The Mercenary (3 page)

AR600. This was the weather radar on a KC-135
Tanker. He shook his head. Used for aerial refueling, this jet would really only
be near fighters or U.S. military bases. Certainly not on final approach for
Chiang Kai-shek International Airport in Taiwan.

That left the ZHUK. He frowned again at the entry.
Airborne intercept (AI) radar for the SU-27 FLANKER.

He knew very well what that was. A Russian-made
fighter sold to and manufactured by the People's Republic of China.

China.

Like most Taiwanese, he manifested an inherent fear
of China.

They'd vowed that Taiwan was an inseparable part of
their country. That no amount of international pressure, no amount of global
economic or social sanction would change Beijing's stance on the status of the
island. A FLANKER. Here.

But it was clearly impossible.

The lieutenant yawned and scratched himself. It had
to be some unresolved ambiguity with the airliner's electronics. Had to be.
Maybe the triple seven's weather radar was emitting strangely and it tripped up
the Patriot. Those things had happened before. Stretching slowly, he thought
about calling the BTOK then shook his head. He wasn't about to risk another ass
chewing by Captain Wang.

Maybe he would just brew another cup of tea.

Besides, how could a FLANKER have gotten within
seventy miles of Taiwan under the nose of this new PAC– 3 system?

He shook his head again and smiled. That was the
whole reason behind the much-publicized purchase of the Patriot.

It just couldn't happen.

T
aiwan
was lit up like Las Vegas.

The pilot smiled a little as he thought of that.
Vegas, with all those exercises and war games he'd been part of over the years.
Red Flags and Green Flags and Purple flags.

It was ironic that he, who had led so many of those
silly missions, should be here to attack one of America's staunchest allies. But
he'd led many missions that hadn't been silly at all. Baghdad, Sarajevo.
Others.

The mercenary's eyes narrowed. The triple seven was
slowing down considerably and he was back in idle power, fanning the speed brake
to stay in formation. Taiwan lay directly in front of him and Taipei lit up the
entire northern end of the island.

Chiang Kai-shek International's three parallel
runways were clearly visible, even from thirty miles out, along the northwest
shoreline. The Delta jet had dropped to 10,000 feet and was slowing to less than
300 knots.

Through the HUD the pilot saw the small green
rectangle superimposed over his target on the extreme northern end of the
island. From the extensive photographs and digital images he'd used for
planning, the mercenary knew the PAC-3 sat on the coastal plain near Anpu. There
was an entire battalion spread out over the area but the target the Chinese
wanted destroyed was the BTOK. Destroying the individual batteries was
secondary. The BTOK was the brain. Kill the brain and you kill the Patriot
system.

And send an unequivocal message to Taiwan.

Taiwan belongs to China and China cannot be
stopped. Not by Taipei, not even by the latest and most technologically advanced
missile system. China cannot be stopped by the United States and Taipei can't
trust the United States to protect it.

And there it was: 21.7 miles away.

The mercenary fastened his mask with one hand and
smiled. The Chinese had initially balked at his price, until he'd pointed out
that they expected to get Taiwan in return. A 30-million-dollar target. He'd
taken the customary 50 percent up front with the balance due upon successful
completion.

The airliner and its lethal shadow were now passing
5,000 feet and his eyes flickered around the cockpit. He flipped the toggle
switch upward to arm his chaff dispensing system.

It was time.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the throttles back
to idle. As the door-sized speed brake extended, the FLANKER seemed to stop in
space. Rolling the jet onto its back, the pilot pulled straight down at the
water. With his left hand he punched the cracker-sized button on the left
bulkhead. Three bundles of metal-coated chaff were expelled into the slipstream
and rapidly expanded, or blossomed. This happened twice more as he clenched his
stomach muscles against the G forces and brought the fighter all the way back to
level flight at 1,000 feet.

The entire maneuver lasted a dozen seconds. Above
him thousands of chaff strips floated in the air, generating a metallic cloud
that would hopefully decoy any watching radar. Flying entirely by goggles now,
the pilot eased the jet still lower and leveled off 100 feet above the sea and
raced toward the coast.

Glancing at the HUD, he banked slightly right to
line up the steering cues to the target. As he pushed the throttles up to full
non-afterburning power, the FLANKER surged forward and began to shake
slightly.

His fingers danced over the wartlike control
buttons on the stick and throttles, but his eyes never left the HUD. Flying only
by feel and his peripheral vision, the mercenary felt his heartbeat quicken.

16.1 miles at 520 knots . . . less than
two minutes to go.

T
he
lieutenant saw it clearly this time.

ZHUK-PH

But this time it was colored red. The system had
decided it was hostile and upgraded the track. He expanded around the mnemonic
and right-clicked the mouse.

CON 1

it was still a low-power return. CON was the
abbreviation for “confidence level,” and there were five. Each one met
conditions involving electronic emissions and radar parametrics, etc. CON 0 was
the worst and CON 5 was the best.

CON 1 generally meant an extremely low power
return. Maybe from the side lobes or a radar in a standby mode. Or it could be
nothing more than confusion with all the electronic emissions leaking from the
airliner. This was precisely why Captain Wang had ordered the PAC-3 out of AUTO
mode to prevent the inadvertent firing of a missile.

The red symbology box was overlapping with the
Delta airliner. He frowned and expanded again around the DL 275 contact. That
was odd. The contacts were drifting apart now . . . They weren't
coupled to each other like they had been. Like an ambiguity would be.

He expanded again. The airliner was at an altitude
of 5,000 feet heading southwest for the landing runway at Chiang Kai-shek. There
was no altitude return on the ambiguity.

The officer sat back. He'd never seen two contacts
diverge like this. They usually resolved or just stayed coupled together. He
made up his mind and reached for the phone.

“S
o
what is making you nervous, Chia?” Captain Wang was standing by his console. He
had his coat on and had been ready to leave when the ICC hotline buzzed. “We'd
already decided this was an ambiguity within the weapons computer.”

“I know that, sir.” The lieutenant spoke hurriedly.
“But one of the ambiguities has separated from the primary contact. I've never
seen it happen before.”

Visions of his naked girlfriend still filled Wang's
head and he rolled his eyes at his replacement, another senior captain.

“Well, run an expanded plot and see what it
says.”

“I did sir . . . at 64-to-1
resolution.”

“And . . .”

“Well . . . it was a Confidence Level
One.”

Wang snorted derisively. “Level One, Lieutenant?
That could be anything. That could be someone's cell phone!”

The other captain chuckled.

But Lieutenant Chia persisted. “Sir, at least look
at it yourself. The ambiguity had split from the main contact and the 64-to-1
expansion showed it almost a mile away. There's no altitude readout, but the
range is decreasing. It wasn't just hanging in space. If it was ambiguous with
the commercial flight, then—”

“Then the altitudes would be the same.” Wang sat
down and tapped his console to life. “I know the system too.”

Rapidly manipulating the display, he got down to
the twenty-mile range scale and stared at the DL 275 tag. It was on an
eight-mile final to Runway 23 at 190 knots and 1,200 feet. Right where it should
be.

The other captain got up and stood behind Wang but
he didn't notice. He expanded to the maximum around the airliner and saw
nothing. No ambiguity. No second contact.

He ran the mouse up to the toolbar and scanned the
drop-down menu.

RF EMISSION/LPI

Radar Frequency (RF) emissions and Low Probability
of Intercept (LPI) contacts. This permitted the PAC-3 to locate targets based
upon side lobes, like a radar that was on but in standby mode. It was seldom
used because fighter and bomber aircraft normally had enough things emitting
from them to allow an easy track.

He called it up and the screen was flooded with
returns. This was one reason why it was rarely used. Weather radars, air traffic
radars and even microwave cell phone towers. The PAC-3 was so sensitive that
virtually anything emitting RF energy out there would register.

Reflected RF energy would register as well. Chaff
would do that. But airliners don't carry chaff.

He disregarded anything yellow or green. There were
four red-coded contacts within 20 miles.

BG700 . . . he ignored that. It was the
search radar at Anpu and was parametrically similar to the Russian-built SA-5
missile system. As was TS2. That could mean a TIGERSONG tracking radar anywhere
else. But there were none on Taiwan and he knew from its location that it was
ambiguous with a navigation beacon at Chilung.

The other captain leaned over his shoulder and
pointed.

ZHUK-PH.

Wang saw it and swallowed hard. He stared at the
range rings. It was at four miles and coming straight at him—fast. Eyes wide, he
expanded on it. It could be nothing. It could be any number of ambiguities.

CON 1 and no altitude . . . shit
.

It could be . . . His heart sank in his
chest and a shot of pure fear lanced through his bowels.

The other officer cleared his throat nervously.

“Sir . . .” Lieutenant Chia's voice came
over the speaker. “Sir, what do we do?”

Shit!

Wang spun the chair around and knocked the other
captain backward. He leaped across the console and hit the alarm button.

But he knew it was far too late.

T
he
mercenary pulled the fighter hard to the right, rolled out, and began to
count.

One.

The jet was bouncing badly in the rough
low-altitude air and he felt its raw power vibrating up through his spine.

Two.

The pilot's eyes flickered to the weapons display.
Six GAT-7 cluster bombs. All set to function at 1,500 feet. The
MASTER ARM
switch was toggled on. The bombs would
now function and detonate as programmed.

Three.

Reefing back hard on the stick, he pulled the big
fighter up about twenty degrees above the horizon and immediately looked off the
nose to the right. He'd committed the details to memory but went through it
anyway.

Big to small.

Taipei and its suburbs were to the far right and
the big highway lay northeast from the city.

Swiveling back to the HUD, he eyeballed the
altitude.
800 feet.

Back outside. There was a smaller road halfway to
Taipei running north toward the coast.

1200 feet.

The road ended at an irregular but highly
illuminated area next to the sea. A huge military compound lit up at regular
intervals.

1700 feet
. He checked
the steering line. Dead center. Airspeed was 480 knots and decreasing, but there
was nothing to do about that without using the afterburners.

Which wouldn't be smart at all right now.

Top right section of the compound. A big white
building that showed up gray in the goggles. He looked and focused.

There!

2200 feet
.

Everything was slightly washed out under the
goggles but it couldn't be helped. He could see the big van to the left of the
building and smiled grimly. They parked there because it was close to the
toilets in the main administration building.

2800 feet
. He rolled
the fighter hard left and pulled. It was all airspeed and altitude now, but he
kept his eyes locked on the van.

Nearly inverted, the pilot glanced between the
altitude information in the HUD and the target outside. As the altitude hit
3,200 feet he snapped the FLANKER upright and leveled the wings. He was in a
thirteen-degree dive with the van in the center of his HUD.

Steep . . . but too late now and he
yanked the throttles back to idle. Diving would help keep the airspeed up and by
pulling the power he'd have more time to refine his aim. It was all about aim
now.

2700 feet
. A little
right . . . a little right. He took his feet off the rudder pedals to
prevent yawing the jet. The aiming circle, or pipper, was rising from the bottom
of the HUD toward the target and his right thumb was poised over the weapons
release button on the stick.

Almost . . .
almost . . .

Now.

2500 feet
, and the
pipper touched the base of the van. The pilot mashed down hard with his thumb
and, incredibly, there was a flash of light from the van as a door opened and
several figures tumbled out.

The wings rocked as the heavy cluster bombs kicked
off. He grunted and instantly pulled the jet straight up away from the ground.
The trick now was to get clear before his own bombs killed him.

As the nose rose heavily toward the horizon, the
mercenary rolled, pulled left, and jammed the throttles into full power.
Straining hard against the Gs, he kept pulling the jet around to ninety degrees
off the attack heading. Bunting over violently, his butt came off the seat and
his helmet hit the top of the canopy but he didn't care.