“We’ve got to warn them off!” the observer said. “Whatever shot us down will take them next!” He pulled out his survival radio and clicked it on. His pilot looked at him wordlessly, and the observer nodded. They both knew that the minute they activated the radio, the enemy could triangulate their position. But if they didn’t make the call, the deaths of thirty commandos and a C-130 Hercules flight crew would haunt them forever.
“Samtek Seven, Samtek Seven, this is Patrol Three-Four on the ground, over.”
“Patrol Three-Four, this is Samtek, we read you loud and clear, authenticate one-Zulu.”
“Charlie,” the observer responded, referring to a tiny authenticator card. He accomplished another authentication routine with the transport pilot; then: “Samtek, we have been shot down by unknown hostile forces, possibly hostile AI or SAMs. The LZ is hot, repeat, LZ hot. Remain clear of the area and go get help. Do you copy?”
“We copy, Three-Four,” the transport pilot replied. “Air cover and strike forces are on the way, ETA four. If you can make it to extraction point Lotus, repeat Lotus, help will be waiting.”
“Roger,” the observer said. There was nothing that made a downed aircrew feel better than to know there were friendlies in the area who were willing to risk their own lives to rescue them. “Our ETA to Lotus is three.” They used a simple code for time — multiplied the number by the day of the month — to avoid giving the enemy an idea of when and where to find them.
“We copy, Three-Four,” the transport pilot said. “Good luck. Samtek is clear.”
“Now let’s get out of here,” the pilot shouted, and they took off running to the next bit of cover they could see, about two hundred yards off.
They were halfway to their next hiding place when they heard it — a deep, loud, screeching roar, coming toward them. They looked up — and realized immediately that they were dead men. It was two Chinese Q-5 light jet fighter-bombers, careening down on them in a shallow dive.
“It’s Chinese,” the observer said. “We’re well inside our own borders! China is flying attack jets over our territory!” No doubt that’s who had shot them down — and now they were coming in to finish the job.
The pilot frantically got on his handheld radio again. “Samtek, Samtek, this is Three-Four. We spotted a Chinese Q-5 fighter-bomber, repeat, a Chinese fighter-bomber, at our location. Recommend you get as far away from here as possible and send help! How do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Three-Four,” the transport pilot acknowledged. “Thanks for the warning. Get off the air and take cover!”
But it was far too late. The United Republic of Korea crew members’ last thought was that the stupid Chinese bastards sure were wasting a lot of bombs on them — both Q-5 fighters dropped cluster bombs on their attack pass. All that ordnance just to kill two arrogant Dragonfly crew members who were too stupid to check their six for signs of threats. It was an impressive attack, very accurate — but one bomb would’ve done the job just as easily.
With the cluster bombs gone, the Chinese Q-5 fighter, a copy of the old Soviet MiG-19 fighter-bomber, now flew like a jet fighter instead of like a wallowing pig. Both Q-5s climbed up from their attack pass to four thousand meters. The leader checked his wingman over and noticed he had dropped his bombs too. Well, now they were both fighters again.
“Han-301, this is Control,” their ground controller radioed. “We have detected an airborne target, slow- moving, altitude unknown, twenty-three kilometers south of your position. You are directed to intercept and destroy. Acknowledge.”
The Q-5 flight lead checked his radio range from the controller’s position beacon, cross-checked his position with some prominent landmarks, then checked his chart board. He was about thirty kilometers inside United Korea, what was once free-flying airspace of North Korea. Technically, this was a violation of UROK’s airspace, an act of war. But since China had not yet recognized the United Republic of Korea, it still considered this airspace as belonging to its ally the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, whose president and government just now happened to reside in Beijing to escape political persecution. Besides, when UROK fired those missiles against Chinese troops in Yanggang Do province, they technically started a war. So flying another twenty-three kilometers or so inside Korea was no big deal.
“H-301 acknowledges instructions,” the flight lead responded. He turned south and activated his ranging radar. The tactical controller, based in a mobile radar trailer just north of the Korean border, kept feeding him a constant stream of position updates until it became apparent that the target had descended low enough to escape his radar.
But soon the Chinese fighter pilots didn’t need the controller’s help. Just a few minutes later the Q-5 fighter lead spotted the big transport. It was an American-made C-130 transport in black and brown camouflage, hugging the rolling, rugged terrain, flying barely a hundred meters aboveground. “Control, H-301 has visual contact on aircraft, proceeding with intercept.” There was no response — he was flying too low and too far from the radar controller now to maintain good radio coverage.
No matter. He had the target visually, and it would be an easy kill. He deactivated his range-only radar, selected his 20-millimeter cannon, armed his trigger, dialed in the proper settings on his mechanical heads-up display — no fancy electronic HUD on this thirty-year-old bird, nor was one required — double-checked his switches, and began to slide into firing range. When the C-130’s wingtips began to touch the edge of the aiming reticle, he slid his finger down to the trigger and…
“Lead!” It was the wingman frantically shouting on the interplane radio.
The Chinese pilot ignored the warning — he was exactly at firing range. But in the blink of an eye his instruments began rolling, warning lights flashed, and his tiny cockpit immediately filled with dense black smoke. He was momentarily distracted by another flash of light — the fireball of his wingman exploding in mid-air — before he reluctantly released the grip on his throttle and control stick and pulled his ejection.
The Q-5 slammed into the ground in an inverted dive traveling almost the speed of sound. He had made the decision to eject just three seconds too late.
“Splash two,” Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan radioed. “Good shooting, Rebecca.”
What a weird feeling, Rebecca Furness thought. She had of course launched missiles and killed the enemy before — her RF-111G Vampire bomber carried Sidewinder air-to-air missiles for self-defense, and she had to use them during the Russia-Ukraine skirmish. But that was self-defense, a means to help blow past area defenses or put a fighter screen on the defensive long enough for her to get to the target. This was different. They were the hunters this time.
Rebecca and three other crews loaded EB-1C Megafortress battleships at Dreamland and flew them to Adak, Alaska. After crew rest, the crews were briefed, and three Megafortresses launched together to take up combat air patrols over Korea, with the fourth and fifth planes launching later to begin an eight-hour rotation schedule to try to keep as many planes up over Korea at once as possible.
“You okay, Colonel?” Patrick McLanahan asked Furness. Patrick was back on the ground at Adak Naval Air Station, commanding the virtual cockpit. He and Nancy Cheshire would spend four hours in it, then man Fortress Four and relieve Rebecca on patrol in northern Korea. Four hours later another crew would launch in Fortress Five, and the rotation would continue until they were ordered to stop.
“I… I think so.”
“It doesn’t get any easier after the first or the second or the fourth kill,” Patrick said, expertly reading her mind. “In fact, it only gets more nightmarish. Probably because the technology gets so swift, so efficient. Those Chinese Q-5s were seventeen miles away. We could’ve been another ten miles farther away.”
“I guess we’re not into fair fights anymore, are we?”
“Fair fights? That
“Hey, lighten up, everybody,” Nancy Cheshire, the senior pilot back in the virtual cockpit, interjected. “Rebecca, I say, You go, girl! First air-to-air shots in anger for the Megafortress, and she scores two hits! Oh, sure,
