Black Star

CHAPTER 5 — CATFISH

“Razor One, this is Fat Boy. Bandits airborne off Longyan, thirty miles from the coastline, climbing out of twenty-five thousand.” The voice of the Taiwanese controller in the E-2C cracked as he called out the targets.

“Razor One, roger,” said the F-16 flight leader.

Razor was the collective call sign of the flight of four F-16A’s flying CAP — combat air patrol on the southern edge of the battle area. Their station was midway between the southwest end of Taiwan and the Chinese mainland.

Twenty seconds ticked past. The flight leader was becoming impatient with the controller. He wanted some hard information. “Bogey dope,” he called. How many bandits were out there? What bearing? Where the hell were they going?

“Fat Boy has a single group, heavy, thirty east of Alpha, heading east, climbing. Range 120.”

“Razor,” acknowledged Major Catfish Bass, the flight leader. The bandits were coming his way, still a hundred twenty miles out. “Heavy” meant the controller was seeing multiple contacts within the group. That figured, thought Bass.

He checked his own situational display, trying to project the bandits’ flight path. A hundred twenty miles was still too far out to commit. The trick was to draw them out over water, away from their SA-10 surface-to-air coverage. Into the killing zone.

Bass glanced over each shoulder. Perched on his left wing in a close combat spread was Lt. Wei-ling Ma, his wingman. Abeam his right wing was the second element, led by Capt. Jian Tsin, and his wingman, Lt. Choi Lum.

All young and eager, new to the F-16 Viper. Only Jian had more than a hundred hours in the Viper. None had never seen combat.

Bass was a United States Air Force exchange officer assigned to the Taiwanese air force. An instructor pilot from the F-16 replacement training unit at Luke AFB, outside of Phoenix, he had racked up over fifteen-hundred hours in the Viper, including a combat tour in Southwest Asia. Bass’s job was to provide tactical training to pilots of the Taiwanese air force.

For a second an image floated across Bass’s mind. He could visualize the apoplectic rage his boss— a two-star at Fifth Air Force HQ in Yokota — would have when he learned that Bass was flying combat missions against the PRC. The old man would have a shit fit.

He shoved the image from his mind. Screw it. It would take a team of lawyers a week to decipher his orders. They were written in such typical Air Force mumbo-jumbo that they could be interpreted half a dozen ways. By his own loose interpretation, they did not exactly rule out operational missions. Then again, maybe they did. At the moment, he didn’t want to think about it.

“Fat Boy has the group feet wet, heading east. Range eighty.”Eighty miles, coming this way. By the time they merged, the fight would be well outside the range of the deadly SA-10s.

“Razor. Turning nose hot.”

Razor flight wheeled around and pointed their noses at the threat. Four radars scanning the blue sky ahead. They would soon be in detection range.

Bass saw them in his scope. “Razor One, contact, single group, bearing one-zero-zero for eighty miles, hot.” “Hot” meant that the bandits were heading towards them.

“Fat Boy confirms. Those are your bandits. Razor One is cleared hot.”

“Razor copies. Razor flight, knockers up, tapes on.” It was the signal to his flight to flip their master armament switches from Safe to Arm. Then turn on the HUD video cameras mounted in the cockpit of each Viper.

Bass made another visual check on his flight. Wei was where he was supposed to be — abeam his left wing in combat spread. Jian’s element was still correctly positioned off to the right.

So far, so good. His guys were hanging in there.

Early in his exchange assignment, Bass had run into the caste system of the Taiwanese air force, where tactical proficiency was less valued than political connection. Bass made it his business to identify the young fighter pilots with the greatest potential, regardless of their rank and connection.

These three — Wing-lei, Jian, and Choi — were his handpicked students. For weeks he had drilled them in the complex discipline of four-ship tactics. They were eager and aggressive, almost worshipful in the way they emulated Bass’s jargon and body language.

Bass’s radar was showing a gaggle of at least four, maybe six fighters, clustered together at 25,000 feet. Forty miles and closing.

His left thumb pushed the mike button, “Razor, gate.” The signal for afterburners. The four F-16s accelerated to supersonic speed.

Bass squinted at the horizon. He knew he’d see a firing solution in his multi-function display long before he could visually acquire the Communist fighters, but he wanted a mental picture of how the fight would flow. Judging by their speed and altitude, the bandits were probably Chinese F-7s, home-grown variants of the Russian MiG-21 Fishbed. They were fast but obsolete. They might even be hauling iron bombs to a target on Taiwan. So much the better.

These gomers were toast.

The night before, Bass had stood on the blackened tarmac of the fighter base, his stomach churning, and watched his young pupils launch on the first wave of attacks against the mainland. Much as he wanted to go with them, he knew better. He couldn’t risk having the Chinese capture an American pilot in the act of bombing them. If the Communists didn’t kill him, Major General Buckner would do it for them.The initial attacks had gone well. The F-16-launched HARM missiles had succeeded in shutting down the Chinese coastal air defense sites. Behind the HARM-shooters, the F-16 and Mirage 2000 strikers had smashed their mainland targets — air defense complexes, the fighter bases at Fuzhou and Longxi, the supply depots and the port facilities at Xiamen and Mawei.

In all, sixty-three F-16s and forty-five Mirage 2000s participated in the attack. Two Vipers and three Mirages had not returned. That was an amazingly good ratio, considering the grim pre-strike threat appraisals. They would have suffered a much higher loss rate if China had not been caught flatfooted.

Well, thought Bass, kiss that advantage goodbye. Taiwan’s lean little air force was outnumbered three-to-one. Their best hope was their qualitative advantage. In addition to the new F-16s, the Taiwanese had sixty-some French-built Mirage 2000s, plus a hundred older Northrop F-5s. Overall, they were superior to anything the Chinese could put in the air — with the exception of the Russian-built Su-27 Flankers.

As in every air war, it depended on the guys in the cockpits.

As the dawn approached, Bass had reached a decision. He could no longer keep himself out of the fight. He assigned himself to lead a CAP — combat air patrol — over the strait. At least he wouldn’t be hanging his unauthorized American butt out over the forbidden Chinese mainland. Really, he told himself, it wasn’t much different than a regular training mission over the strait.

Yeah, right. Try running that one by the general.

The voice of the controller in the Hawkeye broke through his thoughts. “Fat Boy has bandits flanking north.”That meant the Fishbeds had taken a thirty degree or so turn to the north. Setting themselves up for the fight. Bass was sure they were getting GCI — ground controlled intercept — commands.

The strait between China and Taiwan had become an electronic shooting gallery. “Razor flight, check right forty.” He would answer the bandits’ flanking maneuver with an offset intercept.

As he brought the nose of his F-16 forty degrees right, he saw each of his other fighters moving with him, adjusting their positions to maintain a line abreast formation. Bass wanted to head off the oncoming Fishbeds, stay in front of them, keep them from getting around his wall of Vipers. At the right moment, he would turn into them, bracket them, kill them with AIM-120 missiles.

With his right thumb, he slid the armament selector to AMRAAM. The AIM-120—called AMRAAM for Advanced Medium Range Air to Air Missile — was the great equalizer. The most modern missile in the U.S. inventory, it was one of the items withheld from the Taiwanese until just a few weeks ago. With a range of over thirty-five miles, the AMRAAM could kill from a greater distance than anything the Chinese possessed. Or so Catfish Bass fervently hoped.

Again he checked his scope. Range twenty-five. Six of them, still in a cluster. No, make that two flights of three, stacked in a vertical split of two thousand feet.

Like fat geese waiting to be killed.

“Razor, bracket,” he ordered, banking his Viper hard to the left. Wei-ling matched the turn, and they rolled out forty-five degrees off their original heading. Jian’s element rolled hard to right, also offsetting by forty-five degrees.Now the flight of Vipers was split, heading ninety degrees apart. The maneuver would put the Vipers on either side of the Fishbeds.

Almost in range. Bass’s plan was to target, shoot, and shoot again. Take out as many as he could before they merged. He had no intention of getting into a turning fight.“Fat Boy shows the bandits maneuvering.”

The Chinese fighters were waking up to the bracket attack. Two Fishbeds were angling toward him. Another pair was turning into Razor Three’s element. The center two were in a steep dive, running for the deck.

Range twenty-two miles.

“Razor One and Two will take the south group,” Bass called. “Razor Three target the north group. Razor Four strip and take the center group diving for the deck. Fat Boy watch for spitters.”

The Fishbeds would be armed with AA-11 Archer missiles, he figured. The Archer was an infra-red guided, heat-seeking missile. It was a vicious close-in weapon, but it also had a head-on range of seven miles. The trick was to shoot before they came into IR range.

Approaching fifteen miles, Bass had two clear targets in the southern group of bandits. Shoot them both. He squeezed the trigger. The missile roared away from his jet like a giant bottle rocket. He could see the fire from its motor as it streaked towards the target.

“Razor One, Fox Three,” he called, signaling the launch of an AMRAAM.

He stepped the target designator over to the second Fishbed and squeezed the trigger again. Another AMRAAM roared off the rail.“Razor Three, Fox Three,” he heard Jian call, announcing his own shot. A second later, Jian called a second missile away. Another target.

“Razor Two, Fox Three,” called Wei. Then he took a second shot.

Six missiles in the air. Shit hot, thought Bass. That should give the gomers something to think about.

“Range ten miles,” called Fat Boy. “Throttles.” A reminder to pull their throttles out of afterburner and minimize hot IR emissions. Deny the enemy heat-seekers a target. Bass squinted into his HUD. In the target designator box he saw the speck of the first Fishbed. As he watched, the speck erupted into a ball of bright yellow-orange fire. It looked like a cherry bomb going off in the distance. Splash one Fishbed. To the left he saw a second speck, morphing into the delta-winged shape of an F-7 Fishbed. It had somehow evaded his second missile.

But not Wei-ling’s. As Bass watched, the Fishbed burst into a yellow-orange fireball.

Splash two.

Both fireballs were plunging toward the sea below. Thank you, God, Bass muttered in his oxygen mask. And thank you, Uncle Sam, for the AMRAAMs.

Bass looked over to his right. How was Jian doing? He was about to key the mike when he saw.

Two more yellow-orange fireballs. Two black smoke trails.

Jian yelled on the radio, “Razor Three killed two rats, northern group!”

Bass grinned in spite of himself. Rats? They’d work on Jian’s radio discipline in the debrief.

Now he was worried about Choi, Razor Four. He was supposed to be targeting the—

“Razor Four, Fox Two,” called Choi, a triumphant ring in his voice. He had just taken a Sidewinder shot. “Trail bandit muzza fugga, middle group.”

Bass winced at the mangled profanity. Muzza fugga?

“Fox Two, lead bandit, splash two muzza fugga rats.” Choi had fired a second Sidewinder.

Bass had to shake his head. Yeah, radio discipline was clearly going to hell, but he might cut them some slack. Instead of shooting his precious AMRAAMs, Choi had closed to Sidewinder range. And killed two muzza fugga Fishbeds.

It was a good time to exit the fight. “Razor flight, reset,” he called. “Bug east.”

Bass reefed the nose of his F-16 around to a heading of 090. A feeling of elation swept over him. He felt like roaring and thumping his chest. Six kills! He and his student fighter pilots had just cut a swath through the PLA air force.

He saw Wei-ling rolling out in position on the right. Somewhere to the north, on the left side, was Jian. Below and behind them was Choi. They would regroup a little bit farther east, closer to the Taiwanese coastline—

What was that?

He glanced again at Wei-ling, a mile off his right wing. Something, a kind of shimmering blur, just behind Wei-ling’s F-16.

And then it vanished.

He was still staring at the F-16 when it exploded.

Wing-lei’s fighter was gone. In its place was a roiling orange fireball.

What the hell happened? Wei-ling had been vaporized. There had been no radar warning, no contacts. The only thing that could have done that was a…

He reacted by instinct — a nine-G break turn toward the tumbling wreckage of Wing-lei’s Viper. Pull! That was where the threat had to be. Rolling away from it would only expose his hot tailpipe.

He rolled inverted and pulled hard for the deck. At the same time he hit the flare dispenser, spewing another trail of IR-decoying flares. He couldn’t see it but he knew it was back there. A missile with his name on it.

His mind was sending urgent subliminal messages. Pull hard. Maximum Gs, throw the missile off your tail. It’s your only chance.

In his gut he knew it wouldn’t work. Whatever had killed Wei-ling already had the drop on him. His only hope was to avoid taking a hit straight up the tailpipe. His F-16 was B004Y1N0G2-0-EBOKalready on the g-limiter. He had no idea where the enemy was, or even what kind of fighter had engaged him. All he could do was pray.

When the explosion came from behind, he knew what happened. He had outturned the missile. Almost. The warhead had missed but came close enough to detonate the proximity fuse.

The airframe had a new vibration to it. It felt like pieces were coming off the tail. He pulled the throttle back, then tried nudging the nose of the F-16 up. The jet responded, coming almost to level flight.

He felt a thunk that rattled the airframe. The F-16 was no longer responding to his inputs with the stick. When the red FIRE light illuminated on his panel, he knew he had run out of options.

Major Catfish Bass muttered a silent prayer and reached for the ejection handle.

Ratta-tatta-tatta-tatta.

Maxwell kept the rhythm going, working the punching bag with both gloves, rotating each fist in a steady tempo. Ratta-tatta-tatta-tatta.

He was in the fitness room, just off the hangar deck on the port side. He’d been at it for ten minutes, working up a sweat, when he became aware of someone standing behind him. In his peripheral vision he saw Bullet Alexander.

“Pretty impressive, Skipper. Didn’t know you were a boxer.”

“Ex-boxer.” He kept working the bag, keeping up the tempo. “Golden gloves, then intercollegiate when I was at Rensselaer.”

“Me, I never liked getting slapped around like that. I liked football because they gave you a face guard. If you wanted to rough somebody up, you just steamrolled him on the scrimmage line.”

Maxwell kept his eyes on the bag, concentrating on the rhythm. He knew Alexander. He hadn’t come down to the fitness room to talk about college sports. “What’s on your mind, Bullet?”

“Oh, just thought you could use some advice.”

“About?”

“Women.”

Maxwell missed a beat with the gloves. “What?”

“Yeah. With all due respect, Brick, it’s obvious that you don’t know jack shit about them.”

Maxwell gave the bag one final whack. He turned to peer at Alexander. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look at you, hammering at that bag like it was Bin Laden’s skull because you’re all torn up over some chick.”

“Did it ever occur to you that there just might be something in this squadron that isn’t any of your business?”

Alexander just smiled. “Actually, no. As your executive officer, I’m supposed to watch out for you. That’s why I’m here.”

“To advise me about women? What the hell makes you an expert on the subject?”

“Experience. Two wives, with a significant number of near-misses in between. I’ve got battle scars to prove it.”

Maxwell looked around the room. They were alone except for a young petty officer working the Nautilus gear. “You’re not going to stop pestering me until you’ve said your piece. Get it over with. What is it about women that I’m missing?”

“Good. Now listen up. The first thing you have to understand about women is that you won’t ever understand them. Period. End of story. Give up. They are weird creatures who don’t behave like men, and we keep making ourselves crazy because we don’t accept that.”

“So, assuming I’m listening to your uninvited counsel, what should I be doing?”

“Quit taking it out on yourself. Or that punching bag. I gather that your girl — what’s her name? Claire? She dumped you, right?”

Maxwell kept his face expressionless. “That’s personal.”

“She sent you a Dear John, right? By e-mail, probably. That’s the way they do it these days.”

“Something like that.”

“That’s life, Boss. My message to you is this. It’s not something you gotta understand, or blame yourself for, or beat up a bag over. It’s like a bad cat shot or a gomer getting lucky with a SAM. Shit happens. You accept it.”

Maxwell knew in his gut that Bullet was making sense, but he could still feel the anger bubbling up in him. The urge was there. He wanted to pound the living shit out of something — the punching bag, a terrorist, an enemy fighter pilot.

Claire Phillips’s husband.

He gave the bag one more vicious haymaker, then turned away from it.

“Okay, counselor, you said your piece. Let’s get back to work. We’ve still got a squadron to run.”

You’ve done it now, Bass. They’re going to hang you by the balls.

The thought played like a dirge in his mind as he descended toward the sea. It occurred to him that he would have been better off dead, blown to pieces like Wing-lei, who never knew what hit him.

In the distance he could see the wakes of vessels running across the surface. His chute had deployed automatically somewhere around ten thousand feet. That meant everyone in a twenty mile radius could see him floating down like a goddamn circus tent. Who were the good guys and who were the bad? They were all dark shapes on a gray sea.

A wave of dread passed over him. The PLA navy had enough boats and ships in the Strait to make a floating bridge to Taiwan. Had they picked up electronic intel reports that two F-16s were down?

Bass had an unwavering fear of the open sea and of drowning, which had been a major factor in choosing the Air Force over the Navy or Marines. Water sucked, and he wanted nothing to do with it. At least he had some hang time before getting his feet wet…

He had gone through an ejection once before. But that was over dry land. He’d been nailed by an SA-3 that popped through an undercast in Iraq. In the confusion that followed — the Iraqis had been as surprised as he that they’d scored a hit — he was snatched out of Indian country by an Air Force helo.

Bass suspected that this occasion would be different. This was not bumbling, incompetent Iraq. China was a global super power with the largest military force in Asia. And he was supposedly a non-combatant who had just destroyed two of their aircraft. Would they try him as a war criminal or a spy?

The nearness of the sea below triggered another wave of fear. He tried to remember the drill after you went into the water. Would the chute release automatically? Didn’t it have some kind of salt water-activated gadgets? Was he supposed to inflate the flotation unit before he hit the water? What about the raft?

He fumbled for the handles of the flotation unit, found them, and gave them a yank. Both lobes of the unit inflated around his waist. Then he remembered the seat kit and life raft. God, yes, the raft! He found the release handle and—

Sploosh! He hadn’t seen the slick, opaque surface of the sea rushing up at him. It felt like hitting concrete. He was deep under the surface, the water ramming into his nose and head cavities like hot lava.

Bass tried to resist the panic that was overcoming him. He couldn’t breathe. Why wasn’t the flotation unit working? He was supposed to float on the surface, not sink like a goddamn boat anchor.

Something was restraining him. He couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t see, couldn’t kick to the surface. Couldn’t breathe. I’m drowning. The realization came from deep inside him like a voice from his darkest dreams. Drowning. It was the worst thing that could happen. It was why he joined the Air Force instead of the fucking Navy—

He popped to the surface.

Air. Blessed air. He coughed, gasped, swallowed a quart of seawater, went into a fit of coughing, gasping for air. Around him was the canopy of the parachute, the shroud lines entangling him like a serpent.

Coughing, choking, trying to suck in a lungful of the blessed air. As he coughed, regurgitating seawater, he became aware of something else.

A noise. A whop-whopping sound, like the blades of—

A helicopter.

Oh, flaming godawful motherfrigging shit. They’re here already. Maybe he should have drowned. Better than being tortured and used by the ChiComs.

He realized that he couldn’t see. Had he been blinded by the impact? Something hurt like hell.

His helmet, his oxygen mask. The impact with the water had snatched his helmet over his forehead. The oxygen mask was up around his eyes, obscuring his vision, clamping around his face like a vice.

He unfastened the fitting, and the mask dropped free. The pain eased around his face and, as in a widening tunnel, his vision began to return.

The whopping noise was coming from directly overhead. He saw someone drop from a sling into the water. Bass tried to decide whether he should resist, make them kill him, or just surrender.

The dark figure in the water was wearing a wet suit. As the man reached for him, Bass threw a punch. Make the bastard take him by force.

The man easily deflected the punch. He seized Bass’s arm. “Just calm down, bubba.” The voice had a deep Texas twang. “We ain’t got time to fight. We have to get your silly ass out of here.”