“Sounds like the old man wants to get some stick time,” she commented to Ricardo over their frequency.
“Yep. Better be on your best behavior, Deedle.”
“I think Dover and Mullet are going after your perfect record on the Greenie Board, since I’m no longer a threat.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that.”
She chuckled, her eyes shifting toward China somewhere beyond the eastern horizon. But so far, coastal forces had been quiet.
Eyeing the FCS caution light again, she thought, And that goes for you too.
“Tiangong Niner-Three, taxi into position and hold. Runway One-Seven.”
PLA Air Force colonel Lian Guõ inched the dual throttles of her Sukhoi Su-35S multi-role air superiority fighter, steering it to the end of the runway and lining up the nose with the centerline. A moment later, her wingman, Major Zhao Ren, pulled up to the yellow lines marking the runway holding position on the taxiway. Behind him, two additional Su-35S jets would launch precisely five minutes later and remain low for as long as possible to hide in the surface clutter before going vertical to surprise the Americans from below.
Waiting for the tower to clear her, Lian scanned her side-by-side thirteen-inch glass panels presenting her with primary flight instrumentation, the status of her twin Saturn 117S thrust-vectoring engines, weapons-control systems, navigation, and communications.
Breathing deeply under her oxygen mask, right hand on the center control column between her thighs, and left fingers resting atop the throttle levers, Lian closed her eyes, recalling her peculiar mission briefing, handed down directly by the man she called Jiujiu, or uncle, General Deng Xiangsui.
A graduate of the PLA Air Force Aviation Academy in 2009, Lian had been among the first sixteen women certified to fly Sukhoi jets. By 2011, her exceptional skills — and her connections — had earned her a spot in the PLAAF aerobatic team. She became its squadron leader two years later, and now led the Su-35S Tiangong Fighter Squadron in Fuzhou.
And only yesterday, her air wing’s commanding officer had surprised her with the news that she had been selected to commence astronaut training with the China National Space Administration, a dream come true for the thirty-five-year-old pilot.
But first I need to do this, she thought, certain that her jiujiu had had something to do with the opportunity at the CNSA, whose review board accepted less than 1 percent of its thousands of qualified applicants each year.
Shoving the thoughts aside, Lian steeled herself to confront the American naval aviators patrolling the strait.
“Tiangong Niner-Three, cleared for takeoff. Runway One-Seven.”
Reading back the clearance, Lian advanced the throttles to the military setting, and the Sukhoi shot down the runway.
Aboard an E-2D Advanced Hawkeye from the Carrier Airborne Early Warning Squadron 113, the “Black Eagles,” cruising at twenty-four thousand feet, Lieutenant Commander Steve “Bear” Barlow, the twin-engine turboprop’s CICO, or combat information center officer, relaxed behind his large console. To his right sat the radar officer, the junior member of the CIC team. To his left, the air control officer, or ACO, handled the complex task of digitally linking all aircraft within the carrier air wing. Their mission was to provide early warning and command-and-control functions for the carrier strike group.
The CIC consoles, fixed along the port side of the aircraft, were slaved to the navy’s brand-new and powerful AN/APY-9 radar. Housed in the twenty-four-foot-diameter revolving dish mounted above the fuselage, it was capable of detecting airborne targets anywhere within a three million cubic-mile surveillance envelope.
The CIC team was at the end of a very bumpy but otherwise boring six-hour shift, waiting for a relief E-2D already en route from Vinson to assume its mission after the BARCAP Super Hornets refueled.
Barlow yawned and stretched, not expecting any activity in the abysmal weather conditions over the strait.
Listening to the reassuring drone of the engines, he rubbed his eyes and yawned again, before refocusing on his screen and suddenly leaning forward just as his RO said, “Incoming bogeys, sir. One hundred and sixty miles. Out of Fuzhou.”
What the hell? Barlow thought, staring at radar returns of the dual fast-moving targets that had launched from the coastal air base in Fuzhou and were headed directly toward the BARCAP fighters over the middle of the strait.
“Change that to bandits,” Barlow said. An unidentified aircraft was considered a “bogey” until it had been confirmed to be an enemy “bandit.” These were definitely the bad guys.
Keying his radio, he said, “Dragon One-Zero-Eight, Liberty Bell. We have a problem.”
It had been three days since Lt. Cmdr. Juan Ricardo’s fiancée had cut off ties with him. The time spent traveling across the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea had served him well, helping him to clear his mind and try to get over Jessie — as much as anyone could in such a short time. But as Cmdr. Benjamin Kowalski had stated in his inspirational pep talk, there were far more important issues on the naval aviator’s plate now.
And that included the tension he detected in Barlow’s normally composed and unemotional voice.
“Dragon One-Oh-Eight,” he replied.
“You have two bandits at your three o’clock. One hundred fifteen miles, climbing like a bat out of Chinese hell.”
“Dragon, copy,” Ricardo said. “Bandits, not bogies, you’re positive?”
“Yes, absolutely, from mainland China.”
“Okay,” Ricardo replied, with a trace of anxiety in his voice.
Bastards probably know we’re low on fuel, he thought, since it was common practice for Chinese coastal stations to keep tabs on all carrier communications.
Then he added, “Dragon Two, we’re up the creek.”
In Dragon Two, Lt. Amanda Diamante, who had been eyeing her FCS caution light every minute since getting catapulted off Vinson an hour before, checked her fuel and then glanced over at her flight leader’s jet. “Roger that, Ricky, but we’re outta gas.”
“Dragons,” came Lt. Cmdr. Steve Barlow from the E-2D. “Go starboard heading three-four-zero.”
“Three-forty,” Ricardo replied, and Amanda tailed him as the pair of Super Hornets began a turn to engage the two Chinese bandits head on.
As soon as they rolled out, Ricardo’s voice came over the radio. “Okay, Deedle, let’s go combat spread.”
“Two,” Amanda said as they separated to parallel one another.
“They’re passing flight level one-nine-zero and climbing,” Barlow reported as the radios began to come alive. “Dragons, they’re seventy-seven miles on the nose. Have you acquired them?”
“Yeah, I’m on it now,” Ricardo shot back. “You might want to launch the alert birds. Tell ’em to buster.”
“We’re communicating with mother now,” Barlow said. “Twelve o’clock, out of twenty-three for sixty-five miles.”
With a double click on the radio transmit button, Ricardo acknowledged the report. “Dragon Two, do you have our bandits?”
“Roger that,” Amanda replied, checking her radar and glancing past Ricardo’s jet.