A rain of fire appeared from behind the APC. A flurry of small explosions danced around the vehicle.
Rockets. In the night sky they looked like sparklers raining down on the APC. Maxwell guessed that they were 2.75 inch air-to-ground rockets. An entire pod of them—fired from what?
Then he saw it. Descending like a specter out of the darkness, the dim shape of a helicopter — a Cobra gunship. From the gunship came another flash, this one larger and brighter than the 2.75 pod. A pulse of fire beamed like a laser toward the APC.
The armored vehicle erupted in an orange ball of flame. A Hellfire missile, Maxwell guessed. Only a Hellfire armor-piercing anti-tank missile could take out an APC like that. He didn’t know where the gunship came from, or how he got there in time, but Maxwell uttered a silent thanks to the pilot.
The fast-moving Cobra swept over the burning APC, passing directly in front of the Black Star, then skimmed low across the field to the LZ where the Chinooks were lifting off.
Maxwell followed the dark silhouette of the gunship. Two hundred yards in the distance, the last Chinook was kicking up a storm of dirt, its blades biting into the air as it lifted from Chouzhou.
Good. That had to be Charlie Three, the last chopper. Col. Chiu and Catfish Bass and Lt. Kee were aboard.
He saw mortar rounds landing around the Chinook. The big cargo helicopter lumbered into the air. Its nose tilted down as it gathered forward speed.
A mortar round exploded directly behind the aft rotor. One of the blades separated and whirled like a rapier across the darkened field.
As Maxwell watched, the chopper began a slow rotation to the left, rolling onto its side. A front rotor blade caught the earth, kicking up a geyser of dirt and debris.
Slowly, majestically, the Chinook rose up on its nose, then over onto its tail. In a macabre death dance, the helicopter flopped end over end for a hundred yards, shedding parts, spitting smoke and tortured metal.
Abruptly, the Chinook exploded. Magnesium and ammunition and jet fuel combined to send a billowing fireball a hundred feet into the sky.
“Oh, God,” muttered Mai-ling in the back seat. “They didn’t make it.”
Maxwell kept his eyes riveted on the inferno. He didn’t see anyone escaping, no figures emerging from the wreckage. The Cobra gunship was circling the burning hulk, firing with its twenty millimeter cannon at something in the near darkness.
He banged his fist against the front console. Goddamnit! They almost made it. Another ten seconds. Chiu, Catfish, Kee — they would have been on their way to Taiwan.
“It was my fault,” said Mai-ling. “If they hadn’t taken the time to look for me—”
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he snapped. “This is war. This is what happens. I know it’s hard, but we have to stop thinking about it. You and I have a job to do.”
Silence from the back seat. Maxwell hoped she hadn’t gone catatonic on him.
He saw the end of the runway coming up. He steered the Black Star onto the runway and aligned it with the center stripe.
He peered down the length of the darkened runway. No lights marked the edges or the end. Only the blaze of the still-burning APC illuminated the eastern edge of the concrete.
As a test pilot he had made many first flights with experimental aircraft. Every new airplane had surprises, unexpected tendencies, but he had always been ready. It was what he was trained to do.
This time was different. Never had he felt so ill-equipped to fly a new machine.
Across the field the PLA armored column had broken through the fence line and was heading at full speed for the runway. To his right, in the flood of orange light from the petroleum fires, another cluster of APCs was storming across the open field.
The destroyed Chinook was still burning like a funeral pyre.
“What are you waiting for?” said Mai-ling. “Isn’t it time to leave?”
“Range seven thousand meters,” called out the fire control officer.
Close enough, decided Commander Lei. Seven kilometers was well within the kill range of the Mark 46 torpedoes. The enemy Sovremenny destroyer was limping along at five knots, making for the Chinese coast. His search radar was still emitting, which meant he knew he was being stalked by the Kai Yang. If he could fire more Moskit supersonic missiles, he would have done so already.
Kill him. Get it over before someone comes to his rescue.
They were in dangerous waters. Kai Yang and her two destroyer escorts were within thirty miles of the mainland. Dawn was arriving. Already the sun was cracking the horizon in the direction of the Asian continent. The PLA would come to aid of the stricken destroyer with more destroyers, submarines, aircraft perhaps.
It was time to kill the damned thing and run for the western side of the strait.
But something — an inner voice — was warning him. Be careful. Perhaps they no longer care about the Sovremenny. Maybe it was a trap. Maybe they wanted the Kai Yang.
Get it over.
“Ready tubes one and two.”
“Aye, ready one and two.”
Lei heard the gurgling sound of water filling the launching tubes. He could use his remaining Harpoons to dispatch the wounded destroyer, but the inner voice was coming in louder now. You’re deep inside enemy waters. Save your missiles.
“Forward tubes ready to fire, sir.”
Lei peered into the gray murk ahead of the Kai Yang. He knew now why he had waited this long to deliver the coup de grace to the Sovremenny.
He wanted to see it die.
Lei had dreamed of such a moment for his entire career. In this, one of the rare surface naval engagements of modern history, he wanted to experience close-up the din and thunder of battle. To see the Sovremenny destroyer blow apart like the fueling ship it had destroyed with its Moskit missile.
A stupid sentiment. Think of your ship and crew. Get it over.
“Fire one and two.”
“Aye, Captain, fire tubes one and two.”
He heard the familiar, satisfying rumble of the Mark 46 torpedoes, three seconds apart, leaping into the sea like greyhounds after a hare.
Four minutes.
While he waited, Lei paced his bridge, growing more uncomfortable with the quickly approaching dawn. They’d been lucky. He and the crew of the Kai Yang had survived three days of war. How many enemy warships had they sunk? Five? Or was it six?
Had the PLA navy figured out that one obsolescent frigate, the Kai Yang, was methodically destroying their mighty fleet? If so, they would be coming after him with all their knives drawn.
“Both torpedoes on active guidance now, Captain.”
He nodded, forcing himself not to stare at the situational display on his console. The torpedoes were autonomous now. They would find the target or—
“Impact!” called out the sonar man. “Torpedo one has struck the target.”
Three seconds later, “Torpedo two impact. I’m getting secondaries — the Sovremenny is breaking up. I’ve got separating returns.”
For a fleeting moment Lei wished he had waited, pressed the attack to visual range. It would be an exquisite pleasure to see the enemy destroyer blowing herself into pieces.
No. It was time to run for the safety of the eastern strait. At the moment his crew was flushed with their splendid victory over the Sovremenny, but that would wear off soon. They were tired, drained from the unrelenting pressure of combat.