“Roger.” She rolled her eyes. Involved? What did that mean? “What’s the ETA for SAR?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Homeplate said. “Be advised a Luhu-class destroyer just pulled out of the harbor and is making flank speed to your datum. ETA twenty-five minutes.”
“A destroyer?” Hot Rock said, switching to ICS. “Great.” He knew that China’s Luhu-class ships were new, fast, and armed with Crotale anti-aircraft missiles, among other treats. And the ship was already close enough to take part in any air battle. Of course, so were CVBG-14’s destroyer and Aegis cruiser, with their over-the-horizon firing capabilities… but still, in a missile situation, a difference of seconds was all anyone needed. Any ship leaving Hong Kong would already have the drop on both American support ships.
“We got other problems at the moment,” Two Tone said. “Like the fact that those two Flankers are coming back around on us.”
“They’re just doing the same thing we are,” Hot Rock said, forcing his dry lips to move. “Circling the flare.”
“And what about the six dudes overhead?” Two Tone asked. “Why do you suppose they’re there? Tour guides?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hot Rock’s hands weren’t just sweaty inside his gloves now — they were slathered, and shaking a bit. Had been ever since those goddamned Chinese fighters galloped past, close enough to kiss. He sharpened his voice. “Our orders are to keep things clear for SAR, so we keep things clear for SAR.”
“But what if the Chinese get their SAR here first? Because I’m picking up a low-level return, bearing??… same bearing and distance as the destroyer. That’s gotta mean the Chinese launched a helo. And guess what? It’s going to get here before any of our eggbeaters do.”
SEVEN
Tai Ling gazed down through the golden haze of sun on water, searching for his prey. He couldn’t visually pick out the four fighters circling far below. His look-down radar showed they were there, and their relative positions, but he wished he could see them with his own eyes. It would make it much easier to recognize the signal when it came. He didn’t know what the signal would be, exactly, but he’d been told that it would be unmistakable.
He’d also been told that the Americans, unbeknownst to themselves, would be the ones to give it.
Speaking of Americans… Tai’s radar also showed the approach of four more fighter aircraft from the direction of the aircraft carrier.
The sight of those blips filled him with a strange emotion: half eager anticipation, half sick hope. The anticipation was the natural sensibility of any trained fighter pilot facing his possible first real dogfight. The hope was inspired by the unremitting memory of Hua Shih’s SU-37 exploding into a burning comet in front of him, its beautiful skin punched full of 20mm cannon holes. From Tai Ling’s cannon.
Although Tai knew that what he had done was essential in the long run, that didn’t make accepting the fact any easier: He had shot down one of his own men. His own section leader, in fact. And he’d done it from the trusted position of wingman.
The fact that he had himself been promoted to section leader following Hua’s “flame-out and crash” only made the memory of that day more bitter.
Perhaps making a true, man-to-man kill on an American plane would clean the slate, would erase the shame of what he’d done. Had to do. Perhaps even Hua would understand and applaud.
Focused again, Tai returned his attention to the radar and willed the Americans to come closer.
“Scimitar Leader to Viper Leader,” Bird Dog said over tactical. “We’re fifty mikes out. Copy?”
“Copy, Scimitar Leader. Don’t hurry on our account. I’ve always wanted to get a nice, long, close-up look at a Flanker. Or two.”
“We’re buster, Lobo. Just hang in there.”
“Copy.” Her damned voice was all business. “By the way, the inbound PLA helo is going to get here in less than a mike. You’re the War College brain; what do you advise if it makes a play for the survivor?”
“Just do what you did the other night,” he said. “Those are our orders: Just let the helo know you’re there. Make life uncomfortable for it. Shiloh advises two Seahawks are en route, ETA fifteen mikes.”
“Um, Mr. Dog, it seems to me that if I run interference on this helo like you say, the Chinese could make a pretty good case that the USA is interfering in a benevolent SAR attempt.”
“Not after what happened to Lady of Leisure,” Bird Dog said.
Two sharp clicks indicated acknowledgment of the message. Then the ICS came on. “I don’t think she liked your advice, boss,” Catwoman said.
I didn’t either, Bird Dog thought, but didn’t say. How could anyone justify risking the lives of American pilots, not to mention a damned expensive aircraft costing, in order to guard a chunk of water in which a person might or might not be floating around alive?
But then he remembered how he’d felt as he drifted helplessly in the warm Atlantic, waiting to see who was going to pick him up first — the Cubans or his own people. Remembered that, and was glad he’d kept his lip zipped for a change.
But his imagination was a different matter. When he visualized Lobo flying around out there at suicidally low altitudes, doing a job better suited to prop planes or helos, his anger and frustration surged up again, and he thought, Hang on, Lobo, just hang on….
There was nothing worse than flying this low in a fighter plane. Lobo ached for altitude, for the superior speed and maneuverability that altitude conferred.
Right now the two SU-27s were living up to their NATO nickname, flanking her and Hot Rock throughout their long, constant turn, as if escorting the American planes. The Flankers were large craft, with twin vertical stabilizers and graceful, recurved fuselages… in fact, they looked disturbingly like Tomcats. She mentally reviewed what she knew about their capabilities: Twin afterburning Lyul’ka AL-21 turbofans each providing almost thirty thousand pounds of thrust — compared to the 27,000 pounds available to the Tomcats — which gave the Chinese planes a top speed of Mach 2.35 as compared to Mach 1.88 for the Tomcat. The SU-27 had a better ceiling, too.
According to the latest intel, the Flankers also turned tighter than Tomcats, and had radar equipped with look-down, shoot-down capability.
And these were the old models. The SU-35s and SU-37 up above had, reportedly, even higher performance numbers.
In other words, for the first time since early in the Vietnam war, it was possible the American aircraft in any given air battle were not intrinsically superior. It was actually possible that the Tomcat was outmatched, not only in turn radius but in pure, brute power.
On top of that, Homeplate had warned them to be on the lookout for an “unidentified fighter aircraft of unknown abilities.” Whatever that meant.
Not that Lobo was frightened by either the known statistics or the unknown variables of the situation. Regardless of how swell a pilot’s hardware was, the plane was no better than the pilot. And that was where nobody could touch the United States Navy.
Still… there was no denying that this situation sucked.
She looked over her right shoulder, gazing down at the water on the inside of her steady turn. There was a small red-and-white dot floating on the water. The survivor, presumably, although there had been no more flares. She wondered what the poor schmuck thought about this private air show. Assuming he or she was still alive.