American pilot did say the bogey had PLA markings, but as you can see, right now eight Flankers are converging on the site; half of those are the newest model. It’s weird; if the PLA is responsible for taking out the Air Force plane, why all this activity
“So everybody will ask exactly that question. Please tell me this shoot-down happened on our side of the property line.”
“Yes, sir. Barely.”
Batman turned to the flag TAO. “Get SAR and air cover out there
“It might be too late for that, sir,” Lab Rat said. “This site is quite a bit north of our present position. Our closest assets are a pair of Hornets and a pair of F-14s, but they’re all at least ten minutes out. No way they can get there before the PLA.”
“Then have them get there second and make it clear we won’t be cut out of this. Launch the Alert Five and Alert Fifteen birds, too; we want to match the PLA plane for plane as soon as we can. We’re not going to start anything, but we want it understood we’re in this game.”
Lab Rat stared at the blue screen. “No one could have lived through that.”
Batman shook his head. “That’s not how we do SAR. If they are, we’re not going to make them wait around for a certain helicopter to show up.”
Dr. George awoke to the feel of warm water sweeping around his ankles. What was this — Monsoon rains leaking into his office again? He started to sit erect, but a twisting pain arced through his lower back and he cried out. After a moment’s rest he tried again, more slowly.
My, his office was a mess. No, not his office… this looked more or less like the rear compartment of the NOAA Gulfstream that had been flying him back to Guam from Hong Kong.
Then he remembered: The strange-looking fighter plane, the explosion… and the rear of the Gulfstream breaking open like an eggshell.
The water was swirling around his calves now. He looked forward, into the cockpit. The windscreens were both opaque, shattered. He could see the right shoulder of the pilot, the left shoulder of the co-pilot, leaning together across the central aisle. Neither was moving.
“Hey!” George called, and winced at the pain in his back. “Hey! Hey, are you all right?”
No response. The water was now up to his knees. A small jellyfish floated past. The plane remained remarkably level, though, as if the sea were entering with equal speed from both ends. He looked out the nearest window just as a low swell rolled past, its crown sweeping along the bottom of the glass. Water surged into the plane, soaking his thighs.
“Oh God.” He fumbled with the release catch on his seat belt. Saw fresh blood on his hands. He wasn’t sure where it was coming from, and wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. “Oh God, oh God…”
Finally, the catch popped and he yanked himself out of the tight seat, groaning at spasms in his back. Something was wrong with his right leg, too; it would barely support him. Bracing his weight against various pieces of equipment, he yanked himself toward the cockpit. “Hey! Hey, guys!” No response. The water was up to his knees now.
At the cockpit entrance he halted. The nose of the Gulfstream had been crushed; the instrument panel looked like it had slammed back like a horizontal guillotine blade, chopping deeply into the chests of both pilots. One glance was all George needed, and all he could stand. He turned, pushed himself back against the water.
The Gulfstream’s door was designed to hinge outward along its bottom edge, creating a staircase. He reached for the handle that would break the seal, then thought of something and groped into one of the overhead compartments for a life vest. It looked pathetically small; how could he ever wrestle it on in these confined quarters?
And what would happen when he opened that door? He thought of the physics of it: The water would rush in, and its mounting weight would roll the plane in the direction of the flow, at least at first. The entire doorway opening might dip beneath the surface before George could swim out against the current. On the other hand, the plane’s wings — assuming they were still attached — would resist the roll, perhaps buying him enough time to escape before the door was submerged. On the other hand — how many hands was that? — what if the incoming water was moving so fast he couldn’t push against it anyway?
Water swirled around his crotch, leaching out his body heat. He started to shiver. No time to argue with himself; the plane was almost half sunk as it was. At any moment it might choose a direction to rock and start diving for the bottom of the South China Sea — and all his options would be gone.
He grabbed the door handle, braced himself, and put pressure on it. Screamed as his back let out an electric bolt of pain.
He’d forgotten one hand: The airframe was warped; the door jammed. It wouldn’t budge.
The water was up to his waist, tendrils creeping up his shirt to his armpits.
He looked around for something to pry with, to gain leverage. Nothing, and no time to search. Setting his feet, locking his hands around the handle, he closed his eyes, said a silent prayer, and hauled as hard as he could.
His back felt like a missile had hit it. Still, he kept twisting. There was a grinding sound, a thump, and the top of the door eased out, then down. There was no ferocious flood of water, although the level immediately rose faster. Physics again: The air trapped in the fuselage was resisting the incoming flow.
But soon the plane would sink.
Clutching his life vest under one arm, George plunged like a walrus through the diminishing gap between the water and the top of the doorway.
“Well, now, what are the odds?” Two Tone said, sounding pleased. “You, me, Lobo and Handyman… here we go again.”
“Yeah.” Following the lead of Lobo, a thousand feet below and as far ahead, Hot Rock banked the Tomcat onto the new heading sent to them by Homeplate. Much farther down, the South China Sea shone silver and blue. At ten o’clock, the mountainous coast of China shimmered in the haze like a fever dream. A few jagged-sided islands of various sizes thrust up from the water. Everything was so gorgeous from up here.
Hot Rock eased the throttles forward and felt the delicious shiver as the Tomcat opened the door to the sound barrier and stepped through. He loved that. Back when he’d started flight school, he’d thought the training jet, a T-45A Goshawk, had been powerful and intimidating; the F-14 had seemed an impossibility to handle. So large, so expensive and particular. When the time had come to strap one on he’d expected it to be the horses all over again, and him washing out with his tail between his legs….
Instead — God. The Tomcat and the sky, and hurtling along faster than sound. If it could only be like this all the time. If only he could just fly and fly up here between the sky and the water…. “What the hell are the Chinese thinking?” he said. “Sinking our boats, shooting down our planes… do they really want to go to war with us?”
“Why not?” his RIO said. “Bound to happen sooner or later.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. China’s the last major Communist power in the world, unless you want to count Berkeley. Hard-core communists believe in world domination. It’s part of the deal.”
“Didn’t work for Russia.”
“Won’t work for China, either, but they don’t know that. And they won’t figure it out until they get their butts kicked a few times.”
Hot Rock realized his palms were sweating, and his chest felt tight. “And you think this is the start?”
“Got your steel-toed boots on?”
Dr. George raised his head when he heard the rippling roar of jet engines. He’d been floating along quietly, almost enjoying himself. Hadn’t been this close to the water for quite a while, that was for sure. The South China
