“Then let’s get it over with,” Cobb said. It was one of the few words he had said throughout the entire flight — obviously he wished he were someplace else right now.
“Rog. Pods coming down…”
True to his word, the second the two pods were deployed, the computer re-evaluated their new radar cross-section, remeasured the Sea Eagle radar’s output power, and redrew the radar’s effective detection range “dome” — this time placing it squarely over the B-2 icon at the lower center part of the SMFD. The radar cross-section of the two pods was so large that Patrick estimated they’d have to fly at least forty miles to get out of enemy radar coverage. “Air-search radar got us, three o’clock, range… range forty miles.”
As the UPD-9 pod finished its first circular sweep, more details of the area surrounding them appeared — including one very unwelcome one. “Surface target, nine o’clock, ten miles, no radar emissions, looks like a patrol boat… shit, we got another patrol boat at twelve miles, two o’clock position. Jesus, we’re surrounded by Chinese patrol boats…” McLanahan commanded the pods to retract immediately before any one of them got a lock on the B-2.
“Air target warning! Bearing one-eight-eight degrees, range seventy-four kilometers… no speed or altitude reading available… search radar active…”
“What? Are you sure? Get a track on that last contact!” the skipper of the Feylin shouted.
“Negative track… target disappeared, sir. Lost contact.” The new radar contact puzzled the destroyer commander, but it was obviously an anomaly or a very small target, like a flock of birds. The real quarry was still driving closer. “Status of the U-2.”
“Range approaching seventy-five kilometers… now.”
“Very well. Combat, bridge, commit forward HQ-91 system, stand by on DRBR-51 missile-guidance radar… now. Order Kaifeng and Zhangyhum to prepare to engage.”
At that order, two HQ-91 missiles were fired from the forward twin launchers of the destroyer Feylin at the U-2 spy plane, lighting up the deck with brilliant flashes of light and a long tongue of flame as the missiles shot skyward. The big supersonic missiles reached full speed in seconds, exceeding twenty-five kilometers per minute in the blink of an eye.
There was no other radar that came up, but even at a range of forty miles the sudden glare of the HQ-91 missile’s rocket motor streaking off into space could clearly be seen. The Chinese patrols were going after the U-2 spy plane. The forty-year-old U-2 used a new aerial camera, the CA-990, which could take high-resolution pictures from long standoff distances, but to get pictures of Davao, the U-2 had to fly as close as possible to the Mindanao coast — very close to the Chinese warships.
McLanahan risked it: he deployed the reconnaissance pods again to get more photographs — and perhaps to divert the Chinese warship’s attention away from the vulnerable U-2, although he realized that was a real long shot — and at the same time hit the “Transmit” switch on his scrambled command radio: “Kelly, this is Shadow, Giant Zero, Giant Zero. Out.”
“Giant Zero” was a standard code name to warn an aircraft of a missile launch without an associated missile-guidance radar appearing first. McLanahan let the pods out for two spherical radar scans, about fifteen seconds, then quickly retracted them once again…
But even as he did, the yellow dome surrounding them turned briefly to red, with riblike lines through if. “Sea Eagle radar switching to target acquisition mode… they may have found us. Pods retracted, bomb doors closed…”
Suddenly, more radar domes appeared north and south of the B-2. “Air-search radars from those patrol boats!” McLanahan shouted. He looked on in horror as the southernmost radar dome engulfed them, then changed from yellow to red. “Target-acquisition radar got us, bearing one-six-three, range eleven miles. No missile-tracking radars yet, but he might be radioing our position to his big sister out there. Henry, take us down to two hundred feet, and let’s hope these bozos can’t lock onto us…”
“New radar contact aircraft, bearing from destroyer Zunyi, two-zero-zero, range seventy-four kilometers, speed nine-three-zero kilometers per hour, altitude six hundred meters.”
Curse it! the skipper of the destroyer Feylin thought furiously. An aircraft somehow managed to sneak past their gauntlets. “Order all patrol boats to begin air search immediately…”
“Sir, target number one turning north, appears to be disengaging… altitude of target one increasing to twenty-four thousand meters, speed increasing to eight hundred.”
“Activate DRBR-51 missile-tracking radars. Do not let the U-2 get away.”
“Sir, patrol boat 124 reports radar contact on air target.” The technicians at the vertical-plot board on the bridge of the destroyer Feylin drew in the location of the contact — it was between two patrol boats, heading northwest, near the Indonesian archipelago called Nenusa.
“Sir! Destroyer Zhangyhum reports radar contact north of his position, intermittent contact, low altitude. He suspects an American stealth aircraft.”
That was it! Stealth aircraft, probably stealth bombers launched from Guam. Obviously they were on reconnaissance runs, because if they were carrying antiship missiles they would have sunk a half-dozen vessels by now. So… a U-2 and a stealth bomber…
“Alert all task force vessels, inbound stealth bombers, suspect at least two inbound toward Davao Gulf. No weapons fired at outer gauntlet vessels, but suspect an attack against inner defenses. Warn all patrol aircraft to search the area north and northwest of Nenusa Archipelago for low-altitude bombers.”
“Sir! Destroyer Zhangyhum reports engaging with HQ-91 missiles… they may have hit the U-2. Dispatching a frigate and patrol boat to investigate.”
“One down,” the destroyer commander said with a quiet smile — “two more to go…”
“Mayday, Mayday, Kelly is hit, heading east, no—” The radio transmission from the U-2 went dead.
“Fuck,” was all Cobb could say. “Patrick, let’s get out of here.”
“Few more seconds and we should get all the ships near Davao Gulf,” McLanahan replied. They had flown over a hundred miles farther west than they had planned, within thirty miles of the mouth of Davao Gulf itself. The closer they got to Mindanao, the more ships they saw — ranging in size from huge destroyers, frigates, and amphibious assault craft, to small liaison and patrol craft — even a return that the UPD-9 pod classified as a submarine periscope could be seen.
One more radar sweep, two minutes, and they had all the data they needed. As Cobb began a turn south to head toward the relative safety of the radar clutter around the Nenusa and Talaud islands, the Super Multi Function Display seemed to light up like an old-style switchboard, with radar domes popping up everywhere. It was as if every vessel with a transmitter had flipped it on. “Christ almighty… Charlie-band search radar at our twelve o’clock… another one at our two o’clock… now I’ve got X-band fire-control radars at our ten o’clock position. You’re going to have to take us right over Talaud Island, Henry. We’re surrounded.”
“Fuck,” Cobb muttered. On this trip, that seemed to be the veteran pilot’s favorite reply.