targeting ring.
What the
A sense of foreboding drenched Bird Dog like ice water. Even as he pulled back to regain altitude, he twitched the stick to the left and got quick response. Back to the right. Very slowly, the plane started to roll in that direction.
“Catwoman?” he said over ICS. “We got systems trouble here or what?”
There was a brief pause, then a cool-voiced response: “Losing hydraulics in the left wing, Bird Dog. Down to forty percent, and falling.”
“Why?”
“How the hell would I know? Maybe the warranty ran out.”
Oh, Christ, mechanical failure. If the plane weren’t fly-by-wire, if the controls were linked directly to the flying surfaces, right now the left rudder pedal would be flapping like the tongue of an untied shoe.
“By the way,” Catwoman said, “that Flanker? I think he’s in love with us, because he’s coming back for more.”
Tai didn’t bother wondering why the American had failed to press his earlier advantage to its conclusion. All that mattered was he’d made a mistake, and it would be his last.
Pulling the SU-37 up and around as hard as he could, squeezing his belly muscles against brown-out, Tai used the Sukhoi’s swiveling exhausts to full advantage. In an instant he was on the F-14’s tail, bringing his cannon to bear.
The Tomcat cut left. Tai cut left. The Tomcat straightened slightly, then cut left again. Tai followed it, patiently trying to join the enemy plane and the gun pipper in the firing ring on his HUD.
Again, the Tomcat cut left; he was practically in a spiraling dive now. No wonder the American had bounced Tai and his wingman from high altitude. Take away that advantage and the man was not much of a pilot. He just kept turning left, turning left, turning left….
Turning into the sights of a better pilot flying a better aircraft.
“We got —!” Catwoman’s voice cut off as the Tomcat began to shake and bounce. A strange whistling roar filled the cockpit, and the few loose parts of Bird Dog’s flight suit began to flap wildly. Bird Dog was filled with fury. Getting taken out by a missile was bad enough, but he wasn’t going to go down to guns. No way was he going to be shot down like some World War One-era biplane pilot; give some PRC hotshot bragging rights for years to come. No
He pulled the shuddering Tomcat even farther to the left, skating it on the edge of a spin from which he knew he would never recover, not without right rudder.
“Catwoman?” he cried over ICS. “Catwoman —?”
Tai’s glee turned to shock when he saw a piece of the Tomcat, a service panel or chunk of wing, come hurtling back at him. It looked as big as a hangar door, and if it got sucked into the greedy intake of one of his AL- 35s…
He broke off hard, cursing the fates, yet certain that it didn’t matter, the Tomcat was dead anyway….
Lobo was ten seconds from closing on Hot Rock and his pursuers when she glanced over her shoulder and saw something stunning: Somehow, in only the last half minute, circumstances there had reversed themselves. The bogey was hurtling past Bird Dog’s F-14, which was itself dropping in a messy half turn, its aspect loose and wobbly. Pieces of metal were floating up off it.
“Shit!” Lobo cried, making her decision instantly. Hot Rock was still being hunted by the other two bogeys, but at least his goddamned plane was intact. She knew where her services were required.
Yanking her Tomcat into a hard left turn, she reversed direction and started to climb out. To her relief, Bird Dog’s plane had steadied and was now flying along straight and level, about five hundred feet above her. To her left, the Flanker was also turning, but for some reason he didn’t appear to be in much of a hurry. Perhaps his plane was also damaged.
“Bird Dog!” she cried over the radio. “You okay?”
“Hydraulic damage; can’t turn right. Took some hits. Think Catwoman’s hurt. Am I in one piece here?”
“I’ll know in a second. Coming up on your six.”
She glanced to her left again. The bogey had completed its turn, far out over the ocean. Lobo realized why and shouted, “Bird Dog! Break! Break!”
He did so instantly, dipping hard left, evidently the only direction he could go, the perfect direction. Lobo blasted straight over his Tomcat, holding steady on course.
“Incoming!” Handyman cried. Lobo glanced back just long enough to see an incandescent white dot swooping toward her.
Then she did the only thing left to do.
Tai was shocked to see his missile take out the wrong aircraft — then he was delighted, because the victim was the Tomcat he’d intended to destroy in the first place. The fool had flown right into the line of fire, and presented the heat-seeker with a better home in which to nest.
Afterimages of the explosion floated in his vision. Evening was deepening toward night. A night he would remember for a long —
His gaze, automatically conducting its scan of instruments, halted on the radar screen. Four new returns had appeared, approaching from the east. Four
The radar showed nothing coming in from his own country. Anger swelled up inside him, darkening his vision before he pushed it back. Some of his officers were weaklings and cowards, no doubt about that. But there were others who had vision, and will. They would prevail.
Tai spoke briskly into his radio. The time had come to break off and return home, wait until they had numerical superiority. Return, rest, and prepare to fight another day. Prepare to push the arrogant Americans back out of Asia, and destroy their ill-gotten power. It was inevitable.
For as Sun Tzu taught,
EIGHT
When Tombstone walked into his house, he was greeted by a sharp-planed face not unlike his own. “Uncle Thomas,” he said, pleased.
His uncle held out his hand, and they shook. “This isn’t a social visit, Matthew, sorry to say. Joyce and I were just discussing some business. It involves you, too.”
Tombstone peered around the corner into the sitting room. Tomboy looked back at him, her expression grim, yet there was something else shining in her eyes. The kind of fierce excitement he recognized from any number of combat sorties.
“Uh-oh,” Tombstone said. “What is this?”
“They’re sending me to China,” she said. “To
Tombstone turned toward his uncle. “What for?”
“Better sit down, Matthew.” Thomas Magruder led him into the room and sat him next to his wife, then took a chair opposite. The admiral, the most powerful man in the navy, was wearing civilian clothes. All at once Tombstone realized he hadn’t seen his uncle’s car in the driveway, or even on the street. This visit was
