Chinese characters on it. Stoner’s ability to interpret ideographs was somewhat limited, but he thought the words meant “To the next generation.”
Boston watched the Marines set the charges amid the rubble. The passage was blocked by an extremely large and thick piece of the wall; to get it out of the way they had to use considerable explosives. There was simply no way of knowing what other damage it might do.
“How we looking down there, Boston?” asked Captain Freah.
“Uh, the charges are just about set,” the sergeant told him. “A good hunk of C-4.”
“Understood. Make sure you’re far enough away.”
“Yeah.”
“Something bothering you, Boston?”
“Uh—”
“Look, Sergeant, the thing about Whiplash is, you have an opinion, you share it. You got me? I didn’t pick you to join the squad because I thought you were stupid. I want to know what the hell it is you’re thinking. Talk to me.”
Boston had been in the Air Force for a while, but no officer had ever spoken to him exactly like that. While there were definitely good officers around, the usual attitude toward NCOs and enlisted men in general edged more toward tolerance than partnership.
Was Freah different?
Maybe it was the fact that they were both black.
Or maybe what he and Colonel Bastian and the others said was true — Dreamland was a team effort.
“I have a weird, weird idea,” offered Boston. “We could use that Osprey to pull some of these big suckers off. I saw this big crane helicopter do that once back home when this building—”
“Pull the charges out of there now,” said Freah, cutting him off. “Next time you get an idea, Sergeant, you share it right away, you got me?”
“Damn straight, sir,” said Boston. “Damn straight.”
Zen jumped into
The Chinese pilot repeated roughly the same challenge the others had, telling
Dog gave a bland reply and held to his course.
They had one more aircraft to check out, another 767 whose flight plan said it was heading for Beijing. The ID had already checked out.
“Controller’s telling that J-7 to hang with us,” said Wes. “He’s got fuel problems, though.”
“Any transmissions from the 767?” asked Zen.
“Negative.”
“Zen, be advised we have a ground radar trying to track us,” said the copilot. “You see that on your screen? Fan Songstyle radar — getting some more action here.”
“Just flashed in,” said Zen as the icons indicating different ground intercept and guidance radars began to appear on his screens. The Fan Song radar was associated with Chinese V-75 SA-2 Guideline missiles, originally designed by Russia in the late 1950s but updated at regular intervals since. “Stealthy” did not mean “invisible”; the long-wave radar could detect the EB-52 at roughly ten miles. But unless the Megafortress had to fly directly over the site, it was unlikely to be successfully targeted. The Flighthawk was even more difficult to detect.
“We’re out of their range,” noted Delaney. “Fresh flight of Mirages en route from Taiwan coming up behind us, uh, should be on the radar in ten, a little less. Look here, J-7’s turning around. Looks like the skies are friendly once more.”
“Roger that,” said Zen, jumping back into
While the Osprey was brought in to move the debris, Danny Freah went to the staging point down by the harbor to speak with one of the Taiwanese officers in charge of the forces there. By now the government had been informed by Washington that an operation was under way to apprehend terrorists pursuant to existing treaties, but details were still waiting Danny’s completion, and in any event the Taiwan president had not yet been contacted.
The Taiwanese were angry but Danny wasn’t ready to explain what was going on or turn over control. While there were now more than a dozen Marines at the entrance to the site, the Americans would soon be outgunned, and in any event were under orders not to use lethal force against their allies. So Danny tried an old politician’s trick of diverting attention. He told the Taiwan officer in charge at the gate that the terrorists were probably Mainlanders and were suspected of having more forces in the harbor; they needed help checking the shorelines nearby. The officer retreated to consult his superiors; Danny also retreated, telling the Marines to appear as helpful as possible, but to stall before coming to find him.
Meanwhile, the Osprey hovered over the battery reclamation area. As powerful as the craft was, it hadn’t been designed as an excavator. It groaned and ducked, power plants moaning. Trotting back toward the site, Danny realized he’d have to call it off before it became damaged. Before he could hit his com control, the tilt-wing aircraft lurched backward, then suddenly shot upward — the stone had broken free.
“All right, Boston, set the explosives up,” he said, making his way back toward the area.
“No need to — we can get in. The Osprey pulled the block a couple of yards away.”
There was a shout in the background.
“What’s going on?” demanded Danny.
“Marines are okay. One with two broken legs swears he’ll beat the crap out of anyone who tries helping him walk.”
“Where’s Stoner?”
“Inside somewhere. We’re working on it.”
Two fresh Mirage 2000s had been scrambled northward from Taiwan. Bumped by their afterburners into Mach + territory, they would have the Boeing in sight about sixty seconds or so after Zen did. Their fly-by-wire controls and a subtle but significant change in the design’s center of gravity made the planes much more maneuverable than the Mirage III they outwardly resembled. While Zen would still — rightly — prefer an F-15 in a dust-up, the ROC interceptors could definitely hold their own.
The same might be said — albeit much more grudgingly — for the Shenyang F-8IIMs now being vectored in to check out the Mirages by a ground control unit south of Shanghai. The Shenyangs were as fast as the Mirages and might be as maneuverable, though from what Zen had already seen of Mainland pilots, he doubted their ability to outfly their island rivals.
C3’s tactical section plotted their intercept — everybody was going within visual range at roughly the same time.
