Empire Rising

15

Five hundred feet beneath the ocean’s surface, Captain Murray Wilson felt the vibration through the submarine’s deck as he leaned over the Navigation Table in Control, examining the ship’s progress toward their new operating area. The main engines were straining, pushing the eighteen-thousand-ton submarine forward at ahead flank speed, through the Luzon Strait into the Philippine Sea. During their transit, Wilson had slowed every twelve hours to proceed to periscope depth to check the broadcast for new messages. No new orders had been received, expounding on their original, ambiguous proceed to designated operating area.

Wilson checked the clock in Control. It was midnight and Section 2 had just relieved the watch. The watchstanders were settling into their routine in the chilly Control Room, and the Fire Control Technician was wearing a green foul weather jacket to keep warm. A few years earlier, his face would have been illuminated by the green combat control display, the hue of his features matching the color of his jacket. Tonight however, a myriad of colors played off his face.

Although Michigan was a Trident submarine, it was a far different ship today than when it was launched over thirty years ago. When the START II treaty went into effect, reducing the allowable number of ballistic missile submarines from eighteen to fourteen, the Navy decided to reconfigure the four oldest Ohio class submarines as special warfare platforms, replacing the Kamehameha and James K. Polk, which were approaching the end of their service life. Even better, in addition to carrying Dry Deck Shelters with SEAL mini-subs inside, Michigan and the other three SSGNs could be configured with seven Tomahawk missiles in twenty-two of the submarine’s twenty-four missile tubes. Only seventeen of the tubes held Tomahawk missiles on this deployment, however. The two Dry Deck Shelters covered four of the twenty-two tubes, with Unmanned Aerial Vehicles in another.

During the conversion from SSBN to SSGN, Michigan and her three sister ships received a slew of other modifications. The combat control consoles were now the most modern in the submarine fleet, as were Michigan’s new Sonar, Electronic Surveillance, and Radio suites. Michigan’s old legacy combat control system — green screens, as the crew called them — had been replaced with the advanced BYG-1 Combat Control System, the dual multicolor screens on each console reflecting off the operator’s face.

Wilson turned his attention to the electronic navigation chart and Petty Officer Second Class Bill Coates, on watch as Quartermaster. The young Electronics Technician was busy analyzing the ship’s two inertial navigators for error.

“How’re we doing, Coates?”

The petty officer looked up. “Good, sir. Both inertial navigators are tracking together.” Coates reviewed the ship’s projected position as Michigan continued its northeast advance. “Will we be staying at ahead flank the entire way, sir?”

Wilson nodded. “That’s the plan, except for excursions to periscope depth. How long until we reach our operating area?”

Coates mentally converted the distance to their destination into time based on the submarine’s ahead flank speed.

“Ten hours, sir.”

The lighting in Control shifted to Gray, catching Wilson’s attention. The watch section was preparing to proceed to periscope depth, and the Officer of the Deck’s eyes would need time to adjust to the darkness above. The Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Kris Herndon — one of three female officers aboard — was standing on the Conn between the two periscopes. She called out an order to the Helm, and Michigan began to slow and swing to starboard, checking its sonar baffles for contacts behind them. A few minutes later, the lighting was extinguished, drowning Control in darkness aside from the glow of red, green, and blue indicators on the submarine’s Ballast Control and Ship Control Panels. Another order from the Officer of the Deck, and Michigan returned to base course.

Lieutenant Herndon stopped next to Captain Wilson. “Sir, the ship is on course zero-two-zero, speed ten knots, depth two hundred feet. Sonar holds three contacts, designated Merchant, all far-range contacts. Request permission to proceed to periscope depth to copy the broadcast and obtain a navigation fix.”

“Proceed to periscope depth.”

The ascent to periscope depth was uneventful, and Michigan was soon tilted downward, returning to the ocean depths. After the lighting returned to Gray, then White, a Radioman entered Control, message clipboard in hand, stopping by Captain Wilson.

“New orders, sir.”

Wilson flipped through the message, reading the pertinent details. Michigan’s Tomahawks were being held in reserve. It looked like her SEAL detachment would get a workout instead.

16

Twilight was creeping across the city beneath a blanket of dark gray clouds as Christine exited the CIA safe house, stepping onto a sparsely populated sidewalk. A cold wind whipped down the narrow street as she moved toward a blue sedan containing a driver and a single passenger in the back. A third man held the rear door of the car open, and Christine slid into the sedan. Although she had never seen the driver before, she instantly recognized the man seated next to her.

Peng Yaoting had grabbed her from behind in the courtyard three days ago, leading her to the rear entrance of the CIA safe house. Peng explained he’d been notified of her impending arrival, intervening just in time. Once safely inside the CIA town house, Christine had offered Peng the flash drive, but the data couldn’t be extracted — it was a secure flash drive, which required a password. More sophisticated equipment would be required to extract the data. That, of course, was why she was on her way to the port city of Tianjin with the flash drive in her pants. Her assignment as the courier pigeon would kill two birds with one stone.

Peng nodded to the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror and the car eased into traffic. Peng said nothing during the short trip to the Beijing South Railway Station. Christine knew the basic plan: a high speed bullet train to Tianjin, where she’d be picked up at the station and taken to the port, where an awaiting SEAL team would take her to a submarine loitering off the coast. They hadn’t explained how she would get from the port to the submarine, but the fact they had encased her flash drive in a waterproof pouch told Christine the transit from Beijing to the submarine wasn’t as straightforward as they made it seem. Especially in light of the checkpoints that had been set up to capture her if she attempted to escape Beijing.

Every transit system was being monitored. Cars were being stopped along every road leading out of the city, and passengers were being examined at the airport and rail stations prior to boarding. Fortunately, there were no road checkpoints between the safe house and the rail station, but exactly how she was supposed to board the train without being detected was still unclear. Her disguise was not particularly effective.

Christine’s hair had been dyed a lustrous black and makeup applied to add color to her skin. And although she wore a black scarf framing her face, one direct look into her blue eyes would give it all away. A pair of dark sunglasses offered superficial protection, and Peng had assured her a Caucasian woman wouldn’t be an unusual sight at the rail station. Despite China’s invasion of Taiwan, citizens and tourists had continued their daily business and sight-seeing, safe from the carnage offshore.

As the car turned left onto Kai Yang Lu Street, Christine examined the Beijing South Railway Station in the distance — an oval-shaped structure of steel and glass, larger than most international airports. It was the second largest railway station in Asia, covering the equivalent of twenty football fields. Peng had briefly described the five-story facility — three levels underground and two above — explaining it was the best exit point from Beijing due to the sheer number of patrons; over thirty thousand passengers boarded trains every hour from twenty-four platforms, with a waiting area capable of holding ten thousand. If there was ever a place she could get lost in a crowd, it was the Beijing South Railway Station.

Christine had been dressed not only to blend into the crowd, but prepared to make a run for it if things didn’t go as planned. Instead of high heels, fashionable black sneakers were paired with black slacks and a tan sweater. She carried no purse — a matching black fanny pack strapped to her waist contained her makeup and a fake passport. Inside the waistband of her slacks was sewn the flash drive she’d been given at the Great Hall of the People.

It was only a four-kilometer ride to the rail station, and ten minutes after departing the safe house, Christine’s sedan pulled to a stop. Peng turned to Christine. “We won’t have many opportunities to talk clearly from here on, so before we begin, do you have any more questions?”

Christine shook her head. Without another word, Peng stepped from the sedan and rounded the rear of the car, opening her door.

Peng escorted Christine into the rail station, his arm interlocked with hers, passing through sliding glass doors that opened as they approached. Pausing momentarily near the entrance, Peng’s eyes swept across the terminal. Directly ahead, above a bank of twelve ticket counters, an electronic status board listed in red letters the trains departing, along with the departure time and platform in green. The railway station curved away from them in both directions, with additional ticket counters spaced at twenty-yard intervals. Queuing in front of the ticket counters and hurrying along the concourse were thousands of people, all too busy to notice the arrival of two more people headed out of the city.

Christine was relieved she wasn’t the only Caucasian woman in the station. At least one in thirty persons was white; young men and women with backpacks slung over their shoulders, typically traveling in pairs, with older folks congregating in large numbers — tour groups, apparently. It seemed it was mostly business as usual in the station, with fair-skinned passengers in line at ticket booths, walking through the concourse, or passing through ticket gates on their way to the train platforms. The only indication something was afoot was the blue-clad police officers at every gate entrance, scrutinizing each passenger as they swiped their ticket to gain access to the train platforms.

Peng began moving again, pulling Christine gently along with his arm. Rather than procure a ticket at one of the manned booths, Peng approached an automated ticket machine. A swipe of an ID card followed by a credit card produced two powder-blue tickets from a slot in the machine. After returning his wallet to his pants, Peng examined the lines at the nearest entrance gate. He guided Christine to the third line from the right, falling in behind an older Chinese couple.

Christine and Peng worked their way toward the gate, where passengers swiped their ticket past an electronic scanner. Each woman passing through was examined by a police officer, whose gaze alternated between the woman’s face and a sheet of paper in his hand; a picture of Christine, no doubt. Peng hadn’t explained how they would make it past the officer, and as they drew closer to the gate, Christine’s apprehension began to mount — the police officers were making anyone wearing sunglasses remove them so they could get a clear look at their face.

The Chinese couple in front of Christine passed through the gate and Peng handed one ticket to Christine, swiping the other as he stepped through. Stopping close to the police officer, Peng spoke in a low voice, his words unintelligible.

The police officer nodded thoughtfully, then Peng turned to Christine. “This way, Cathy.”

It took a moment for Christine to realize he was talking to her. Or rather Cathy Terrill, the name on her fake passport. Christine swiped her ticket past the scanner, which blinked green in response, then stepped through the gate. But as she exited, the police officer held his arm out, stopping her.

“Ticket please. And remove your glasses,” he said in English.

Christine paused, paralyzed for a second, wondering if something had gone wrong. She had assumed Peng selected this gate because the officer had been bribed or otherwise persuaded to let her pass through. But now he was insisting she remove her glasses. Not only would the officer get a clear view of her face, but so would the surveillance camera at the gate. Christine glanced in Peng’s direction for guidance, but the officer shifted his position, placing his body between them.

“Remove your glasses,” he repeated as he stood firmly in her way. Christine hastily considering her options, which weren’t many — comply or flee into the crowd. But fleeing into the crowd would attract attention, ruining the plan to slip out of the city undetected. She had no choice. Reaching up with one hand, she slowly removed her glasses, handing her ticket to the officer with the other.

Attempting to look disinterested, concealing the panic rising inside, Christine glanced at the paper in the officer’s hand as he examined her ticket. There were four pictures on the sheet, one in each quadrant. They were all of her, each one with a different hair color. Blond, brunette, red, and the final one was black, the same hue as her current dye. The last image was like looking into a mirror.

The officer’s eyes went from her ticket to the paper in his hand, studying it for a moment before raising his eyes to her face. He stared at her for a moment, then reached toward her.

“Thank you,” he said as he returned her ticket. “Your train boards at platform twenty-one, which is down the escalator to the left.” His gaze shifted to the next passenger as Christine slid her sunglasses back on.

The officer stepped aside and Christine joined Peng, letting out a slow breath. Peng slipped his arm through hers again as he whispered in her ear. “He had to make you take off your sunglasses. Otherwise it’d be obvious he was letting you pass without examination. But he placed himself between you and the surveillance camera while your glasses were off.”

“You should have told me ahead of time. I damn near had a heart attack.”

Peng patted her arm. “I’m afraid things might get hairier than that before we’re through.”

Christine followed Peng down the nearest escalator, arriving at their platform. They stood amongst a throng of people and it wasn’t long before a sleek white bullet train arrived, its sloping nose squealing to a halt just past them. A few minutes later, after passengers debarked from the other side of the train, the doors facing Christine slid open. She followed Peng toward the nearest door, then turned left down the center aisle. The railcar sported two blue upholstered seats on each side, and Peng selected the first pair of open seats, letting Christine slide into the window seat while he settled into the other. Christine kept her face turned away, gazing out the window as the last of the train’s previous occupants disappeared up the escalators to the concourse or down to the parking levels below.

After an announcement in Chinese, a second one followed in English, explaining the train was the Beijing — Tianjin Intercity Express; anyone not desiring to proceed to Tianjin should disembark. The doors closed a moment later and the train eased out of the railway station, accelerating toward the outskirts of Beijing.

17

Xiang Chenglei sat behind his desk in the Great Hall of the People, staring at his rival seated across from him. Huan Zhixin, chairman of the Central Military Commission — de facto leader of the People’s Liberation Army and twenty years younger, wore a smug smile befitting his arrogance. He had deliberately withheld information concerning Christine O’Connor’s whereabouts, revealing that fact only seconds earlier.

“You’ve known all along where she is?” Xiang asked.

“Yes and no,” Huan answered. “We know she’s been at a CIA safe house here in Beijing. However, our informant has refused to disclose its location. What we do know is that O’Connor has now left the safe house.”

“Where is she headed?”

“Our informant doesn’t know the final destination, nor the route she’s taking — only that she’s headed to the coast for a rendezvous with American special forces.”

“Why have you not told me earlier she was at a safe house here in Beijing?” Xiang asked.

“I had higher priorities than running down your wayward American.”

“Her escape from the Great Hall is an embarrassment.”

“Yes, it is.” Huan offered another smug smile.

There was a strained silence as Xiang contained his anger, focusing his thoughts on managing the delicate relationship with the head of the People’s Liberation Army. Huan coveted Xiang’s position as general secretary and paramount ruler of China, waiting impatiently for him to retire. In the meantime, it was not beneath Huan to undermine his credibility, even in subtle ways like this.

It was Huan who broke the silence. “You need not worry, Chenglei. O’Connor will be apprehended. Now that she’s headed to the coast, we will find her. There are only so many ways to make the transit.”

Huan pushed himself to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have important matters to attend to. Lead elements of the American Navy will be within strike distance by tomorrow morning.”

A few minutes later, Huan entered his office on the perimeter of the South Wing of the Great Hall. As chairman of the Central Military Commission, his main office was in the nearby Ministry of National Defense compound, but Huan had arranged for an additional office — with a view — in the Great Hall of the People.

He settled into the black leather chair behind his desk, contemplating the upcoming briefing by the four PLA branch heads. Everything was proceeding as planned. Not only was the PLA offensive progressing smoothly, but Huan’s scheme to use the PLA offensive as a springboard to supreme leader of China was working brilliantly.

The first element of that plan — the elimination of Prime Minister Bai Tao — had been executed flawlessly. Bai Tao’s resistance to using military force was the main obstacle to the PLA offensive, and Huan had arranged for the removal of that obstacle. Bai’s death also opened a coveted spot on the nine-member Politburo Standing Committee.

Huan fumed as he recalled the events of a decade before. His uncle Shen’s vote would decide whether Xiang or his rival would become China’s new ruler, and Shen had proposed a deal. In return for Shen’s support, one of the three positions normally held by China’s paramount ruler would go to Huan, a rising star in the Party. It was not without precedent. Two previous men — Deng Xiaoping and Hua Guofeng — had ruled China while holding only one of the three positions. Xiang had capitulated to Shen’s request.

However, Xiang had outmaneuvered them both. It was a given that the chairman of the Central Military Commission would be a member of the Politburo, but in a stunning move, Xiang had blocked Huan’s election. Without membership in the Politburo, there was no way Huan could be elected general secretary. Xiang had seen through their ultimate plan and had cut Huan off at the knees. But that would soon be rectified.

The PLA offensive was the perfect vehicle for Huan’s ambition. Once the vaunted American Pacific Fleet was defeated, Huan’s prestige would increase tenfold, and not even Xiang could block his election to the Politburo.

Huan smiled. Xiang was a fool, blind to the political implications of defeating the United States. Once Huan was elected to the Politburo, Xiang’s days were numbered.

18

From the seat pocket in front of her, Christine pulled out a brochure containing information written in both Chinese and English. She and Peng were riding in a China Railways CRH3 electric-powered train, reaching a top speed of 350 kilometers per hour during the thirty-three-minute transit to central Tianjin, with select trains continuing on to the Tianjin port district of Tanggu. As the train picked up speed, it wasn’t long before they were sweeping past factories and highways, the buildings and roads a blur.

Civilization soon gave way to the country as the train sped southeast toward the coast. Peng had purchased two second-class tickets, the lowest of three fares. Even so, smiling attendants in black and purple uniforms worked their way down the aisle, handing bottled water to passengers. Peng took both bottles without a word, offering one to Christine as the attendants stepped into the adjacent railroad car, passing through sliding glass doors. Christine took a sip, then slid the bottle into the seat pocket along with the brochure.

Eight minutes into their journey, they made the first of three stops along the way. The next twenty-two minutes passed uneventfully, the express train traversing almost the entire route on viaducts above the cities and countryside, the viaducts giving way to standard ground rail as they approached Tianjin. It was dark by the time the train slowed to a halt at the Tianjin Railroad Station. Peng put his hand on Christine’s arm as most of passengers filed out of the railcar, explaining their destination was one stop farther, Tanggu.

The last of the exiting passengers stepped off the car, but the doors remained open. Peng’s grip on Christine’s arm tightened and she looked up, following Peng’s eyes. In the adjacent car, two armed soldiers were examining the remaining passengers, each soldier periodically referring to a sheet of paper in their hands. Peng stood, pulling Christine with him down the aisle, stepping off the train just as the door slid shut behind them. Fifty feet in each direction, additional pairs of PLA soldiers had stopped several passengers, comparing their images to those on the sheet in their hand. Luckily, an escalator was directly across from their railcar exit and Peng led Christine onto the descending stairs.

Peng turned to Christine as the escalator moved downward. “They’ve started checking the trains to Tanggu. We’ll have to get there another way.”

As Christine navigated the busy Tianjin Railway Station with Peng at her side, she could sense Peng’s tension mounting. Although there had been no PLA soldiers in the Beijing South Railway Station, they were posted sporadically throughout the Tianjin station. Peng kept his distance from the soldiers as he navigated the railway station, and he soon found what he was looking for, turning right and passing beneath a sign marking the entrance to the Binhai Mass Transit system, one of the few signs in both Chinese and English. After proceeding down another escalator, Christine realized they had switched from aboveground rail transportation to the subway.

Another stop at an automated ticket machine procured the necessary tickets to board the Line 9 train, and Christine followed Peng through the turnstiles to the loading platform. The subway was cramped, allowing Peng and Christine to meld into the throng of people. While they waited, Peng made a short phone call with his cell phone. The train arrived a few minutes later, and the mass of bodies moved almost as one into the white and red cars.

Peng grabbed one of the center poles in the subway car as the doors closed behind him, swinging around and stopping Christine in front of him, keeping her faced away from the platform. After a quick glance at the subway car’s other occupants, Christine’s grip on the pole tightened; there were far fewer Caucasians on the subway compared to the Intercity Express railway, the odds of her standing out much greater. That fact was not lost on Peng. With one hand high on the pole and another gripping an overhead strap hanging from the ceiling, he did his best to shield Christine’s face from others inside the car. None of the other passengers paid any attention to Peng or Christine, however.

The subway train resumed its journey with a lurch, stopping every few minutes at additional stations. Staring over Peng’s shoulder at the reflection in the window, Christine tried to determine whether PLA soldiers or police officers were stationed at the platforms at each stop. There were none she could see, and she sensed Peng relaxing as they worked their way down the Line 9 stops without any sign of passengers being scrutinized as they got off. At each stop, more passengers got off than on, the throng of people thinning until there were fewer than a dozen passengers remaining, most of them sitting on the hard plastic seats lining the sides of the subway car.

The train ground to a halt at the Donghai Road station, the twenty-fifth and last stop along Line 9, and the doors whisked open. Peng waited until the car emptied, then took Christine by the hand, following closely behind two couples engaged in conversation. There were no soldiers or police officers on the platform, only a few passengers awaiting the train’s arrival. After a short ride up an escalator, Peng and Christine emerged into the open night air, the subway exit illuminated by harsh white lights.

The subway emptied into a parking lot abutting a two-lane road leading away from the station. The two couples in front of Christine continued toward one of the cars, while Peng and Christine turned right toward a passenger drop-off and pick-up area. From the corner of her eye as they made the turn, Christine noticed someone following about a hundred feet behind them. She squeezed Peng’s hand.

“I know,” Peng said. “He was on the platform waiting for the train.”

Christine stared ahead as they walked, fighting the urge to turn and get a better look at the man following them. Her brief glimpse had captured few details — a Chinese man of medium height and build wearing a black leather jacket over blue jeans.

Peng quickened his pace, which Christine matched, and during a subsequent turn to the right, Christine noticed the man was the same distance behind them, matching their pace exactly. As they headed down the final stretch of sidewalk, a black sedan turned the far left corner of the parking lot, speeding toward the pick-up area.

Peng spoke firmly. “When I say, run to the car. Understand?”

Christine nodded, then glanced behind her again. The man was speaking into the sleeve of his jacket. When he spotted the approaching sedan, he began sprinting toward them, pulling a pistol from inside his jacket.

“Run!” Peng shouted as he spun around, pulling his pistol from inside his jacket.

Christine broke into a sprint as the black sedan squealed to a halt at the pick-up area. Two shots echoed in the darkness and Christine felt a sting in her right arm. Her upper body twisted to the left and she lost her balance, tripping and falling onto the pavement. She hit the sidewalk hard, rolling to a stop a few feet later. Peng was suddenly there, dragging her to her feet as a second black car turned the corner of the parking lot. Its blue-tinted headlights switched to high beam as the car bore down on them. Christine resumed her sprint toward the waiting sedan, glancing briefly behind her. The man who had been following them was sprawled facedown on the sidewalk.

Peng reached the car first, opening the rear door. Christine dove inside and Peng jumped in after her, the tires squealing as the sedan sped away with the door still open. The door slammed shut as the sedan took a hard right, followed by an immediate left.

Christine buckled her seat belt as the car took another hard right, turning onto a highway entrance ramp. Her body pressed against the car door as they sped up the curving ramp. The car’s trajectory straightened and she sank into her seat as the sedan accelerated. Over the driver’s shoulder, she noticed the speedometer passing two hundred kilometers per hour and climbing.

They were speeding along a three-lane expressway suspended above the water, a causeway connected to a shoreline glowing in the distance. Atop the concrete barriers on both sides of the expressway, lamp poles bathed the causeway in yellow light, reflecting off the water’s black surface. Behind them, a car’s blue-tinted headlights were soon joined by an identical pair.

The headlights disappeared frequently as Christine’s car weaved in and out of traffic, but it didn’t take long to realize the blue lights were gaining on them. Peng spoke to the driver in Chinese, his words short and strained, then turned to Christine, his eyes dropping to her arm. It wasn’t until then that she remembered the sting that had caused her to trip and fall. Following Peng’s eyes, she noticed the right sleeve of her tan sweater was stained dark red.

There was a hole in the sweater and Peng ripped a tear into the sleeve to get a better look. Blood was oozing from a bullet hole in her arm. Peng glanced around the back of the sedan and surveyed her clothing, searching for something he could use as a tourniquet. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything he could use or tear into a suitable bandage.

“We’ll take care of it once we reach the transfer point.” He continued talking in Chinese to no one in particular. With two cars in pursuit only seconds behind, Christine wondered how they would make a successful transfer, whatever that entailed.

“Where are we headed?” she asked.

Peng turned and pointed toward a bright group of lights on the approaching shoreline. “Kiev.”

His answer confused her. Kiev was the capital of Ukraine. Yet he had pointed to the coast not far away. Straining her eyes, she noticed an object illuminated under the bright lights. Slowly, the silhouette of a ship formed.

An aircraft carrier!

An aircraft carrier was tied up along China’s coast. She was about to ask Peng to explain when their car sped beneath a green traffic sign. Beneath the Chinese symbols, the English translation announced the exit for the Binhai Aircraft Carrier Theme Park, and the answer became clear.

The aircraft carrier looming in the distance was the Kiev. After the fall of the Soviet Union, China had purchased the Kiev and her sister ship Minsk, both carriers rusting alongside their piers. CIA analysts initially thought the Kiev and Minsk would be refurbished and enter service in the PLA Navy, but the two carriers were instead turned into tourist attractions. In the distance, Christine could see jet fighters on the deck of the carrier, static displays instead of functioning aircraft.

There was a loud pop and a bullet hole appeared in the back windshield, a dozen cracks spidering outward from the small hole. Two more holes appeared and a second later the windshield shattered into a thousand pieces, the glass ricocheting inside the back of the sedan. Peng pushed Christine’s head down and yelled, “Stay down.” He turned and aimed out the back window, firing off three quick rounds.

Christine clamped her left hand over the bullet hole in her right arm, listening to the terse conversation between Peng and the driver between shots. The left window shattered beside her. The cars behind were gaining on them. Christine looked up as they passed beneath a sign announcing the fare for the expressway. Peering over the driver’s shoulder, she spotted an eight-lane toll plaza spanning the expressway. They were traveling at 220 kilometers per hour, barreling toward toll lanes barely three meters wide, separated by concrete barriers painted with yellow and black stripes.

They weren’t slowing down. Christine dropped her head as Peng swung his arm over her, shooting out the side window now instead of the back. Her eyes met Peng’s for a split second as he ducked down, dropped an empty magazine from his pistol, and inserted another. He chambered a round and sat back up as he yelled to the driver.

Christine jerked forward against her seat belt as the driver hit the brakes, followed a second later by a jarring veer to the left. There was a loud crunch accompanied by a metallic screech, and Peng ducked down again, holding his hand up and firing out the side window into the car that was crunched up against theirs. Christine saw the tollbooth flash past them as their car passed through, creating a shower of orange sparks as the side of their car scraped the concrete barrier. At the same time, an explosion rocked their sedan, illuminating the night sky a reddish orange hue.

Christine peered out the back window as a fireball billowed upward from the toll booth, and chunks of metal and concrete bounced down the expressway after them. The other car had impaled itself on one of the concrete barriers between the toll lanes. Christine breathed a sigh of relief, cut short as the second car emerged from beneath the fireball, rocketing through one of the toll lanes.

Peng pushed Christine’s head back down and resumed firing through the back window as incoming bullets pinged off their car’s metal frame and thudded into upholstery. Christine felt the car begin to slow and she looked up, wondering if they were approaching the exit to the Binhai Aircraft Carrier Theme Park. She noticed a hole through the headrest of the seat in front of her. Their driver was slumped over the steering wheel, blood oozing from the back of his head.

In less than a second, several things went through Christine’s mind. The first was that they were still traveling over two hundred kilometers per hour. The second was the gradual drift of the car across the three-lane highway toward the right side of the road. The third was the realization that either she or Peng would have to jump into the front of the speeding sedan and take control of the car.

Christine turned to Peng as he continued firing out the back window. “The driver’s been shot!”

Peng fired off another round at the car behind them, which was gaining steadily.

“What?” he yelled as he turned his head toward Christine.

But before she could reply, her face was splattered with warm blood. Peng’s head jerked forward and blood started pouring out the left side of his head. It seemed as if time slowed down for the next few seconds; Peng’s face went slack and his eyes turned vacant, then he slumped forward into her lap, blood pulsing from his head onto her slacks.

It was suddenly clear which one of them would have to jump into the front seat. But just when she thought the situation couldn’t get worse, the driver slid off the steering wheel, pulling it clockwise as he fell toward the center of the vehicle. The car careened sharply to the right, directly toward the concrete barrier along the side of the road.

Her car would impact the barrier in only a few seconds, insufficient time for her to climb into the front seat, or even undo her seat belt and reach forward to grab the steering wheel. She barely had time to brace for impact.

Christine jolted forward as the car crashed into the concrete barrier. The sharp sound of cracking concrete and crumpling metal filled her ears, ending a second later; it turned peacefully quiet and it felt as if she were floating in air. The front of the sedan tilted downward, then plunged into the dark lagoon surrounding the aircraft carrier Kiev, moored a hundred yards on her left.

The car sank into the lagoon, tilted down at a thirty-degree angle. Cold black water began pouring into the car through the broken side and back windows. Christine took one last breath as her head sank beneath the water’s surface.

Looking around through murky water with her hair suspended beside her face, she could barely see as she sank toward the bottom of the lagoon. But she didn’t need to see; she could feel her way out of the sedan and swim to the surface. She fumbled for the seat belt release, finally locating it. But it wouldn’t unlatch, no matter how hard she pressed it. Guessing it was the weight of her body due to the downward slant of the car, she pushed against the front seat with her legs, sliding her body back into the seat, easing the strain on her seat belt. She pressed again firmly, but the latch still wouldn’t release.

Christine’s desperation mounted. She couldn’t hold her breath for much longer. She gave one final shove with her legs, pressing her body back against her seat, then pressed down on the seat belt release with all her strength. But it still didn’t unlatch.

As she looked up toward the blue-tinted light shimmering on the water’s surface, she became light-headed. The loss of blood and the sudden exertion, combined with the depleting oxygen in her lungs, had taken its toll. As her thoughts faded into darkness, she saw a bright flash of metal and felt strong hands slipping under her shoulders.

19

Night was retreating across the Pacific as Captain Alex Harrow stood on the Bridge of his aircraft carrier, supervising preparations for flight operations. Pointed into the brisk thirty-knot wind, USS Nimitz surged west into the darkness, plowing through ten-foot waves. Fifty feet below, a myriad of colored lights illuminated the Flight Deck, as the last of the first four F/A-18 Hornet fighter jets, its engine exhausts glowing red, eased toward its catapult. Along the sides of the carrier, additional Hornets were being raised to the Flight Deck from the Hangar below. As the twenty aircraft in Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle prepared for launch, Harrow knew that twenty miles to the north, George Washington’s air wing was doing the same.

Lieutenant Leland Gwenn pushed forward on the throttles, easing his single-seat F/A-18C toward the carrier’s bow. In the darkness, he watched the Director’s yellow flashlights guide him toward the next stage of preparation for launch — the Director lifted his hands over his head, then pointed toward the Shooter.

The Shooter, also wielding yellow flashlights, continued guiding Leland forward, finally raising his right arm, flexed at the elbow, dropping it suddenly. Leland responded by dropping the Hornet’s Launch Bar, which rolled into the CAT Two shuttle hook as the aircraft lurched to a halt. The Launch Petty Officer disappeared under Leland’s jet, verifying the Launch Bar was properly engaged, and a moment later the Shooter raised both hands in the air. Leland matched the Shooter’s motion, raising both hands to within view inside the cockpit, giving the Shooter assurance Leland’s hands were off all controls. The Shooter pointed his flashlight to a red-shirted Ordie — an Aviation Ordnanceman — who took his cue and stepped beneath the Hornet, arming each bomb and missile.

As Lieutenant Leland Gwenn — call sign Vandal — waited for the Ordie to complete his task, he thought about that fateful day, eleven years ago. He was only seventeen, having just pled guilty to managing a ring of teenage car thieves. Standing before Judge Alice Loweecey, he was more jubilant than remorseful; his lawyer had informed him a deal had been struck that would allow him to avoid jail time.

Judge Loweecey had studied the documents before her in silence before lifting her eyes to the heavily tattooed teenager standing before her. Pushing her wire-rimmed glasses high onto the bridge of her nose, she cleared her throat and announced the decision that changed Leland’s life. It was either three years in jail or three years in the Navy.

Fortunately, the Navy was exactly what he needed, levying a heavy dose of discipline and responsibility onto his young shoulders. He matured rapidly, eventually regretting his youthful indiscretions. After receiving his high school GED and impressing his Navy superiors, he enrolled in the University of Maryland as a Midshipman, with guaranteed acceptance into the Navy’s flight school in Pensacola following graduation. He received his commission as an officer in the United States Navy, and eighteen months later earned his wings, also earning the well-deserved call sign of Vandal.

A loud roar to Vandal’s right caught his attention as his wingman — Lieutenant Liz Michalski — in the F/A-18C on the starboard bow catapult streaked forward, her engines glowing white-hot as CAT One fired. Michalski’s jet disappeared below the carrier’s bow, reappearing a second later as it climbed in altitude, the glowing twin-engine exhaust growing smaller as it ascended. She would wait in a holding pattern for Vandal and the rest of Air Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle.

A signal from the Shooter told Vandal his weapons were armed and it was time to go to full power. Vandal pushed the throttles forward until they hit the détente, spooling his twin General Electric turbofan engines up to full Military Power. As he confirmed the engines were at one hundred percent RPM and fuel flow, he knew that beneath the Flight Deck, steam was being ported behind CAT Two’s massive piston, putting the catapult in tension. He then exercised each of the Hornet’s control surfaces, moving the control stick to all four corners as he alternately pressed both rudder pedals. Black-and-white-shirted Troubleshooters verified the Hornet’s control surfaces were functioning properly and there were no oil or fuel leaks. Both men gave a thumbs-up and the Shooter turned toward Vandal, relaying the results of the inspection.

Satisfied his Hornet was functioning properly, Vandal returned the thumbs-up and the Shooter lifted his arm skyward, then back down to a horizontal position, directing Vandal to kick in the afterburners. Vandal’s Hornet was unusually heavy tonight, with twin fuel tanks — one on each wing — and ordnance attached to every other pylon; tonight’s takeoff required extra thrust. Vandal pushed the throttles past the détente to engage the afterburners, then turned toward the Shooter and saluted, the glow from his cockpit instruments illuminating his hand as it went to his helmet.

The Shooter returned the salute, then bent down and touched the Flight Deck, giving the signal to the operator in the Catapult Control Station. Vandal pushed his head firmly against the headrest of his seat and took his hands off the controls, and a second later CAT Two fired with the usual spine-jarring jolt. He felt his stomach lifting into his chest as the Hornet dropped when it left the carrier’s deck. Vandal took control of his Hornet, accelerating upward.

As the seat pressed into him during the ascent, Vandal scanned the instruments in his cockpit. Michalski was in a holding pattern at twelve thousand feet. With a nudge of his control stick to the right, Vandal adjusted the trajectory of his climb, angling toward his wingman. A few moments later, he pulled up next to Liz Michalski, call sign Phoenix, who was stationed behind an F/A-18E configured as a tanker, topping off her fuel tanks. All the fighters in Air Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle were heavy, consuming over one thousand pounds of fuel during their launch and climb to twelve thousand feet, and would top off their tanks before heading west. Vandal settled in fifteen feet away on Phoenix’s nine o’clock position, waiting his turn behind the tanker while USS Nimitz completed launching its first cycle.

20

Inside the East Sea Fleet command center, with six rows of consoles stretching into the distance, the lights were dim, imparting a feeling of twilight throughout the facility. The blue glow from the consoles illuminated the faces of the men and women manning them, while multicolored symbols appeared on flat screen displays crowding the walls, the blinking icons superimposed on electronic maps of the Western Pacific. At the back of the command center, Fleet Admiral Tsou Deshi studied the displays, monitoring the progress of their assault on Taipei. The first phase of the naval battle had gone exactly as planned, eliminating the American submarines stationed along the Chinese coast. However, as America prepared to engage with their powerful aircraft carriers, the success of the next phase hinged on the performance of the PLA Air Force.

The People’s Liberation Army Air Force was the third largest in the world, second only to the United States and Russia, fielding over 1,600 aircraft, with just over a thousand being fourth-generation jets. The PLA had overwhelmed the much smaller ROC Air Force and destroyed their land-based air defenses, gaining complete control of the skies. But now, as Admiral Tsou studied the three waves of blue symbols marching toward Chinese Taipei, he knew the true battle for air dominance was about to begin.

However, that battle would not be waged by PLA aircraft. Even though most were fourth-generation aircraft, they were still inferior to American fighter jets. That task fell to advanced surface-to-air missiles China had spent the last decade developing. It would be missile against aircraft.

Although the air battle was being directed by the Nanjing Military Air Command, Tsou monitored the progress of the engagement from the East Sea Fleet command center. This was their Achilles’ heel — in the end, it would all come down to whether the United States could gain control of the ocean and skies and cut off the flow of food and ammunition.

Admiral Tsou watched as a wave of red symbols appeared along the Chinese coast, marching east toward the blue icons. He stood tensely at the rear of the command center as he waited.

21

In the cabin of the northernmost E-2C Hawkeye, operating above the Pacific Ocean at 25,000 feet, Lieutenant Commander Julie Austin peered over the shoulders of the two Lieutenants in the Combat Information Center, examining the displays on their consoles. Affixed to the top of the Hawkeye — call sign Scarlet One — the aircraft’s twenty-four-foot-diameter circular antenna, a sophisticated radar capable of tracking more than two thousand targets, rotated slowly, searching the skies for enemy aircraft and missiles.

The two Lieutenants — the Radar Officer and the Air Control Officer — were tracking two sets of opposing contacts. The first set consisted of the aircraft from Nimitz and George Washington, headed west, along with a stream of aircraft from the northeast. The U.S. Air Force’s largest combat wing, based at Kadena Air Base on Okinawa, was getting in on the action. F-15C/D Eagles and F-15E Strike Eagles were heading toward Taiwan.

Austin was concerned about the second set of contacts. Over three hundred bogies were inbound from the Chinese coast and had split into a large V, one prong headed toward the Air Force fighters and the other prong speeding toward the carrier aircraft. To the south of Scarlet One, three more Hawkeyes divided up the inbound contacts, relaying the bogies to their fighters.

Austin studied the display, attempting to determine whether the bogies were inbound aircraft or missiles. Finally, the Hawkeye detected electromagnetic signatures that corresponded to the Chinese Hongqi surface-to-air missile. Nimitz’s and George Washington’s first cycle of aircraft, along with Kadena’s 18th Wing, had their work cut out for them.

As the red symbols marched over the outline of Taiwan on the electronic display, they were joined by another wave of twenty missiles originating from the east coast of the island. China had apparently transported surface-to-air missile batteries across the Strait to Taiwan, increasing the range of their missiles by two hundred miles. Until this moment, Austin had been comfortable with their station above the Pacific Ocean, well out of range of missiles fired from the Chinese mainland.

Lieutenant Commander Austin scanned the new wave of missiles, which were leading the barrage from the mainland by sixty miles. The inbound fighters from Nimitz and George Washington had dropped down to ten thousand feet, matched in altitude by the main mass of missiles. But the new wave of missiles from Taiwan remained at fifteen thousand feet. Austin wondered if the missiles were a new variant, designed to drop in altitude at the last minute. Sure enough, as the missiles approached the fighters, the altitude on the Combat Information Console display began changing. But the missiles were climbing, not dropping. It took a moment for Austin to realize the missiles weren’t headed toward their fighters. It took another second to realize where they were headed instead.

Austin slammed down on the ICS intercom button, activating the speaker in the cockpit. “Incoming missiles, bearing two-seven-three!”

Fifty miles ahead of Scarlet One, Vandal monitored the missiles being relayed from the Hawkeyes behind them. The eighteen Hornets and Super Hornets in Nimitz’s first cycle were divided into nine two-fighter packages, with each package assigned a different ground-support mission once they reached Taiwan. At this point in their approach to the island, the eighteen fighters were strung out side by side at half-mile intervals, with Vandal, designated Viper Two, on the far left, and his wingman, Phoenix, in Viper One on his right. Two EA-18G Growlers — one on each side of the fighter formation — accompanied the strike force toward their targets, jamming incoming missiles and aircraft radars.

The first wave of missiles curiously passed overhead, and a moment later, the trailing missiles disappeared from his display, no longer relayed from the Hawkeyes behind him. Vandal shifted to his organic sensors, and the missiles reappeared. Most of the missiles were represented by a red 6, which corresponded to the Chinese Hongqi surface-to-air missile. Interspersed within the mass of Hongqi missiles were sixteen bogies with an unknown designation. These bogies weren’t radar-guided or his Radar Warning Receiver would have classified them based on their electromagnetic signature. They were most likely heat-seekers, which Vandal hoped to defeat with the Hornet’s flares and evasive maneuvering.

As Vandal studied the incoming bogies, they broke into two groups of eighty missiles — one group headed toward George Washington’s aircraft and the other group headed Vandal’s way. He did the math. Eighty missiles against twenty aircraft. Not good odds.

The missiles closed the remaining distance rapidly, and Vandal discerned that four missiles were targeting his aircraft, each missile thirty seconds behind the other. Four more missiles were targeting Phoenix. As the first wave of missiles approached, Vandal’s APG-79 indicated the incoming Hongqi had failed to lock on to his Hornet. The nearby Growler’s electronic jamming was working well. Vandal broke left as his wingman veered right. The other Hornets took evasive action as the missiles reached them. As the first wave of twenty missiles passed by, two pinpricks of bright light illuminated the black sky, one to his immediate left and another in the distance to his right. Two of the missiles had found their target.

The initial engagement was ominous. With two aircraft lost in the first wave and three more waves of missiles coming, they’d lose almost half of their first cycle even before they reached Taiwan. Unfortunately, Vandal soon realized the situation was far worse. The aircraft shot down to his left was one of the two Growlers accompanying them. After checking his radar display, Vandal confirmed the Growler on the right side of the formation had also been lost. The unidentified heat-seeker missiles had taken out both of their radar-jamming support aircraft.

Without the Growlers, the remaining eighteen jets were more vulnerable. Vandal was about to find out just how vulnerable; the second wave of twenty missiles was approaching. The next missile targeting Vandal was a Hongqi missile with a radar-seeking head, so Vandal dispensed chaff from the fuselage of his Hornet, then broke left. His jet veered out of the way as the missile continued straight ahead, attracted by the cloud of aluminum-coated glass fibers. Vandal hoped the missile’s proximity fuse would detonate as it passed through the chaff, but no such luck. This missile was a new generation, because it turned around and headed back toward Vandal’s jet.

As the missile closed rapidly on Vandal’s Hornet, this time from behind, Vandal dispensed more chaff, then pushed his stick forward, rocketing down toward the ocean. Instead of passing through the chaff and continuing straight ahead, this time the missile turned downward, following Vandal toward the ocean’s surface. As the missile quickly closed the distance, Vandal kicked on the afterburners. He had only a few seconds to decide on his next course of action. The chaff wasn’t going to destroy the missile following him. So he had to destroy it another way.

As his Hornet screamed toward the water, Vandal decided to wait until the last possible moment, then pull out of the dive. The maneuver would be a challenge; he couldn’t pull more than nine g’s without losing consciousness, while the missile could pull far more. As a result, the missile would gain on his aircraft during the turn, unless it was distracted.

Warning signs flashed inside his cockpit as Vandal headed straight toward the ocean’s surface at maximum speed. He eased off on the throttles and pulled back on the stick, pulling his Hornet out of the dive, simultaneously dispensing chaff. It was an eight-g turn, and he tightened every muscle in his body, trying to keep the blood from draining from his head and losing consciousness. The legs of his G suit filled with air, helping to keep blood in the upper half of his body. Vandal grunted through the turn, leveling his Hornet off at five hundred feet. Barely a second later, the missile passed through the chaff and continued straight down, detonating as it slammed into the ocean’s surface.

Vandal’s relief was short-lived. His APG-79 alarmed again. Another Hongqi missile was descending in altitude and had already locked on to him. Somehow the Chinese were guiding these missiles to their targets. Perhaps long-range command and control radars had been moved onto Taiwan. Vandal decided to stay close to the deck and try the last trick in reverse. By the time the missile passed through the chaff and figured things out, he’d be long gone.

Another ten seconds and the missile was dangerously close. Vandal kicked in the afterburners, increasing speed. He waited until the last possible moment, then dispensed chaff again and pulled back on his stick, turning his Hornet skyward. As planned, the Hongqi passed through the chaff and continued straight ahead. Vandal watched on his display as the missile turned around, searching for him, but Vandal was already five thousand feet above it.

Vandal continued higher, leveling off at ten thousand feet, attempting to get his bearings on the remaining missiles and Nimitz’s first cycle of aircraft. A blue-white flame streaked by on his right. Phoenix had twisted her Hornet around and kicked in her afterburners. One Hongqi missile had just missed her but another was in hot pursuit. As he contemplated whether there was a way to help her, an alarm activated again in his cockpit. Two more missiles were headed toward him.

Vandal steadied up in the direction of the first missile, dispensing another round of chaff as he broke right. The thin aluminum-coated decoys worked again, and the missile lost track of Vandal’s Hornet as it passed through the chaff. But it wasn’t long before the missile turned around. Even worse, the second Hongqi was in front, headed directly for him. Compounding the problem, he had only one burst of chaff left.

As he analyzed his predicament — one missile behind him and another in front — he realized the two missiles were racing directly toward each other. He did a quick mental calculation, guesstimating that if he slowed about a hundred knots, both missiles would arrive at his Hornet at the same time — in about ten seconds. He eased off the throttles.

Just before the two Hongqi missiles closed on Vandal’s Hornet, he dispensed his last round of chaff, then kicked in his afterburners and pushed down on the stick, vacating the area as quickly as possible. The two Hongqi missiles, decoyed by the chaff, continued straight ahead, locking on to each other and detonating above Vandal as he raced toward the ocean’s surface.

Vandal pulled up as the illumination above him faded to darkness, leveling his Hornet off at seven thousand feet. He let out a deep breath, checking his instrumentation. There were no additional missiles locked on to him.

He spoke into his headset. “Viper One, how are you doing?”

Michalski’s voice came across the radio. “I’ve got a Hongqi on my six. I’m out of chaff and out of ideas. I can’t shake it!” Vandal glanced at his display. Phoenix was five miles to the north at ten thousand feet, headed his way.

Vandal got an idea. He banked his F/A-18 hard left into a 360-degree turn, climbing in altitude toward Michalski. Vandal adjusted the diameter of the circle so that he came out of the turn headed perpendicular to his wingman’s flight path. Michalski was one of the best pilots in the squadron, and Vandal wasn’t surprised she’d been able to keep the Hongqi missile at bay even without chaff, juking her Hornet at the last possible second as the missile approached, taking advantage of the missile’s excessive speed.

The surface-to-air Hongqi were very large missiles compared to the air-to-air missiles aircraft carried, packed with fuel for the long transit from the coast. Their large size made them less maneuverable, which thankfully gave Michalski and the other pilots a fighting chance. But what the Hongqi lacked in agility had been replaced with persistence. Its guidance and control processing was advanced indeed. It was only a matter of time before Michalski maneuvered too soon or too late, and the missile would remain locked on and home to detonation.

Michalski had kicked in her afterburners again after her latest maneuver, and her Hornet was streaking toward Vandal, the missile in hot pursuit. Vandal thumbed the trackball on his flight stick, switching to his six-barrel Vulcan 20mm cannon as he spoke into his headset.

“Viper One, do you trust me?”

“Hardly!” Phoenix replied. “With a call sign of Vandal?”

Michalski had a point, but there was no time to debate its merits. “I need you to fly straight,” Vandal replied. “No juking until I say so, okay?”

“Okay,” Michalski repeated as her Hornet screamed by a half-mile in front of Vandal.

Vandal focused. He had timed it as best as possible — the geometry was perfect. The Hongqi missile was a mile behind Phoenix and closing fast, and the missile would cut across Vandal’s flight path in about five seconds. It was going to come down to hand-eye coordination, and he was better than most. Maybe all those days skipping high school, hanging out at Fat Eddy’s Billiards playing video games, would pay off after all.

The odds of hitting a missile with a gun were low, but it was worth a shot. Unfortunately, the Hongqi would get dangerously close to Phoenix. If he missed the missile and told her too late to juke out of the way …

Vandal caught the red engine exhaust of the missile in his peripheral vision. He fired his Vulcan gun, watching the path of the red tracers race out ahead of him, judging whether they would intersect the path of the missile streaking across the night sky. He would not get another shot. At the last instant, he adjusted his angle down a fraction of a degree, and the Hongqi missile slammed into the stream of 20mm bullets, breaking into fragments in an orange-red puff. A second later, Vandal passed above the missile debris, then banked left and kicked in his afterburners.

“Splash one Hongqi missile,” he said as he pulled up alongside Phoenix.

“Thanks Vandal. I thought I was a goner.” The faint glow from Michalski’s cockpit instrumentation illuminated her profile, and he could see her turn her head toward him. He couldn’t see her face behind her visor, but he knew she was smiling.

Now that the immediate danger for him and his wingman had passed, Vandal turned his attention to the rest of Nimitz’s first cycle of aircraft. A glance down at his display returned startling information: Vandal and Phoenix were the only two aircraft remaining. Another review of his instrumentation told Vandal they could not continue their mission. They’d consumed too much fuel during their evasive maneuvers. They’d have to head back to Nimitz. Vandal was about to inform Phoenix when her voice broke across his headset.

“Incoming bogies, bearing two-seven-three.”

Vandal checked his display as his APG-79 alarmed. Six incoming bogies. A few seconds later, the APG-79 identified them as Hongqi.

They were out of chaff and low on fuel. Their only option was to run and hide. “Down to the deck! Head back to Nimitz.”

Vandal pushed his stick forward, pitching the nose of his Hornet down. Phoenix followed, and both Hornets raced toward the ocean’s surface. Vandal banked left and Phoenix right, the two jets turning back toward Nimitz, leveling off at five hundred feet. Vandal checked his APG-79. The Hongqi were closing and dropping in altitude.

As the Hongqi continued to close, Vandal had two choices — wait until the last second and then climb, or veer to the left or right. Without chaff, neither option offered a reasonable chance of success.

He checked his fuel gauge again. With the evasive maneuvers they were about to make, they weren’t going to have enough fuel to make it back to Nimitz. They were too heavy — they had too much ordnance. Ordnance that was a liability as they headed home. It was useless against incoming missiles, and it weighed them down as they maneuvered their Hornets.

“Viper One. Drop all ordnance. We need to get lighter.”

Phoenix acknowledged, and seconds later the two Hornets dropped their payload of bombs into the Pacific Ocean.

Vandal wiggled his flight stick back and forth. His Hornet felt lighter, nimbler. And just in time. The six Hongqi had closed on them, and it was time to maneuver. But then he decided against the two previous options. Instead of pulling up or veering to the side, he decided to descend even lower.

“I’m dropping down as low as possible. Let’s see if we can lose the missiles in the ocean clutter.”

Pushing his stick forward, Vandal eased his Hornet toward the ocean, dropping down to an altitude of fifty feet, dangerously close to the top of the waves breaking on the ocean’s surface. On a calm day, flying this low was dangerous enough. But the higher the sea state, the more unpredictable the wave height. The weather had steadily deteriorated through the night, and average wave height was now between thirty and forty feet. One fifty-foot wave and it’d all be over.

Phoenix matched his maneuver, pulling up alongside him on his nine o’clock position. But the Hongqi missiles also matched their maneuver, descending to fifty feet, continuing to close. It looked like Vandal’s last-ditch effort had also failed, when one of the missiles trailing them disappeared from the display. Vandal’s best guess was that it had been taken out by a random fifty-foot wave. That meant fifty feet was too low to be flying. He called into his headset.

“Viper One. A wave just took out one of our bogies. We’re too low. Come up to seven-five feet.”

As Phoenix joined him at seventy-five feet, Vandal realized he had run out of ideas, and time. In a few seconds, the leading Hongqi missiles would reach them. He was confident he and Phoenix could evade the first missile. But without chaff, he and Michalski had the skill and equipment to evade — at best — one missile at a time. Two missiles would be far too difficult.

Michalski’s voice cut across his headset. “Viper Two. Got any more bright ideas?”

“I got nothing,” Vandal replied.

“Then I think it’s time we part ways,” Michalski said. “I’ll see you back at the farm.”

“Roger that, Viper One.”

Michalski’s Hornet banked left and then Vandal banked right, both jets continuing to skim along the ocean’s surface. Vandal checked his APG. Three missiles had peeled off toward Michalski, while two followed him. A few seconds later, Michalski’s jet rocketed skyward, her afterburners burning blue-white, with three red pinpricks following beneath her. She wanted maneuvering room, something she didn’t have near the ocean’s surface. But Vandal didn’t see any hope in that course of action; there was no way she could outmaneuver three missiles. Hell, there was no way he could outmaneuver two missiles.

As the two Hongqi trailing him closed the remaining distance, Vandal realized he needed to make a decision — head skyward like Michalski or come up with some other plan. If only he had another burst of chaff, he could try the same trick on these two missiles as the last two. As he grasped for a plan, he finally decided to try the same ploy as before, only this time without chaff. It’d be risky, with nothing to distract the two incoming missiles from his Hornet. But if he could maneuver his aircraft out of the way fast enough, resulting in the two missiles locking on each other, it just might work.

Vandal increased altitude to one thousand feet to give himself some maneuvering room, monitoring the first incoming Hongqi on the APG-79. Just before the Hongqi closed to within range of its proximity fuse, Vandal juked hard left and kicked in his afterburners. The first missile sped by without detonating. Vandal juked hard left again, completing a 180-degree turn. He was now heading directly toward the second missile. As expected, the first missile turned around, and was now following him in hot pursuit.

He ran the mental calculations again, slowing his Hornet slightly so both missiles would reach his Hornet simultaneously. Only this time, there would be no chaff to confuse them while he attempted to evade. He would have to wait even longer, until the missiles were very close, so neither missile detected his evasive maneuver until it was too late, hoping neither missile passed close enough to his Hornet to detonate — but hopefully close enough to destroy each other.

Both missiles had closed to within fifteen seconds when a bright orange fireball erupted at two o’clock high. He dropped his eyes to his instruments as Viper One disappeared from the display. A lump formed in his throat as he realized Liz Michalski was dead. But he had little time to reflect on the loss of his wingman. He had more pressing concerns.

As the two missiles closed the remaining distance, Vandal opted for a 3-D canopy roll at the last second. He pulled his control stick back hard and right, hopefully twisting out of the way as the missiles sped beneath him, hoping even more that his Hornet wasn’t torn to shreds by debris from the two missiles as they exploded.

The plan was complicated and difficult to execute. Vandal timed it perfectly with respect to the trailing missile. His Hornet twisted out of the way of the Hongqi, and the missile was unable to change direction quickly enough, passing beneath Vandal’s Hornet. However, the missile approaching from ahead arrived one second later than Vandal anticipated, and it noticed the target’s sudden upward movement.

The missile turned sharply, slamming into the fuselage of Vandal’s Hornet. The missile detonated, igniting the Hornet’s two fuel tanks in secondary explosions. Shards of white-hot shrapnel tore through Vandal’s body as the cockpit was engulfed in flames. Vandal, encased in the burning wreckage of his Hornet, plummeted toward the ocean’s surface.

22

“Loss of Four-Alpha-One and Four-Alpha-Two.”

The Strike Controller’s report aboard Nimitz was professional and monotone, failing to match the panic rising inside Captain Alex Harrow. Standing in the aircraft carrier’s Combat Direction Center, Harrow had monitored the carrier air wing’s engagement with the Chinese missiles. The number of missiles was impressive, with China expending over four missiles for each aircraft. Even worse, the capability of those missiles was much better than expected. Nimitz and George Washington had lost their entire first cycle of twenty aircraft each.

Standing beside Harrow was the CAG, Captain Helen Corcoran, Commander of Carrier Air Wing ELEVEN. Her eyes were focused on the Video Wall, a collection of two eight-by-ten-foot displays mounted next to each other, with a half-dozen smaller monitors on each side. With her features illuminated by the blue glow of the CDC’s equipment consoles, her face had paled as the Wing’s losses mounted. The United States would prevail in this conflict — of that Harrow was sure. The price America would pay in the process was the only variable. Unfortunately, those losses were mounting at an unexpected rate.

A second wave of red symbols appeared on the screen, headed toward Nimitz and George Washington’s second cycle of aircraft. Unbelievably, the second wave of missiles was just as dense as the first. As Harrow evaluated their Wing’s predicament, Captain Sue Laybourn, the Operations Officer or OPSO, approached the two Captains. “George Washington is recalling her strike package. Request your intentions.”

Corcoran shifted her eyes toward Harrow. “I can’t risk losing another twenty aircraft. Until we figure out how to effectively jam or decoy these missiles, I’ve got no choice.”

Even though it wasn’t his call — only the CAG or the Admiral in the Tactical Flag Communication Center aboard Nimitz could recall their fighters — Harrow nodded his agreement.

Corcoran turned to Captain Laybourn. “Recall the strike package.”

Laybourn relayed the orders to the Strike Controllers via the Tactical Action Officer, and Harrow watched the electronic display on the Video Wall as the second and third cycles of Air Wing ELEVEN aircraft turned back toward the carrier. The first battle of the war would be chalked up as a Chinese victory; one third of Nimitz’s air wing had been destroyed while not an iota of damage had been inflicted upon Chinese forces. But just when Harrow thought it couldn’t get worse, a wave of yellow symbols appeared on the display, originating from China’s interior rather than the coast. A few seconds later, the yellow icons switched to red symbols with a sharp point, representing hostile surface-to-surface missiles. China was turning its attention from the inbound aircraft to the carriers that had launched them.

The OPSO stepped away to confer with the Tactical Action Officer, returning a moment later. “Multiple DF-21 missiles inbound. Request permission to set General Quarters.”

“Set General Quarters,” Harrow ordered.

Laybourn passed the order, and Harrow’s stomach tightened as the gong-gong-gong of the ship’s General Alarm reverberated in CDC, followed by the announcement, “General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Move up and forward on the starboard side, down and aft on port.”

Ten DF-21 Dong Feng ballistic missiles were inbound toward the two carriers. In a few minutes, Nimitz and George Washington strike groups would engage missiles descending at 2.5 miles per second. The carriers were defenseless against this type of missile; not even their aircraft could shoot one down. That task fell to the strike group’s Aegis class cruisers and destroyers, armed with SM-3 anti-ballistic missiles. With General Quarters called away, Harrow would normally have headed to the Bridge. However, there was little he could do against DF-21 missiles. It would be up to Nimitz’s escorts, and their efforts were more easily monitored from CDC. It was here that he would await Nimitz’s fate.

The DF-21 was a massive missile by anti-ship standards. Descending from an almost vertical trajectory, it was designed to impact the carrier’s deck. Carrying a thirteen-hundred-pound warhead, a single Dong Feng missile would blast a forty-foot-wide crater in the Flight Deck, terminating the carrier’s ability to conduct flight operations.

Harrow examined the left main monitor of the Video Wall, displaying the inbound missiles and the ships that would shoot them down. The fourteen Aegis class cruisers and destroyers were deployed in a semicircle to the west of George Washington and Nimitz.

As he examined the cruiser and destroyer icons, he heard Captain Laybourn beside him exclaim, “What the hell…?”

Harrow looked down at Laybourn’s console. It was cluttering with new missile contacts, appearing where the DF-21 missiles were, as if they were reproducing. Harrow figured these DF-21 missiles were a new variant, releasing smaller warheads, which would complicate the carrier’s missile defense. The cruisers and destroyers in his strike group would have to start launching sooner, as there were a lot more targets now. But none of his escorts began firing. Harrow’s eyes went to the video feeds, searching for evidence of missile launches. But there was nothing. The ships’ vertical launchers were silent. Something was wrong.

Aboard USS Lake Erie, Captain Laybourn’s counterpart watched in stunned silence as chaos erupted in the Combat Information Center. Ghost bogies had appeared on Lieutenant Commander Shveta Thakrar’s console, and the trackers had begun flitting all over the place, switching between contacts. The Lake Erie was paralyzed, unable to determine which contacts were the real DF-21 missiles. The cruiser could no longer defend the carriers from the incoming missiles.

As the Tactical Action Officer, Thakrar was seated in the center of the “Front Table,” or first row of consoles in the cruiser’s Combat Information Center, with the ship’s Captain on her left and the Combat Systems Coordinator on her right. Thakrar glanced up at one of the four fifty-inch flat panel screens on the bulkhead in front of her. The five incoming DF-21 missiles had morphed into over fifty bogies, and their Aegis Warfare System could not determine which contacts were the missiles and which were ghost contacts. As the Tactical Action Officer in charge of operations in CIC, it was Thakrar’s responsibility to sort out this mess.

Thakrar turned in her seat and shouted over the cacophony of excited conversations. “Attention in CIC.” She waited a few seconds for silence before continuing. “Status report.”

The Systems Test Officer replied, “Every console in CIC is affected. The system is refusing to warm start. We’ve tried three times. It looks like the only option is a cold start.”

Thakrar assessed the situation — it would take ten minutes for a cold start, and by then it’d be too late. The DF-21 missiles would have already hit the carriers.

“Not an option,” she replied. “Any other ideas?”

There was strained silence for a moment, until the Combat Systems Coordinator next to her, Senior Chief Mario Caiti, spoke. “We could shift over to ACB-16. It’s a developmental build, and they gave us the ability to warm start directly into it.”

“ACB-16 isn’t authorized for use,” the Systems Test Officer interjected. “It’s loaded aboard us strictly for testing.”

Commander Thakrar evaluated Senior Chief Caiti’s recommendation. There wasn’t much time to debate how functional ACB-16 was, nor ponder how many rules they were about to break. She glanced to her left, at the Lake Erie’s Captain, Mary Cordeiro.

“Screw authorization,” Cordeiro said. “Warm start into ACB-16.”

The Systems Test Officer turned to his console, initiating a warm start of Lake Erie’s Aegis Warfare System into the test build. A minute later, the consoles in the Combat Information Center sprang to life. The operators focused on their screens, as did Lieutenant Commander Thakrar. To her relief, the system returned ten clean bogies, five headed toward Nimitz and five toward George Washington.

In Nimitz’s Combat Direction Center, Captain Harrow watched as SM-3s began streaking up from Lake Erie. But only Lake Erie. Her SM-3s headed toward the five missiles descending toward Nimitz, but Lake Erie had fired late, and had insufficient time to launch a second round if her SM-3 missiles missed. Harrow watched the display as four of the five missiles hit their target. But one DF-21 missile made it through. Now it was up to Nimitz to defend herself.

Captain Laybourn assigned the incoming DF-21 to the carrier’s anti-air NATO Sea Sparrow Missile System and authorized Weapons Free for the Rolling Airframe missiles and CIWS Gatling gun. The DF-21 streaked down toward Nimitz. Sea Sparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles were launched in succession and both missed their target, leaving only the CIWS system. But Harrow knew the CIWS would be unable to engage a missile descending at such a high angle and speed.

The TAO announced, “Missile inbound. All hands brace for shock!”

Harrow counted down the seconds before impact, grabbing the nearest I beam to brace himself.

The DF-21 impacted Nimitz’s Flight Deck with a massive jolt. The explosion rumbled through the carrier, followed by tremors of secondary explosions. On the carrier’s Damage Control Status Board, red symbols illuminated downward from the Flight Deck through the O-3, Hangar, and Main Decks, plus an additional three decks in a circular pattern radiating outward.

Harrow shifted his eyes to the video feeds canvassing the Flight Deck. Orange flames leapt skyward from a massive crater in the aft section of the Flight Deck, the fire licking the twisted metal edges of the gaping hole. He studied the red symbols on the status board, his eyes shifting uneasily toward midship, where the nearest ammunition magazine was located. If the fire caused the ammunition magazine to overheat, it’d be over. Nimitz would be turned into scrap metal.

Darkness enveloped CDC and the emergency battle lanterns flickered on in response. Harrow heard the forward emergency diesel rumble to life, telling him both reactors had SCRAMed, leaving Nimitz with minimal electrical power until one of the reactors could be brought back on-line. Even worse, the aircraft carrier was slowing; without an operable reactor she had no propulsion. As Nimitz drifted to a halt, Harrow’s eyes shifted from the massive hole in its Flight Deck to the fires spreading on the Damage Control Status Board. The amount of damage they had sustained from a single missile was stunning.

Suddenly remembering George Washington had been targeted by five of the DF-21 missiles, Harrow turned his attention to his sister carrier. Operating twenty miles to the north, she was visible on video feeds streaming into Nimitz’s CDC, relayed from the one of the tanker Super Hornets circling above. Against the background of dawn’s early light, five black plumes spiraled upward from the carrier, and incredibly, she was already listing heavily to starboard. She was taking on water. One of the DF-21s or the secondary explosions must have penetrated the carrier’s hull beneath the waterline. The damage had to be catastrophic. Harrow’s features hardened. It looked like George Washington was on its way to the bottom of the Pacific.

Harrow forced his thoughts back to Nimitz, and just as important, the two returning air wings. Both air wings would have to land on Nimitz. That was, if Nimitz’s crew was able to gain control of the fires and overcome the gaping hole in its Flight Deck. If Nimitz didn’t return to flight operations, their aircraft would be forced to Bingo to Kadena or the Philippines, assuming they had enough fuel. If not, the pilots would be forced to eject and let their aircraft crash into the ocean, effectively neutralizing two of the Pacific Fleet’s five carriers.

As Harrow dwelled on the disastrous scenario, three new symbols appeared on the left display of the Video Wall: red semicircles with the rounded end downward, representing submerged contacts. China’s submarines were moving in for the kill. Without propulsion, Nimitz was a sitting duck.