Empire Rising

by Rick Campbell

  “Shut up, Betty.”

  The F-35’s voice recognition system turned off the alarm.

  At five thousand feet, Shrek dispensed a round of chaff and yanked back on the stick. He eased off on the throttle as he monitored the g-force displayed on his touch screen, praying he didn’t pass out as his F-35 hit eight g’s. The legs of his G suit filled with air, helping to keep the blood in his head. He tightened his abdominal muscles and grunted through the turn, attempting to keep as much blood in his brain as possible.

  Shrek leveled off at a thousand feet, then banked right to get a visual. The PL-12 missile had passed through the chaff, but the chaff had done its job. The missile had stayed focused on the reflective cloud of aluminum-coated fibers, allowing Shrek’s F-35 to slip out of the missile radar’s field of view. The missile continued downward, plowing into the ocean.

  He turned his attention to the J-11. The pilot had followed Shrek down and was just now leveling off at a thousand feet, two miles behind him. Shrek didn’t have much time to think about his next maneuver, because Betty came across his headset again.

  “Missile inbound.”

  The J-11 had fired another missile, classified by Shrek’s Barracuda as another PL-12. He had only one more burst of chaff left and wanted to save it, so he tapped the glass display again, activating the F-35’s electronic jammer. He watched the missile closely to see what happened. The missile immediately adjusted course, aiming toward his jet. Shrek turned off the electronic jamming. This PL-12 variant had a home-on-jam feature.

  He checked his display. A mass of forty JH-7s was approaching fast, and Shrek decided he couldn’t afford to get tied up with this J-11 in a dogfight that could last who-knew-how long. He needed to shed this guy fast. The home-on-jam feature gave him an idea.

  Shrek banked left again, returning to his original course, putting the missile and J-11 behind him. Just as the PL-12 closed the remaining distance, Shrek dispensed his last burst of chaff and went vertical, kicking in his afterburners. The missile stayed locked on the chaff and passed through the reflective cloud. With Shrek above the chaff and climbing, the missile lost contact. The missile turned left for a few seconds, searching for its target, then right for a few more seconds. Finding nothing, the missile turned skyward.

  But Shrek had already gone inverted, turning back toward the incoming J-11. He rolled his F-35 back to a normal orientation, then checked the distance to the PL-12 and J-11. His adversary was staying close to the water, avoiding Shrek while his missile was still in play.

  Shrek activated his electronic jammer again. The PL-12 missile immediately turned in Shrek’s direction and increased speed. As the PL-12 gained on Shrek, he adjusted the trajectory of his F-35, angling down on an intercept course with the incoming J-11. The Chinese pilot realized what Shrek was doing and turned away. But Shrek adjusted course and passed barely a hundred feet above the J-11 as it continued its turn. Shrek turned his electronic jammer off as he passed above the Chinese fighter, and the PL-12 resumed using its radar-seeking head. The missile locked on to the larger radar signature of the Chinese fighter, slamming into the fuselage of the jet a second later. The J-11 morphed into a cloud of fire and shrapnel.

  Checking his display again, Shrek located the group of JH-7 fighter-bombers. They were surging through a gap in Reagan’s Combat Air Patrol six thousand feet above. The Chinese fighter-bombers were headed in at Mach 1.7 and Shrek’s F-35 was capable of only Mach 1.6. He wouldn’t be able to run them down once they got past. Shrek kicked in his afterburner, climbing quickly toward the Chinese aircraft. His Barracuda alarmed again. Not far behind, two more J-11Bs were headed his way.

  Now that Shrek was out of missiles, his only recourse was to fall in behind the JH-7s and shoot them down with his Equalizer four-barrel Gatling gun. To Shrek’s left, another F-35 and two F/A-18 Super Hornets were also falling in behind the Chinese fighter-bombers. Apparently the three aircraft were also out of missiles, as they engaged the inbound JH-7s with their guns, the interspersed red tracer rounds streaming toward the fighter-bombers. The JH-7s weaved all over the sky to avoid the cannon fire, but maintained their overall inbound track.

  Shrek checked the J-11s behind him. The two J-11s must also be out of missiles, because none were headed his way. But the J-11s were dangerously close now. He had only a few more seconds before they were a threat. Shrek steadied up behind the nearest JH-7, selected his Equalizer gun on his flight stick, then squeezed the trigger. The 25mm bullets and red tracer rounds streamed toward the Chinese aircraft, missing it just to the right. Before the pilot could react, Shrek tweaked his aim left and the tracers cut across the fuselage of the Chinese jet. The JH-7 began trailing orange flames and black smoke from its starboard engine, and seconds later the fuselage exploded. Shrek juked to the right to avoid the debris from the expanding fireball.

  Red tracer rounds passed over his canopy. The nearest J-11B was firing. Shrek juked left and right at random intervals, hoping to prevent the Chinese pilot from getting a bead on him. Although the J-11Bs were his most pressing concern, Shrek had another problem. The inbound JH-7s were approaching the range at which Reagan’s cruisers and destroyers would engage incoming aircraft with Standard missiles. This was as far as he could follow the Chinese fighter-bombers. The other three U.S. planes disengaged and turned away from the JH-7s, met by a half-dozen J-10s and J-11s in pursuit. Shrek activated his radio, contacting his strike controller on Reagan.

  “Alpha Papa, Knight One. Disengaging from incoming Hostiles. You’ve got thirty-five Leakers.”

  It was now up to the cruisers and destroyers.

  Shrek banked hard right, looking through the cockpit window at the two J-11s. Both adjusted course, angling toward him.

  * * *

  Inside Reagan’s Combat Direction Center, Captain Debbie Kent stared at the displays on the Video Wall. She had watched their Combat Air Patrol almost disintegrate under the Chinese onslaught; less than a third of their fighters remained. They had performed admirably, shooting down an impressive number of Chinese aircraft, but a significant number of Chinese fighter-bombers made it through. As Kent counted the number of inbound aircraft on the display, she realized they weren’t dealing with Leakers. It was a flood. Between the three streams of contacts headed toward Reagan and her escorts, there were over one hundred inbound Hostiles.

  Now that the Chinese aircraft had penetrated Reagan’s Combat Air Patrol, the cruisers and destroyers would take over. Kent would be a bystander for this phase, watching as Reagan’s escorts engaged with Standard SM-2 and SM-6 missiles. There were so many contacts that they would have to turn things over to the computers aboard their ships. The Air Warfare Commander aboard USS Chosin reached the same conclusion.

  “All units, this is Alpha Whiskey. Shift Aegis Warfare Systems to auto. You are Weapons Free.”

  Kent watched as the computers aboard the two cruisers and four destroyers began automatically “hooking” contacts, assigning them to missiles in the ships’ vertical launchers. The Aegis computers worked together, communicating with each other so that no ship targeted the same contact. Missiles began streaking skyward from the six ships.

  As the missiles headed toward the incoming Chinese aircraft, the number of contacts on Kent’s display began to multiply. In a few seconds, the original one hundred contacts had morphed into over five hundred. The Reagan Task Force had engaged the Chinese fighter-bombers too late, and they had launched their air-to-surface missiles, which apparently had a longer range than expected. The Aegis computers continued to hook the incoming targets, now concentrating on the faster-moving group of four hundred contacts rapidly closing Reagan and her six escorts. Kent did the math. There were more incoming missiles than Standard missiles.

  It was like watching a video game, streams of blue icons headed out in three directions, approaching the incoming red icons. The two waves of icons intercepted each other, and the Standard missiles intercepted the majority of inbound contacts. But not all
. Over fifty missiles continued inbound, targeting Reagan and her escorts. It was time for the self-defense phase. Kent looked over at her Tactical Action Officer.

  “Shift SSDS to auto.”

  The TAO acknowledged, then shifted Reagan’s SSDS—Ship Self-Defense System—to automatic. Like the Aegis Warfare Systems aboard the cruisers and destroyers, Reagan’s SSDS would automatically assign contacts to their RAM and ESSM missiles, then target any Leakers with their CIWS guns. It was out of Kent’s hands now. All she could do was watch.

  The TAO called out, “Inbound missiles. Brace for impact!”

  Kent reached up and grabbed onto an I beam, watching as the SSDS automatically targeted the missiles streaking toward Reagan. It all happened in a matter of seconds. Two missiles made it through and Kent felt the ship shudder twice as the missiles impacted Reagan. On the Damage Control Status Board, red indications on the starboard side of the carrier marked the missile impact and damage radius. Thankfully, the Hangar Deck hadn’t been penetrated, nor the carrier’s Island superstructure damaged. Reagan had survived the Chinese missile onslaught relatively unscathed.

  The surviving Chinese aircraft swept past the Reagan Task Force, their missiles expended, headed back to China. Kent examined the display in front of her, surveying the carnage. Only thirty of the ninety-six American fighters remained aloft. However, China had paid dearly. The American fighters and Standard missiles had shot down over three hundred Chinese aircraft. Kent let out a sigh of relief. Reagan had survived, as did the amphibs, which hadn’t been targeted. The cruisers and destroyers, however, did not fare as well.

  Several of the screens on the Video Wall in front of Kent switched to real-time video feeds. Black plumes rose from all six escorts, and USS Chosin was engulfed in flames, black smoke billowing upward. Chosin was their Air Warfare Commander and one of only two cruisers. They could ill afford to lose her.

  Kent picked up the Navy Red phone next to her. “Alpha Whiskey, this is Alpha Papa. Report operational status, over.”

  There was no response. Only static on the line.

  Kent repeated her request. “Alpha Whiskey, this is Alpha Papa. Report operational status, over.”

  A few seconds later, there was a response, but it was from the other cruiser, USS Port Royal. “Alpha Papa, This is Alpha Bravo. Alpha Whiskey has dropped off the grid. I am assuming duties of Air Warfare Commander.”

  “Alpha Bravo, this is Alpha Papa. Understand. What is the status of the destroyers and air-defense inventory?”

  “Three destroyers are operational, but all units on the grid are Winchester on SM-2 and SM-6 missiles.”

  The last part of Port Royal’s report hit Kent in the gut. They were out of Standard missiles, leaving only close-in self-defense systems. They could now only target missiles approaching their own ship. Reagan and the amphibs were on their own. It was time to bring the remaining thirty F/A-18s and Joint Strike Fighters back for refueling and rearming.

  As Kent turned her attention to the aircraft on the display, icons began populating the edges of her monitor. Three more streams of contacts were inbound, and the icons soon switched from Unknown to Hostile. It was a second wave of Chinese fighters—another four hundred.

  Kent hung her head. With only thirty fighters aloft, their missile inventory and decoys no doubt expended, their CAP would be wiped out. With no Standard missiles to shoot down incoming fighter-bombers or their missiles, it was going to be a one-sided bloodbath. There was no way the Reagan Task Force would survive.

  77

  BEIJING

  Christine had no idea how long she lay sprawled on the floor of Xiang’s office; the room was spinning and she fought the urge to vomit. Blood was seeping into her right eye, and the side of her head throbbed with every heartbeat. She wiped the blood from her eye, and as her vision slowly cleared, she saw Huan standing above her, a one-foot bronze statue of Mao Zedong in his hand.

  “Quid pro quo, my American friend.”

  She could hear the smugness in his voice.

  Christine struggled to climb to her feet. She paused on her knees and right hand, waiting until the room stopped spinning.

  Huan addressed her again, his voice agitated this time. “You will pay for what you’ve done.” His right foot added an exclamation mark to his threat, connecting solidly with Christine’s already-broken ribs.

  Pain shot through her chest and the kick took the wind from her lungs, simultaneously knocking her onto her side. She heard Xiang’s stern voice, but he was speaking Mandarin and she had no idea what he said. The only thing she could focus on was the pain coursing through her body. Every breath was pure agony, joining the pain shooting through her shoulder and head. Huan was bent on killing her, and death would be a blessed relief. But there was one thing that kept her going.

  I’m gonna kill Huan if it’s the last thing I do.

  More easily thought than done, however. She glanced at the Glock, only a few feet away. If she ignored the pain, she could scramble for it. Huan caught her glance at the pistol and stooped down, grabbing it before Christine could make a dash for it.

  Before she could focus on a new plan, Huan spoke. “On your knees, Christine.”

  Xiang spoke again, his words terse. Huan turned toward him, and Christine could hear the hatred in the younger man’s voice as the two men exchanged heated words in Mandarin. Finally, Huan turned back to Christine as Xiang glared at him.

  “On your knees,” Huan repeated.

  Christine eyed Huan’s shoes warily as she pushed herself gingerly onto her right hand and knees again.

  “Tell us how to disable the virus you injected into our command and control system,” Huan said, “and I will let you live.”

  She looked up at Huan. “I have no idea if it can be disabled. But even if I knew how, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Huan studied her a moment before replying. “You lie.” He raised the pistol, leveling it at her head. “Tell me how to disable the virus.”

  Christine stared at the pistol pointed at her head, then looked up at Huan. “Take a hike.”

  Huan’s face clouded as he tried to decipher Christine’s response.

  There was a loud knock on the door, followed by a muffled question in Chinese. Christine could hear the concern in the man’s voice, no doubt raised by the two dead bodyguards sprawled on the floor outside the president’s office. Huan lowered his gun and opened the door, revealing two additional Cadre Department bodyguards.

  After a brief exchange of words, one man took station outside the president’s office, while the other headed down the corridor. Huan returned to his position in front of Christine, but this time left the gun at his side.

  “If you don’t know how to disable the virus, perhaps your friend does. We’ll see how much he values your life.”

  * * *

  There was another knock on Xiang’s door a few minutes later. Huan opened the door to reveal Lieutenant Harrison standing in the doorway, his hands handcuffed behind his back, with a Cadre Department bodyguard behind him. Huan issued an order and Harrison was pushed into Xiang’s office. Harrison looked pale and his face was bruised and swollen, and the left side of his rugby shirt was caked with dried blood. Despite his worn exterior, however, his eyes remained bright, shifting between Christine and the men in the room. He stopped beside Christine, while the Cadre bodyguard moved to the side of the room.

  As she wondered what had happened to Harrison after she stepped onto the ledge, her subconscious gnawed at her, telling her there was something important she was overlooking. She examined Harrison again, then the Cadre Department bodyguard, and she suddenly recognized the guard. He was Yang Minsheng, head of Xiang’s security detail.

  The man who had set her free from the Great Hall and given her the flash drive.

  Yang gave no indication he was willing to assist them, however. He stood with his hands at his sides, awaiting further orders. Still, there was a glimmer of hope.

  “What is your f
riend’s name, Christine?” Huan asked. “I’m afraid he hasn’t been forthcoming with any useful information, including his name.”

  Christine refused to answer.

  “Well,” Huan said, “perhaps it’s not necessary.” He spoke to Harrison. “Tell us how to disable the virus and I will let Christine live. Refuse, and she dies.”

  Harrison said nothing, staring blankly across the room.

  Huan raised his pistol, pointing it at Christine’s head. “I’ll give you one more chance. Talk or she dies.”

  Harrison stared at Huan dispassionately for a moment, then looked at Christine. “I’m sorry, Chris. You know I can’t help them.”

  Even though she knew that would be Harrison’s response, his words stung nonetheless. Deep down, she wanted Harrison to love her enough to do whatever it took to save her life.

  “It’s okay,” Christine replied.

  Looking at the pistol in Huan’s hand, she focused on his index finger, wrapped around the trigger. As long as the flesh remained pink, there was hope. But when the flesh turned white, it would be over.

  She glanced at Yang, but he remained as still as a statue. Christine then realized that Yang had killed the guard and given her the flash drive in secrecy—no one knew it was him. But to save her life, Yang would have to expose himself in front of Huan and Xiang. Would he? Or was his position within China’s highest body of government more important than her and Harrison’s lives?

  As Christine prepared to meet her fate, Xiang interjected, speaking to Huan from behind his desk. The tone of his voice was unmistakable. A man in charge of an entire country, giving an order to a subordinate. Huan ignored Xiang’s words, pushing the cold metal barrel of the Glock against Christine’s forehead.

  Huan turned his head toward Xiang as he spoke in English, apparently for Christine’s benefit, maintaining the pistol pressed firmly into her forehead.