“M-9 is running hot and true,” the launch officer replied. “Altitude eighty thousand feet, twenty-nine miles downrange. Datalink active.” The officer handed Sun a messageform. “This came in for you while you were aft, sir. Message from headquarters.”
Sun took the messageform but did not bother to look at it — he was too excited about the launch. He watched in childlike fascination as the tracking numbers changed, moving his finger along a chart following its position as the missile zoomed northeastward. It was running perfectly.
Minutes later, the M-9 was approaching its target — Tung Ying Dao, what the rebel Nationalist government on the Chinese island province of Formosa called Tungsha Tao. Tung Ying Dao was a large archipelago of islands and reefs in the South China Sea, claimed by Taiwan, about midway between the southern tip of Formosa and Hainan Island, almost two hundred miles east-southeast of Hong Kong. The rebel Taiwanese government had erected several military sites on the largest island, Pratas Island, including U.S.-made Hawk and Taiwanese-made Tien-Kung antiaircraft and Hsiung Feng anti-ship missile sites. The defenses on the island were a great threat to Chinese ships passing between the mainland and the South China Sea, especially ships bound for the Spratly Islands, the archipelago of islands, reefs, and atolls claimed by many western Asian nations.
“M-9 reaching apogee,” the technicians reported. “Altitude one hundred fifteen thousand feet, seventy-one miles downrange.”
Admiral Sun touched the sensor control, and in a few seconds several white dots appeared on a dark black and green background. This was an infrared image of the scene below from the nose cone of the M-9 missile, beamed to the launch aircraft via radio datalink. Sun magnified the image to maximum and could just barely make out the outline of Pratas Island. Several other large, hot targets, far more intense on the heat-sensitive sensor than the island, showed as well — these were target barges with large diesel heaters set up on them, arrayed around Pratas Island to act as targets for the M-9 missile.
But Sun ignored the target barges. Instead, he locked the targeting bug of the M-9 missile on the northwest section of Pratas Island, where he knew the missile installations were located. The senior technician noted this at once: “Excuse me, Comrade Admiral, but you have locked the missile on the landmass…”
“Yes, I know,” Sun replied with a sly smile. “Continue the test.”
“Our telemetry systems won’t record the impact if it strays more than twenty miles off course,” the tech reminded him.
“How long will we have datalink contact before impact?”
“It should hold lock all the way to impact,” the tech replied, “although terrain or cultural obstructions may block the signal within approximately eight seconds to impact.”
“How far will the missile drift off course in eight seconds?”
“If it stays locked on, it will not drift off course,” the tech replied. “If it breaks lock when we lose the datalink… it will miss perhaps by not more than a few dozen meters.”
“Then I think we will get all the telemetry we need,” Sun said. “Continue the test.”
The closer the M-9 got to its target, the more detail they could see. Through occasional spats of static and one short nine-second datalink break as the warhead separated from the booster section, Sun could start to make out large buildings, then piers and wharves, then finally individual buildings. Through long hours of study, Sun knew exactly what he was looking at, and as soon as the system allowed him to do so, he locked the warhead on the main barracks building, a two-story wooden frame structure just a few hundred meters from the northwestern shoreline of Pratas Island. Sun knew that approximately a thousand rebel Nationalist soldiers were stationed on Pratas Island, manning and servicing the antiair and — ship sites — and he knew that about one hundred Taiwanese soldiers would be asleep right now in those barracks.
“Twenty seconds to impact,” the tech reported. “Uh… sir, should we lock on one of the target barges now? ”
“Captain, if you dare question my actions ever again, you will be commanding a garbage detail in Inner Mongolia province by tomorrow night,” Sun Ji Guoming said in a low voice. “As far as you are aware, I locked the missile warhead’s targeting sensor on the primary target barge, and you saw it lock on perfectly as expected. Is that clear, Captain?”
“Yes, sir," the technician responded. He watched in horror as the war-head careened down out of the sky, faster and faster, never wavering— it had held lock all the way until it passed below datalink coverage. The last thing they saw on the TV monitor was the broad, flat roofline of the barracks building. Even if the warhead started to drift, which it didn’t, the warhead would not have missed that building full of sleeping soldiers. The warhead had no explosive charge on board, only concrete ballast to simulate a 300-pound high-explosive warhead, but such a large object smashing home at over 900 miles an hour was going to do major damage even without a major explosion. The devastation would be catastrophic — and the rebel Nationalists would never know what hit them.
“Excellent test, comrades, excellent,” Admiral Sun announced. “Secure all stations.” He remembered the urgent message from Beijing just then, and fished the messageform out of his flight suit pocket and read as he continued, “Section leaders, I expect full reports on any difficulties to me before we land. Pilot, let us head back to base and—”
He stopped, dumbfounded, as he read. No, no, this was impossible!
“Cancel that last order, pilot,” Sun shouted. “All available speed to Juidongshan naval base. What is our time en route?”
“Stand by, sir,” the pilot responded. Sun was in a daze as the pilot, copilot, and flight engineer pulled out charts and started computing the new flight planning information. The three officers looked at each other nervously; then the pilot turned to the navy admiral lower class and said, “Sir, the naval base at Juidongshan does not have a runway long enough to accommodate this aircraft. The closest base that can safely accommodate us is Shantou, ETE, five-zero minutes. We can have a helicopter standing by to take you to Juidongshan, ETE—”
“Pilot, I did not ask you to fly to Shantou,” Sun said angrily. “Are the runways and taxiways at Juidongshan stressed to take this aircraft?”
The copilot looked up the information in the airman’s flight supplement manual and replied, “Yes, sir, the runways can handle us at minimum gross weight. The taxiways and ramp areas are limited to thirty thousand pounds, so—”
“That is all I need,” Sun said. “I do not need you to park this plane— I only require that you drop me off. You can dump fuel as you begin your approach to get down to emergency-landing fuel weight.”
“But, sir, the runway is made for only liaison aircraft and helicopters,” the flight engineer said. “It is only five thousand feet long! Even with only minimum fuel to reach Shantou, our safe takeoff roll will exceed the runway available by—”
“Lieutenant, I do not care if this plane becomes a permanent fixture at Juidongshan — I want to be on the ground at Juidongshan in less than a hour. If I am not in a car and on my way to headquarters in that time, the next destination you will be landing at will be a security ice cave in Tibet. Now, go!”
“Greetings to you, Comrade Admiral Sun Ji Guoming,” General Major Qian Shugeng, the elderly deputy commander for plans of the Military Command Headquarters Targeting Taiwan, said in a low, gravelly voice. “It is a pleasure to present our operational plans to you on behalf of the general staff. I will now turn the briefing over to my young deputy, Colonel Lieutenant Ai Peijian. Colonel Peijian has been most helpful in preparing this briefing for you. He is one of our hardest workers and a true and loyal son of the Party.”