Strike Zone (21 page)

“Do we have enough fuel ourselves?”

“Tight. We'll have to try and arrange a refuel as we head south,” said Alou. “We can do it, though. Mission commander's call.”

“Well let's not run out of fuel ourselves,” said Zen. “But you better tell that Z-5 to get a move on—Commander Won doesn't look like much of a swimmer, even with his lifejacket on.”

C
OLONEL
B
ASTIAN WAS
several hundred miles away, about to enter Brunei airspace, but his voice came through loud and clear on the
Raven
's flight deck. Major Alou switched into the private Dreamland circuit, which used a dedicated satellite network to provide around-the-globe encrypted transmissions.

“
Raven
here. Major Alou.”

“Bastian. What's the situation?”

Alou filled him in. The J-11s had taken a quick look and gone home; the Chinese rescue plane was still a good half hour off.

“We've asked Texaco to come up and stand by,” Alou added, referring to a KC-10 tanker asset operating in Brunei with the Dreamland team. Its tanks were filled with a special Dreamland jet fuel; though the planes could use the ordinary J-8 blend, the tiny Flighthawks operated better with a slightly tweaked mixture, and whenever possible Dreamland used its own tankers and support crew.

“That's fine. You say you have video on the Chinese planes' collision?”

“Yes, sir. I've already downloaded it to Dream Command.”

“Good,” said Dog. “I'll talk to Major Catsman and Jed Barclay. We're about to land,” he added. “Keep me informed.
Penn
out.”

“
Raven
.”

T
HE
H
ARBIN
Z
-5
was a monstrous four-engine seaplane, a big flying amphibian that had been designed as a replacement for the Russian Beriev Be-6. The Z-5 had no American equivalent; it looked a bit like a Consolidated PB2Y from the World War II era, with the fuselage lengthened and slimmed down and the wings set very far back. While slow and ponderous, it was well suited for long-range and tedious SAR missions over the ocean. It could stay aloft for at least fifteen hours, carried an eight-man crew, and had a pantry full of rescue gear.

By the time the Harbin made contact with
Raven
, the raftless Commander Won had managed to get his rescue radio working. Zen passed along a message that the pilot was tired but alive. When the Z-5 came in sight, Zen rode
Hawk Two
out to meet it, looping around and bird-dogging the big flying boat in toward the pilot. He pulled off and watched the lumbering plane touch down, splashing against the water as it came in. The ocean was as calm as a bird bath, and the airplane had no problem coasting near its man to facilitate the rescue.

“They're saying thank you, and they can take it
from here,” said Alou. “Our tanker's en route to the rendezvous. Good time to split.”

“Well, at least the SAR guys know their manners,” said Zen, climbing so they could tank and begin the long trek home.

Brunei
1630

B
Y THE TIME
Dog returned to the base, the adulation for Mack Smith had reached comical proportions. The Brunei officials spoke in tones that suggested the major might have a national holiday named after him. Even Mack seemed a bit embarrassed by the reaction of the Brunei officials, though this hadn't stopped him from giving two interviews to the state-run media in a special lounge over in the international airport terminal.

“What happened, Mack?” said the colonel when the major finally managed to pull away from the horde of officials and bureaucrats trying to congratulate him.

“Colonel, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Take your best shot.”

Dog listened as Smith told him how the cannons had fired on their own when he turned the radar on.

“They fired on their own?” said Dog. “You didn't hit the armament panel and then push the trigger?”

“I don't believe that was the case, sir.”

“Mack, you really don't expect me to believe that, do you? Didn't you know the weapons were loaded?” demanded Dog.

“No, sir. Not at all. I swear to God. I did not know they were loaded.”

The last bit—but only the last bit—seemed sincere.

“You know what would have happened if you hit one of those planes?” Dog asked.

Mack held out his hands.

“This is a serious screw-up,” said Dog.

“Prince bin Awg doesn't think so,” said Mack. “He thinks I'm a hero. And Miss Kelly says it'll probably help the alliance.”

“This is the sort of thing I'd expect out of a lieutenant,” Dog told him. “A lieutenant who was maybe about to be bounced down to airman. Not a major. Not someone who has serious responsibilities and wants to command a squadron someday.”

Mack's face blanched.

“Colonel, honest to God, I didn't know the cannons were loaded. I thought I'd just spin the gun around. I was, it was, I just thought—”

“What
did
you think?”

“It's hard to say what I was thinking now,” said Mack. “It's hard even to say I was thinking at all.”

“You got that right.”

There was a knock on the door.

“No more interviews,” Dog told him. “Don't say anything. Nothing. Not one word until I speak to Washington.”

He turned and went to the door himself. He pulled it open, thinking he would find one of the local press people, but instead found bin Awg.

The sultan stood a few feet behind him.

“Your Highness,” said Dog, bowing his head in respect.

“Colonel Bastian.”

“Your Excellency, let me apologize,” said Dog. “I deeply regret the trouble we've caused.”

“Apologize?” said bin Awg.

The sultan put up his hand. “The Chinese have been taught a lesson,” said the ruler. “There is no need for apology. I hope you and Major Smith will be our guests this evening for a private dinner.”

As Dog started to say he couldn't, he saw Miss Kelly in the background. She was nodding her head emphatically.

“I um, I'll try, Your Excellency.”

The sultan smiled. “Try very hard,” he said before turning to leave.

Aboard
Raven
, over the South China Sea
1800

L
IEUTENANT
D
ECI
G
ORDON
studied the displays on his console, looking at a graphical representation of the many different electrical signals in the air around
Raven
. While the complex array of sensors lining the Megafortress's hull could pick up everything from rocket telemetry to cell phone conversations, the computer had been programmed to look for a very narrow band of transmissions in the same power range as that used by the Flighthawk. The graphical representation of the scan—custom-designed for the EB-52 and still being refined—looked something like an undulating sand dune, with narrow symmetrical lines formed by an unseen rake. His eyes hunted the ever-shifting sands for a blue triangle—the indicator that would show the ghost
clone's broadcast. Though he had told the computer to alert him if it was detected, Gordon trusted his own mark-one eyeballs more than the computer. He stared at the screen and worked his equipment, changing different parameters and the capture patterns in
hopes of finding something.

Trained as both an electronic warfare and Elint specialist—traditionally separate though linked roles
Raven
itself combined—Gordon was a next-generation whizzo, a backseater whose mastery of the radio waves allowed him to listen in on, confuse, or destroy transmitting devices from radars to cell phones and walkie-talkies. Typically,
Raven
carried two experts; generally in combat one would concentrate on radar intercepts and the other would work with enemy telemetry and communications. Deci's specialty was radar, but both he and his workmate, Lieutenant Wes Brown, were cross-trained. In this case, both men were using different sets of the gathering gear to look for the clone.

Deci flipped his scan back to an overall capture pattern, showing the active radio transmissions within a two-hundred-mile radius of
Raven
. Purple starbursts representing the Chinese SAR effort appeared at the top left, with ASEAN transmissions to the southwest below and the radioed instructions from the tanker they were to meet in five minutes a nice lime green at the right. The colors had been selected from a list of preferences Gordon himself had set; he'd already decided the choices needed a bit more work, but any refinement would have to wait until he got back to Dreamland.

Gordon couldn't wait for the refuel. A large submarine sandwich was waiting for him in
Raven
's fridge, located in the galley area at the rear of the flight deck. He'd chow down as soon as they hooked up with Texaco.

He flipped back to the ghost clone monitoring screen, determined to take one last look. As he did, the computer sounded the “gotcha” tone in his ear.

It took a half second for him to spot the triangle, flickering at the very top edge of the screen. When he did, his finger shot toward it, tapping the touch-sensitive screen.

“Capture,” he said, “capture.”

“Crew, we're zero five from the rendezvous with Texaco,” said Major Alou.

“Major, hold off! Hold off!” said Gordon, barely able to control his excitement. “I have something. I have it.”

Z
EN JERKED IN
his seat. He pulled the Flighthawk back north, waiting as the information on the intercepted data flashed onto the sitrep screen, sent there from the data link upstairs.

“Yeah, yeah, looks good.
Raven
, I think we have a hot one,” said Zen.

“Hawk leader, our fuel state is getting toward critical,” said Alou.

“How critical?” asked Zen. He was roughly six minutes away from the ghost clone.

“We can give you ten minutes, no more,” said Alou. “Then we come back or we ask the Chinese for a link home.”

“I'll take it.”

“Roger that. Texaco's coming north with us, but even so, we're cutting it close.”

Zen pushed the throttle slide up, increasing his speed. He shot a glance at his own fuel panel, just to double-check that he had enough petrol himself. The computer told him that at this speed he could go nearly fifteen more minutes before hitting his reserves.

Plenty of time, he told himself, nudging for more power.

Aboard the
Dragon Prince
,
in the South China Sea
1806

P
ROFESSOR
A
I
H
IRA
Bai saw the Communist Chinese aircraft at the bottom of the viewscreen as he approached. It looked like a burning cockroach sprawled across the water, its white hull glowing in the reflected sun. He brought up his weapons screen, though he was still a good distance from his target.

Professor Ai did not like to think of himself as a vengeful man, but as he began to close on his target and his heart pounded harder, he did start to feel a certain satisfaction rising in his chest. He tried to push it away, realizing it was a distraction—all emotion was a distraction—and yet he could not.

He wanted to kill. There was no question about that. He wanted to kill the men in the aircraft as surely as he wanted to breathe. He wanted to kill all the mongrels on the Mainland.

He would settle for these communist dogs.

The pipper crawled toward its target. The H-5 was taxiing, moving in the water.

Suddenly, the radar aboard the robot sounded a warning—another plane was approaching.

Professor Ai ignored it, leaning forward in his control screen.

Aboard
Raven
, over the South China Sea
1808

Z
EN SAW THE
Chinese rescue plane before he saw the ghost clone. The H-5 was just starting to move at the top left of his screen; the unmanned airplane had to be somewhere just to its right, but he couldn't see it yet on the visual.

Zen realized what was happening a second before McNamara alerted him from the flight deck.

“We have his radar,” said McNamara. “They're targeting the Chinese plane!”

“Warn them,” said Zen. “The AMRAAMs—can you target the clone?”

The interphone and radio circuits clogged as the pilots above tried to communicate with the Chinese plane and locate the clone at the same time. Zen continued on his course, powering up his own weapons. An upside-down W appeared on the left side of his screen, whitish-gray in the harsh light above the waves. It was the clone.

Zen pushed his stick hard, trying to get it into his aiming reticule.

He was too far. He'd never get to it before the clone opened fire.

“Can you jam his radar?” Zen asked.

McNamara didn't answer. Instead, C
³
gave a buzz indicating that
Raven
's ECMs were being activated. This was followed by a proximity warning—the electronic fuzz eroded the communications link between the mother ship and the Flighthawk. Zen had to throttle back or risk losing the connection.

Which gave him an idea.

“Get north,” he told Alou. “Get between the clone and its mother. Knock down its signal.”

Again, the only answer from the bridge was nonverbal—a quick jerk in the air as the heavy bomber lurched northward, trying to follow Zen's directions.

Zen's targeting cue began blinking, its color changing to yellow. He was lined up for a shot but too far away, the computer was telling him. He needed to wait until the cue blinked red.

The clone danced up and down, weaving through the air. Then it exploded—

No, it was firing.

Zen pressed the Flighthawk trigger, though he was still well out of range. The W-shaped boogie split off to the right, climbing. Zen turned hard and hit the gas, immediately getting a proximity warning.