The Mercenary
Authors: Dan Hampton
The Mercenary
A Novel
Dan Hampton
Contents
B
lurry
curtains of rain dropped from the sky and obscured everything around the
airfield. Layers of oily gray clouds tore away from the overcast and rolled
heavily toward the nearby coast. Beyond the coast lay the sea. Blown flat by the
wind, only the white crests of the breaker line flickered through the night.
From the shadows on the far north side of the
airfield a dark shape slowly crept forward. A big twin-tailed jet fighter taxied
deliberately through the rain and slid to a stop at the end of the long runway.
Showing no lights, the aircraft swung around and crouched on the concrete. Vapor
wafted upward from the hot tail section and rain streamed from its gray metal
body. Inside the warm, dimly lit cockpit the pilot barely spared the shining wet
runway and black night a thought. It was a terrible night to fly by most
standards but that was one reason he was doing it. Weather and bad conditions
were just variables to him. Not obstacles.
This was his business.
He yawned and glanced again at the three big
multicolored displays before him. Adjusting the brightness on the fire control
radar, he was pleased to see the damn thing appeared to working. A Russian
design manufactured by the Chineseâcould that be any worse? Finishing the
built-in tests, or BITS, on the air-to-air missiles, he noticed that one had
failed. Not that it mattered. Tonight wasn't about air combat. In any event, no
one was going to intercept him and force a dogfight. He rechecked the weapons
and attack display, called the WAD, to verify that the six cluster bombs beneath
the wings were configured correctly. They were.
Looking up, he squinted through the pelting rain at
the fuzzy outline of the control tower and then glanced at the time readout on
the Heads Up Display. He was early by a few minutes. Reaching around to the side
console, the pilot pulled out a pair of night-vision goggles. Removing his
helmet, he ignored the whining of the engines and attached the goggles to the
mounting bracket. Replacing the helmet, he lowered the goggles, switched them
on, and stared again at the control tower.
Much better. Not daylight exactly, but green
twilight was certainly better than black sludge. He made several small
adjustments to the focus, then flipped the gogs back up to see the cockpit
gauges. Russian and Chinese pilots didn't fly with NVGs so the instrument and
display lighting inside the cockpit wasn't compatible. But the pilot wasn't
about to do what he'd come for without goggles.
This jet was a big bastard, he thought, and glanced
around the cockpit again. The SU-27SK was called a FLANKER by U.S. and NATO
pilots, and a J11 by the Chinese. It was probably the best multi-role fighter
ever produced by the old Soviet Union and more than a match for all but the
latest American fighters. With weapons hardpoints for ten air-to-air missiles
and more than 20,000 pounds of fuel, it was a dangerous adversary. He smiled
slightly. Flown, that is, by the right man.
A flicker caught his eye and the pilot looked up to
see a green light blinking dimly through the thick haze. It was the “prepare to
launch” signal from the control tower. There would be no radio calls tonight. At
least not to him. He flipped the small handle by his left knee to arm the
ejection seat, then put his hand on the throttles. Rotating the night-vision
goggles down over his eyes, the pilot stared at the other parallel runway a mile
to the right. The flashing anti-collision beacons of two other FLANKERS were
plainly visible. He knew they were to take off precisely at 2145 hours and that
they would do just that. They would fly a two-hour practice mission inland over
the Qilan mountain range here in eastern China and then return to land shortly
before midnight.
He also knew that they knew nothing about him.
Suddenly a pair of huge orange flames lanced
through the darkness as the lead FLANKER lit his afterburners. Starting slowly,
they sped down the runway and smoothly rotated upward. Orange changed to blue
and then abruptly vanished, leaving only the disembodied strobe light climbing
away into the clouds. Then the second FLANKER lit off and sped down the runway
after its leader.
Across the airfield, the pilot waited until the
second jet began to climb and then pushed his own throttles forward. He felt his
shoulders hit the back of the ejection seat as the fighter surged down the
runway. Straining against the tremendously powerful Lyulka turbofan engines, the
pilot leaned forward and stared at the ribbon of glistening runway before
him.
The FLANKER picked up speed fast as the burners
kicked in. Without lights the pilot could only use the wet gleam from the center
stripe to keep himself on the runway. At 170 knots he eased the stick back and
braced his right forearm against his thigh. The big fighter's nose lifted and
the wings wobbled as the jet tried to fly. Left hand locked on the throttles,
the pilot pulled the stick back a bit farther and felt the wings bite into the
moist, heavy air. One bounce . . . another . . . then the
main wheels left the runway and the FLANKER was airborne.
Ignoring the HUD, he used the old-fashioned
attitude indicator to keep the nose exactly ten degrees above the horizon.
Rocketing upward into the dark drizzle, he pulled the throttles out of
afterburner and slapped up the landing gear. He wished the burners hadn't been
needed but the jet was so heavy there hadn't been a choice. The two other
fighters would mask his noise and hopefully distract anyone who might be
watching.
That had been the point of launching them. But
fifty-foot flames from his engines would be impossible to hide. On the other
hand, Luqiao Air Base was hardly a metropolis, and in China
no one
questioned military affairs. Except the military. He shrugged
under the shoulder harness. Nothing to be done about it now. In any event, it
was too late to stop him.
Two hundred feet . . . five hundred feet
. . . the altimeter spun upward and he smoothly bunted the nose over
to hold one thousand feet, then gently walked the throttles back to hold 400
knots. That was fast enough for the moment.
Damn the metric system. Translating it was a
nuisance and all the indicators and instruments were metric. He frowned under
the mask and brought the FLANKER around in a smooth, gradual left turn to avoid
the mountains south of Luqiao. This was his third flight in the SU-27 and he was
glad he'd taken the other two. Despite the risk of discovery, he could at least
now fly the thing and use the weapons systems. A simulator was fine, and he'd
spent five days flying that too, courtesy of the Chinese government. But nothing
took the place of air under your ass.
He knew the other two FLANKERS had turned right and
circled above him before heading off to the west. Steadying up on an easterly
heading, the pilot flipped the NVGs down, nudged the fighter over, and descended
back through the clouds. At 500 feet he started paying attention again. Letting
his eyes flicker between the altimeter and the blackness beyond the canopy, he
forced his fingers to relax around the stick. Flying tense was never good.
Three hundred feet . . . one hundred
fifty feet . . .
Easing the fighter still lower, he didn't think
about the absurdity of flying an unfamiliar jet over unknown terrain at night in
the rain. It was simply an obstacle that he had overcome with skill and
experience. The darkness shredded apart a bit as he came down out of the clouds.
Eyes out now, he instantly found the ground and flew visually.
There!
A pale ribbon of sand stretched out north and south
as far as he could see. The beach. The coast.
Holding the jet rock steady at 100 feet, he
switched on the autopilot and felt a slight tug as it engaged. Exhaling slowly,
he relaxed his hold on the controls until only his fingertips were resting on
the stick. Ignoring the sweat dripping down his cheek, the pilot focused
intently upon the autopilot for a few long, skeptical moments. He then called up
the navigation data and checked the route timing.
Converting kilometers in his head, he read 107
miles to the air traffic reporting point of SALMI. This was a point, called a
fix, which commercial airliners crossed on their way over the East China Sea,
and it was his first destination. Walking the throttles forward an inch to hold
500 knots, he again glanced at the time display for his arrival at SALMI: 2204
. . . four minutes past ten
P.M
., and
a little more than fifteen minutes from now. He disconnected one side of his
oxygen mask and let it drop.
Perfect.
He smiled then, white teeth against his dark face,
and shifted back against the ejection seat. With a roar lost in the thundering
surf, the fighter streaked over the rainswept beach and disappeared out to
sea.
C
aptain Dei Wang yawned hugely and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. He was
nearing the end of his eight-hour shift and his breath stank of old tea and his
uniform smelled stale. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to not stare at the wall
clock. He yawned again and wriggled in his seat a bit. The Battalion Tactical
Operations Center, called a BeeTock in English, might sound impressive but very
little thought had gone into comfort. Still, it could be worse. He could be
manning a ground radar site on a mountaintop or commanding a leaky patrol boat.
At least he was warm and dry here.
And bored.
Wang shook his head at that. Less than a hundred
miles west across a narrow stretch of water lay the most fearsome military power
on this side of the world. And China had publicly vowed that this small island
of Taiwan was now, and would be forever, part of China. This was precisely why
Taiwan had purchased two battalions of the Patriot Advanced Capability (PAC-3)
from the United States.
Each battalion consisted of eight launchers with
four missiles each, plus the associated radars and support equipment. This first
battalion had been purchased and deployed after the recent round of threats from
Beijing. American reasoning held that the PAC-3 system would act as a deterrent
against Chinese aggression. No one had been sure of that, especially the
Taiwanese. You could never be certain when dealing with the Chinese. Strangely
though, Beijing had backed down and the entire island was now convinced they'd
been saved by the American missiles.
Wang glanced around the big five-ton trailer. It
was full of displays and data-processing equipment that could control the entire
battalion in the event of an air battle. The system was truly amazing, he
thought. Targets were tracked and engaged through a phased array radar that
could scan immense areas of sky in microseconds. Targeting information was then
passed to the Engagement Control Station (ECS), where operators physically
launched the missiles. The BeeTock interfaced with long-range search radars and
air traffic control radars to provide the overall situation to the
batteries.
Supersonic within twenty feet of leaving the tube,
the Patriot missile hurled its 200-pound warhead at five times the speed of
sound toward the target. It could intercept enemy aircraft and missiles at any
altitude and at ranges out to fifty miles. The Americans truly were technical
geniuses. Once both battalions were operational the Chinese would not be able to
control the sky over the Formosa Straits. Without control of the sky there could
be no invasion. Taiwan would be safe.
He yawned again and was thinking about another cup
of tea when theInformation CoordinationCentral hotline buzzed. Wang frowned. The
ICC was essentially a clearinghouse. Other Patriot batteries, Air Defense
Headquarters, air traffic controlâall could communicate with the BeeTock this
way.
The young sergeant hung up the phone and turned
around.
“Taipei approach control, sir.” He stood up and
stretched. “Delta Flight 275 has called in over the APITO reporting fix
. . . inbound to Taipei, on time.”
Wang chuckled and nodded. “A bit nervous, are they?
I suppose that's understandable. We've only been operational for six days.”
Wang knew about reporting fixes. They were points
in the sky lined up in a row north of Taiwan and were used by air traffic
control to sequence airliners into Chiang Kai-Shek International Airport. APITO
was the farthest north in the chain and well beyond radar range. More to break
up the boredom than for anything else he flipped open a binder of standard
operating instructions, or SOPs. Idly turning the pages he found the one that
depicted the string of fixes. APITO. There it was. The next point was 75 miles
closer to Taiwan.
SALMI.
Ten minutes into his flight and fifteen miles west
of SALMI, the mercenary toggled the ZHUK air-to-air radar out of standby mode.
He would be emitting now and visible to any frequency-monitoring equipment but
it was unavoidable. The FLANKER had an infrared tracking system but it was
fairly inaccurate and wouldn't function well in any type of wet weather. Like
tonight. Using the radar had been discussed with the Chinese air force officers
who'd put the mission together and they'd agreed the risk was acceptable. Taiwan
had no such frequency monitoring equipment and the U.S. Navy was sitting in a
Japanese port at the moment.
He needed the radar. He needed it to find the
airliner.
Flying 500 miles an hour at a hundred feet over a
pitch-black sea would make most pilots tense but the mercenary was
professionally relaxed. He'd gotten more familiar with the jet and actually
liked it. The heavy frame and huge wings made it more stable at low altitude
than the F-16s he had once flown. The cockpit layout wasn't nearly as
sophisticated as a western fighter but he'd adapted.
There.
A green rectangle appeared at the upper right
corner of his fifty-kilometer radar display. The aircraft, or contact, was about
ten miles north of SALMI and they were approaching each other at right angles.
He manually adjusted the range scale to twenty-five kilometers and locked onto
the contact.