War of Eagles

“What are you doing?” Chou asked the lieutenant.

“You will close the door,” the officer replied. “Otherwise, we are prepared to close it for you.”

“We will close the door and leave,” Chou decided suddenly. “You will see to our refueling.”

“I will relay your request to the base commander.”

“That was not a request,” Chou informed him.

“I only take orders from the general,” the lieutenant answered predictably.

Chou regarded him but said nothing. “Close the door,” he told his aide.

The director of the Guoanbu returned to his seat. He opened his own laptop and began composing an E-mail to the prime minister’s office. It would be marked Top Priority, National Security. The heading guaranteed that whoever received it would contact the prime minister immediately, wherever he was.

The pilot got on the public address system. “Director Chou, a fuel truck has been sent from the hangar.”

That was a surprise. Obviously, Tam Li did not want them here. He would probably have the aircraft fueled as slowly as possible. He must believe that by the time Chou was in the air, it would be too late to stop him. It was curious that he was not concerned about E-mail. Perhaps he thought his signals would block it. Tam Li often acted with passion rather than sense.

Chou quickly composed his E-mail as the smell of jet fuel filled the cockpit. After several minutes the pilot came back on the speaker.

“Director Chou, please come to the cockpit,” the captain said. “Something is happening outside.”

Chou set his laptop aside and went to the front. He did not hurry. Panic was its own fuel. He stepped inside and looked out the window. He saw three fire trucks moving along the runway in their direction.

“Obviously, Captain, there is a fire somewhere,” Chou said.

“If so, sir, there would be an alarm,” the pilot replied.

The captain was correct.

“How has the refueling proceeded?” Chou asked.

The captain indicated a gauge. “It has not yet begun.”

Chou felt foolish. Not just because he had overlooked the obvious but because he had underestimated General Tam Li.

“Captain, we need to take off,” Chou said. “You have to get us to a commercial airstrip.”

“Sir, the nearest fields are in Hong Kong or Canton, and we have barely enough fuel to reach either—”

“Take off!” Chou ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“If these trucks try to block us, go around them or over them, but get us out of here,” he added.

The pilot and copilot immediately began preparing the jet for power-up. Chou sat in the seat beside his aide. Both men buckled their seat belts. The plane rattled as the engines were started in tandem.

“Sir, why would the general give us fuel, then use fire trucks to close off the runway?” Chou’s aide asked.

“I do not believe that is what he is doing,” Chou said ominously. He cast a look out the window. The airmen were all watching the back of the aircraft. After a moment, they were given a signal to withdraw.

Chou undid his belt and jumped from his seat.

“Sir?” said the aide.

“The door!” Chou yelled. “Open it and deploy the emergency slide. We have to get out!”

The aide got up and went to the hatch. Chou stood behind him.

“Stop the engines,” Chou told the pilots. “We’re leaving—”

There was a whooshing sound from the back of the aircraft, like a gas range being ignited. Chou looked back. That was not far from the case. The windows in the center of the aircraft were suddenly filled with a smoky orange glow.

The orderly pulled open the hatch just as the dull light reached the forward section. The young man cried and stepped back as flames whipped over the foot of the doorway and into the cabin.

That was why the general was not worried about E-mailed messages, Chou thought. He knew they would never be sent.

Perhaps.

While the pilot jumped forward to close the hatch, Chou turned and rushed down the aisle. He reached his seat just as the aircraft lost all structural integrity. The fuel that had been set aflame below the aircraft ignited the fuel that remained in the tanks. The tires exploded first, dropping the aircraft to the tarmac a moment before it disintegrated. The fuselage blew open like a holiday firework. Instead of spraying the air with sparkling light, it threw shards of glass, metal, and quick-melted plastic in every direction. The wings were blown from the fuselage. Weighted down by the engines, one on each wing, they hit the asphalt and skidded several dozen yards from the sides. The tail section simply broke off and fell backwards, allowing a fist of flame to shoot from the back of the cabin.

Because the aircraft fuel tanks had been near empty, the blast was contained to the jet and the surrounding airfield. The three fire trucks that had already been en route arrived immediately after the explosion. Foam punched through the black smoke, hissing as it came into contact with fire and superheated metal. Within several minutes the flames had been extinguished. Men in fire-resistant white suits were beginning to move through the wreckage. They used back-mounted fire extinguishers to kill spot fires and search for survivors.

There were none.

There were not even remains that could be easily spotted, let alone identified.

General Tam Li was given an update about the spill and its aftermath. He thanked the fire captain.

Then he called the prime minister to inform him of the tragic crash.

FORTY-SEVEN

Xichang, China Thursday, 8:55 A.M.

The prime minister was in a pleasantly detached mood as his plane neared Xichang. He had been reading for pleasure, not for work, which was unusual. But it had been an intense few days, and a search for the historical Wong Fei Hung was a welcome distraction. Tales of the nineteenthcentury Chinese hero had been a favorite of Le’s when he was a boy. The son of one of the Ten Tigers of Canton, Wong Fei Hung was a healer, a philosopher, a martial arts master, and a defender of justice. He was also the subject of over one hundred feature films and four times as many novels, which had obscured his real-life accomplishments. Le Kwan Po found the real man even more fascinating than the fictional one, living quietly as a peddler of herbal medicines while battling tirelessly for the rights of his fellow citizens. Married seven times — the last, to a teenage girl — Wong Fei Hung was obviously a man of considerable strength and stamina.

Anita was sitting beside her father, and Paul Hood was sitting across the aisle. They were chatting amiably in English. Le Kwan Po was happy and surprised to see his daughter so relaxed. She had asked that Mr. Hood be seated across from her rather than in the section of the airplane reserved for dignitaries. That caused some indignant glances and awkward remarks from the European representatives, but Le ignored them. It was the privilege of a high-ranking official to be provocative. Besides, none of them had ever gone for a walk with his daughter.

Le had been tempted to ask what they were speaking about when the phone in his armrest beeped.

It was General Tam Li calling from Zhuhai. Chou Shin had been killed during an unannounced visit to the Zhuhai Air Base.

“I do not know why he was here,” the general said. “We are trying to ascertain whether there were explosives on board.”

Le Kwan Po’s first thought was that Chou Shin may have been planning another unworthy act, such as a direct attack on Tam Li. It would have been a blow to the general’s power base by hitting his eastern command hub.

It also would have been treason, Le thought. Chou Shin was many things, but he was not a traitor. The defense of China was as important to Communists as it was to the more progressive