A high-pitched whine, barely audible at the edge of his perception, caught his attention. Chu Hsi paused, halfway out of the tank. Was it barely possible that there might be another aircraft in the area? Some unexpected event to relieve the unending tedium?
He scanned the horizon, turning in a circle, looking for the source of the noise. He selfishly said nothing to the others, keeping this experience all for himself. Then he would be the one with the new experience to relate, rather than having to share it with the humorless gunner.
A hint of movement on the horizon caught his attention. Too small and too low to be an aircraft, unless it were driven by a suicidal pilot, the shape skimmed over the tops of the waves, barely clearing the water. It was impossible — no! He’d watched the American aircraft during their entire transit, and he would have seen anything leave their wings.
Four seconds had passed since the flash had caught his attention. Chu Hsi opened his mouth to yell at the rest of the tank crew.
The missile streaked in from the horizon, traveling at Mach 4, about 2400 miles an hour. The first guttural scream barely had time to start out of Chu Hsi’s throat before the missile hit his tank.
The fuel and ammunition flashed the interior of the tank into a searing hell, reducing the gunner inside to ash and cinders. A split second later, shards of shrapnel shredded Chu Hsi into barely recognizable chunks.
Fragments of tank, island, and men exploded outward and upward on the crest of an explosive fireball. Responding to the inexorable insistence of gravity, the debris eventually hung in midair for a split second, two hundred meters above the water, before beginning its descent back into the warm waters of the South China Sea.
Had he still been alive, Chu Hsi would have been pleased to see that the Spratly rock he hated so much no longer existed.
“Holy shit!” Gator screamed over the ICS. “Shit, Bird Dog, get this baby turned around! Helluva explosion back there!”
“Tell me about it!” Bird Dog said, fighting a blast of turbulence that shook the aircraft from behind. “Whatever it was, it shook the hell out of the atmosphere!”
Bird Dog thumbed the switch over to the tactical frequency reserved for aircraft to combat direction center communications. “Homeplate, Viper 205. You see that?”
“Roger, Viper 205. Say state?” the Operations Specialist, or OS, on board USS Jefferson responded. The OS had been monitoring Bird Dog’s mission continually on the radar on board the carrier.
Reflexively, Bird Dog reeled off his fuel status and then said, “What the hell was it?”
“We don’t know. Tanker airborne in ten mikes for Viper flight. TAO requests you swing back over those islands and take a look.”
Bird Dog threw the Tomcat into a tight left turn and said, “Roger, on my way. I’m gonna need gas in about thirty mikes, sooner if I have to go buster.”
“On its way now, Tomcat 205.”
What the hell was it? And where did it come from? If it’d been aimed at us, would we have seen it? Of course we would.
Lost down in the sea clutter, it can’t touch us. It’d have to gain altitude to reach a Tomcat, and we’d have plenty of time to react. Ain’t nothing can reach out and touch a Tomcat, nothing!
But if they were so damned invulnerable, why the hell was his stomach clutched in a knot and his heart beating faster than the thrum of the Tomcat? And why the hell did he have to pee so bad?
Three minutes later, Bird Dog slowed to three hundred knots, after Gator assured him that there was no hostile activity in the area. His RIO’s voice had lost all traces of his earlier good mood and was now flatly cool and professional. Bird Dog knew Gator’s face would be glued to the soft plastic hood surrounding the radar screen, his hands moving nimbly by rote over the different shaped knobs and dials that controlled the display. His own heartbeat had slowed to almost normal, and he felt the easy invulnerability he’d always felt flying.
The air caught the aircraft and buffeted it slightly as the Tomcat’s wings automatically swept forward into the low-speed configuration. The additional wing area increased lift and enabled the Tomcat to stay aloft at slower speeds.
“See anything, Bird Dog?” Gator asked. His RIO’s head would stay buried in the scope until they were certain there were no other contacts around.
“Not me. How about you, Spider?”
“Just the Mischief Reef tree house. Nothing else. That’s the problem. Five minutes ago, there was another rock out here, one with a T-54 and Stingers. Damned tough to see anything at this speed, but I know it was there.” Even at three hundred knots, the surface of the ocean flashed by too quickly for close observation.
“This is a job for a Viking or a helo,” Bird Dog agreed. “Let’s see what Mother can scare up for us. Homeplate,” he continued, switching from ICS to the tactical circuit, “Viper 205. We need a slow-mover out here. Suggest we tank, and then provide cover for supporting units.”
“Roger, understand. Wait one.” The OS monitoring the two Viper aircraft fell silent, and the hiss of static filled the circuit. A few moments later, the distinctive two-tone warble of a secure circuit being activated cut through the static.
“Viper 205, you’re cleared to tank. Vikings are airborne in fifteen mikes, along with SAR.”
“SAR? What for?”
A new voice cut in on the circuit. “Viper flight, TAO. The only thing that could have blown up out there are those rocks. Just in case anyone made it out, SAR will cover.”
Well, great. What the Tactical Action Officer really meant, Bird Dog knew, was that since no one had any idea of what had hit the rocks or where it’d come from, no one could tell him whether there was another one on the way.
So just to be on the safe side, they’re launching SAR. Just in case they have to pull my happy little ass out of the drink. Like I don’t know that, even if they won’t say it that way.
“What the hell was it? Come on, people, I need some answers!” Rear Admiral Matthew Magruder, commander of carrier group 14, stared at the tactical display in the tactical flag command center, usually called TFCC. No signs of trouble there, with every aircraft and surface ship positively identified as neutral or friendly. “And what’s that damned Aegis cruiser doing this time?”
“Don’t know, Admiral,” the TFCC watch officer said. He pulled one of his radio headset earphones away from his head so that he could hear the admiral better. “An explosion of some sort. Vincennes requested permission to go take a look. From the looks of the screen symbology, she didn’t wait for permission to change course.”
The tall admiral gazed at the screen impassively. His slate-gray eyes were set in the expression of permanent neutrality that had earned him the call sign “Tombstone” at his first F-14 squadron. The shortened version of it, “Stoney,” was an even more accurate description of his usual expression. Aviators who’d flown with him for years swore that they’d seen him smile before, but the TFCC watch team had their doubts.
“Tell Vincennes I said to get her Aegis ass back into screen position,” Tombstone ordered. “Until we know what that was, I don’t want her charging off into the unknown and leaving the carrier unprotected. I’ll be in Supp Plot.”
Supplemental Plot was the high-security intelligence module next door to TFCC. Tombstone ducked out of TFCC, into the common vestibule the two spaces shared, and was inside Supp Plot in four steps. He nodded to the enlisted Intelligence Specialist, or IS, guarding the door, and was met by the watch officer, Commander Busby.
“You crypto guys got any information on this?” Tombstone asked.
“No hard data, Admiral, but there are several possibilities,” Commander Busby said. “The Chinese might be using the island as a depot for material they don’t want to risk underneath their Mischief Reef tree house. Mix volatile compounds with bad safety practices, and you’ve got the right conditions for spontaneous combustion. Or there might have been a fire in the tank. Not a likely explanation. A diesel fire alone wouldn’t cause a fireball that
