Текст книги "Strike Zone"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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The lead Chinese pilot challenged them, calling them “unidentified Xian H-6” and asking what unit they were with.

“Usual Chinese bullshit,” grumbled Mack.

“What’s going on, Major?” asked Miss Kelly.

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“He’s just jerking our chain,” Mack told her. “Pretending to think we’re a Chinese aircraft. It’s a game.

They make believe they don’t know who we are, so they can fly up close and show off. Goes on all the time. Macho posturing. Don’t be impressed.”

The interceptors started a wide turn, obviously planning to swing around and come across their wings.

“The Chinese can be quite aggressive,” said bin Awg. “They don’t believe that Brunei should have an air force.”

“They don’t think anyone should have an air force,” said Mack.

“They are precisely why we need an air force.”

“You got that straight, Prince,” said Mack. “Jerks. Don’t let ’em push you around.”

Bin Awg broadcast his ID, course, and added a friendly greeting, all in Mandarin.

The Chinese didn’t bother acknowledging.

Mack pulled out his large map of the area, working out how far the planes had come. The Sukhois were large aircraft and could carry a decent amount of fuel; even so, he figured these two jokers must be out near bingo—they’d have to go home soon.

The J-11s had slowed considerably, and as Mack had predicted split wide so they could bracket the Badger. Painted in white, the double-finned planes were trimmed in blue. They had what appeared to be R-73 Russian-made heat-seekers tied to their wings. Known as Archers in the West, the short-range missiles were roughly comparable to Sidewinders.

“Frick and Frack,” said Mack as the planes pulled alongside.

Miss Kelly laughed.

The backseater in the J-11 on the right had a camera. Mack resisted the impulse to give him the finger—it would be posted on the Internet tomorrow if he did. No sense giving the Chinese jerks the satisfaction.

The Sukhoi on the right swung across the Badger’s path, a few yards away. The prince struggled to hold his big, fussy aircraft steady and not hit the idiot. Bin Awg was a good pilot, but the J-11’s bulky mass presented a case study in wake turbulence. Nor was the other commie giving him much room to work with.

The RWR bleeped on and off. The Chinese jocks were really pulling their chain, activating their radars as if intending to target them.

“They’re lucky we don’t have air-to-air missiles,” grumbled the prince.

That gave Mack an idea. He threw off his restraints and climbed back to the gunner’s station. It took a moment to get the hang of the gear, but though ancient it was straightforward enough that even a zippersuit could figure it out. Mack felt the gears chattering behind him as it turned. He put his face down into the old-fashioned viewer, surprised to find that it was actually a radar screen, not an optical feed. As he did so, the pilot had to push down to avoid the Sukhoi’s tailpipe. Losing his balance, Mack grabbed Page 91

for a handhold. His finger found the gun switch, and to his shock and surprise, a stream of bullets flew not just from the top guns but from all three of the antiair stations.

For one of the few times in his military career, Mack Smith was utterly speechless. He hadn’t thought the weapons were loaded—bin Awg hadn’t given any indication that they were. Nor would he have guessed that they could be fired so easily, or that all three weapons could be commanded from one station.

Of course, had he been trained as a weapons operator, a glance at the panel would have told him all this. But then if he’d been a real weapons operator, he wouldn’t have been fooling around in the first place.

Actually, the same might be said for a pilot, or any officer of the U.S. Air Force, Navy, or Army, whose duty might reasonably be said to include restrictions against being a bonehead in a potential war zone.

Without saying anything, without breathing, Mack slid back into his copilot’s seat, sure that his career in the U.S. Air Force had just ended.

At least he hadn’t shot down the planes. The J-11s pulled off to the north, making tracks.

No one else said anything as he pulled on his headset. Mack glanced toward the prince. His face was red.

Probably, he couldn’t be jailed for what was just a dumb-ass mistake. Court-martialed, sure.

But jailed?

If they did jail him, would it be in Brunei or the U.S.?

A communication came in from the Australian frigate.

Mack listened as the prince gave his position and intentions; they were homeward bound.

“Scared those buggers off, mate,” said the Australian. “Good for you.”

Obviously, it wasn’t a flag officer talking. Bin Awg acknowledged with his ID, but said nothing else.

“I, uh, I—” started Mack. He intended to apologize, but apologies had never exactly been his strong suit. His tongue froze in his mouth.

“Major?” said the prince.

“Um.”

“Major Mack Smith, you have just done something I wish I had the guts to do ten years ago. You sent the devils packing. This is a great moment. A very, very great moment.”

If Mack had had trouble speaking a moment before, he was utterly speechless now. He wanted to tell the prince that, in all honesty, he was exaggerating by a country mile.

Then he thought he’d apologize, say he hadn’t thought the gun was loaded, and throw himself on the mercy of the court. Maybe the prince might say a few words on his behalf.

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But nothing came out of his mouth.

Bin Awg turned to him. “Well done. Well, well done.”

“Uh, thanks,” was all Mack could manage to get out of his mouth.

Aboard Penn, over the South China Sea

1424

DOG CHECKED THESITREP. They had Chinese J-11s to the south of them, J-11s to the west, a big ol’ Russian Coot, and even a U.S. Navy P-3—but no ghost clone, at least not that they could see. He hoped Raven was having better luck.

“They’re getting to be at bingo now, sir,” said the copilot, whom Dog had asked to keep track of the Flighthawk status. “Bingo” in the Flighthawk referred to the point at which they had to refuel.

“ Hawk One, this is Penn. How’s your fuel state?” said Dog.

“Getting edgy,” replied Starship.

“What’s edgy?”

“Uh, we’re getting there.”

Dog shook his head. The nugget was like a kid who’d been swimming in a pool all afternoon and didn’t want to get out even though his lips were chattering and his body was blue. As long as he didn’t admit being cold, he wouldn’t be.

Didn’t work that way with jet fuel, though.

“ Hawk One, have you discovered the secret to perpetual motion?” Dog asked.

“Um, excuse me, Colonel?”

“Time for you to refuel, no?”

“Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

“All right, let’s radio the fleet that we’re breaking off and going home,” Dog told the entire crew.

STARSHIP SLID BACKin his seat as the computer took the Flighthawk in and began the refuel.

He was tired and more than a bit frustrated. All that flying and no sight of the ghost clone.

Not to mention the fact that the Chinese fighters had stayed well clear of him.

“Tired?” Kick asked.

“Nah,” said Starship.

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“Zen’s probably tracking him right now.”

“Yeah.”

“You hear what happened with the Brunei Badger?”

“Something happened?” Starship had been too intent on his own mission to bother with anything that didn’t concern him.

“Couple of J-11s buzzed them just about an hour ago. Mack Smith sent them packing with a burst of cannon fire across their bow.”

“Live gunfire?”

“No shit,” said Kick.

“Wow. He allowed to do that?” Starship’s ROEs strictly forbade him from firing except in the most dire of circumstances, and if he had tried that Zen would have found a way to kick his butt back to Dreamland.

“Got away with it. Nobody’s complaining.”

“Those the planes we saw earlier?”

“Yup.”

“They were probably just out of fuel,” said Starship. “They were operating at the edge of their range.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not the way the Brunei prince sees it. They’re sending airplanes out to escort them back to a hero’s welcome. I’m not making this up.”

“Man, I wish I had Mack Smith’s life,” said Starship as the computer buzzed him. The refuel complete, he took over from the electronic brain, ducking down and then zooming ahead of the Pennsylvania to lead her back to the base.

Dreamland

10 September 1997

2344

DANNYFREAH GOTup from his desk in the security office, his eyes so blurry that he couldn’t read any of the papers on his desk. He’d been staring at computer reports along with summaries of regulations, laws, and previous investigations for over four hours.

For all that, he probably knew less now than when he’d started. As head of security at Dreamland, Danny had extraordinary powers to investigate possible espionage; he didn’t even have to rely on Colonel Bas-tian’s authority in most cases. Everyone who worked at the base had to sign long, complicated agreements that essentially stripped him of privacy and made Danny Freah Big Brother. If events warranted, he could tap their phones, read their mail, even enter their homes.

But what he needed in this sort of case was the ability to read people’s minds. Because it just wasn’t clear to him that anyone—Jennifer Gleason especially—had betrayed his country, knowingly or Page 94

unknowingly.

Occasionally during the Cold War, technology theft was straight-out obvious—the Soviet Union produced a four-engine bomber based on a B-29 a few months after the plane landed in the country’s Far East, for example. But much more often, the theft was considerably more subtle and nuanced.

The Soviet Tu-95 bomber, for example, had probably been influenced by American designs—yet it did not directly correspond to anything in the American inventory. Were similarities between American jets and advanced MiGs and Sukhois due to similar design requirements and constraints, or espionage?

When was a copycat simply that—and when was it an act of treachery?

Danny needed more extensive data about the ghost clone before he could even decide whether there might be a case here. Even then, he’d need really, really hard evidence to take to Colonel Bastian—or to Bastian’s superiors, if Danny decided the colonel couldn’t be unbiased.

Cortend, on the other hand, worked on the premise that espionage had occurred, and therefore she would find it. She didn’t really care what effect she had on the base, much less on the people she was grilling. And because she wasn’t conducting an official investigation—not yet, anyway—she could ignore a lot of the standard rules and procedures designed to prevent abuses. She bullied people into cooperating “voluntarily” and then screwed them, or tried to.

Danny wasn’t like that. He didn’t nail people without damn good reason to do so.

Should he?

Maybe Jennifer did know something, or had done something really wrong. She was pretty antagonistic, and hadn’t been acting particularly, well, innocent.

She’d answered all the questions, though. She claimed she didn’t remember the conferences or the paperwork.

Probably that was true. He couldn’t remember back a few years himself. And as for paperwork …

It was bullshit. The files were full of contact reports that no one ever looked at. Truth of it was, Jennifer Gleason rarely left the base, not even to go home, not even for a vacation. She was about as far away from being a spy as you could get. Knowledge, yes, but little opportunity, and dedication probably unmatched even at Dreamland.

Were his emotions getting in the way of his judgment? He liked Jennifer, and even more importantly, he liked Dog; if Jennifer were guilty, it would kill the colonel.

To his credit, Dog wasn’t interfering. Clearly he didn’t think Jen was guilty, but he wasn’t interfering.

Danny glanced at his watch and decided he’d go catch some Z’s. Maybe tomorrow one of the scientists here would come up with some new gizmo that would let him read minds.

UNABLE TO SLEEP,Jennifer pushed herself out of bed. Her legs and neck felt numb. She folded her elbows against the sides of her chest, then bent at the waist, stretching her muscles. The numbness stayed with her.

She walked from the small bedroom to the slightly larger living room, which had a kitchenette at the side.

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She sat on the couch, staring at the TV on the wall near the door but not bothering to turn it on. Jennifer pulled her feet up onto the couch, looking at her toes.

The numbness affected even them.

Was she going to stay in this hole the rest of her life?

Jennifer jumped off the couch, pacing across the small room. Cortend, Danny, Dog—they were all against her, weren’t they?

They were all against her.

Did she deserve that?

Maybe she did.

Jennifer found herself at the small sink. A large paring knife sat at the bottom, next to a coffee cup from a few days before.

Did she deserve that?

She picked the knife up and felt the blade with the edge of her thumb. Only when she pushed hard against it did the numbness dissipate.

Blood trickled from her finger. She stared at the red dots, watched the flow swell.

Slowly, she brought the knife upward toward her neck. She ran it up against her chin and then the cheek, the way a barber would drag a safety razor.

Was there no way to make the numbness go away?

With a jerk, she grabbed a bunch of her long hair between her fingers and the sharp blade of the knife.

She tugged. The hair gave way.

Again.

Again.

Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea

1444

ZEN CHECKED HISfuel state, then hit the mike switch.

“I think we’re just about wrapped up,” he told Alou. “I won’t jettison the antenna until we’re ready to refuel,” he added. “Looks like, oh, ten minutes?”

“Roger that, Hawk Two,” said Alou. “Be advised we’re intercepting communications now between a ground controller and a flight of Chinese F-8IIs—hang tight.”

While the pilot and the officer handling the intercept data sorted through the radio traffic to figure out what was going on, Zen brought his Flighthawk south and began descending. He had to visually inspect Page 96

the area where the antenna would fall to make certain it wouldn’t hit anyone—or be retrieved before it sank.

“F-8s are coming out to say hello,” Alou told Zen. “Going to afterburners. Apparently pissed off about something that happened south of us, over the ASEAN fleet. Let’s go ahead with the refuel.”

“Roger that. Preparing to drop trailing antenna,” said Zen. He checked his screen, went to the sitrep, then let the computer take the bird, holding it at 8,500 feet when he gave the command to release the antenna. A puff of smoke rippled from the rear of the Flighthawk; a set of charges no larger than firecrackers blew the mesh into sections, destroying any value it might have for an enemy. The metal that didn’t disintegrate settled in the water.

“J-8s are in radar range,” said Alou.

“Roger that.” Zen took back control of the Flighthawk, climbing upward. He passed through fifteen thousand feet going toward twenty-five, where Raven was waiting with its probe already out for the refuel. It took a few minutes to climb and line up correctly, moving in toward the waiting straw like a kid homing in on a root beer float in an old-fashioned ice cream shop. Zen throttled back, hit his computer-generated marks, then prepared to give up control to the computer, which would fly the actual refuel. But just then the RWR buzzed in his ear, warning him that the Chinese pilots had turned their radar into targeting mode, as if they were preparing to fire guided missiles at the EB-52.

“Coming at us hard,” said Alou.

“Holding off on refuel,” said Zen. He rolled out to defend his mother ship.

One F-8—still on afterburner—shot in from the northwest, riding about a quarter mile away from the EB-52 at nearly the exact same altitude.

Four hundred meters sounds like a lot, but it’s not a particularly wide margin when one plane is doing 380 knots and the other is up well over 600. It was ridiculously close for the Shenyang F-8. While admittedly fast—the delta-shaped arrow could top Mach 2.2—the Chinese design had the turning radius of an eighteen-wheeler pulling three trailers and none of the finesse.

As it came across Raven’s bow, its pilot threw the plane into a hard turn north, probably surpassing nine g’s. It was a wonder he didn’t pass out.

Meanwhile, the other F-8 took a slightly more leisurely approach, backing off his throttle and trailing his partner by a good ten miles. He turned slightly and took a course that would take him directly beneath Raven.

By maybe two feet.

“Could be he needs some gas,” said Alou.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Zen. “I’m going to get in his face.”

“Hang back. Better that he doesn’t try turning and hit into us.”

“All right. Look, I’m going to have to refuel.”

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“Yeah, roger that.”

The second F-8 pilot, perhaps finally realizing that he couldn’t share the same space as the EB-52, banked about five miles from Raven’s tail. Zen pushed back toward Raven as the Chinese planes pulled north.

“Let’s do the refuel while they’re running away,” he said.

“Bring it on in.”

But Zen had no sooner started up toward the boom when the F-8s turned back and headed toward the Megafortress.

“What’s with our friends?” asked Zen.

“Who knows,” said Alou. “Maybe they’re looking for flying lessons.”

“I’ll give them some cheap. You want to refuel?”

“Go for it. Delaney’s trying to talk to these idiots and see what they’re up to.”

About a mile from the back of Raven, one of the F-8s drove up near Zen’s right wing, closing the distance from about a hundred yards, obviously curious about the U/MF. Zen didn’t blame him, actually; the little plane looked more like a UFO than a conventional aircraft. He switched over to the frequency the Chinese aircraft were using.

“Get a look at the future, my friend,” said Zen, broadcasting in the clear in English.

“You must be very small to fit inside,” answered the Chinese pilot.

His English was a little difficult to make out, so Zen’s laugh was delayed. It was obviously intended as a joke—the Chinese had had the opportunity to meet Flighthawks before.

“No, I just sawed off my legs,” Zen answered.

He continued on his flight path into the refueling probe, which was jutting out the rear of the EB-52. Just as he got to within twenty yards, the F-8 jiggled in front of him. Apparently caught in the wind sheering off the Megafortress, the Chinese plane jerked down and then up, finally tipping on its right wing and swooping away. Zen had to slide back, afraid he was going to hit the idiot.

“Say, guys, no offense, but you have to stay clear, okay?” said Zen. “We’re working here.”

The lead F-8 took offense at his tone, telling him the sky belonged to everyone.

“Well, yeah,” said Zen. “But if you want to stay in it you better stand back. Even we haven’t figured out a way to get two airplanes in the same place at the same time yet.”

He brought his Flighthawk up, but before he even started to close got a proximity warning. The F-8

leader flew under the Flighthawk and crossed in front, missing both planes by no more than twenty yards.

That was just a prelude for the maneuver by his wingman, who took his F-8 close enough to the wing of Page 98

the Megafortress that it looked like he was going to try docking on the Flighthawk cradle. He stayed under the big plane, making it impossible for Zen to refuel.

“I’m tempted to use the cannons,” Zen said to Alou.

“Makes two of us. How’s your fuel?”

“I can’t do this all afternoon.” The fuel panel showed that he was well into his reserves, with only ten minutes of flying time left.

“Should we be polite?” asked Alou.

“Give it a shot. If they don’t move off, break left hard. I’ll drop in and we’ll hook up before they can get back.”

As Alou asked the Chinese pilot in English and Mandarin Chinese to stand clear so they could refuel, the lead F-8 returned, taking up a position under the other wing. This ruled out Zen’s plan.

“All right, that’s it,” said Zen. He pushed the slide on the throttle and whipped the Flighthawk forward, riding in between the F-8 on the right and the Megafortress. The Chinese pilot got the message and began to duck off to the right. But as he did, his flight leader lost his nerve and jinked downward as well—right into the other plane’s wing.

A turbulent rumble of air shook all four aircraft. Zen thought he had hit the belly of the Megafortress—he’d been closest to the EB-52—and slammed the Flighthawk downward as quickly as he could.

For a long half second, he wasn’t sure where anyone else was. He felt a disconnect between his mind and body—his eyes were plummeting with the Flighthawk while his chest was taking a few g’s from the other direction, Alou trying to climb out of trouble.

By the time Zen pulled upward, Alou had steadied the Megafortress. It hadn’t been hit.

“All right. I have to refuel,” said Zen. “No more fooling around.”

The warning tone was loud in his ear, the Flighthawk pleading for gas.

“Roger that,” said Alou.

“Chinese aircraft are down,” reported the copilot. “I see one, I have two chutes. Good chutes. Lucky bastards.”

“Thank God for that,” said Alou. “Even if they don’t deserve it.”

Aboard the Dragon Prince, South China Sea

1500

FROM THE AIR,the small tanker looked no different from the average commercial vessel plying the South China Sea. A small gray tarp, frayed at one edge, flapped in the wind on the starboard side; the masts were in disrepair and the paint near the waterline clearly needed to be scraped and reapplied.

Anyone who followed the ship for any length of time would realize that the engines had a habit of spewing Page 99

dark smoke at unpredictable intervals, but they would also notice that the crew, while relatively small, was motivated and disciplined. The flag that flew from the mast was Malaysian, though of course in these days of international shipping, any observer might guess that was more a matter of convenience than a clue to its ownership. The Dragon ship—its actual name was Dragon Prince, though few used it—was to all outward appearances just one more small merchant vessel trying to make a living in the difficult business of international shipping.

But as the old Chinese proverb put it, appearances were often meant to deceive.

Chen Lo Fann stood on the bridge of the Dragon Prince, waiting. An American satellite had just inconveniently passed overhead, delaying their launch. They had to wait another ninety seconds to make sure that it was well out of range.

Chen Lo Fann waited stoically, willing the time to pass. There was no doubt in his mind that their chance had passed by today; he hoped Fate would provide another tomorrow.

“Commander?”

Surprised, Chen Lo Fann turned. “Professor Ai, why are you on the bridge? Shouldn’t you be with your controls?”

“You need to listen to this,” said the gray-haired scientist.

Chen Lo Fann nodded, then followed as Professor Ai led the way below to the compartment where the intercepted information was compiled. He stepped quickly to the panel at the right and flipped a small toggle switch, allowing an intercepted radio transmission to be broadcast onto the deck.

The words were in Chinese.

A search-and-rescue operation.

One of the Communist planes had gone down!

“Two of the planes collided,” said Professor Ai. “They will send a rescue craft, a Harbin flying boat. It is their usual procedure.”

And so, thought Chen Lo Fann, there is such a thing as Fate.

“Yes,” he said. “Let us refine our plan.”

Aboard Raven

1503

ZEN COMPLETED HISrefuel and pushed the Flighthawk away from the belly of the big plane, looping over the wide expanse of water. The two Chinese aircraft had crashed roughly five miles from each other, the planes zigging away after the collision. One of the F-8s had lost its wing, and its jock had hit the silk within seconds of the mishap; the other pilot had stayed with his plane though a good hunk of a tail fin had been sheered off. That pilot was just now hitting the water; Zen banked and approached him from the west.

The Chinese had shot down Quicksilver, killing four of Zen’s friends and nearly killing his wife; while the Page 100

reviews showed that the attack was a mistake, Zen nonetheless held the Chinese responsible. If they hadn’t been overly aggressive, his people would still be alive.

On the other hand, his duty was to help rescue these jerks.

“Do you have their exact position?” Zen asked Alou as he watched the first pilot hit the water.

“Negative. If you want to go over them and get some GPS readings, we can alert PRC rescue assets,”

said the pilot.

“Have they scrambled SAR units yet?” Zen asked.

“We’re working to figure that out, Hawk leader.”

Zen slowed the Flighthawk down as he took a wide bank to swing over one of the Chinese pilots, who was struggling with his gear. The air-to-ground attack mode on the Flighthawk’s radar gave a precise reading of cursored objects as part of the data set; intended to target GPS-guided munitions in coordination with the Megafortress, it could also help in the SAR role. Zen told C3to find the pilot in the water; the computer popped a little red halo around his head and plotted his exact location.

“Got Idiot One,” said Zen, uploading the information as he brought the Flighthawk back in the direction of the other pilot. At about two miles, he saw a yellow splotch appear on the waves—the pilot had inflated his life raft. “Idiot Two is alive and well.”

“Hawk leader, be advised we have a pair of Chinese aircraft—uh, J-11s or license-built Su-27s—coming out in our direction,” said Alou. “Looks like they’ve been tasked for search and rescue.

We’ll attempt to contact them; at present they’re outside of radar range but we have some telemetry on them. Going to take them a bit to get down here.”

Zen acknowledged. As he orbited back, he saw that the second Chinese pilot had not yet inflated his raft.

“Either one of our friends is having trouble with his gear, or he likes to swim,” Zen told the others.

The pilot remained a small dot in the water as he approached. Zen tucked lower, easing down below five thousand feet to try and get a better look at the pilot. He was going about 220 knots and couldn’t get much of a visual; he came back around, speed dropping through 200 and altitude bleeding away, but the cam caught only the top of the man’s head. Just as he pulled off, Zen thought he saw the Chinese pilot’s arm jerk up; if it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t have known he was alive.

“He’s alive but definitely having trouble with the sea,” said Zen. “Where are those SAR assets?”

“Still trying to get a direct line to the Chinese. They’re not answering our hails. They’re on your radar now.”

“Yeah. More idiots. Can we get a helicopter up from one of the ASEAN frigates?” Zen asked.

“We’re working on it, Zen. Looks like we’re out of their chopper range. Hang tight.”

Zen flew a racetrack orbit over the two men, a simple, lazy oval in the sky. Raven had already made two broadcasts over the international UHF Mayday frequency, using the Chinese planes’ call signs, but had Page 101

not received answers. Zen clicked into the SAR circuit himself and gave it a shot, telling the downed pilots he had their locations and help was on the way.

“Thank you,” came a staticky reply. “Is Commander Won okay?”

“I’m not sure who is who,” replied Zen. “I can see two men down. One of you is in a life raft. The other is just in the ocean.”

The reply was garbled, but Zen made out the words “malfunction” and “problem.”

“Get this,” said McNamara, Raven’s copilot. “The Chinese are warning us off.”

“Tell them to fuck themselves,” Zen replied. He overheard Alou transmitting to the Chinese fighters personally, giving the location of the two downed planes and telling them that the planes had collided with each other. Alou added that they were standing by to assist.

The answer from the Chinese was rather emphatic.

“Their weapons radars are active. We are spiked,” said McNamara, meaning that the radars had a lock on the Megafortress, and the interceptors’ missiles could be launched at any time, though they were probably about ten miles outside their optimum range.

Ten miles equaled a bit less than a minute at their present course and speed.

“They are jerks, aren’t they?” said Alou.

“Incredible,” said Zen. He was tempted to tell Alou to open the bomb bay doors and target the PRC

fighters with their AMRAAM-plus Scorpions. But it was no more than a quickly fleeting thought.

“I think we should tell them they’re being assholes,” Zen suggested. “And in the meantime, offer to pass on messages to their comrades. Give them IDs and stuff. We can break the ECMs on launch. If we don’t shoot the idiots down.”

“I concur. You want to talk with the pilot in the water?”

“Sounds good.”

The Chinese pilot’s name was Lieutenant Tzu—or something reasonably close. He gave his unit identification and the plane he’d been flying to Zen to pass on. At the same time, he asked again about his flight leader.

“He’s definitely in the water, and he’s moving around,” Zen told him. “But his raft doesn’t seem to be working.”

The pilot said something that was overtaken by static. Zen thought he was asking if he could drop a life raft. That was impossible, since the EB-52 hadn’t been rigged for rescue missions, and didn’t carry gear that could be dropped out to pilots. The Flighthawks had no gear at all.

“We’re sorry, but we don’t have that kind of gear aboard. We’ll keep an eye on him,” Zen explained.

“Give me the direction,” said the other pilot.

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The two men were now about six miles apart; surely it would take several hours for Lieutenant Tzu to reach his comrade. But the idea was a noble one, and Zen gave the lieutenant the heading, circling around a few times to make sure he understood.

The J-11s, meanwhile, had decided to play nice. They’d turned off their weapons radar and were asking for vectors to their downed airmen. Alou and McNamara used the computer’s translator module to help communicate as they spoke with them; it turned out to be faster to go back and forth in Chinese than to struggle in English. A Harbin Z-5 seaplane was being scrambled and was en route.

Scrambled was a relative term—the aircraft was only now leaving its base, and at top speed—300

knots—would take an hour and a half to arrive. More than likely, it would be more than two.