Authors: Dan Hampton
Have to get low
. . . low.
As the FLANKER dropped past 500 feet the darkness
suddenly peeled away and the inside of his canopy glowed orange. Risking a
glance backward, the mercenary saw the entire compound disappear under rolling
waves of fire. He grinned savagely and shoved the throttles full forward.
Suddenly two missiles shot up through the fireball.
The pilot tensed and reacted instantly from deeply ingrained habit patterns. He
cranked the fighter over, pulled sideways and thumped out a few more chaff
bundles. Twisting around to watch the missiles, he saw them arc strangely over
toward the earth, not toward him. One went north out to sea and the other simply
nosed over into the ground. Ballistically launched with no guidance. It was the
death throes of a dying system.
Smiling coldly, the mercenary brought the fighter
around to the south and quickly scanned the cockpit. Calmly adjusting his
goggles, he shifted in the seat and stared out at the wall of mountains ahead of
him.
Now all he had to do was get away.
W
ang
slid away from the table and wheeled toward the technicians operating the bank
of displays.
“Low-light cameras . . . on!” he jabbed a
finger at another man. “You call the command post . . . Alarm
Alpha.”
The man nodded dumbly but reached for the phone.
Alpha alarms were only for imminent attacks. Still . . . his captain
had told him to do it.
“ICC . . . go to AUTO now!” Wang screamed
at the speakerphone where Lieutenant Chia was still waiting.
“No!” The other captain spoke for the first time.
“The airliner is on short final. We can't!”
“Captain!” The technician on the low-light camera
spun around and shouted. “Captain . . .” he pointed at the 42-inch
high-definition flat screen.
Against the greenish-black background a huge gray
shape was dimly visible. The automatic tracking lagged a frame or two behind the
image but the aircraft was turning. The drooping wasp nose and twin tails were
unmistakable to an air-defense expert. It was an SU-27.
A FLANKER.
And it was turning directly toward them. Turning
. . . and growing bigger.
Wang stopped giving orders. He stopped planning.
Movement seemed to stop in the BTOK and he could hear a buzzing begin to rise in
his ears. Must move! Must move NOW!
“Out!” he finally rasped. Recovering his voice, he
sprang to his feet and began shoving people toward the door. “OUT!”
Wang grabbed the last technician and they both
tumbled outside and down the steps. The coolness of the night hit him harder
than the packed earth of the compound. He lay for a moment and gasped, staring
openmouthed at the night sky and trying to catch his breath. Great holes had
been torn in the cloud deck and glinting pinpricks of stars shone through. Wang
was conscious of the shouting around him and the wet of the ground soaking
though his tunic. His ears were still buzzing.
Then he heard it. A powerful throbbing roar. It was
growing by the second like a train rushing toward him. Rolling over on an elbow,
Wang looked up to the northeast. He dragged an arm across his face and
blinked.
Then he saw it.
A winged shadow silhouetted beneath the gray
underbelly of the clouds. It was fast. Unbelievably fast. And it was pulling
down to point . . .
directly at them
. All
around him people were scrambling to their feet and running away.
But he knew it wouldn't matter. The BTOK. It was
attacking the BTOK.
The roaring thunder of the jet rolled over him like
a warm wave and then it was gone. For a split second Wang thought it had
overflown the compound. Maybe it was going to attack another target. Maybe it
missed. Maybe . . .
Then the earth erupted around him with shaking
explosions of fire and whistling metal. As his eardrums exploded, Wang staggered
to his feet and tried to clap his hands over his head. But he had no hands.
Staring dumbly at the mangled stumps where his arms should have been, he
collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his bloody face. Wang looked up to
see hundreds of columns of flame leap from the earth directly in front of him.
Tearing the ground, tearing the night . . . tearing into him. He felt
himself lifted up and pierced through by hot metal in a moment of excruciating
pain as his body came apart . . .
S
oaked with sweat, the mercenary pulled the FLANKER over one last ridgeline. The goggles were heavy and his neck ached. His fingers were like claws from gripping the stick and throttles. The pilot was exhilarated but tired after bouncing through eighty miles of dark canyons and narrow mountain valleys at 500 knots. Rolling upright, he bunted the jet over the hill and breathed a little easier as the mountains tumbled away into foothills. Off to the right was the glow from Taichung and up ahead the inky blackness of the sea. Leveling off at 200 feet, he dropped his mask, shoved the throttles forward again, and the fighter streaked across fifteen miles of flats to the water and safety.
The mercenary exhaled, wiped his sweaty face, and rapidly scanned the night sky for lights. A good set of goggles could pick out a contact at a hundred miles or so under the right conditions. There were lots of flashing lights way up high that had to be airliners and since the Taipei to Hong Kong route was one of the busiest in the world, he expected the traffic. But nothing was moving fast enough to worry him. Why would they? No one even knew he was here.
Seconds later, the bone-colored beach vanished beneath his tails and he was “feet wet” again. Over water. Angling a little north to avoid Penghu Island, he bumped up to 500 feet, glanced at the fuel gauges and pulled both throttles back to hold 400 knots. He called up his final destination steer point on the NAV display and whistled softly. Gas would be tight. The SU-27 carried a huge amount of fuel for a fighter but he'd flown an extra eighty miles very fast at low altitude. The Chinese mission planners hadn't built that into the plan because he hadn't told them.
And that was his ace in the hole. He always had an edge, even if he made it for himself. It was obvious that the Chinese would consider him a liability after the mission was finished. What was he to them other than a means to an end? And the best way to deal with liabilities was to dispose of them. Others had felt that way before.
Holding the jet steady, he checked the HUD. Level at 510 feet. Clicking on the autopilot he let go of the stick. His eyes wandered around the cockpit and stopped on the radar. He was now eleven miles off the coast and toyed with the notion of turning it on. Even a radar in standby mode emits small amounts of energy that can be detected, so he left it in standby. What would be the point? No one would be looking for him.
Except the Chinese.
He glanced at the time display. The original plan had been to head immediately out to sea after the attack. Dash across the Formosa Straits and back into China before anyone could react. He was to lose himself in the cluster of islands near Longtian and then head north up the coast, back to Luqiao, and land.
The mercenary smiled humorlessly. He was certain the Chinese had planned a short ride into the forest for him and a bullet in the head. And he had no intention of spending eternity in a shallow grave under the trees on Luqiao Air Base.
So instead he did what no one would expect and flew due south from Taipei through the mountains. The Chinese didn't train to fly low altitude at night and wouldn't expect that. Only a western-trained fighter pilot could do that. So he'd popped out where no one would think to look and was now flying like a striped ape across the wide part of the straits. From the midpoint he planned to angle southwest and parallel China for thirty minutes, then head inland over the barren coast near Shantou. South of there lay a highway airstrip called Huifeng that the Chinese Air Force maintained for alert aircraft.
It was long. It was clean. And it was completely deserted unless international tensions were high and at the moment they weren't. It also had one other important attribute. It was only ninety three miles by water to Hong Kong.
That was his back door. Land the FLANKER at the deserted strip and take the sea route into Hong Kong. He had a Tiger 42 fast cigarette boat in a cove barely a mile from the Huifeng airstrip. From there he could make Victoria Harbor in under four hours.
Of course, the Chinese could withhold final payment for his contract but he had accounted for that. The FLANKER had a data transfer cartridge that recorded every switch action, every flight-control movement, and everything on the multifunction displays. This information would show the jet's point of origin from a Chinese airfield and its route of flight to the target in Taiwan. Even if Beijing claimed the jet had been stolen, the international repercussions would be politically unrecoverable. No one would believe it. He would take the cartridge when he landed the jet and bargain with it for his payment.
Off to his left a few jagged islands rose out of the green NVG gloom. Looking ahead, the pilot could see a ragged cloud deck hanging over the water. Probably 700 feet or so, and he gently bunted over to stay below it. At 300 feet the clouds still swirled over the canopy so he dropped even lower.
Banking the fighter around to the southwest, he was now paralleling China fifty miles off the coast. Another fifteen minutes and he could head for land. Shrugging his shoulders to ease the tension, the pilot realized he was hungry. Clicking on the autopilot, he reached into the G-suit ankle pocket and pulled out a hard-boiled egg.
Fifty-two hundred pounds of fuel and 178 miles to go. Not critical, but it would bear watching. If he wasn't landing at night in a foreign country on an unlit, unfamiliar airfield, there'd be no worries. He wolfed down another bite and smiled. There was no such thing as easy money. Leaning down again, he reached for the water bottle in the other leg pocket and glanced outside.
Holy Mother of God!
The hair on his neck went straight up and his eyes flew open wide. Flashing lights and a tower of gray steel sprang from the sea directly in front of him.
A ship!
Reacting instantly, he dropped the egg, hauled back on the stick, and shoved the throttles into full afterburner.
Up! UP!
He willed the big fighter to climb as the gray-painted warship loomed out of the sea mist. It was so close the twin stacks and rotating antennas were plainly visible as the FLANKER roared upward, missing the superstructure by a wingspan.
Suddenly the outside references vanished in the oatmeal mess of the cloud deck. He stared inside the cockpit at the instruments and yanked the throttles out of afterburner. Ignoring the tumbling sensation in his head, he swiftly recovered the jet to level flight using the attitude indicator.
Rolling out, he stared at the altimeter: 1175 feet and steady. Swallowing hard, he shook his head and ignored his thumping heartbeat. Where the fuck did
that
thing come from?
Then the radios exploded into life.
S
creening thirty miles ahead of Carrier Group Seven, the guided missile destroyer U.S.S.
Howard
was dead center in the Formosa Straits. Centered around the aircraft carrier
John C. Stennis
was the
Curtis Wilbur
, another destroyer, the U.S.S.
Chancellorsville
, a guided missile cruiser, and the fast frigate
Gary.
Lurking somewhere under the murky water off the Chinese coast was the attack submarine
Salt Lake City.
But the
Howard
was out in front, plowing through heavy seas and mist when the fighter jet roared overhead. The officer of the deck happened to be the ship's executive officer, or XO, a senior lieutenant commander. He'd just come on duty and was unsuccessfully trying to wake all the way up.
Suddenly an orange flash caught his eye and he looked up in time to see a dark shape leap from the wave tops. Submarine! His shocked mind woke up. A missile launch!
Then he saw the wings and realized it was an aircraft. A big twin-tailed jet that seemed to be heading straight at the bridge. Too startled to speak, he slapped the collision alarm anyway. As the “WHOOP-WHOOP” reverberated throughout the ship, the XO also sounded General Quarters.
The bridge shook as the jet roared overhead, both afterburners belching flame, and he instinctively ducked. Then it was gone, swallowed up in the clouds.
“Come left heading two hundred forty degrees,” he barked at the helmsman. “All ahead Flank.” He picked up the hotline. “Combat . . . run a plot on that damn thing! I want to know who the hell he is and where he's going.”
Another line buzzed and he picked it up.
“What the hell is going on up there, Brad?” It was the captain, wide awake and thoroughly pissed. “What the fuck's gonna hit us out here?”
The XO shook his head and sat down on the edge of the big swivel chair. “Skipper, you're not going to believe it . . .”
“U
nidentified aircraft, 2315 north, 12020 west . . . Repeat . . . unidentified aircraft 2315 north and 12020 west . . . this is the United States warship
Howard.
Acknowledge and identify!”
Damn. The mercenary swore into his mask. So much for Chinese Intelligence and their position estimate of the U.S. Seventh Fleet.
“Unidentified aircraft tracking southwest . . . this is the U.S.S.
Howard.
Acknowledge and identify.” The voice was dispassionate and very firm. Like a machine. Typical military.
He considered ignoring them and just continuing. There wasn't much that they could do as these were international waters. But providing no explanation would make the Americans suspicious and probably lead to an official inquiry. It would certainly lead to an investigation after tonight's events became public. And that was something his employers definitely did not want. If that happened he'd lose the balance of his contract.
Better to give them an answer. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath.
“
Howard
, this is Wolf 71,” he drawled in his best southern American accent. “Sorry 'bout that . . . ya'll aren't supposed to be here.”
There was a long pause and a new voice answered. More authoritative and demanding. Also a bit tense, and the mercenary chuckled. Undoubtedly an officer.
“Wolf 71, this is
Howard.
Squawk 4413. Repeat squawk 4413. Then explain what you're doing on the waves fifty miles from the Chinese coast.”
“Ah . . . roger that. Squawkin' 4413.”
On a western jet this code would be a critical piece of the Identification, Friend or Foe (IFF) matrix used to determine who to shoot and who to talk to. It would also register him on the ship's tracking radar, and the mercenary had no intention of complying. He pushed the throttles back up, quickly dropped back down to 100 feet and immediately turned due west, toward China.
“
Howard
, this is Wolf 71.” He needed to buy some time. Nosing over slightly, the pilot dropped still lower, to a bare forty to fifty feet above the waves, his eyes on the water.
“I'm a single F-16 on a night low-level training mission. Sorry about the close call, but there were no posted NOTAMs 'bout naval activity.”
Nine miles away now. He glanced behind him but couldn't see anything through the goggles.
“Wolf, this is the
Howard
,” the voice was breaking up. “Not registering your squawk. Squawk 4413. Say your home plate.”
The mercenary smiled. The voice sounded a little less peeved. Twelve miles away now.
“Roger that,
Howard
. . . I'll reset to 4413. Been havin' IFF problems all night. Home station is Kunsan Air Base and I'm northbound now . . . Headin' back. See ya.”
The
Howard's
XO keyed the transmitter again but got no response. The captain, who'd joined him almost immediately, was staring at the SPY-ID display. This was the multifunction phased array radar that directed the ship's AEGIS weapons system and it was blank.
“Goddamn Air Force,” the skipper swore. “The only way he could not show up is if he was a receding target flying at wave-top level.”
“Why would he do that?” The XO frowned. “Besides, the Air Force doesn't have balls that big.” Something was nagging at him. Something he just couldn't place.
The captain shrugged. “Note it in the log.” He tapped the electronic chart. “USAF F-16 encountered eighty-eight miles west southwest of Taiwan at 0718 hours ZULU.” He yawned. “Secure from General Quarters, Brad . . . I'm going back to bed.”
Then it clicked. F-16. That was it. The exec hesitated and the captain noticed.
“What?”
The XO straightened and stared at his skipper. “F-16s only have one tail and one engine.”
The captain, who hadn't seen the jet, shrugged. “Yeah . . . so what?”
“Skipper, that thing had two engines . . . and two tails.”
F
orty-two miles to go and 2,800 pounds of fuel. Practically on fumes for this beast, he thought. He'd reduced his speed after getting clear of the destroyer but had added an extra fifty miles to his last leg by heading directly to the coast, then flying south. There hadn't been much of a choice. Destroyers didn't typically run around alone and he suspected the
Howard
was a screening vessel for something a lot bigger. Something that had fighter jets of its own, and an aircraft carrier was the last thing he wanted to run across tonight.
The mercenary blinked his dry eyes. It felt like his lids were scraping his eyeballs. He was
tired
. After nearly two hours of exhausting flying under goggles his neck hurt and his head weighed fifty pounds. But ahead and to the right was his destination. A deserted bay on the Chinese coast. The clouds had finally pulled apart and silver moonlight glowed along the ragged beach.
There were no man-made lights showing in the goggles, so he gently climbed up to 1,000 feet and tugged the throttles back to hold 350 knots. The FLANKER's global positioning system was dead accurate and he centered the steering in the HUD. The highway strip lay on the western shore of the empty bay below him.
He pulled back on the stick again and zoomed the fighter up to 3,000 feet. There were no coastal surveillance radars this far south and no air bases. Besides, he needed to see.