“Not a problem,” said Zen. He dipped
“Turn complete,” he told Alou, who was timing his own maneuvers to the Flighthawk.
Starship saw his position drift toward the Chinese border over the ocean. He applied light pressure to the stick but couldn’t seem to master it, the nose of the small robot stubbornly edging northward.
“You’re going over their line,” said Kick.
“No shit.”
Starship gave up on the light hand, jerking the aircraft sharply to get back on course. The Flighthawk responded as it was programmed to do, veering sharply and changing course. The pilot cursed to himself but kept his cool, sliding back onto the dotted line provided by the computer.
“What are we doing,
“Controls getting a little twitchy,” said Starship.
He swore he heard Kick chortling to himself.
“The controls or you?”
“Me, sir.” Starship felt his cheeks burn.
“The Chinese are scrambling additional planes. We definitely have their attention,” said Dog, his voice calm. “Resume the countdown on the Hellfire and launch when you’re ready.”
“Yes, sir. We’re at thirty seconds.”
Mack could see the idiot Chinese pilots coming toward them from the north, riding a quick burst from their Saturn AL-31FM turbos. The planes they were flying were license-built Sukhois Su-27s, known in China as J-11s and virtually identical to the Russian model, whose design dated to the late seventies and early eighties. Essentially an attempt to keep up to the frontline F-14 and F-15, the Sukhoi was a very good and capable aircraft, but even gussied up with a glass cockpit and thrust vectoring tailpipe, it didn’t impress Mack. Zen could nail one of those suckers with his little bitty robot planes, which as far as Major Smith was concerned, said it all.
The lead Chinese pilot challenged them, calling them “unidentified Xian H-6” and asking what unit they were with.
“Usual Chinese bullshit,” grumbled Mack.
“What’s going on, Major?” asked Miss Kelly.
“He’s just jerking our chain,” Mack told her. “Pretending to think we’re a Chinese aircraft. It’s a game. They make believe they don’t know who we are, so they can fly up close and show off. Goes on all the time. Macho posturing. Don’t be impressed.”
The interceptors started a wide turn, obviously planning to swing around and come across their wings.
“The Chinese can be quite aggressive,” said bin Awg. “They don’t believe that Brunei should have an air force.”
“They don’t think
“They are precisely why we need an air force.”
“You got that straight, Prince,” said Mack. “Jerks. Don’t let ’em push you around.”
Bin Awg broadcast his ID, course, and added a friendly greeting, all in Mandarin.
The Chinese didn’t bother acknowledging.
Mack pulled out his large map of the area, working out how far the planes had come. The Sukhois were large aircraft and could carry a decent amount of fuel; even so, he figured these two jokers must be out near bingo — they’d have to go home soon.
The J-11s had slowed considerably, and as Mack had predicted split wide so they could bracket the Badger. Painted in white, the double-finned planes were trimmed in blue. They had what appeared to be R-73 Russian-made heat-seekers tied to their wings. Known as Archers in the West, the short-range missiles were roughly comparable to Sidewinders.
“Frick and Frack,” said Mack as the planes pulled alongside.
Miss Kelly laughed.
The backseater in the J-11 on the right had a camera. Mack resisted the impulse to give him the finger — it would be posted on the Internet tomorrow if he did. No sense giving the Chinese jerks the satisfaction.
The Sukhoi on the right swung across the Badger’s path, a few yards away. The prince struggled to hold his big, fussy aircraft steady and not hit the idiot. Bin Awg was a good pilot, but the J-11’s bulky mass presented a case study in wake turbulence. Nor was the other commie giving him much room to work with.
The RWR bleeped on and off. The Chinese jocks were really pulling their chain, activating their radars as if intending to target them.
“They’re lucky we don’t have air-to-air missiles,” grumbled the prince.
That gave Mack an idea. He threw off his restraints and climbed back to the gunner’s station. It took a moment to get the hang of the gear, but though ancient it was straightforward enough that even a zippersuit could figure it out. Mack felt the gears chattering behind him as it turned. He put his face down into the old-fashioned viewer, surprised to find that it was actually a radar screen, not an optical feed. As he did so, the pilot had to push down to avoid the Sukhoi’s tailpipe. Losing his balance, Mack grabbed for a handhold. His finger found the gun switch, and to his shock and surprise, a stream of bullets flew not just from the top guns but from all three of the antiair stations.
For one of the few times in his military career, Mack Smith was utterly speechless. He hadn’t thought the weapons were loaded — bin Awg hadn’t given any indication that they were. Nor would he have guessed that they could be fired so easily, or that all three weapons could be commanded from one station.
Of course, had he been trained as a weapons operator, a glance at the panel would have told him all this. But then if he’d been a real weapons operator, he wouldn’t have been fooling around in the first place.
Actually, the same might be said for a pilot, or any officer of the U.S. Air Force, Navy, or Army, whose duty might reasonably be said to include restrictions against being a bonehead in a potential war zone.
Without saying anything, without breathing, Mack slid back into his copilot’s seat, sure that his career in the U.S. Air Force had just ended.
At least he hadn’t shot down the planes. The J-11s pulled off to the north, making tracks.
No one else said anything as he pulled on his headset. Mack glanced toward the prince. His face was red.
Probably, he couldn’t be jailed for what was just a dumb-ass mistake. Court-martialed, sure.
But jailed?
If they did jail him, would it be in Brunei or the U.S.?
A communication came in from the Australian frigate.
Mack listened as the prince gave his position and intentions; they were homeward bound.
“Scared those buggers off, mate,” said the Australian. “Good for you.”
Obviously, it wasn’t a flag officer talking. Bin Awg acknowledged with his ID, but said nothing else.
“I, uh, I—” started Mack. He intended to apologize, but apologies had never exactly been his strong suit. His tongue froze in his mouth.
“Major?” said the prince.
“Um.”
“Major Mack Smith, you have just done something I wish I had the guts to do ten years ago. You sent the devils packing. This is a great moment. A very, very great moment.”
If Mack had had trouble speaking a moment before, he was utterly speechless now. He wanted to tell the prince that, in all honesty, he was exaggerating by a country mile.
Then he thought he’d apologize, say he hadn’t thought the gun was loaded, and throw himself on the mercy of the court. Maybe the prince might say a few words on his behalf.
But nothing came out of his mouth.
