Strike Zone

minutes of flying time left.

“Should we be polite?” asked Alou.

“Give it a shot. If they don’t move off, break left hard. I’ll drop in and we’ll hook up before they can get back.”

As Alou asked the Chinese pilot in English and Mandarin Chinese to stand clear so they could refuel, the lead F-8 returned, taking up a position under the other wing. This ruled out Zen’s plan.

“All right, that’s it,” said Zen. He pushed the slide on the throttle and whipped the Flighthawk forward, riding in between the F-8 on the right and the Megafortress. The Chinese pilot got the message and began to duck off to the right. But as he did, his flight leader lost his nerve and jinked downward as well — right into the other plane’s wing.

A turbulent rumble of air shook all four aircraft. Zen thought he had hit the belly of the Megafortress — he’d been closest to the EB-52—and slammed the Flighthawk downward as quickly as he could.

For a long half second, he wasn’t sure where anyone else was. He felt a disconnect between his mind and body — his eyes were plummeting with the Flighthawk while his chest was taking a few g’s from the other direction, Alou trying to climb out of trouble.

By the time Zen pulled upward, Alou had steadied the Megafortress. It hadn’t been hit.

“All right. I have to refuel,” said Zen. “No more fooling around.”

The warning tone was loud in his ear, the Flighthawk pleading for gas.

“Roger that,” said Alou.

“Chinese aircraft are down,” reported the copilot. “I see one, I have two chutes. Good chutes. Lucky bastards.”

“Thank God for that,” said Alou. “Even if they don’t deserve it.”

Aboard the Dragon Prince, South China Sea

1500

From the air, the small tanker looked no different from the average commercial vessel plying the South China Sea. A small gray tarp, frayed at one edge, flapped in the wind on the starboard side; the masts were in disrepair and the paint near the waterline clearly needed to be scraped and reapplied. Anyone who followed the ship for any length of time would realize that the engines had a habit of spewing dark smoke at unpredictable intervals, but they would also notice that the crew, while relatively small, was motivated and disciplined. The flag that flew from the mast was Malaysian, though of course in these days of international shipping, any observer might guess that was more a matter of convenience than a clue to its ownership. The Dragon ship — its actual name was Dragon Prince, though few used it — was to all outward appearances just one more small merchant vessel trying to make a living in the difficult business of international shipping.

But as the old Chinese proverb put it, appearances were often meant to deceive.

Chen Lo Fann stood on the bridge of the Dragon Prince, waiting. An American satellite had just inconveniently passed overhead, delaying their launch. They had to wait another ninety seconds to make sure that it was well out of range.

Chen Lo Fann waited stoically, willing the time to pass. There was no doubt in his mind that their chance had passed by today; he hoped Fate would provide another tomorrow.

“Commander?”

Surprised, Chen Lo Fann turned. “Professor Ai, why are you on the bridge? Shouldn’t you be with your controls?”

“You need to listen to this,” said the gray-haired scientist.

Chen Lo Fann nodded, then followed as Professor Ai led the way below to the compartment where the intercepted information was compiled. He stepped quickly to the panel at the right and flipped a small toggle switch, allowing an intercepted radio transmission to be broadcast onto the deck.

The words were in Chinese.

A search-and-rescue operation.

One of the Communist planes had gone down!

“Two of the planes collided,” said Professor Ai. “They will send a rescue craft, a Harbin flying boat. It is their usual procedure.”

And so, thought Chen Lo Fann, there is such a thing as Fate.

“Yes,” he said. “Let us refine our plan.”

Aboard Raven

1503

Zen completed his refuel and pushed the Flighthawk away from the belly of the big plane, looping over the wide expanse of water. The two Chinese aircraft had crashed roughly five miles from each other, the planes zigging away after the collision. One of the F-8s had lost its wing, and its jock had hit the silk within seconds of the mishap; the other pilot had stayed with his plane though a good hunk of a tail fin had been sheered off. That pilot was just now hitting the water; Zen banked and approached him from the west.

The Chinese had shot down Quicksilver, killing four of Zen’s friends and nearly killing his wife; while the reviews showed that the attack was a mistake, Zen nonetheless held the Chinese responsible. If they hadn’t been overly aggressive, his people would still be alive.

On the other hand, his duty was to help rescue these jerks.

“Do you have their exact position?” Zen asked Alou as he watched the first pilot hit the water.

“Negative. If you want to go over them and get some GPS readings, we can alert PRC rescue assets,” said the pilot.

“Have they scrambled SAR units yet?” Zen asked.

“We’re working to figure that out, Hawk leader.”

Zen slowed the Flighthawk down as he took a wide bank to swing over one of the Chinese pilots, who was struggling with his gear. The air-to-ground attack mode on the Flighthawk’s radar gave a precise reading of cursored objects as part of the data set; intended to target GPS-guided munitions in coordination with the Megafortress, it could also help in the SAR role. Zen told C³ to find the pilot in the water; the computer popped a little red halo around his head and plotted his exact location.

“Got Idiot One,” said Zen, uploading the information as he brought the Flighthawk back in the direction of the other pilot. At about two miles, he saw a yellow splotch appear on the waves — the pilot had inflated his life raft. “Idiot Two is alive and well.”

“Hawk leader, be advised we have a pair of Chinese aircraft — uh, J-11s or license-built Su-27s — coming out in our direction,” said Alou. “Looks like they’ve been tasked for search and rescue. We’ll attempt to contact them; at present they’re outside of radar range but we have some telemetry on them. Going to take them a bit to get down here.”

Zen acknowledged. As he orbited back, he saw that the second Chinese pilot had not yet inflated his raft.

“Either one of our friends is having trouble with his gear, or he likes to swim,” Zen told the others.

The pilot remained a small dot in the water as he approached. Zen tucked lower, easing down below five thousand feet to try and get a better look at the pilot. He was going about 220 knots and couldn’t get much of a visual; he came back around, speed dropping through 200 and altitude bleeding away, but the cam caught only the top of the man’s head. Just as he pulled off, Zen thought he saw the Chinese pilot’s arm jerk up; if it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t have known he was alive.

“He’s alive but definitely having trouble with the sea,” said Zen. “Where are those SAR assets?”

“Still trying to get a direct line to the Chinese. They’re not answering our hails. They’re on your radar now.”

“Yeah. More idiots. Can we get a helicopter up from one of the ASEAN frigates?” Zen asked.

“We’re working on it, Zen. Looks like we’re out of their chopper range. Hang tight.”

Zen flew a racetrack orbit over the two men, a simple, lazy oval in the sky.Raven had already made two broadcasts over the international UHF Mayday frequency, using the Chinese planes’ call signs, but had not received answers. Zen clicked into the SAR circuit himself and gave it a shot, telling the downed pilots he had their locations and help was on the way.

“Thank you,” came a staticky reply. “Is Commander Won okay?”