Tiger's Claw: A Novel

and there were warm spots on the engine compartment and in various places around the vehicle—Brad could even see a few persons walking nearby.

“But which one is it?” Brad asked. “They both look real.”

“You’re the gunner today, Brad,” Patrick said. “Choose one and . . .”

The “MISSILE WARNING” alert sounded. Distracted by the DF-21 discovery, Patrick had allowed the two J-15 fighters to close in directly behind them! “Chaff! Flares!” he shouted, and as soon as he saw Brad’s finger touch the screen he yanked the stick left and back and hit the afterburners, starting a rapid climb into their pursuers. They felt a loud hard thrumming on the left wing, and seconds later they got a “FIRE NO. 1” warning message on their MFDs. “Fire on number one!” Patrick shouted. He pulled the throttles out of afterburner, retarded the number one engine throttle to cutoff and hit the fire extinguisher button. Seconds later, the fire warning went out.

“What do I do? What do I do?” Brad shouted.

“First, relax,” Patrick said. “Check the engine instruments. I’m going to try to find that fighter.”

“Say your status, Zero-Three,” Sondra radioed.

“Got one on my tail somewhere,” Patrick said.

“On the way.”

Patrick activated the AESA radar briefly, but there was no sign of the Chinese fighter. “No sign of him,” he said. “Do you still have the DF-21s locked up?”

Brad checked his displays, and sure enough the Sniper pod was still indicating it was locked on. “Yes!”

Patrick made a slight left turn until they could see the image of the DF-21. “Nail them,” he said, and seconds later the last two JASSMs were in the . . .

And at that instant a thunderous BRRRAAAPPP! sound could be heard that seemed to run up the length of the left side of the Excalibur from tail to nose. The pilot’s side window and left windscreen exploded, showering Patrick first with glass and then with triple hurricane-force winds. His body was being shoved left and right like a rag doll held outside a moving vehicle by the massive wind pressure.

“Dad!” Brad screamed. His flight training immediately took over, and he put his hands on the control stick and throttles, pulled back power, pushed the wing-sweep level forward, and started a climb. It sounded as if he was standing inches away from a freight train thundering past him at full speed. He couldn’t tell the extent of his father’s injuries, only that he was helpless and wounded, and he was just inches away and couldn’t do anything for him. “Oh, God, Dad! . . .”

Brad then saw it on his MFD—the J-15 was back, lining up for another missile shot. Brad tried to turn into the fighter, but it was as if the controls were half frozen, and he had no maneuverability. They were almost inside the radar cone . . . the “MISSILE WARNING” was blaring, now blinking . . . they were well inside the radar cone now . . .

. . . and just then a coffin box appeared around the J-15, then disappeared.

“Looks like your tail is clear, Zero-Three,” Sondra radioed. “You guys okay?”

“We got one engine shut down, and we got hit up the left side,” Brad said. “I don’t know if Dad got hit, but he’s out.”

“Roger,” Sondra said. Brad couldn’t believe how calm she sounded, and that helped him start to get control of his shaking arms and knees. “I’ve got you in the NVGs. I’ll come up on your left side. You just fly the airplane. Head east.”

The farther east they headed, the more radar warnings they got, and soon the radar warnings were almost constant—and then the indications of fighters approaching from both the north and south began.

Sondra pulled up alongside Brad’s stricken bomber, and Lisa Mann, her copilot, examined the damage. “You’re leaking fuel, you might be getting an engine fire on number two, and you might not be able to fully sweep your wings all the way forward,” Mann said.

“What do we do, Sondra?” Brad asked.

“You just fly the airplane, Brad,” Sondra said. “Your job is to stay on my wing.”

“But those fighters! . . .”

“Stay on my wing,” Sondra repeated. “If we get hit, remember your ejection procedures.”

“But what about my dad!”

“Brad, don’t think about that,” Sondra said. “Stay on my wing, and if we get hit, remember your ejection procedures.”

“But I can’t just eject without doing something!” Brad said. “Maybe I can pull his ejection lever right before I pull mine.”

“Just stay on my wing, Brad,” Sondra repeated. Now there were at least a half-dozen fighters screaming in on them from three sides. They were going to be enveloped any second. There was a tremendous flash and a brief mushroom of fire down below . . .

. . . and then, one by one, the enemy fighter icons began to disappear, and the radar warnings ceased.

“Masters flight, this is Spirit Three-Zero on GUARD,” Lieutenant Colonel McBride radioed on the international emergency frequency. “Switch back to the command channel.” Brad switched the number one radio back to the secure command channel. “Masters flight, Task Force Leopard, check in.”

“One,” Brad replied.

“Two.”

“Three.”

There was a slight pause in memory of Sam Jacobs, and then Tom Hoffman replied, “Five.”

“We’ll be inbound past you in a second,” McBride said. “Your nose is clear.”

“Negative, negative!” Sondra responded. “Three-Zero, I’ve got fighters inbound from the east. They look like they’re on your tail!”

“They are, but they’re Republic of China fighters, not People’s Liberation Army,” McBride said. “They’re going to clear a path for you guys while the rest of Task Force Leopard takes care of the targets you guys didn’t get. There’s a tanker waiting at the second ARCP in case you need it.”

“You guys followed us out here? Why didn’t you say something?”

“You nuts had your radios turned off or tuned to some other freq, and you never answered us,” McBride said. “That’s okay—there was a lot of screaming and yelling from Honolulu all the way to Washington that you missed out on, but since we couldn’t stop you, we figured we’d better join you. The Taiwanese were more than ready to help, and the Philippine and Vietnamese air forces are patrolling as well in case any more PLAAF fighters want to play.”

“Thanks, guys,” Brad said. “You really saved our butts.”

“You didn’t think we were going to let you come out here and get all the glory, did you?” McBride said.

Brad looked over at his father, pinned to his ejection seat, covered in glass and blood, his head being jerked back and forth uncontrollably by the strong slipstream, and there was nothing he could do to help him. He certainly didn’t feel like he was getting any glory right now.

EPILOGUE

OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF THE GENERAL STAFF, PEOPLE’S LIBERATION ARMY HEADQUARTERS, BEIJING, CHINA

THREE DAYS LATER

“The plan is simple, sir,” Admiral Zhen Peng, commander of the South Sea Fleet of the People’s Liberation Army Navy, said. “First, we must complete the destruction of the island of Guam. Our first attack did not do enough damage. But many of the Patriot air defense systems were destroyed and have not yet been replaced, and of course the bombers that carried air-to-air missiles are no longer there. We still have a quantity of AS-19 nuclear missiles ready to load on our surviving H-6 bombers, and they can make short work of the air base on Guam.” General Zu Kai said nothing, only staring into space, an almost burned-out cigarette in his fingers.

“Second, we punish every nation that assisted the Americans on that attack against Guangzhou,” Zhen went on. “Taiwan, the Philippines, and Vietnam must pay for their involvement. A series of strikes against their most