He looked around for something to pry with, to gain leverage. Nothing, and no time to search. Setting his feet, locking his hands around the handle, he closed his eyes, said a silent prayer, and hauled as hard as he could.
His back felt like a missile had hit it. Still, he kept twisting. There was a grinding sound, a thump, and the top of the door eased out, then down. There was no ferocious flood of water, although the level immediately rose faster. Physics again: The air trapped in the fuselage was resisting the incoming flow.
But soon the plane would sink.
Clutching his life vest under one arm, George plunged like a walrus through the diminishing gap between the water and the top of the doorway.
1215 local (-8 GMT)
Tomcat 306
South China Sea
“Well, now, what are the odds?” Two Tone said, sounding pleased. “You, me, Lobo and Handyman… here we go again.”
“Yeah.” Following the lead of Lobo, a thousand feet below and as far ahead, Hot Rock banked the Tomcat onto the new heading sent to them by Homeplate. Much farther down, the South China Sea shone silver and blue. At ten o’clock, the mountainous coast of China shimmered in the haze like a fever dream. A few jagged-sided islands of various sizes thrust up from the water. Everything was so gorgeous from up here.
Hot Rock eased the throttles forward and felt the delicious shiver as the Tomcat opened the door to the sound barrier and stepped through. He loved that. Back when he’d started flight school, he’d thought the training jet, a T-45A Goshawk, had been powerful and intimidating; the F-14 had seemed an impossibility to handle. So large, so expensive and particular. When the time had come to strap one on he’d expected it to be the horses all over again, and him washing out with his tail between his legs….
Instead — God. The Tomcat and the sky, and hurtling along faster than sound. If it could only be like this all the time. If only he could just fly and fly up here between the sky and the water…. “What the hell are the Chinese thinking?” he said. “Sinking our boats, shooting down our planes… do they really want to go to war with us?”
“Why not?” his RIO said. “Bound to happen sooner or later.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. China’s the last major Communist power in the world, unless you want to count Berkeley. Hard-core communists believe in world domination. It’s part of the deal.”
“Didn’t work for Russia.”
“Won’t work for China, either, but they don’t know that. And they won’t figure it out until they get their butts kicked a few times.”
Hot Rock realized his palms were sweating, and his chest felt tight. “And you think this is the start?”
“Got your steel-toed boots on?”
1220 local (-8 GMT)
South China Sea
Dr. George raised his head when he heard the rippling roar of jet engines. He’d been floating along quietly, almost enjoying himself. Hadn’t been this close to the water for quite a while, that was for sure. The South China Sea was a nice temperature, not too warm, kind of soothing on his twisted back. The only troublesome thing was the stream of blood that kept running down his face from a cut somewhere on his scalp. The blood dripped into the water, of course; he couldn’t stop it. Which meant he couldn’t stop thinking about sharks.
Overfishing, he kept telling himself. For decades the Asians had been decimating the shark population, netting the fish left and right, lopping off their dorsal fins for soup and tossing the maimed animal back into the water for its brethren to devour. Then catching the brethren. More recently, half-baked theories about the ability of shark cartilage to prevent cancer in humans had led American fishing boats to join in the massacre.
Still, sharks… it only took one. And these waters were the hunting grounds of one of the most notorious man-eating species in the world: the tiger shark.
That was why the sound of approaching jet engines brought feelings of relief to him, as well as dread. He wanted to be found and rescued. On the other hand, it had been a jet that shot down the Gulfstream.
To his relief, when he finally spotted the two aircraft that were making the racket, they didn’t look like the one that had fired the missile. These had angular bodies, double vertical stabilizers, and wings that pointed in the right direction.
Then he spotted the red stars on their undersurfaces, and his fear doubled. Chinese fighters, not American.
But the jets were searching in the wrong place, a mile or two to the south. Without the Gulfstream itself to focus on, they seemed to be streaking around almost arbitrarily, close to the water, possibly trying to make sense of the debris that had fanned across the surface of the South China Sea.
George debated what to do. There were flares in one pocket of the life vest; he could draw attention in his way in an instant with those. But… one of these maniacs’ friends had shot down the Gulfstream; what would they do to him if they picked him up?
The jets began to spread out, circling. Then he saw more jets moving in from the southeast, pair by pair, at a much higher altitude. At least eight planes up there. But this group didn’t circle; it continued straight east, heading further out to sea.
Fighter planes, nothing but fighter planes. Where were the rescue helicopters, the slow search aircraft, the boats?
Maybe, George thought, he should just keep floating along here until a fishing vessel came along.
Down in the water, a brown shadow cruised past his dangling feet. It had a blunt, squared-off snout, and dark stripes on its flanks.
Dr. George groped wildly in the pocket of his life vest.
1230 local (+8 GMT)
Tomcat 302
South China Sea
“Well, here they come.” Handyman’s voice was dry over the ICS. Lobo thought he sounded like a bored suburbanite announcing the arrival of neighbors for the annual block party. “Six new bogeys, altitude thirty thousand feet, bearing zero one zero. Flankers, by their radar. And they aren’t searching for anything but favorable position.”
Hot Rock’s voice came over tactical: “Lobo? Did you happen to notice we’re getting a tad outnumbered here?” His words were flyboy-cool, but under them his voice was as tight as a spool of cable. Lobo reminded herself that her wingman hadn’t tasted combat yet. Never knew how anyone would react to the real thing until it happened. She wondered if the tension in his voice was the product of eagerness, or of fear… and which would be better. “Backup’s on the way,” she said. “And remember, we’re just here to hang around, not to fight. So stay cool.”
“Tell them that.”
Looking up through the canopy, Lobo spotted six double-wide vapor trails etching across the blue. Her skin tightened. For any fighter pilot, altitude almost always equaled power. But today she didn’t have the option of seeking the high slot, not if she was going to perform her assigned duty of protecting the area where the jet had gone down. If what had happened to Lady of Leisure was any indication, the biggest danger to potential survivors would come not from a highflying jet, but from a boat or helicopter. Still…
“I hate this,” she said over ICS.
“Lobo,” Handyman said, “high or low, you can out-fly anyone in the sky. You got that?”
She blinked. “Thanks, Handyman.” Switching to tactical, she said, “Okay, Hot Rock, get ready to start searching.”
“What a grand idea.”
“Relax. Reinforcements are ten minutes out. Keep tight this time, Hot Rock. Welded wing unless somebody starts something.”
“Welded wing, roger.”
Lobo clicked off. Easy to tell her wingman to relax, but she was facing a bit of an inner chill herself; couldn’t deny it. The last major air battle she’d been in… well, she’d ended up punching out of her plane. And then, of course, spending some quality time with a Russian militia.
And later still, spending a lot more time getting her head shrunk.
She hoped it was the right size for whatever came up now.
Hornet 108
South China Sea
“I always thought Hornets were speedy,” Major “Thor” Hammersmith growled, thumping the throttles of his F/A-18 with the heel of his hand. “Come on, you bitch.”
“We’re getting there,” his wingman, Reedy, said in the voice that had earned him his call sign. “Besides, we were told to grab for altitude at the same time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” All Thor wanted to do was shoot down a bad guy. The last major military action he’d been involved in, down in Cuba, he’d gotten his ass blown out of the sky while he was refueling. Refueling! Spent the rest of that little affair tied to a chair while different Cubans pounded on him and used him to taunt the U.S. Navy. Not any Marine’s idea of “participation.”
Not that he was planning on starting a fight here. No way. But these assholes had blasted an innocent American yacht to pieces the other night, then actually ripped a chunk out of Jefferson — accidentally or otherwise, it didn’t matter — and now they’d shot down a commair with a missile. How brave. How warrior-like. Well, Thor’s Hornet was loaded down with air-to-air missiles, so if the Chinese were ready to try their luck against the big boys, Thor was ready for them.
He knew that more than half the planes awaiting them were the latest model Flanker. Rumor had it that although these Flankers were as big as F-14s — or “Turkeys,” in Hornet driver parlance — the Russian fighters handled more like F/A-18s. In the case of the SU-35, they supposedly handled better than Hornets.
That’s what he’d heard. But what you heard and what you knew, well, they were often two different things. And Thor Hammersmith knew that nothing could beat an F/A-18 in a close-in knife fight. Nothing.
He thumped the throttles again. Tried not to think about the rate at which his two F404-GE-402 turbofans were gulping down precious fuel. That was the Hornet’s biggest disadvantage compared to the Turkey: Hornets had short legs. It would be just his luck to get in a punch or two in an air battle, only to have to run away again to gas up.
Not that there was going to be any fight, mind you….
1242 local (-8 GMT)
Tomcat 306
South China Sea
An axiom of dogfighting stated that all else being equal, a lone fighter plane was a victim, while a pair acting in concert was like a two-headed snake: It saw everything, and could bite in any direction.
As wingman in the so-called “welded wing” formation, Hot Rock’s primary job was to be the rear head of the snake, keeping his lead safe. In the event of an actual battle, he would fly in tandem with Lobo, protecting her vulnerable back from attack so she could concentrate on her primary job: shooting down enemy aircraft. His own weapons load would serve mostly as a backup to hers.
That was why most fighter jocks preferred the “loose deuce” formation, developed by American pilots during the Vietnam war. In loose deuce configuration, the two fighters kept a great deal more space between them, and depending on circumstances, one or the other might become the primary attack plane, with the second flying in the support and backup role.
Although he’d never admit it, Hot Rock not only liked flying welded wing, he preferred the wingman slot. It was challenging from a piloting standpoint, because a wingman had to not only anticipate his lead’s movements so as to maintain proper relative position on her, but do so while constantly scanning the surrounding sky for enemies.
This meant the wingman had to leave the most crucial battle decisions up to the lead.
And that was fine with Hot Rock, because such an arrangement almost eliminated the possibility that he might make a bad tactical error.
He followed Lobo as she flew a grid search pattern, drawing an invisible tic-tac-toe board over the approximate area where the business jet had gone down. Looking down at the water, Hot Rock glimpsed the occasional fleck that was a drifting cushion or other piece of flotsam. He was hoping to see a flare or spreading dye marker, or even a life raft. Nothing.
Of course, it was difficult to concentrate on searching the water, because he and Lobo were not alone in the air. Apart from the eight bogeys far overhead, two more were hurtling around at virtually this same altitude, probably conducting their own search. Twice already, Hot Rock had gotten a much closer look at them than he would have preferred as the Flankers cut across the Tomcats’ path.
He toggled the radio to tactical. “Viper Leader, they’re going to be just above us on the next pass,” he said.
“I know that.” Lobo’s voice was curt. “Be ready, but ignore them.”
Hot Rock started to reply, then toggled to ICS. “ ‘Be ready, but ignore them’? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means to keep your finger over the weapons selector,” Two Tone said. “I’ll let you know when you need it.”
“You mean ‘if.’ ”
“Right.”
Tomcat 302
South China Sea
“Here they come,” Lobo said, eyes locked on the two Chinese aircraft crossing from her right. She felt sweat prickling her scalp as they closed in, everything moving too fast —
— and then the Flankers thundered overhead, so close the shock of their passing gave Lobo’s Tomcat a savage yank. For once, she was glad for the tight fit of the cockpit.
“Assholes,” Handyman said dryly.
“Looked like SU-27s,” Lobo said, as if she’d had all day to study the Chinese plane going by. “Guess they left the top-of-the-line fighters in the high-altitude hairball.”
“Yeah. Probably all the missiles these two are carrying are low-budget models, too,” Handyman said. “Now I feel a lot better about having them playing chicken with us. It’s — Lobo! Flare at two o’clock!”
She looked to her right and saw it, a red spark burning bright and hot even against the sunny sky. She immediately put in a call to the carrier. “Homeplate, Viper Leader. We’ve spotted an emergency flare. Repeat, an emergency flare; looks like it came from the area where the plane went down.”
“Viper Leader, this is Admiral Wayne. Maintain overhead orbit until SAR arrives. Don’t start anything, but make it clear we’re involved, understood?”
“Roger.” She rolled her eyes. Involved? What did that mean? “What’s the ETA for SAR?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Homeplate said. “Be advised a Luhu-class destroyer just pulled out of the harbor and is making flank speed to your datum. ETA twenty-five minutes.”
Tomcat 306
South China Sea
“A destroyer?” Hot Rock said, switching to ICS. “Great.” He knew that China’s Luhu-class ships were new, fast, and armed with Crotale anti-aircraft missiles, among other treats. And the ship was already close enough to take part in any air battle. Of course, so were CVBG-14’s destroyer and Aegis cruiser, with their over-the-horizon firing capabilities… but still, in a missile situation, a difference of seconds was all anyone needed. Any ship leaving Hong Kong would already have the drop on both American support ships.
“We got other problems at the moment,” Two Tone said. “Like the fact that those two Flankers are coming back around on us.”
“They’re just doing the same thing we are,” Hot Rock said, forcing his dry lips to move. “Circling the flare.”
“And what about the six dudes overhead?” Two Tone asked. “Why do you suppose they’re there? Tour guides?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hot Rock’s hands weren’t just sweaty inside his gloves now — they were slathered, and shaking a bit. Had been ever since those goddamned Chinese fighters galloped past, close enough to kiss. He sharpened his voice. “Our orders are to keep things clear for SAR, so we keep things clear for SAR.”
“But what if the Chinese get their SAR here first? Because I’m picking up a low-level return, bearing??… same bearing and distance as the destroyer. That’s gotta mean the Chinese launched a helo. And guess what? It’s going to get here before any of our eggbeaters do.”
SEVEN
&nb
sp; Monday, 4 August
1245 local (-8 GMT)
Flanker 67
South China Sea
Tai Ling gazed down through the golden haze of sun on water, searching for his prey. He couldn’t visually pick out the four fighters circling far below. His look-down radar showed they were there, and their relative positions, but he wished he could see them with his own eyes. It would make it much easier to recognize the signal when it came. He didn’t know what the signal would be, exactly, but he’d been told that it would be unmistakable.
He’d also been told that the Americans, unbeknownst to themselves, would be the ones to give it.
Speaking of Americans… Tai’s radar also showed the approach of four more fighter aircraft from the direction of the aircraft carrier.
The sight of those blips filled him with a strange emotion: half eager anticipation, half sick hope. The anticipation was the natural sensibility of any trained fighter pilot facing his possible first real dogfight. The hope was inspired by the unremitting memory of Hua Shih’s SU-37 exploding into a burning comet in front of him, its beautiful skin punched full of 20mm cannon holes. From Tai Ling’s cannon.
Although Tai knew that what he had done was essential in the long run, that didn’t make accepting the fact any easier: He had shot down one of his own men. His own section leader, in fact. And he’d done it from the trusted position of wingman.
The fact that he had himself been promoted to section leader following Hua’s “flame-out and crash” only made the memory of that day more bitter.
Perhaps making a true, man-to-man kill on an American plane would clean the slate, would erase the shame of what he’d done. Had to do. Perhaps even Hua would understand and applaud.
Focused again, Tai returned his attention to the radar and willed the Americans to come closer.
1246 local (-8 GMT)
Tomcat 304
Typhoon Season c-14 Page 12