“Shot down?” Yeh Lien straightened in his seat. “An American military jet? What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. It was a NOAA aircraft — which is to say, an American Air Force jet supposedly used to study weather. Its pilot reported being paced by an unknown aircraft with a red star on the wing. He then reported missiles being fired, and began to go down. He has since vanished off radar and is presumed to have crashed.”
Yeh closed his eyes. “This American plane — it was not armed?”
“No. Many times these kinds of planes are used for spying, so they are not armed. It would ruin the illusion.”
“I assume you can identify who fired at it?”
“No. It was not one of ours.”
Yeh’s eyes opened. “But you said — ”
“Anyone can paint a red star on a wing. Comrade, the American pilot reported that his attacker resembled a ‘stealth fighter.’ To the best of my knowledge, the PLA Air Force possesses no such aircraft. Also, our own radar detected only the smallest return, other than that of the business jet, in that area. They would have taken it to be a bird or temperature anomaly if it weren’t for what happened later. And finally, all PLA aircraft have reported in and been accounted for. None is, or was, in the vicinity of the attack.”
“What exactly are you telling me, Comrade Major General?”
“I’m telling you we need to find out what really happened.” Wei leaned forward. “There’s only one way to do that. I want to route a squadron of fighters to the area to search for this mystery plane and the American jet. Immediately.”
Yeh looked uncomfortable. “You say the American went down outside the twelve-mile limit?”
“That’s the radar indication. We won’t know for sure until we get someone out there.”
“Perhaps…perhaps we should consult with General Ming before — ”
“Ming is on his way back to Beijing. By the time we contact him, the enemy will be gone. We must act now.” Wei was pleased. Here was the perfect opportunity for him to show Beijing how dedicated he was to his job, while at the same time sharing responsibility for the final decision with his own Political Commissar.
But Yeh just stared out the window.
“Comrade,” Wei said. “Radar indicates there are currently no conventional American aircraft in the vicinity of the crash — but that won’t last. If we wish to get there before the Americans cordon off the site like they did last time, we must act now. I’m asking for your concurrence in this decision.”
At last Yeh looked back at him. “Not an entire squadron; it would look… aggressive. Some smaller number, perhaps.”
Wei carefully kept the sneer off his face. Evidently living in Hong Kong had taught the Political Commissar the finer points of a very Capitalistic practice: haggling.
“Very well,” he said, and reached for the phone.
“No doubt about it,” Lab Rat said. “A small USAF jet, departing north out of Hong Kong, was taken out with an air-to-air missile fired at close range. This was a unarmed transport plane, sir. Whatever fired the shot dropped to the deck and disappeared.”
“What do you mean, ‘whatever fired the shot’?”
“Well, Admiral, the contact was… odd.”
“Don’t dance around the question. Tell me.”
“It was an extremely weak return; nothing like your average fighter plane — especially one carrying missiles. Also, it never switched on its own radar. Not any radar, passive or fire-control. Nothing. It came up, shot off a couple of heat-seekers, and disappeared again.”
“But it was described as a PLA aircraft, correct?”
“Well… that’s the other thing.” The intelligence officer pointed at the icons shifting over the blue screen. “The American pilot did say the bogey had PLA markings, but as you can see, right now eight Flankers are converging on the site; half of those are the newest model. It’s weird; if the PLA is responsible for taking out the Air Force plane, why all this activity now?”
“So everybody will ask exactly that question. Please tell me this shoot-down happened on our side of the property line.”
“Yes, sir. Barely.”
Batman turned to the flag TAO. “Get SAR and air cover out there now. I want that area sealed off.”
“It might be too late for that, sir,” Lab Rat said. “This site is quite a bit north of our present position. Our closest assets are a pair of Hornets and a pair of F-14s, but they’re all at least ten minutes out. No way they can get there before the PLA.”
“Then have them get there second and make it clear we won’t be cut out of this. Launch the Alert Five and Alert Fifteen birds, too; we want to match the PLA plane for plane as soon as we can. We’re not going to start anything, but we want it understood we’re in this game.”
Lab Rat stared at the blue screen. “No one could have lived through that.”
Batman shook his head. “That’s not how we do SAR. If they are, we’re not going to make them wait around for a certain helicopter to show up.”
Dr. George awoke to the feel of warm water sweeping around his ankles. What was this — Monsoon rains leaking into his office again? He started to sit erect, but a twisting pain arced through his lower back and he cried out. After a moment’s rest he tried again, more slowly.
My, his office was a mess. No, not his office… this looked more or less like the rear compartment of the NOAA Gulfstream that had been flying him back to Guam from Hong Kong.
Then he remembered: The strange-looking fighter plane, the explosion… and the rear of the Gulfstream breaking open like an eggshell.
The water was swirling around his calves now. He looked forward, into the cockpit. The windscreens were both opaque, shattered. He could see the right shoulder of the pilot, the left shoulder of the co-pilot, leaning together across the central aisle. Neither was moving.
“Hey!” George called, and winced at the pain in his back. “Hey! Hey, are you all right?”
No response. The water was now up to his knees. A small jellyfish floated past. The plane remained remarkably level, though, as if the sea were entering with equal speed from both ends. He looked out the nearest window just as a low swell rolled past, its crown sweeping along the bottom of the glass. Water surged into the plane, soaking his thighs.
“Oh God.” He fumbled with the release catch on his seat belt. Saw fresh blood on his hands. He wasn’t sure where it was coming from, and wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. “Oh God, oh God…”
Finally, the catch popped and he yanked himself out of the tight seat, groaning at spasms in his back. Something was wrong with his right leg, too; it would barely support him. Bracing his weight against various pieces of equipment, he yanked himself toward the cockpit. “Hey! Hey, guys!” No response. The water was up to his knees now.
At the cockpit entrance he halted. The nose of the Gulfstream had been crushed; the instrument panel looked like it had slammed back like a horizontal guillotine blade, chopping deeply into the chests of both pilots. One glance was all George needed, and all he could stand. He turned, pushed himself back against the water.
The Gulfstream’s door was designed to hinge outward along its bottom edge, creating a staircase. He reached for the handle that would break the seal, then thought of something and groped into one of the overhead compartments for a life vest. It looked pathetically small; how could he ever wrestle it on in these confined quarters?