bomb and missile.

  As Lieutenant Leland Gwenn—call sign Vandal—waited for the Ordie to complete his task, he thought about that fateful day, eleven years ago. He was only seventeen, having just pled guilty to managing a ring of teenage car thieves. Standing before Judge Alice Loweecey, he was more jubilant than remorseful; his lawyer had informed him a deal had been struck that would allow him to avoid jail time.

  Judge Loweecey had studied the documents before her in silence before lifting her eyes to the heavily tattooed teenager standing before her. Pushing her wire-rimmed glasses high onto the bridge of her nose, she cleared her throat and announced the decision that changed Leland’s life. It was either three years in jail or three years in the Navy.

  Fortunately, the Navy was exactly what he needed, levying a heavy dose of discipline and responsibility onto his young shoulders. He matured rapidly, eventually regretting his youthful indiscretions. After receiving his high school GED and impressing his Navy superiors, he enrolled in the University of Maryland as a Midshipman, with guaranteed acceptance into the Navy’s flight school in Pensacola following graduation. He received his commission as an officer in the United States Navy, and eighteen months later earned his wings, also earning the well-deserved call sign of Vandal.

  A loud roar to Vandal’s right caught his attention as his wingman—Lieutenant Liz Michalski—in the F/A-18C on the starboard bow catapult streaked forward, her engines glowing white-hot as CAT One fired. Michalski’s jet disappeared below the carrier’s bow, reappearing a second later as it climbed in altitude, the glowing twin-engine exhaust growing smaller as it ascended. She would wait in a holding pattern for Vandal and the rest of Air Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle.

  A signal from the Shooter told Vandal his weapons were armed and it was time to go to full power. Vandal pushed the throttles forward until they hit the détente, spooling his twin General Electric turbofan engines up to full Military Power. As he confirmed the engines were at one hundred percent RPM and fuel flow, he knew that beneath the Flight Deck, steam was being ported behind CAT Two’s massive piston, putting the catapult in tension. He then exercised each of the Hornet’s control surfaces, moving the control stick to all four corners as he alternately pressed both rudder pedals. Black-and-white-shirted Troubleshooters verified the Hornet’s control surfaces were functioning properly and there were no oil or fuel leaks. Both men gave a thumbs-up and the Shooter turned toward Vandal, relaying the results of the inspection.

  Satisfied his Hornet was functioning properly, Vandal returned the thumbs-up and the Shooter lifted his arm skyward, then back down to a horizontal position, directing Vandal to kick in the afterburners. Vandal’s Hornet was unusually heavy tonight, with twin fuel tanks—one on each wing—and ordnance attached to every other pylon; tonight’s takeoff required extra thrust. Vandal pushed the throttles past the détente to engage the afterburners, then turned toward the Shooter and saluted, the glow from his cockpit instruments illuminating his hand as it went to his helmet.

  The Shooter returned the salute, then bent down and touched the Flight Deck, giving the signal to the operator in the Catapult Control Station. Vandal pushed his head firmly against the headrest of his seat and took his hands off the controls, and a second later CAT Two fired with the usual spine-jarring jolt. He felt his stomach lifting into his chest as the Hornet dropped when
it left the carrier’s deck. Vandal took control of his Hornet, accelerating upward.

  As the seat pressed into him during the ascent, Vandal scanned the instruments in his cockpit. Michalski was in a holding pattern at twelve thousand feet. With a nudge of his control stick to the right, Vandal adjusted the trajectory of his climb, angling toward his wingman. A few moments later, he pulled up next to Liz Michalski, call sign Phoenix, who was stationed behind an F/A-18E configured as a tanker, topping off her fuel tanks. All the fighters in Air Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle were heavy, consuming over one thousand pounds of fuel during their launch and climb to twelve thousand feet, and would top off their tanks before heading west. Vandal settled in fifteen feet away on Phoenix’s nine o’clock position, waiting his turn behind the tanker while USS Nimitz completed launching its first cycle.

  20

  NINGBO, CHINA

  Inside the East Sea Fleet command center, with six rows of consoles stretching into the distance, the lights were dim, imparting a feeling of twilight throughout the facility. The blue glow from the consoles illuminated the faces of the men and women manning them, while multicolored symbols appeared on flat screen displays crowding the walls, the blinking icons superimposed on electronic maps of the Western Pacific. At the back of the command center, Fleet Admiral Tsou Deshi studied the displays, monitoring the progress of their assault on Taipei. The first phase of the naval battle had gone exactly as planned, eliminating the American submarines stationed along the Chinese coast. However, as America prepared to engage with their powerful aircraft carriers, the success of the next phase hinged on the performance of the PLA Air Force.

  The People’s Liberation Army Air Force was the third largest in the world, second only to the United States and Russia, fielding over 1,600 aircraft, with just over a thousand being fourth-generation jets. The PLA had overwhelmed the much smaller ROC Air Force and destroyed their land-based air defenses, gaining complete control of the skies. But now, as Admiral Tsou studied the three waves of blue symbols marching toward Chinese Taipei, he knew the true battle for air dominance was about to begin.