“Sons of bitches,” said Trash, and he felt a new level of tension instantly. The Chinese pilots were screaming toward the centerline and overtly pointing their noses, which meant their radars and their weapons, directly at the two Marine aircraft.
With an intercept speed of more than twelve hundred miles an hour now, Trash knew things were about to start happening very, very quickly.
Cheese said, “Turn heading three-forty; let’s pull away from them again.”
Trash banked with Cheese back to the left, and within ten seconds he could see on his radar that the Chinese were mirroring the maneuver. He reported, “Bogeys are jinking back to us, bearing oh-one-five, two-eight miles. Fourteen thousand.”
Trash heard the Hawkeye ACO acknowledge this and then immediately divert his attention back to the ROC F-16s, who were seeing similar moves from their bogeys.
“Spike,” said Cheese now, indicating that one of the bogeys had locked on Cheese’s plane with his radar.
Trash heard the spike warning for his own jet just a moment later.
“I’m spiked, too. These guys aren’t fucking around, Cheese.”
Cheese gave the next order with a tone of seriousness that Trash seldom heard from the major: “Magic Two-Two, Master Arm on.”
“Roger,” said Trash. He flipped his Master Arm into the armed position, ensuring all his weapons were hot and he had the launch of his air-to-air missiles at his fingertips. He still did not think he was about to get into a fight, but the level of threat had gone up precipitously with the enemy’s radar lock, and he knew he and Cheese needed to be ready in case this devolved from an incident into a fight.
The ACO announced almost simultaneously that the Taiwanese had reported a spike.
Trash followed Cheese’s turn yet again, away from the centerline and away from the approaching aircraft. He looked out the side of his canopy now, using his “Jay-Macks,” his joint helmet-mounted cueing system, a smart visor on his helmet that gave him much of his heads-up information even when he looked left, right, and above his HUD. Through it he saw two black specks streaking in their direction over a backdrop of a puffy white cloud.
He spoke quickly and energetically, but he was a pro, there was no unnecessary excitement in his voice. “Magic Two-Two. Tally two bandits. Ten o’clock, just slightly low. Possible Super 10s.” No American had ever come up against China’s most advanced operational frontline fighter, the Chengdu J-10B Super 10, a newer version of the J-10 Annihilator. Trash knew the J-10 airframe used composite materials just like his own and its reduced radar signature was designed to make a radar missile lock difficult. The B model supposedly had an upgraded electronic warfare suite that helped in this regard as well.
It was a smaller aircraft than the F/A-18 and it possessed only a single engine to the Hornet’s two, but the Russian-built turbofan gave the nimble fighter plenty of power for air-to-air engagements.
“Roger that,” said Cheese. “Guess it’s our lucky day.”
The Chinese had more than two hundred sixty J-10s in service, but probably fewer than forty B variants. Trash did not respond; his game face was on.
Cheese said, “They are turning back hot! Thirty seconds from the centerline and displaying hostile intent.”
Trash expected to hear the Hawkeye ACO acknowledge Cheese’s transmission, but instead he spoke in a loud voice, “Magic flight, be advised. ROC flight south of you is under attack and defensive, missiles in the air.”
Trash spoke with astonishment into his radio: “Holy fucking shit, Scott.”
Cheese saw the J-10s in front of him now and reported that he had visual. “Tally two on my nose. Confirmed Super 10s. Hawkeye, are we cleared hot?”
Before the Hawkeye answered, Trash said, “Roger, two on your nose. Tell me which one to take.”
“I’ve got the one on the left.”
“Roger, I’ve got the guy on the right.”
Cheese confirmed, “Roger, Two-Two, you have the trailing aircraft on the right.”
Now Trash’s HUD and his missile warning system announced that a missile launch had been detected. One of the J-10s had just fired at him. He saw in his HUD that the time-to-target of the inbound missile was thirteen seconds.
“Missile in the air! Missile in the air! Breaking right! Magic Two-Two defensive!” Motherfucker! Trash banked his aircraft away from Cheese and went inverted. He pulled back on his stick, and with his canopy showing nothing but blue water, he increased his speed and descent.
The legs of his g-suit filled with air, forcing the blood in the upper part of his body to stay there so his brain would continue to think and his pounding heart would continue to pound.
He grunted against the g-forces.
The Hawkeye announced belatedly, “Magic flight, you are cleared to engage.”
At this stage of the game Trash didn’t give a rat’s ass if someone safe over the horizon line gave him the authorization to shoot back. This was life and death, and Trash had no intention of doing peaceful lazy-eights out here until he was blown out of the sky.
Hell, no, Trash wanted those other pilots dead, and he would shoot every missile he had if that’s what it took, regardless of instructions from the Hawkeye ACO.
But for right now, he had to stay alive long enough to shoot back.
FORTY-FIVE
Trash rocketed his Hornet toward the water, twelve thousand feet below him now but filling his windscreen quickly. Knowing the distance between himself and the J-10 when the other plane fired, the American was certain he was being chased down right now by a PL-12, a medium-range air-to-air radar-guided missile with a high-explosive warhead. Trash also knew that, with the missile’s top speed of Mach 4, he would not be outrunning this threat. And he was also well aware that with the missile’s ability to make a thirty-eight-g turn, he would not be outturning it, since his body could not pull more than nine g’s before G-LOC, g-induced loss of consciousness, knocked him out and ended any chance he had to get himself out of this mess.
Instead Trash knew he’d have to use geometry as well as a few other tricks he had up his sleeve.
At five thousand feet he yanked back on the stick, pulling his nose directly toward the oncoming threat. He could not see the missile; it was propelled by a rocket using smokeless fuel, and it raced through the sky nearly as fast as a bullet. But he kept his head through his maneuver and retained the situational awareness to know the direction from which the missile had been fired.
Just coming out of the dive was a challenge for the twenty-eight-year-old captain. It was a seven-g turn, Trash knew this from his training, and to keep enough blood in his head for the high-g turn he used a hook maneuver. As he tightened every muscle in his core, he barked out a high-pitched “Hook!” that tightened his core even more.
In his intercom he heard his own voice. “Hook! Hook! Hook!”
Bitching Betty, the audio warning announcements delivered by a woman’s voice, too calm considering the news she delivered, came through Trash’s headset: “Altitude. Altitude.”
Trash leveled out now, and he saw on his radar warning receiver that the threat was still locked on. He deployed chaff, a cloud of aluminum-coated glass fibers that dispersed via a pyrotechnic charge into a wide pattern around and behind the aircraft, hopefully decoying the radar of the incoming missile.
Simultaneous with his deployment of chaff, Trash banked right, pulled back on the stick, and rocketed sideways only twenty-three hundred feet above the water.
He deployed more chaff as he raced away, his right wing pointing to the water, his left wing pointing to the sun.
The PL-12 missile took the bait. It fired into the floating aluminum and glass fiber, losing its lock on the radar signature of the F-18, and it slammed into the water moments later.