by Robert Gandt
Probably dead, thought Chiu. It didn’t change the problem. He still had to take the body. He couldn’t leave evidence that Americans were involved in the raid.
While the crew chief took over the burden of dragging the pilot’s body, Chiu took one last look around.
Then he looked again.
Damn! An armored personnel carrier was roaring across the field, aimed like a leviathan toward the end of the runway.
He grabbed the transceiver off his belt hook. “Whiskey One, Whiskey One, you’ve got a target, zone two, an APC.”
“That’s the opposite side of the field from us, Reaper,” said the Cobra pilot. “Too far away. We’re engaged with the armor column.”
“I don’t care what you’re engaged with. Kill the APC.” Before it kills the Black Star.
“We’ll try, Reaper, but the action is getting very hot at the LZ. The Chinooks need cover.”
Chiu wanted to scream in rage and frustration. After all this! The lost lives, the immense risk, to lose the Black Star now, when they were so close. . .
Another mortar shell exploded thirty feet behind them, showering them with dirt and fragments.
Then another, closer than the first. A trail of eruptions was walking across the field, tracing a route toward Charlie Four.
Chiu felt the crew chief grab him, spin him around, shove him toward the waiting Chinook. He half-ran, half-stumbled, sensing with each new explosion that it was already too late.
<>
Uh, oh.
Through his NVG, Maxwell stared at the apparition. In the next instant he saw a flash from the APC’s gun turret—and braced himself.
The round hit twenty yards to the left of the taxiing jet. Maxwell could feel the concussion through the airframe of the Black Star.
“How the hell can they see us?” he asked over the intercom. “Didn’t you activate cloaking? I thought this thing was supposed to be zero-viz.”
“The skin cloaking doesn’t work so well on the ground. Too much IR reflection, or some kind of photonic resonance problem.”
Maxwell had no idea what she was talking about. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that the gomers in the APC could see them and they were drawing a bead on the Black Star.
The next round hit closer, only ten feet from the left wing tip.
What now? For a fleeting moment it occurred to Maxwell that he could shoot back. If he knew how. By the time they figured out how to activate the Black Star’s own weapons system—the Gatling gun or the internally-stored missiles—it would be over.
The APC was angling across the field, headed for the runway. It was clear what the driver had in mind.
He was going to block the runway.
Another round, this one just behind the right wing. The gunner was getting the range.
“How do I arm the cannon?” Maxwell yelled on the intercom.
“You have to select it on the weapons display.”
“I’ve got four screens. Which one is it?”
“Bottom right. There should be an icon for each armament store.”
Maxwell looked at the display screen. He hated taking his eyes off the apparition out there that was trying to kill them. The screen was covered with icons, all with indecipherable hieroglyphics. Shit! He didn’t see anything that looked like a gun selector.
The APC had almost reached the edge of the runway. Maxwell was out of ideas. They were an easy, slow-moving, non-invisible target. He couldn’t shoot back because he couldn’t arm the damned gun! In ten more seconds they might as well abandon the jet because they wouldn’t have a runway to—
A rain of fire appeared from behind the APC. A flurry of small explosions danced around the vehicle.
Rockets. In the night sky they looked like sparklers raining down on the APC. Maxwell guessed that they were 2.75 inch air-to-ground rockets. An entire pod of them—fired from what?
Then he saw it. Descending like a specter out of the darkness, the dim shape of a helicopter—a Cobra gunship. From the gunship came another flash, this one larger and brighter than the 2.75 pod. A pulse of fire beamed like a laser toward the APC.
The armored vehicle erupted in an orange ball of flame. A Hellfire missile, Maxwell guessed. Only a Hellfire armor-piercing anti-tank missile could take out an APC like that. He didn’t know where the gunship came from, or how he got there in time, but Maxwell uttered a silent thanks to the pilot.
The fast-moving Cobra swept over the burning APC, passing directly in front of the Black Star, then skimmed low across the field to the LZ where the Chinooks were lifting off.
Maxwell followed the dark silhouette of the gunship. Two hundred yards in the distance, the last Chinook was kicking up a storm of dirt, its blades biting into the air as it lifted from Chouzhou.
Good. That had to be Charlie Three, the last chopper. Col. Chiu and Catfish Bass and Lt. Kee were aboard.
He saw mortar rounds landing around the Chinook. The big cargo helicopter lumbered into the air. Its nose tilted down as it gathered forward speed.
A mortar round exploded directly behind the aft rotor. One of the blades separated and whirled like a rapier across the darkened field.
As Maxwell watched, the chopper began a slow rotation to the left, rolling onto its side. A front rotor blade caught the earth, kicking up a geyser of dirt and debris.
Slowly, majestically, the Chinook rose up on its nose, then over onto its tail. In a macabre death dance, the helicopter flopped end over end for a hundred yards, shedding parts, spitting smoke and tortured metal.
Abruptly, the Chinook exploded. Magnesium and ammunition and jet fuel combined to send a billowing fireball a hundred feet into the sky.
“Oh, God,” muttered Mai-ling in the back seat. “They didn’t make it.”
Maxwell kept his eyes riveted on the inferno. He didn’t see anyone escaping, no figures emerging from the wreckage. The Cobra gunship was circling the burning hulk, firing with its twenty millimeter cannon at something in the near darkness.
He banged his fist against the front console. Goddamnit! They almost made it. Another ten seconds. Chiu, Catfish, Kee—they would have been on their way to Taiwan.
“It was my fault,” said Mai-ling. “If they hadn’t taken the time to look for me—”
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he snapped. “This is war. This is what happens. I know it’s hard, but we have to stop thinking about it. You and I have a job to do.”
Silence from the back seat. Maxwell hoped she hadn’t gone catatonic on him.
He saw the end of the runway coming up. He steered the Black Star onto the runway and aligned it with the center stripe.
He peered down the length of the darkened runway. No lights marked the edges or the end. Only the blaze of the still-burning APC illuminated the eastern edge of the concrete.
As a test pilot he had made many first flights with experimental aircraft. Every new airplane had surprises, unexpected tendencies, but he had always been ready. It was what he was trained to do.
This time was different. Never had he felt so ill-equipped to fly a new machine.
Across the field the PLA armored column had broken through the fence line and was heading at full speed for the runway. To his right, in the flood of orange light from the petroleum fires, another cluster of APCs was storming across the open field.
The destroyed Chinook was still burning like a funeral pyre.
“What are you waiting for?” said Mai-ling. “Isn’t it time to leave?”
<>
“Range seven thousand meters,” called out the fire control officer.
Close enough, decided Commander Lei. Seven kilometers was well within the kill range of the Mark 46 torpedoes. The enemy Sovremenny destroyer was limping along at five knots, making for the Chinese coast. His search radar was still emitting, which meant he knew he was being stalked by the Kai Yang. If he could fire more Moskit supersonic missiles, he would have done so already.
Kill him. Get it
over before someone comes to his rescue.
They were in dangerous waters. Kai Yang and her two destroyer escorts were within thirty miles of the mainland. Dawn was arriving. Already the sun was cracking the horizon in the direction of the Asian continent. The PLA would come to aid of the stricken destroyer with more destroyers, submarines, aircraft perhaps.
It was time to kill the damned thing and run for the western side of the strait.
But something—an inner voice—was warning him. Be careful. Perhaps they no longer care about the Sovremenny. Maybe it was a trap. Maybe they wanted the Kai Yang.
Get it over.
“Ready tubes one and two.”
“Aye, ready one and two.”
Lei heard the gurgling sound of water filling the launching tubes. He could use his remaining Harpoons to dispatch the wounded destroyer, but the inner voice was coming in louder now. You’re deep inside enemy waters. Save your missiles.
“Forward tubes ready to fire, sir.”
Lei peered into the gray murk ahead of the Kai Yang. He knew now why he had waited this long to deliver the coup de grace to the Sovremenny.
He wanted to see it die.
Lei had dreamed of such a moment for his entire career. In this, one of the rare surface naval engagements of modern history, he wanted to experience close-up the din and thunder of battle. To see the Sovremenny destroyer blow apart like the fueling ship it had destroyed with its Moskit missile.
A stupid sentiment. Think of your ship and crew. Get it over.
“Fire one and two.”
“Aye, Captain, fire tubes one and two.”
He heard the familiar, satisfying rumble of the Mark 46 torpedoes, three seconds apart, leaping into the sea like greyhounds after a hare.
Four minutes.
While he waited, Lei paced his bridge, growing more uncomfortable with the quickly approaching dawn. They’d been lucky. He and the crew of the Kai Yang had survived three days of war. How many enemy warships had they sunk? Five? Or was it six?
Had the PLA navy figured out that one obsolescent frigate, the Kai Yang, was methodically destroying their mighty fleet? If so, they would be coming after him with all their knives drawn.
“Both torpedoes on active guidance now, Captain.”
He nodded, forcing himself not to stare at the situational display on his console. The torpedoes were autonomous now. They would find the target or—
“Impact!” called out the sonar man. “Torpedo one has struck the target.”
Three seconds later, “Torpedo two impact. I’m getting secondaries—the Sovremenny is breaking up. I’ve got separating returns.”
For a fleeting moment Lei wished he had waited, pressed the attack to visual range. It would be an exquisite pleasure to see the enemy destroyer blowing herself into pieces.
No. It was time to run for the safety of the eastern strait. At the moment his crew was flushed with their splendid victory over the Sovremenny, but that would wear off soon. They were tired, drained from the unrelenting pressure of combat.
“Steer 170 degrees, maintain speed. Remain on battle stations until—”
“Radar contact! Incoming, low altitude, low speed.”
Low speed? What could it be? “Do you have an electronic ID?”
“I’m checking with the Hawkeye. It must be a—” The technician’s voice cracked. “Another contact! Two-five-zero, range a thousand meters. The track looks nearly vertical.”
Lei snapped his attention to the situational display. What the hell was going on? A slow-moving contact, low on the water. A helicopter? And then something else—inbound and nearly vertical.
Vertical? It could only be one thing. But that didn’t make sense.
Three seconds later, he heard the technician’s voice again. “Incoming weapon,” said the technician. “A missile or a bomb.”
“From where? That’s impossible. Is there an aircraft up there?”
The technician shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing.”
Lei tried to make sense of the situation. What kind of bomb? Radar guided? No, they’d have picked up the emissions from the guidance unit. It had to be infra-red or GPS.
“Hard to starboard!” he commanded. “Flank speed. Ready the Phalanx batteries.”
He knew it was futile, trying to evade a precision guided bomb, trying at the same time to get a snap lock on a vertical target with the CIWS—Close In Weapons System. But he had to try.
How could a bomb suddenly appear from an empty sky? It had to have been released by an aircraft. Why hadn’t they gotten an alert from the multitude of air defense radars scanning the area?
By now, each head on the bridge was tilted up, peering toward the southwest. From both Phalanx turrets came the deep moan of the Gatling guns putting up a hail of penetrator shells.
Lei knew it was a gesture of defiance. A feeling of inevitability had settled over him. They had been luckier than they had any right to expect. Now their luck had run out.
He gripped the handrail and waited for the bomb to hit his ship.
CHAPTER 22 — ONE-VEE-ONE
Chouzhou Air Base, People’s Republic of China
0610, Monday, 15 September
Okay, Maxwell, you’re a test pilot. Make this thing fly.
He took a deep breath, then advanced the throttles. The dull hum of the two turbofans deepened to a throaty rumble. A quick check of the gauges—the indications meant nothing, but at least he could see that the two engines were making the same numbers—and he released the brakes.
The sudden acceleration surprised him. The nose bobbed up once on its long slender strut, and he felt himself shoved back in the seat.
The Black Star surged down the runway.
Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. The runway felt as rough as a logging road. As the Black Star sped down the strip of concrete, the nose wheel clunked over the grooves in the uneven surface. The jet was accelerating faster than Maxwell expected.
“A hundred kilometers per hour,” Mai-ling called out, giving him the airspeed.
He had to make quick conversions from metric. A hundred kilometers per hour equated to fifty-four knots—nautical miles per hour. If this jet flew like the Black Star at Dreamland, he should keep the nose wheel on the concrete until he had 140 knots. That was—how much? Almost 260 kilometers per hour.
Unless he ran out of runway. Then he was in no man’s land. He’d do what he had to do.
“A hundred fifty.”
Eighty-one knots. They had gobbled up half the available runway. Come on, baby, accelerate.
“Two hundred.”
A hundred-eight knots. The thunking of the nose wheel on the rough concrete had become a steady rumble. The vibration from the rough runway resonated through the airframe, into Maxwell’s cockpit, making it difficult to read the instruments.
In the greenish twilight, he could see the end of the runway rushing toward them.
“Two-twenty.” Mai-ling’s voice was rising in pitch.
A hundred-eighteen knots. Not enough.
“Two-forty.” Her voice cracked.
The end of the runway was disappearing beneath the Black Star’s nose. The moment of truth. He nudged the stick back. The Black Star would either fly or it would become a smoking hulk at the end of runway one-six.
The nose of the jet lifted. The main gear stayed rooted to the concrete.
Come on, fly! He pulled the stick back further.
Still on the ground.
The end of the runway was under him, gone from sight. The digital read out, blurred from the intense vibration, read 238 knots. He felt a violent clunking as the main gear rolled into the rough overrun.
Maxwell hauled the stick back in his lap. The jet’s nose rotated to a steep upward angle.
Come on, damn it . . .
<>
Zhang could see it clearly, a dark shape against the slate gray sea.
The IR tracker had already locked onto its surface target. Hot stacks over hot b
oilers against the cool ocean background. No challenge at all.
The laser designator would illuminate the centroid of the heat source for the final fifteen seconds of the bomb’s fall time. Only then would the frigate have any hint that it was targeted. Their radar might pick up the descending laser guided bomb, but it wouldn’t matter. They would receive no return from the Dong-jin, not even in the second-and-a-half that the bomb bay doors were open and the five-hundred-kilogram laser-guided bomb kicked out.
Colonel Zhang was eager to destroy the Taiwanese frigate. It was a devil ship, according to the preflight intelligence briefing. If the report was to be believed, this vessel had inflicted unbelievable losses on the PLA navy—at least two submarines, an amphibious landing craft, and three destroyers, and was trying to sink one of the PLA navy’s prized Sovremenny class destroyers. All in three days. The Dong-jin would balance the score. Already it had changed air warfare, and now it would revolutionize sea warfare. With this weapon, he would shift the balance of power in Asia. He would be recognized as a great national hero. Zhang Yu’s place in the history was assured.
But he was running out of time. An urgent matter required his attention. His squadron of super-secret stealth jets had been detected and attacked by an enemy commando unit even as he took off. Because of the base commander’s stupidity the commandos had apparently destroyed one Dong-jin. Much worse, they had captured the remaining Dong-jin. Stolen it from under their noses. He wondered what other havoc the rebel commandos had wreaked at Chouzhou. He had warned them about this very possibility.
Idiots! “Twenty-five seconds to impact.”
On the cockpit IR screen Zhang could see the frigate in a hard right turn. They had detected the incoming bomb. It would make no difference.
“Ten seconds, laser on.”
A bright flash blanked Zhang’s screen. When the picture returned, he saw that the entire aft end of the ship was engulfed in fire and black smoke.
“A good hit.” He shoved the throttles up and hauled the nose of the jet up in a climbing turn to the left. “Now we hunt for the thieves.”