As Clark changed into a uniform, his staff made calls and drafted messages. Approaching midnight in Washington, SECDEF was awakened, and ten minutes later the President was informed. By 0100 both of them, along with the JCS Chairman, were on the phone with Clark trying to make sense of this new and significant development. The astonishing drone video of the J-11 slamming into the nose of the P-8 did not provide a definitive answer to the question of whether the collision was an accident or premeditated. No matter the reason, the Chinese were well inside a safe escort distance and two dust-off passes in front of the P-8 was an aggressive act, no question. After several viewings of the drone video, the President spoke.
“What’s going on out there, gentlemen?”
SECDEF answered, “Mr. President, the Chinese are serious, and I think we would do well to stay out until we can bring credible force to bear, to compel them to allow innocent passage of our ships and planes, and the ships and planes of our allies.”
“Do you think they rammed our plane on purpose? Why not just shoot it down and claim air sovereignty defense?”
The Secretary knew he had a weak hand. “I don’t know, sir, but I do know they violated international norms of escort. We do not recognize Blood Moon Atoll as their sovereign territory, and we were operating responsibly in international airspace well outside of a twelve-mile territorial limit — which we do not recognize anyway. Admiral Clark, care to comment?” All turned to the VTC screen.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary. In my view, Mr. President, this was an accident, a pair of overzealous pilots who pushed up against the limit and misjudged. We have intel from intercepted radio communications that they did not anticipate this either. However, it was too aggressive, and given the heightened tensions out there, could be viewed as an act of war.”
“Is that your position, Admiral?”
“No, sir, accident. The lead got too close and scraped his wingman off on the P-8 on their second pass. And if I may, gentlemen, we have something Beijing does not have, the video. Recommend we hold on to that and not release it to the press at this time.”
“Why?” the President probed.
“To see what they say, sir, to see if they use this as propaganda or if they communicate an apology. Mr. President, my dead sailors now number over 300, and they still have 1,500 of our sailors held captive in Hong Kong. I have a cruiser and carrier in Guam that are not combat capable because of actions taken by the PLA, and now I’ve lost one of my P-8s. While I’m flowing forces into the region, I now plan to keep my front line far enough away to avoid attack. Sir, my mindset is now imminent combat, but I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that.”
“Hoping?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President, but I’ll be ready to answer your tasking in about five more days. I have significant offensive power in theater, but I’m waiting for overwhelming power to get over there. Then, we can execute your options: it may be a robust presence, or it may be combat operations.”
“What time is it in Beijing?” the President asked no one in particular.
“Half-past one in the afternoon, sir,” the JCS Chairman answered.
“Wonder what they’re doing…,” the President muttered, loud enough so the others could hear.
Bai circled the white turbulence on the sea surface below for some time. He noted a large civilian ship on the western horizon and two more to the north, both heading away from the scene. He looked for other vessels as he formed in his mind the message he would send to Southern Control.
The American nosed down at the last — and into Hu Sheng! Had they maintained altitude, Hu and the People’s J-11 would still exist. The Americans flew with hostile aggression and got what they deserved!
Satisfied, Bai keyed the mike:
“Southern Control! Southern Control! Aircraft eight-two! The Americans maneuvered unpredictably and collided with my wingman! Both aircraft nosed down, and no parachutes are visible!”
“Aircraft eight-two, say again?”
“Southern Control! My wingman is down! The Americans collided with him!”
Within minutes, word spread across Blood Moon Atoll. The Americans had downed one of the People’s fighter aircraft! The commissar was summoned to the radar control room, and as he rushed there, his mind raced. Please not Hu Sheng.
Radio calls from Blood Moon asked Bai to report what he saw. He spiraled down to 1,000 feet over a sea littered with debris he was unable to identify. The debris field spanned several miles with two large slicks of oil or fuel. Nothing moved, and the merchant ships that dotted the horizon did not seem interested in investigating the scene, if they had even seen anything to report. After five minutes, Bai, fighting to stay calm, could not make out anything among the flotsam that identified it was ever on an aircraft. Glancing at his fuel, Bai pulled his jet around and up to return to Blood Moon.
Within minutes, the collision was reported up the chain to Zhanjiang, at approximately the same time the word of the incident was received in Hawaii. However, due to confusion or political fear, word did not continue to move up the chain as fast as it did for the Americans, and as the American president finished his call with Cactus Clark, Admiral Qin’s phone rang on another hazy Beijing midafternoon. It was his Southern Seas Fleet Commander on the secure line.
“Comrade Admiral Qin, I regret to report a loss of the People’s aircraft in action against the Americans.”
“What!” an incredulous Qin snapped. “Where? In action?”
“Yes, Comrade Admiral. Off Blood Moon. An American Boeing intelligence aircraft was intercepted dangerously close to our territory and suddenly turned to collide with our brave interceptor pilot. He did not survive the collision, Comrade Admiral.”
Please let it be a People’s Air Force interceptor, Qin thought. “Whose interceptor? Navy or Air Force? When did this happen? Who else knows?”
“It was one of our naval aviation J-11s, Comrade Admiral.”
Blast, thought Qin. He knew the incident would be viewed in Beijing as his responsibility.
“It happened not too long ago, less than an hour….”
“When exactly!” Qin snapped, fearing his fleet commander was late to report and holding out with worse information. He was right on both counts.
“It happened at quarter past noon local time. And Comrade Admiral, our lost pilot is the son of a high Party official. The pilot’s name is Hu Sheng, and couriers are right now en route to deliver this sad news to his family.”
Qin rubbed his forehead. “What happened to the American plane? What do the Americans know?”
“Comrade Admiral, the spy plane crashed.”
“Crashed? At sea? Are there survivors?” Qin’s mind sorted through scenarios. Could this get any worse? he thought. It could.
“Our brave wingman reported that the collision incapacitated the American, and it crashed in a nose dive. No survivors reported.”
To Qin, the only thing worse than losing the son of a high Party official was another incident with the Americans, with more loss of American life that could harden their resolve. But how could the American plane—an airliner body! — maneuver to collide with one of the People’s nimble fighters? In the 2001 Hainan incident, the pilot got too close to a spinning propeller. He sensed there was more to this. Undisciplined show-off pilots! He had to inform Marshal Dong. It was not going to be easy.