Megafortress, the F-8s could use
“Missiles!” said Delaney as the Chinese planes began to close in. A pair of radar homers had been kicked off from the lead F-8 at about thirty miles — probably too far to hit them, but they couldn’t take a chance.
The Megafortress’s ECM blared, not only killing the guidance systems in the missiles but giving the Shenyang pilots fits as well. Zen started an intercept that would allow him to slap the lead bandit with a cannon burst, then dip his wing and take on the wingmate.
The lead F-8 came on faster than he expected, its Liyang turbojet obviously feeling its oats. Zen got a shot, but just barely. The computer helped him put the bullets out in front of the Mainlander — in effect, the Chinese pilot ran into them. He got a hit, but it wasn’t enough to stop the plane.
It was too late to worry about it. He tucked his wing, the targeting screen going yellow as the second F-8 flew into range.
“Lead F-8 closing. He’s setting for heat-seekers,” warned Delaney.
“Stinger,” said Dog calmly, referring to the airmine unit in the Megafortress’s tail. A replacement for the tail cannon that had graced the original B-52, the Stinger spit out cylinders of tungsten-wrapped explosive. When the fuse in the airmines sensed a proximate object, they ignited their charges, sending a spray of hot metal into the air. The metal would shred a jet turbine as easily as a screwdriver puncturing a Dixie cup.
“Coming at us. Missile.”
Dog hit his flares and jinked left, then right. Meanwhile, Delaney worked the Stinger. The combination of the F-8’s speed and
“We have two AMRAAMs,” said Delaney.
“Save ’em in case we need them to get the clone.”
“Shit,” said the copilot. “We’ve lost the UAV from the radar.”
Zen’s targeting cue framed the cockpit of the F-8. He saw the outline of his opponent and thought of the people in the civilian jet he had just been ordered to shoot down.
He pressed his trigger, but he’d already blown the shot.
Zen kicked himself mentally, then checked the sitrep to line up for another shot.
He didn’t have to — the Taiwanese Mirages were now in range of the F-8s. There was a whole lot of chatter in the air — two missiles were launched, then a third and a fourth. The Mainlanders decided the prudent thing to do was select afterburner and live for another day. They rode north, pursued by the ROC missiles.
A ground missile battery — a Chinese HQ-9, roughly the equivalent of the long-range Russian SA-10 on which it was based — came on-line as
“We’re spiked,” said Delaney, meaning that the ground radar had found and locked on the aircraft. It could launch a missile at any time.
“Break it,” said Dog.
“Broke it,” said Delaney. The copilot’s voice had become hoarse.
“Good,” said Dog. “You have the UAV?”
“Not on the scope. Negative.”
“Wes?”
“No transmissions,” said the specialist, who was monitoring the airwaves. “Chinese know we’re here, though. About a million people gunning for us. Battery of FT-2000s antirad missiles trying to find us. Uh, some command problems there.”
The FT-2000 homed in on ECMs and other electromagnetic radiation; it was a real threat to
“Is it up?” Dog asked.
“Doesn’t appear to be.”
“UAV?”
“They don’t seem to see it. They think we’re the threat.”
“Do we have it?”
“Negative,” said Wes.
“If it’s going to Beijing, it’s got a good distance to travel,” said Delaney.
Dog remembered what Jennifer had said about the UAV — more than likely it would fly straight to its target, no fancy stuff in between. He plotted a line to Beijing on his multiuse display.
“If that’s the way we’re going, we’ll never make it,” said Delaney looking at the course he’d laid in.
“We better,” said Dog.
Jed Barclay looked at the table as the debate continued on whether to alert the Chinese government to what exactly was going on.
The secretary of state argued that admitting the bomb existed would scuttle the summit before it started. The President asked if the UAV could be shot down without Chinese help.
Probably, thought Jed — but sooner or later the communists would take out
And that would undoubtedly lead to a full-scale nuclear exchange.
One of the Air Force experts was describing the radar and missile defenses in the corridor
Balboa wanted to declare
Jed tried to speak but the words died in a mumbled stutter on his tongue.
“What do you think, Jed?” asked the President.
“I–I—”
“I think we can give them a few minutes more,” interrupted the secretary of state. “They’ve never failed us before. This is Dreamland we’re talking about.”
“No!” His voice was so loud it echoed against the paneled walls of the sit room. Everyone around him stopped and looked at him.
“I’m sorry, but not even a Megafortress can survive the gauntlet around Beijing. The multilayered defenses, the f-fact they’re flying in a straight line, and they’re also low on fuel. It’s not going to work. And the Taiwanese UAV — it’s not as fast as the Flighthawk or the Megafortress but it has a good lead. It may take another twenty minutes to catch. We don’t know what onb-b-board defenses it m-might have.”
“What’s your advice, Jed?” asked the President.
“Um, uh—”
Jed clenched his fist, trying to get the stutter to go away. “We have to tell the Chinese what’s g-going on.”
“That won’t remove the risk to our people,” said Chastain. “They still may be targeted.”
“We have to tell them everything,” said Jed. “They’ll think we set this up otherwise.”
He looked at the screen, trying to see his boss. What did he think?
Probably that Jed was a stuttering jerk.
“Jed’s right,” said Freeman.
“Make the connection,” said the President.
