Fatal Terrain

CHAPTER TWO

“Who in blazes is it?” Admiral Yi Kyu-pin asked of no one in particular, peering nervously through his high-power binoculars. The ship he was watching was moving slowly toward them on an intercept bearing. It had not been spotted on radar until it was only twenty kilometers away from the lead escort ship, practically within visual range; now it was no more than ten kilometers from the lead escort. The challenge was obvious. The sixty-seven-year-old admiral had already launched a Zhi-9 light shipboard helicopter to investigate and was waiting for the pilot’s report.

Yi was not too concerned about the vessel, though, because he dwarfed it and easily outgunned it. Yi was in command of the Mao Zedong, a 64,000-ton aircraft carrier of the Peoples Republic of China’s Liberation Army Navy. Although the carrier did not have its entire fixed-wing air group of more than twenty Russian-made Sukhoi-33 fighters on board — an agreement between China and Taiwan prohibited the Mao Zedong from carrying attack planes until after passing Matsu Island during its transit of the Formosa Strait — it did carry four Su-33 fighters, configured only for air defense, plus three times its normal complement of attack and anti-submarine helicopters. Accompanying the Mao were two 4,000-ton Luda-class destroyers, Kang and Changsha, the 14,600-ton replenishment oiler Fuqing, and the repair and support vessel Hudong, which acted as a floating repair shop. Flanking the Mao battle group was an armada of more than forty smaller vessels, everything from Huangfeng-class coastal patrol boats to Fushun-class minesweepers to Huchuan semi-hydrofoil missile boats — anything that could keep up with the nuclear-powered carrier and its escorts.

While he waited, Admiral Yi took a few moments to think about— no, to savor—the immense power at his command as the skipper of this vessel. Even though this warship, the first aircraft carrier owned by an Asian nation since World War II, had had a very checkered existence, it was now at the absolute pinnacle of its fighting capability.

Its keel had been laid down in June of 1985 at the Nikolayev shipyards near the Black Sea in the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, and it had been launched in April of 1988 as the second true Soviet fixed- wing aircraft carrier, much larger and more capable than its Kiev- or Moskva-class anti-submarine helicopter carrier cousins. It had first been dedicated as the “defensive aviation cruiser” Riga; it had been called a “cruiser” because the Republic of Turkey, which guards the approaches in and out of the Black Sea, forbids any aircraft carriers to sail through the Bosporus and so would never have allowed it to leave the Black Sea. Because of severe budget cuts and technological difficulties, it had never fully completed its fitting-out and never joined its sister ship Tbilisi in the Northern Fleet of the Soviet Navy. It had been renamed Varyag when the Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic, whose capital the ship had been named for and where the ship was to be based once it entered Soviet fleet service, had become the independent Republic of Latvia in 1991.

The Varyag, which means “Viking” or “dread lord,” had been sold to the People’s Republic of China in 1991 for the paltry sum of thirty million U.S. dollars in cash, completely stripped of all electronic and weapon systems; the world military press believed that it had been sold as scrap for cash to line the pockets of ex-Soviet admirals and bureaucrats, forced out of service without pensions when the Soviet Union collapsed. Because of an international embargo on any military sales to China, and because most of Asia feared what China might do with a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier — the Tiananmen Square massacre had been only two years earlier — the carrier had been sent to Chah Bahar Naval Base in the Islamic Republic of Iran, where it had been used as a floating prison and barracks. But in 1994, it had undergone a $2 billion crash rearming and refit program, and Iran and China had jointly made it operational in 1996— the first aircraft carrier and the greatest warship ever owned by a Middle East or Islamic nation.

In early 1997, Iran’s military leaders had immediately put the carrier, now called the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini’ to use against its enemies in the Persian Gulf region, attacking several pro-American states with the carrier as the spearhead. They had been turned away by the American air force, using stealth bombers and high-tech cruise missiles to attack the carrier. The stealth bomber attack had caused one of the Khomeinis Sukhoi-33 fighter-bombers to crash on deck, causing a huge fire that had cooked off a P-500 Granit anti-ship missile — the ship had been one more explosion away from heading to the bottom of the sea. Iran, beaten and humiliated by the unseen American attackers, had been forced to sue for peace before its prized possession was completely lost.

The United States had been ready, willing, and happy to make the carrier into an instant artificial reef in the Arabian Sea by putting a few torpedoes or cruise missiles into it, but Iran had quickly surrendered the carrier to its real owners, the People’s Republic of China, and the United States had not wanted to anger that superpower by sinking its property. The carrier, now renamed the Mao Zedong after the People’s Republic of China’s Communist leader, had been taken in tow by the Chinese destroyer Zhanjiang and sent back to China, carefully watched during its transit by every country with long-range maritime surveillance capability. Most Asian nations were still fearful of China sailing a carrier through the politically turbulent east Asian seas, but the carrier was little more than floating scrap now — wasn’t it?

The twice-orphaned carrier was not yet ready to be cut up into razor blades. In a few short weeks, repairs had been completed, and now the little ski-jump carrier Mao was once again operational. Only a few of its complete wing of twenty-four ex-Russian Sukhoi-33 supersonic fighter- bombers were on board, but it carried a full complement of antisubmarine helicopters, as well as antiaircraft and land attack weapons. Six of the P-500 Granit anti-ship missiles in the forward launch tubes had been replaced with a navalized version of the M-ll ballistic land attack missile, each with a range of over sixty kilometers. Despite its armament, however, the carrier was considered little more than an expensive Chinese plaything — perhaps something to impress the neighbors — and not a grave military threat.

That idea, Admiral Yi thought gleefully, was going to be known as one of the biggest errors of judgment made in recent history.

After what seemed like hours, the first officer approached his captain with a copy of an intelligence report, complete with radar, optronic, and visual profiles, several weeks old but hopefully still useful. “Received the patrol’s report, sir. It is flying a Taiwanese flag,” the first officer reported. “The vessel is a French-designed, indigenously built Kwang Hwa Ill-class frigate. One of the Nationalists’ new toys, launched just last year.”

“Armament?”

“Has a thirty-six-round vertical launch system with twelve Harpoon anti-ship cruise missiles, ten ASROC rocket-boosted torpedoes, and fourteen Standard antiair missiles — the Standard missiles can be used for surface attack as well. Four side-firing torpedo tubes. Sea Sparrow close- in antiaircraft and anti-missile system, 40-millimeter bow-mounted dualpurpose gun, Phalanx close-in air defense cannons fore and aft, and several 12.7-millimeter machine gun mounts.”

“Very impressive,” Yi mused. “Strange our patrols have not detected it before. Where is it based?”

“Unknown, sir,” the first officer replied. “Perhaps in the Nationalists’ secret underground naval base?”

Yi did not share in the joke. The first officer referenced the current intelligence estimate — if the term “intelligence” could even be loosely applied — that the Nationalists were spending trillions of yuan on constructing huge underground military facilities so they could withstand an expected nuclear attack by the People’s Republic of China’s Liberation Army. Supposedly they had built an underground base large enough to barrack an entire division and store hundreds of tanks and armored vehicles — and had even constructed an underground airfield in the eastern mountains on Formosa big enough to launch and recover two squadrons of F-16 Fighting Falcon jet fighters. Of course, years of espionage work had uncovered no evidence of any secret underground bases. “What about its aviation fit?”

“Large helicopter hangar, can carry two small helicopters,” the first officer continued. “Typically carries one S-70 helicopter, armed with AS- 30L laser-guided attack missiles, torpedoes, or Harpoon anti-ship missiles. The superstructure is built of composite materials and aluminum covered in radar-absorbent materials. The slanted foredeck, angled superstructure, and folding antenna arrays are supposed to be stealth devices to reduce radar signature.”

“I would say it worked — we did not spot him until he was less than twenty kilometers out,” Yi said. He was not familiar with this class of warship, but he knew that Taiwan, one of the richest and fastest-growing nations in the world, could afford the best military hardware. Well, it may be a modern, high-tech boat, but it was no match for the Mao and its escorts. “Have Communications transmit a Flash priority message to Taiwan Operations headquarters, advising them that we are in contact with a rebel warship. Have the patrol helicopter maintain visual contact and report if—”

Just then, the officer of the deck interrupted: “Captain, message from the Nationalist frigate Kim Men. They are ordering that we not approach Quemoy Island any farther or we will be fired upon! ”

“They what?” Yi exploded, nearly rising out of his seat in total surprise. “They are trying to tell us where we can sail? Are they crazy?” The idea was laughable — the smallest ship in Admiral Yi’s carrier battle group was twice as big and four times more heavily armed than this Nationalist toy boat! This was obviously some kind of publicity stunt. “Put them on the phone. This is ludicrous! What…?” The officer of the deck nodded, and Yi picked up the ship-to-ship radio handset and keyed the mike button: “Nationalist vessel Kim, this is Admiral Yi Kyu-pin, captain of the People s Republic of China Peoples Liberation Army Navy aircraft carrier Mao Zedong and commander of this task force,” he said in Mandarin Chinese. “Repeat your last message, please.”

“Carrier Mao Zedong, this is Captain Sung Kun-hui, captain of the Republic of China Navy Quemoy Flotilla frigate Kin Men,” a voice responded in Mandarin. “You are approaching territorial waters of the Republic of China, and we demand that you remain clear.”

“We are peaceful vessels in Chinese waters, not Nationalist waters,” Yi responded angrily, “and we will pass through this area as we please. Do not approach this task force. This is your last warning.” Yi turned to his first officer in surprise and muttered, “This is some kind of trap. I want a full long-range sweep of the area, all sensors. Look for any other ships or subs in the area. Maintain formation speed and heading.” He keyed the mike again: “Captain Sung, this is Admiral Yi. We intend to continue on to our destination, which is classified and which I am not permitted to reveal. Do not approach this task force. Over.”

“Admiral Yi, you and your escorts are then hereby ordered to heave- to immediately,” Sung replied. “If it is necessary, we will use deadly force to stop your ships and force you to comply. Heave-to immediately. Maintaining this course towards Quemoy Tao will be seen as a hostile act.” Yi shot out of his chair, nearly dropping the ship-to-ship phone in total shock and surprise. “This bastard… he is threatening us with force? I will blast his puny little toy boat straight to hell. ” He picked up the phone and keyed the mike: “Your request is utterly foolhardy and without cause, rebel captain!” Yi sputtered into the ship-to-ship phone. “I warn you, Captain, that if I see any of your guns traverse in my direction, if I see your helicopters leave your deck or even spin up their rotors, or if you approach my task force any closer, I will order my escorts to attack without further warning. How dare you threaten warships of the People’s Republic of China on the high seas like this?”

“And how dare you, Admiral,” Sung responded, “bring nuclear warheads into our waters?”

Yi looked puzzled, his eyes darting back and forth across his bridge. “What did you say?” he replied. “I am not carrying any such weapons! ” “With all due respect, sir, you are a liar, Admiral Yi,” Sung radioed. “You and your ships are carrying at least six thermonuclear warheads on your M-ll ballistic missiles and SS-N-19 anti-ship missiles. You loaded the warheads while at sea via submarine and commercial traders, in violation of the United Nations Missile Technology Control Regime Treaty. The Republic of China strictly prohibits the transportation of nuclear warheads or nuclear-capable missiles into our waters. You will be detained until the warheads and missiles are confiscated. I now order you to heave-to immediately. This is your last warning. ”

Admiral Yi was virtually beside himself, his eyes spinning — not from anger or confusion this time, but in utter disbelief, because the rebel captain’s information was maddeningly accurate: the Chinese warships were indeed carrying nuclear warheads. Three of the six M-ll land attack missiles and three of the P-500 Granit missiles, what the West called SS- N-19 “Shipwreck,” carried in the forward vertical launch tubes were armed with NK-55 thermonuclear warheads, small selectable-yield warheads powerful enough to destroy an aircraft carrier or a small city. It was impossible to tell how in hell Taiwan had found out. Security and secrecy had been painstakingly maintained throughout the transfers, and the ships never docked at any port after on-loading the warheads, so access to the ship could be carefully controlled. A spy on the ship? Improbable, but it was the only…

“Admiral Yi, this is Captain Sung. You will be considered a hostile target if you do not stop. What is your response?”

Get a hold of yourself, Yi, the captain told himself. This could be part of some elaborate ruse, some sort of propaganda ploy to embarrass the People’s Liberation Army Navy — perhaps they were only guessing about the missiles and warheads. If the media showed pictures of a lone, lightly armed Taiwanese frigate challenging the Chinese carrier battle group, it would be a monumental propaganda coup for Taiwan and its Western partners. Perhaps he only wanted a photo opportunity? Perhaps this was all a big show, some sort of act of bravado. Sung and his crew faced certain death if Yi s escort ships unleashed even one of their missiles, and even the escort Kangs twin-barreled 130-millimeter guns could shred that aluminum-hulled Nationalist toy boat in a few minutes.

But Yi had a bad feeling about this: this was no photo opportunity or publicity ploy. The rebel warship was serious — it meant to board and search a foreign warship nearly twenty times its size! “Sound general quarters, all ships, all hands at battle stations, not an exercise,” Yi shouted. “Get the fighters up on deck and ready to launch, full air defense weapon load. Comrade Chong, report to the Combat Information Center, prepare to take charge of the engagement if they get a lucky shot off and hit the bridge. I will take the battle helm from here.”

“They cannot be serious!” the first officer, Chong, shouted as the quartermaster sounded the general quarters bell. “They mean to engage us?”

“If they try, it will be the shortest naval engagement in history,” Yi said angrily. “Officer of the deck, signal the task force to shift to combat formation. Bring the formation to thirty knots, give me twenty degrees to port to put our guns on the starboard side. Get Helicopter Group One on deck armed for anti-submarine warfare, and Helicopter Groups Two and Three ready for rescue duties. ” Yi knew that Taiwan had a small force of F-16 and F-5 fighter-bombers and, although they were very far away, they could do some damage if they got through the Kangs Crotale Mod- ulaire surface-to-air missile screen — they could easily overwhelm Yi s small fleet of Sukhoi-33 fighters and close-in weapon systems.

“All stations report manned and ready,” the officer of the deck reported a few minutes later. “The group also reports all stations manned and ready for combat. Estimate five minutes before the group is in combat formation. Interceptor flight one is up on deck, ready to launch in about ten minutes.”

“Very well,” Yi responded. “Combat, range to the rebel frigate?”

“Range fifteen thousand meters.”

Well within range of the frigate’s Harpoon missiles, Yi thought, but if the rebels were going to use them, they would’ve done it long ago. “Cowards,” Yi said to the captain of the Taiwanese frigate acidly. “You should have taken the shot when you had the chance — now you have no chance.” To his officer of the deck, Yi ordered, “I want a lookout to watch that frigate — if it tries to launch its helicopter or traverse that gun, I want to know about it immediately. Send a Flash priority signal to fleet headquarters; notify them that we are being threatened by an armed Taiwanese frigate that is ordering us to stop and be boarded. Advise them that we are proceeding at best speed and ask for instructions — and I want permission to engage and destroy that patrol boat if necessary.”

“That PLAN battle groups got everything lit up, crew,” defensive systems officer (DSO) Air Force First Lieutenant Emil “Emitter” Vikram reported, referring to the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy vessels. “Rice Screen Golf-band air search, Crotale antiair, Square Tie Type 331 anti-ship targeting, India-band Sun Visor fire control, Great Leader satellite communications, jammers across the entire spectrum — he’s broadcasting everything but AM and FM golden oldies. He’s leaking so much power out his side lobes that I can feel it in my fillings.”

“We get the message, DSO,” retired Lieutenant General Brad Elliott, the pilot, replied. Vikram had been the youngest and one of the brightest engineers at the now-closed High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, but he had the least amount of flight experience, so he still hadn’t learned to completely control his excitement when using the interphone. “Just give us the important news and record the rest. Co, you should be double-checking the ‘combat’ checklist. If you’re just sitting there with nothing to do, with a Chinese battle group ready to attack just twenty miles away, you’re probably missing something.”

“Hey, I was born ready, General,” the copilot retorted, causing an exasperated scowl from the pilot. “My checklist’s complete — I’m just waiting for the fur to start flying.” Sitting across from Elliott, monitoring the four large color multifunction displays on the forward instrument panel, was his copilot, Air Force Major Nancy Cheshire. A longtime test pilot and engineer, Cheshire had spent several years at HAWC as one of Elliott’s most talented pilots and flight test engineers; she had already flown two secret strike missions in the EB-52 as part of Brad Elliott’s classified stealth raiders. When HAWC had closed, she had been assigned as one of the first female B-2 Spirit stealth bomber pilots in the U.S. Air Force — but she had readily given up that choice assignment when McLanahan and Elliott had asked to “borrow” her to fly one of Jon Masters’s Megafortress strategic escort “flying battleships.”

This Megafortress was loaded for bear with both offensive and defensive weapons. Instead of a standard weapon pylon, each wing held a large teardrop-shaped stealthy fibersteel fairing that contained the external weapons on ejector racks. Each wing weapons fairing held six AGM-177 Wolverine stealth turbojet cruise missiles, which were tar- getable rocket-powered cruise missiles with a range of up to fifty miles, fitted with three small internal bomb bays that could carry a variety of weapons or other payloads. The Wolverine missiles on this mission carried a mix of payloads — half were configured as area jammer/decoys that could simulate a massive bomber or fighter attack and completely shut down radar screens and disrupt enemy air defense systems for miles in all directions; the other half carried cluster bomb packages so each missile could attack three targets, then dive into a fourth. Each pylon also carried four radar-guided AIM-120C AMRAAMs for bomber defense — in total, the same number of missiles as on a F-15 Eagle fighter — that could be fired at enemy targets up to thirty miles away, even behind the bomber.

Internally, the EB-52 Megafortress was armed with twelve AGM-136 Tacit Rainbow anti-radar cruise missiles in the forward part of the bomb bay, which were small turbojet-powered missiles that would loiter over an area and automatically attack an enemy radar that activated nearby which transmitted specific threat frequencies — the missiles could orbit for up to an hour over a twenty-five-square-mile area. The aft section of the fifty-foot long bomb bay contained the bomber’s maximum offensive punch that would hopefully not be needed on this mission — a rotary launcher with eight AGM-142B Striker missiles. The Strikers were rocket-powered, supersonic bombs with a 1,000-pound high-explosive warhead that carried a satellite navigation system and TV and imaging infrared terminal guidance packages that gave them precision-kill capability; wings that unfolded after release from the bomb bay gave the Striker missile a ballistic cruising range of nearly fifty miles.

“I show us in COMBAT mode and ready to fight,” retired Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan, the offensive systems officer, said. McLanahan could sense the tension in the voices of everyone on board, even Brad Elliott. It had been over two years since Elliott had flown in combat, and almost a year since losing command of HAWC, and his nervousness and hyper alertness were obvious. McLanahan checked the mission status readout on his weapons display. The mission status readout was a direct satellite link with U.S. Pacific Command headquarters at Pearl Harbor, which indicated their orders continuously. Although McLanahan could override PACCOM’s orders, the active datalink was the same as a direct verbal order from U.S. Pacific Command. “Datalink mission status is CHECK FIRE, and my nose is cold. Everyone stand by.”

McLanahan’s offensive systems suite was dominated by the SMFD, or Super Multi Function Display, a two-by-three foot screen on the forward instrument panel, from which McLanahan controlled all of his systems and weapons. Using a Macintosh-like interface, McLanahan could display any combination of flight, navigation, weapons, systems, or sensor information on that screen, and resize, stack, or move any of the windows around with ease. McLanahan controlled the SMFD in three ways: he could touch the screen with a finger to manipulate windows; he could use a trackball and pointer like a mouse; or he could issue commands to the computer by hitting a switch near his right foot and speaking to the computer. Using all three methods together allowed McLanahan to operate his systems with incredible speed and accuracy.

Part of McLanahan’s air intelligence suite was the “God’s-eye” view of the area supplied by Jon Masters’s satellite reconnaissance systems. A string of small low-orbiting satellites developed by Sky Masters, Inc., nicknamed NIRTSats (Need It Right This Second Satellite), scanned the Formosa Strait with powerful synthetic aperture radars, then downlinked the information to the EB-52 Megafortress via satellite relays. This produced an overhead image of the area depicting all of the ships, aircraft, and landmasses on the SMFD computer monitor. McLanahan could manipulate the image in thousands of ways, zooming in and out to individual targets or back to get the “big picture” tactical situation, and he could use the real-time image to pick targets to attack.

“The PRC vessels are redeploying their ships,” McLanahan reported. “They’re turning west, trying to get out of Taiwanese waters. Speed up to twenty knots and increasing. Smaller ships are heading forward to take the point, but that big destroyer is still in the lead.”

“They’re not trying to avoid that Taiwanese boat — they’re turning to get ready to open fire,” Elliott observed. “What in hell does Sung think he’s doing? Those carrier escorts will chew him to pieces.”

The secure UHF radio transceiver channel clicked to life, as the encryption-decryption algorithms instantly synchronized the two parties; then, in English with a thick Chinese accent, they heard: “American bomber, American bomber, this is Captain Sung aboard the Kin Men, how do you read?”

“Who in the world is that?” Nancy Cheshire shouted. “The captain of what\'7d”

“He said he was the captain of the Kin Men—that’s the name of that Taiwanese frigate that’s cruising near the Chinese fleet,” Elliott said.

“How in hell did he get our secure UHF frequency?” McLanahan asked. “And how does he know we’re a bomber?”

“So much for communications security,” Elliott groused on interphone. “Typical Navy COMSEC procedures — as leaky as a wet paper bag. Or else this frigate is part of the Navy’s surveillance of that Chinese fleet. Good thing we’re on secure frequencies.” He keyed the mike, waited for the transceivers to synchronize, then responded, “Loud and clear, Kin Men. This is Headbanger.”

“Jesus, Brad! ” McLanahan interjected. “You’re going to talk to him? We don’t know who the hell he is! It could be a PRC tap.”

“There is no way the PRC or anybody else could have broken the encryption logarithm and channelized with us — we only decided on it six hours ago, before we launched from Guam,” Elliott said. In fact it was relatively easy to do with the right equipment. The secure radio system they used simply changed frequencies in random intervals. The timing and direction of the hop was controlled by a predetermined code that only the mission participants used. It was possible to scan the entire radio band and pick up the conversation, but an eavesdropper might only hear a snippet of conversation before another hop occurred. “The only way that Taiwanese captain can be talking to us is if he got the codes from the Navy. Obviously, we’re all working together here.”

McLanahan was not convinced, but Elliott’s argument made some sense. “Tell him to authenticate,” McLanahan suggested. Everyone involved in this surveillance operation, from the Navy and Air Force crews in Asia to radio operators half a world away to the President’s communications staff, used a standard challenge-and-response code system to verify that the other party in the conversation was who they were supposed to be and not an eavesdropper or faker. The challenge-and- response was supposed to be used even over secure frequencies. Either party could initiate a challenge, or ask for multiple challenges, but for maximum security the calling party initiated the challenge. Once both sides were properly authenticated and satisfied of the other’s identity, any instructions or changes to standing orders were followed by a lookup code system, using the current UTC date-time group followed by a letter. McLanahan punched up the current decode document on his computer terminal: “Give him bravo-India — response should be ‘bravo.’ ” “Look, Muck, we’re on a secure satellite link,” Elliott argued. “We don’t have time for alphabet soup right now.” Before McLanahan could argue further, Elliott switched radios: “Kin Men, we’re picking up major radar emissions from the Chinese carrier group. It appears you are closing on the carrier group, and the Mao looks like it’s getting ready to attack. What is your status?”

“Headbanger, we are moving to intercept the Communist battle group,” Sung replied. “We will not stand by while the Communists close in and attack our territory. We ask that you stand by and assist us if the Communists should attack.”

“He’s what?” McLanahan retorted.

“Kin Men, we think that is a very unwise decision, repeat, that’s a very bad idea,” Elliott radioed. “Recommend you reverse course and avoid direct contact. We can give you position and status reports. Do not engage that group.”

“Negative, Headbanger,” Sung responded. “My headquarters has recommended that I attempt to keep the group out of missile bombardment range. Our intelligence has revealed that the Communists are carrying nuclear land attack and anti-ship missiles. We are counting on you to provide heavy attack cover if necessary. Stand by. We are launching our helicopter now.”

“Shit,” Elliott swore, “the Chinese ships are carrying nukes” Elliott and McLanahan had both been involved in the China-Philippines conflict three years earlier, when China had set off one low-yield thermonuclear device against some Filipino warships and later threatened to launch another; he had no doubt that China would try it again against the Taiwanese navy. “Til contact Samson. Jesus, Taiwan could be in serious trouble here.” Elliott switched to his number two radio, which was a secure satellite patch to General Samson, who was in charge of the bomber mission as a staff member of the U.S. Navys Pacific Command headquarters, reporting to Admiral William Allen. “Buster, this is Headbanger.” “Go ahead, Headbanger, this is Buster,” Samson himself responded. “Authenticate delta-delta.”

McLanahan looked up the response and read it off to Elliott: “Headbanger has Mike.”

“Good copy,” Samson replied. “Go ahead, Headbanger.”

“Buster, we got problems out here, and I just wanted you to know I had nothing to do with it,” Elliott said, with just a trace of amusement in his voice. “We were just contacted by a Taiwanese frigate named the Kin Men. Its captain is named Sung. He is about to lock horns with Pig One. He claims the Pigs have nukes and they’re getting ready to use them. Sung is launching his fling-wing and is getting ready to start pumping ’em out. Better notify the squids and the dolphins to come give us a hand. We need permission to engage the Pigs if necessary.”

“Repeat that last, Headbanger?” Samson responded, the surprise and shock evident in his voice even over the secure satellite link. “You’ve been in contact with a Taiwanese warship over the secure radio link? ”

“Hey, he contacted me, he knew we were an American bomber, he knew exactly where we were, and he’s locked on to our comm algorithm,” Elliott said. “I figured either the squids gave all this information to him, or someone leaked it to the ROC. In any case, he says the Liberation Army Navy battle group is carrying nuclear weapons that they’re going to use on Quemoy, and he’s going out to stop them right now. We need permission to set up a protective electronic screen around his ships and engage as necessary. Over.”

“Headbanger, this is Buster. Keep your nose cold until I get the straight word from Atlas,” Samson replied, telling Elliott to hold his fire until he notified Admiral Allen directly. “Stand by.”

“Confirmed,” McLanahan said, checking his weapons status. “I’ve still got a CHECK FIRE data message from PACCOM. My nose is cold. Someone better get on the horn to Taiwan Navy headquarters. One of their naval units is about to start a war with China! ”

“Sir, port lookout reports that the S-70 helicopter on the Nationalist ship’s platform is turning rotors!” the officer of the deck shouted. Admiral Yi swung around and scanned the ship with his binoculars. Although the Taiwanese ship was still facing its bow directly toward the Chinese ships, it was possible to see the S-70’s turning main rotor behind the large aircraft hangar. The 40-millimeter gun’s barrel was now lowered and aimed directly at the Mao. “Radar reports a second vessel coming over the horizon heading right for us, possibly another Nationalist warship.”

Dammit, Yi shouted at himself, this is accelerating too fast! He was only minutes away from starting a shooting war with the Nationalists! He yanked the phone off its cradle, keyed the mike, and said in Mandarin, “Frigate Kin Men, frigate Kin Men, this is the carrier Mao Zedong. I warn you, if you attempt to launch your helicopter now, I will open fire on it. We do not wish a war with you, but you must not provoke us further! ”

“Carrier Mao, you will reverse course immediately, or you will be fired upon without further warning! ” the skipper of the Taiwanese frigate responded. “You and your entire fleet are in danger of anti-ship cruise missile attack at this very moment. I warn you, shut down your radars or they will be destroyed by anti-radar weapons that have been launched against you.”

“Prepare to lock radars on enemy aircraft, traverse the Crotale launcher and prepare to open fire,” Yi shouted to the officer of the deck. “Clear to load the AK-130s.” The two 130-millimeter gun mounts began to turn toward the Taiwanese frigate; at the same time, the large octuple French-made Crotale Modulaire launcher swiveled port and down, aiming its eight Crotale antiaircraft missiles directly at the frigate.

“Crotale launcher elevated, hot birds on the rail, sir! ” the officer of the deck reported. “Hong-Yang-2 anti-ship missiles on Kang and Changsha aligned and ready for targets. P-500s spinning up and ready in two minutes.”

“Where are my fighters?” Yi shouted.

“Interceptor One flight of two is on deck; first aircraft should be ready to launch in five minutes. Interceptor Two flight of two will be on deck in three minutes.”

“Acknowledged,” Yi replied. “Lock fire control and targeting radars on the Taiwanese frigate. Notify me immediately if the helicopter lifts off.” Then, aloud, to the rebel commander, he muttered, “Very well, Captain, you wanted to play tough guy. What will you do now?”

“Target-tracking radars locked onto the Taiwanese frigate,” Vikram shouted excitedly on interphone. “They got him nailed. Crotale targettracking radar is up. They’re tracking the helicopter even while it’s still on deck. Square Tie anti-ship missile-targeting radar locked on, bearing to the Kin Men and a second bearing on the newcomer to the southeast. They can attack at any time.”

Elliott swore aloud and keyed the mike again: “Buster, this is Headbanger, the Pigs are getting ready to start breakfast. What do you want us to do?”

“Stand by, Headbanger,” Samson replied a few long, agonizing moments later. “We’re waiting for word from Wrangler.” That was Admiral Balboa, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff — this decision was going right to Washington.

“Screw Balboa, Earthmover,” Elliott shouted on the radio, forgetting all communications security procedures. “That Taiwanese frigate is going to be blown out of the water in about sixty seconds if we don’t do anything.”

“Check your fire — and your mouth, Headbanger!” Samson responded angrily. “If no one has opened fire yet, you don’t open fire. And maintain proper COMSEC procedures!”

Suddenly, McLanahan’s God’s-eye view on his large supercockpit display picked up a new flying target. “I got missile launch detection — and it’s from the Taiwanese frigate! ” he shouted. “Subsonic, low-flying, probably a Harpoon anti-ship missile… Taiwanese helicopter lifting off…now picking up several more missile launches from the Kin Men… I’ve got missile launch detection from the newcomer as well, subsonic missile launch, probably Harpoons.”

“Dammit, the Taiwanese frigate attacked,” Elliott said. “Why in the hell didn’t he wait?”

McLanahan heard that comment, but he was too busy to ask about it: “I’ve got six missiles in the air, all aiming for the Chinese carrier and destroyer,” he reported. “Lead PLAN destroyer now opening fire with missiles now, subsonic, probably HY-2 anti-ship missiles.”

“Commit all countermeasures!” Elliott shouted. “Clear for wing pylon weapon release! ”

“We don’t have authorization yet, Brad,” McLanahan shouted.

“Patrick, that Taiwanese frigate is going to be Swiss cheese unless we do something,” Elliott retorted. “Get on it right now! DSO, stand by on the Wolverines.”

“Brad, wait…”

“We’re only launching decoys, Patrick,” Elliott said. “What in hell are you waiting for? You’re clear for wing pylon release.”

Vikram looked over at McLanahan, his finger poised over the launch commit button. McLanahan hesitated for a moment; Vikram considered that approval and pressed the buttons on his keyboard. “Roger. Stand by for pylon launch, crew,” Vikram announced. He launched two defensive Wolverine missiles, one from each wing pylon pod. McLanahan knew he should halt the launch, but decided not to interfere.

The turbojet-powered Wolverine cruise missiles set up a protective orbit around the Taiwanese frigate and activated its powerful electronic jammers, creating an intense blanket of jamming and decoy signals. When the Chinese Hong Yang-2 Sea Eagle anti-ship missiles activated their terminal homing radars in the preprogrammed target “basket” area, they suddenly found not one, but hundreds of radar targets. The seeker heads merely picked out the electronically largest radar target and aimed right for it, descending from two hundred feet above the water to twenty feet to make it harder for anti-missile weapons to stop it.

But every Chinese Sea Eagle missile had locked onto a false target created by the Wolverine missile’s jammers. When it lost radar contact, it immediately turned and locked onto the next largest radar target. Every time the Sea Eagle missile turned, it slowed down, making it easier for the Kin Men’s guns and Standard missiles to hunt them down; the ones that were not destroyed by the Taiwanese frigate were detoured farther and farther away until they simply ran out of fuel and crashed into the sea.

“All right, everyone, check fire,” McLanahan shouted on interphone after both Wolverine cruise missiles were on their way. “Brad, turn us away from the Chinese battle group before they backtrack those Wolverine missiles.”

“We can’t stop now, Patrick,” Elliott shouted. “Get the Rainbows and Strikers out! That Taiwanese frigate is still unprotected!”

“Negative, pilot,” McLanahan responded. “Everyone standby.” He switched his radio to the scrambled satellite channel: “Buster, this is Headbanger, we’ve got Screamers in the air, repeat, Screamers in the air. Advise if you want seconds.”

“Say again, Headbanger?” Samson responded. “You launched? On whose orders?”

“Let’s get with the program, Earthmover,” Elliott cut in. “We’re the only thing standing between that carrier battle group and the Taiwanese navy. Let’s send the Tacit Rainbows and Strikers and end this right now” “Headbanger, you check your fire until we get word from the boss,” Samson said. “Stay nose cold. You hear me, pilot? Noses cold. If you’re still in contact with the Taiwanese frigate, tell him to disengage and get out of the area. I’m getting permission for you to cover his withdrawal.” “What if he attacks again?” Elliott asked, but Samson had no reply. He swore loudly into his oxygen mask and switched to the secondary secure radio channel: “Kin Men, this is Headbanger,” Elliott radioed to the Taiwanese frigate. “We showed PLAN missile launches on your position. We recommend you get the hell out of there. Do you copy? ”

There was no response, but, seconds later, McLanahan shouted, “I’ve got missiles in the air, high-speed, high-altitude ballistic, from the Kin Men again. Multiple high-speed missiles, probably Standard missiles programmed for anti-ship attack. Targeting the lead destroyer and the carrier… looks like the destroyer took a couple hits… can’t tell if the carrier got hit. It might’ve taken one hit or a near miss… frigate Kin Men launching missiles again, subsonic sea-skimmers, probably Harpoons, a couple at the destroyer and the rest at the carrier… the Taiwanese frigate is reversing course, looks like he’s heading back to Quemoy… about sixty seconds to Harpoon missile impact…”

“PLAN destroyer launching antiair missiles,” Vikram announced. “Targeting the Harpoon missiles, not the Taiwanese frigate.”

“Anything still tracking the Kin Men?” Cheshire asked.

“They’ve got everything up and transmitting,” Vikram said. “The PLAN fleet is still alive and probably mad as hell. Sungs never going to get out of there.”

“Launch commit on all battle group anti-ship missiles! ” Admiral Yi ordered after the report of inbound Taiwanese missiles was relayed to the bridge. “Sink both those ships! Now! Radio South Sea fleet headquarters, request air support for possible follow-on surface and submarine attacks. Full countermeasures! I want—”

“Bridge, combat, radar contact aircraft, close aboard, bearing three- zero-zero, range three-five kilometers and closing, altitude two thousand meters, speed four hundred knots, turning! ” the first officer shouted, relaying the message from the Combat Information Center.

Suddenly, the reports stopped. Yi fairly lunged for the intercom mike. “Combat, continue report! Where is that plane?”

“Bridge… bridge, combat, we have lost contact!” the first officer reported in a high, squeaky, panicked voice. “No contacts. Attempting optical and thermal contact, still negative. Heavy jamming on search and uplink frequencies, all bearings.”

Just then, the unit-to-unit radiophone buzzed, and Yi picked it up himself: “Speak.”

“This is the Kang” came the reply. It was the captain of one of the destroyers, Commander Xiao Rongji. This was Xiao’s first major command, and he was known in the Chinese navy as a bold, even rash, young boat commander; it was no surprise to Yi that he was the first to break tactical radio procedures. “We have detected a small aircraft just over the horizon, bearing two-three-four, range ten kilometers, altitude approximately five hundred meters.” Xiao had detected one of the Wolverine “Screamer” decoy missiles that had strayed within range of the frigate’s sensors. “Are we cleared to engage?”

“You will protect your ship and this carrier with everything you have got — including your life! ” Yi shouted in reply. “Full air defense screen. Stand by to launch another missile salvo on my command. And keep this channel clear!” Yi hung up the radiophone in disgust.

“Carrier Mao, this is the Kin Men” the rebel skipper radioed again.

“All of your weapons missed their targets. The bomber is now targeting you and your capital warships. If you do not reverse course, they will attack.”

“Bomber?” Yi shouted. “Did he say ‘bomber’? Combat, any contact on that aircraft?”

“No, sir,” the first officer replied. “Lookouts report occasional contact with dark contrails low on the horizon, possibly from a formation of small aircraft or a few large aircraft, but we have no visual or electronic contact.”

“Check your systems, make sure everything’s working properly. Find whatever’s out there now\ ” Yi swore loudly, then fell silent once again.

It had to be an American stealth bomber, he thought. The American stealth bombers almost destroyed the Mao, then known as the Khomeini, in the Gulf of Oman just a few weeks earlier. It stood to reason that the Americans would track the carrier with the same stealth bomber so it could strike. If so, there was nothing he could do. His radars couldn’t detect it — the intermittent contacts were probably when the bomber was releasing attack missiles.

“Bridge, Combat!” the intercom buzzed to life, “the Kang locking fire control radars on unidentified aircraft!” Yi swung around to starboard and raised his binoculars to his eyes — just as the frigate opened fire with its 100-millimeter dual-purpose guns.

“Sequence the fighter launch and get Interceptor One off the deck before the P-500 or M-ll missile launches,” Yi shouted. “Find that American bomber! ”

“Drum Tilt fire-control radar up from the northwest destroyer,” the EB- 52 Megafortress’s DSO, Emil Vikram, called out on interphone. “Drum Tilt radar… radar locked on, looks like he’s tracking one of our Wolverines… or he could be tracking us l ”

“He can match bearings back to us — we’ve got to turn!” McLanahan shouted on interphone.

At that same instant, they heard on the secure radio channel, “Headbanger, Headbanger, this is Kin Men, northwest Communist destroyer just opened fire!”

“Emitter, what do you got?” Elliott shouted.

“Just the Drum Tilt fire control,” Vikram responded. “Constantly changing bearings — I don’t think they have a lock-on, or they’re locking on false targets and have to manually break lock to try to reacquire a real target.”

“Good enough, DSO,” Elliott said. “Don’t fire up our jammers unless we become an item of interest. Patrick! ”

“We don’t have authorization to launch Striker missiles,” McLanahan said immediately, anticipating Brad Elliott’s order. “Besides, we’re not an item of interest. My nose is cold.”

“What else do you need, Muck — you want to see how fast that frigate can go down with a Granit missile in its gut? We’ve got to launch an attack before the Chinese carrier or that destroyer can take a shot. ”

“Brad, I’ve got the missiles ready to fly — as soon as we get the order,” McLanahan insisted. “We’re not going to attack unless we’re given permission or we come under attack ourselves, and then it’ll just be to defend ourselves. Nose is cold”

The redeploying Chinese patrol boats looked like little ants crawling forward around their queen, McLanahan thought as he watched his God’s-eye tactical display being beamed to him by the NIRTSat reconnaissance satellites. “I’m showing eight small, fast patrol boats moving north, overtaking the lead destroyer,” he reported. “Looks like they’re getting into missile-firing position. I’ve got six… no, eight more going after the southeast Taiwanese vessel.”

“Checks,” Vikram said, watching the new threats as well. “India- band targeting radars up. The northern group is in maximum missilefiring range now; they’ll be in optimal missile-firing range in about ten minutes. The southeast group is closing fast and will be in optimal firing range in two minutes.”

Elliott was already on the satellite transceiver: “Hey, Buster, do you see what the hell’s happening? Give us permission to launch before it’s too late! How do you copy?”

“Hey, Buster, how do you copy?” Elliott repeated. “That Taiwanese frigate and its buddy are going to be blasted to hell any minute now. Give us permission to take them out! ”

“Why in hell doesn’t Elliott shut up?” Admiral William Allen, the dual-hatted commander in chief of U.S. Pacific Command and the U.S. Navy’s Pacific Fleet, asked of no one in particular. He, along with General Terrill Samson and a group of aides and technicians, were studying a large three-by-four-foot computer monitor that showed the tactical situation near the Taiwanese island of Quemoy, downloaded by Sky Masters, Inc.’s, NIRTSat “Martindale” synthetic aperture radar-imaging satellites. Allen called out, “Range from the closest Chinese patrol boat to the northern Taiwanese frigate.”

Before one of the Navy technicians could answer, Masters’s voice- recognition computer replied in a curiously seductive female voice, TWENTY-TWO KILOMETERS AND CLOSING AT FIVE HUNDRED METERS PER MINUTE.

“Goddamn gadgets,” Allen muttered, afraid to raise his voice lest the computer make a snide comment in return. “Shut that computer voice thing off. Combat, sing out with all further reports.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Range from PLAN patrol boats to southeast frigate.”

“Eight miles and steady.”

“Well, serves him right for not bugging out sooner,” Allen muttered. “Elliott doesn’t know squat about PLAN missile attack tactics. He’d better shut up and stay off the radio or I’ll recall his ass. Any word from Washington?”

“No, sir,” the tactical action officer (TAO), the senior officer in charge of the combat response teams in the command center, responded. “Repeating your priority request.”

“Where did those Taiwanese ships come from, anyway?” Allen asked rhetorically again — the Navy veteran was fond of thinking out loud, which he thought encouraged the officers around him to speak up. “My mission was not to baby-sit a Taiwanese warship while it launches a suicide attack on a Chinese carrier battle group. And I did not order Elliott to launch anything! I’m going to see to it that he’s thrown in jail for what he’s done!”

“He was responding to an attack by the PLAN destroyers,” Samson offered.

“That Taiwan precipitated!” Allen interjected. “My orders were to monitor the situation and prepare for the eventuality of hostile contact, not dog-pile on when some asshole wants to play hero to Mother Taiwan.

We are not at war with the People’s Republic of China, General Samson. But the Taiwanese frigate fired first, and Elliott launched right afterwards without getting permission. This is exactly what George Balboa warned me about: Elliott popping off and pulling the trigger before receiving proper authorization.” He slumped in his command chair and carefully studied the tactical display. “What in hell is the PLAN going to do now? Chase that frigate all the way to Formosa?”

Samson couldn’t argue with CINCPAC — but now wasn’t the time to just sit and fume over Elliott. “Sir, it looks like the northern Taiwanese frigate is bugging out,” Samson observed. “He can probably outrun the big ships and hold his distance against the smaller patrol boats, and the ‘Screamer’ decoy cruise missiles will be orbiting for another few minutes unless the PLAN manages a lucky shot and shoots them down.”

“So what?”

“The Megafortress crew needs to know if they have authority to counterattack if the PLAN starts to launch more missiles against the frigate,” Samson said. “They can help defend the frigate.”

“More decoys?”

“Yes, the Megafortress is carrying four more Screamer cruise missiles—”

“Who in hell came up with these comic-book names?” Allen interrupted. “Megafortress? Screamers? Sounds like Elliott’s warped mind at work.”

“—but they’re also carrying anti-radar cruise missiles,” Samson went on, “that can shut down a dozen emitters in use on the PLAN warships. They can also use their antiaircraft missiles to—”

“That B-52 is carrying antiaircraft missiles?” Allen exclaimed incredulously. “Sidewinders?”

“Scorpions, sir,” Samson responded. He had briefed all this information to Allen and his staff as recently as yesterday — and he was just as surprised then as he was now — but it didn’t hurt to tell it all again. “Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles, about thirty miles’ range, radar-guided, total of eight. They have to move in closer to the PLAN fleet, but the AMRAAMs are capable against ballistic missiles and antiship sea-skimmers too. The anti-radar cruise missiles will home in on radar transmissions; if the radar shuts down, it’ll orbit over the area for up to fifteen minutes until the radar comes back on. Also, the offensive Wolverine missiles can drop cluster munitions on three targets, then impact a fourth — the Megafortress carries six. If the smaller patrol boats try to attack the Taiwanese frigate, those’ll be the best weapons to use on them. The larger warships can be attacked by the Striker missiles— they’re small, supersonic, and lethal. If we can shut down the PLAN’s radars with the Tacit Rainbow missiles, the Striker missiles will have an excellent chance of hitting their targets.”.

Allen shook his head in exasperation. “You got more toys than Santa Claus, General,” he muttered. He studied the Gods-eye display carefully and fell silent.

“The helicopter that launched from the Taiwanese frigate has been shot down by antiaircraft fire,” one of the combat technicians reported. “Three guided-missile patrol boats closing quickly on the northern Taiwanese frigate. Should be in missile launch position in three minutes. Five more in pursuit, but they are not closing and remain at estimated max launch range. The lead PLAN destroyer has slowed to five knots; the carrier is overtaking.”

“Looks like Taiwan got one,” Allen said. “My guess is that the carrier will rendezvous with the destroyer.” He fell silent once again; then: “No, I don’t want that B-52—Megaplane, Megabomber, whatever you call it — launching any more missiles. Tell them to—”

“PLAN missile boats launching against the southeast Taiwanese vessel,” the combat technician reported. “Numerous missiles… two salvos… direct hit. The southeast Taiwanese vessel is dead in the water… direct hit by second salvo… lost contact with southeast Taiwanese vessel.”

The ferocity of that attack stunned even Allen, who watched the scene played out on the God’s-eye view in silence. “Jesus Christ,” Terrill Samson breathed. “That boat went down in less than a minute… it must’ve been hit by a dozen missiles.”

“Overkill,” Allen said. “The PLAN wasted a lot of missiles, and those little guided missile patrol boats don’t have reloads. They’re out of the fight.”

“Admiral, for God’s sake, you’ve got to make a decision about the northern Taiwanese frigate,” Samson said, not quite believing that Allen could be so detached and unemotional about the loss of the Taiwanese frigate and the apparent deaths of hundreds of Taiwanese sailors. “Or do you want to see the PLAN chase down and sink another Taiwanese frigate?”

“This is not my damned fight, General,” Allen shouted. “I was only supposed to observe and report. Taiwan threw the first punch, and Elliott only helped aggravate the situation.”

“So you’re going to let the PLAN sink that frigate?” Samson asked incredulously. “You’re going to sit back and watch and do nothing?”

“If it happens, it’ll be his own damned fault,” Allen said. “Anyway, the score’s even now — one PLAN destroyer for one ROC frigate and helicopter. Good time for everybody to break it up and go back to their corners.” He was handed a telephone just then. “Trident. Go.”

“This is Wrangler,” Admiral Frederick Cowen, the Chief of Naval Operations, said, using his call sign. “JCS and NSC got your message; NSC asked me to give you a buzz. What’s happening?”

“Shit’s hitting the fan, sir,” Allen replied. “Two Taiwanese frigates closed on the PLAN carrier battle group and attacked. One PLAN destroyer damaged. One of the ROC frigates has been sunk, and the PLAN’s getting ready to deep-six the other.”

“Too bad,” Cowen replied with obvious disinterest in his voice. “Til pass the word along. Any of our guys in the area?”

“Just that Thunder Pig,” Allen replied derisively, smiling when Terrill Samson turned toward him when he heard Allen’s name for the Megafortress.

“Just make sure Headbanger doesn’t pop off any of his flying wet dreams until we get a look at the situation.”

“Too late, sir,” Allen said. “Headbanger’s already launched — without permission. A couple decoy cruise missiles that suckered a bunch of PLAN anti-ship cruise missiles pretty good.”

“Dammit, Crusher knew he’d do that,” Admiral Cowen swore across the secure satellite hookup. “Crusher” was Admiral George Balboa’s call sign — and it fit his personality and management style too, both he and Allen knew. “Recall that contraption. Get it on the ground. Elliott is history!”

“Aye, sir,” Allen responded. To the TAO, he shouted, “Issue recall instructions to Headbanger. Disengage and RTB, right now.”

Samson hit a button on his communications panel. “Excuse me, Wrangler. This is Buster—”

“You give Elliott the order to launch those missiles?” Cowen snapped.

“No, sir,” Samson replied. “Headbanger reacted to protect the Taiwanese frigate when the PLAN launched an anti-ship missile and gun barrage. One Taiwanese warship’s been sunk, and the other is in imminent danger. We need permission to launch anti-radar and anti-missile weapons and, if necessary, attack the PLAN guided-missile boats with attack cruise missiles.”

“Denied,” Cowen said immediately. “Terminate the mission, recall all aircraft, and get them on the ground immediately.”

“Sir, the captain of the Taiwanese frigate, Captain Sung, reports that the PLAN carrier battle group is carrying nuclear land attack and antiship missiles,” Samson said. “We should stop the task force from—”

“What do you mean, the captain of the Taiwanese frigate reports?” Cowen exploded. “You mean, you’re in contact with the Taiwanese vessels? How—?”

“The skipper of the lead Taiwanese frigate contacted Headbanger,” Samson said. “I don’t know how — there must’ve been a security breakdown.”

“Or else Elliott gave them the UHF synchronizer codes! ” Cowen retorted. “I’ll bet he’s the damned security breakdown! This mission is supposed to be secret, General! That was your damn idea from the beginning — it was supposed to be secret even from the ROC. I want those planes recalled and that bastard Elliott…” he stopped, realizing he was breaking communications security, which made him even madder, “… put on house arrest! ”

“Sir, if Headbanger is recalled, that second Taiwanese frigate will be a sitting duck,” Samson argued. “At least authorize Headbanger to release their defensive weapons — the remaining Wolverines and the Tacit Rainbow cruise missiles. These weapons will stay in the area protecting the frigate while they withdraw. ”

“I’m giving you a direct order, Buster — recall Headbanger now!” Cowen shouted. “They are not to release any weapons except to protect themselves while they clear the area and recover. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, sir,” Admiral Allen, who had been listening in, replied. “I’ll see to it myself immediately.” And the line went dead. Allen hung up the phone, then said, “TAO, issue a recall order to the bomber force, and have the order authenticated — by Elliott personally. The mission is terminated, and he’s on report.”

“Terminated?” Elliott retorted. “They can’t do this to us now!” He keyed the mike on the secure satellite link: “Hey, Earthmover, tell the squids to go to hell! We’re going to cover that frigate’s withdrawal! ”

“Negative, Headbanger,” Admiral Allen replied. “This is Trident, and it’s a direct order from Wrangler. Your orders are to terminate and withdraw. You are authorized to expend weapons only to defend yourself as you withdraw and RTB. Time now, zero-three-two-two-four-eight, authentication tango. Do you copy?”

“Hey, Billy, authenticate this: fuckyou!” Elliott shot back angrily, and he switched the secure satellite transceiver off his comm panel. “I knew they’d do this,” he said hotly. “First chance they got, they recalled us.” “We’ve done everything we could,” Nancy Cheshire said. “If we try to defend that Taiwanese frigate any more, we risk getting sucked closer and closer in toward that Chinese fleet — and that might not be as bad as the ass-kicking we’d get by CINCPAC or Balboa once we got back home. You got a heading to the refueling anchor point, Patrick?”

“Heading indicator is good back to the air refueling anchor point,” McLanahan said, calling up the coordinates on his computer and entering them into his navigation system.

“Hey, we can’t bug out of here now,” Elliott said angrily, as he connected the autopilot to the navigation computers and monitored the turn to the east. “We haven’t done squat, and we’re about to watch the PLAN sink a Taiwanese frigate and kill hundreds more sailors. Doesn’t that mean anything to you guys?”

“Sir, we were given an order to withdraw,” Cheshire said. “I know you don’t like it, but we’ve got to follow those orders.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “Don’t we?”

“Patrick, you’re the mission commander — it’s up to you,” Elliott said. “But you know as well as I do that if Allen or Balboa had their fingers on the triggers, they’d shoot.”

“Maybe, maybe not — that’s not our problem,” McLanahan said. “We were ordered to withdraw, so we withdraw. We’ll follow orders.” The interphone got very quiet. He called up a repeater of Emil Vikram’s large threat display, superimposing it over his God’s-eye view so he could map out exactly which ships were transmitting. “Emitter, I see that carrier, the northern destroyer, and those seven northern patrol boats all hitting us with target-tracking radar. We’re under attack.”

“Why, you sly devil,” Cheshire said, turning and grinning at her OSO over her shoulder.

“I believe you’re right, Muck,” Elliott said. “The PLAN is attacking us!”

“The signal thresholds are too low,” Vikram said, still confused. “Call up my sigma-echo screen and look for yourselves. They can’t possibly have a lock. ”

“I say we’re an item of interest, and we’re allowed to use all weapons to defend ourselves,” McLanahan said emphatically. “We need to shut down those radars. Stand by for bomb bay missile launch, crew, twelve Rainbows.” McLanahan designated the targets for the anti-radar cruise missiles: the carrier, the northern destroyer, and four of the seven guided- missile patrol boats that were transmitting anti-ship missile-targeting radar energy. “Doors coming open, crew.” He hit the command button and spoke: “Launch commit Rainbow missiles.”

WARNING, LAUNCH COMMIT TWELVE BOMB BAY TACIT RAINBOW MISSILES, the computer reported, then entered a launch hold.

“Launch,” McLanahan commanded. The launch hold was cleared, and the crew felt the rumble of the fibersteel bomb doors retracting inside the bomb bay; a few seconds later, the noise was gone. “All Tacit Rainbows away,” McLanahan reported.

As they dropped clear of the bomb bay, the AGM-136 Tacit Rainbow cruise missiles, each about six feet long, a little more than a foot in diameter, and weighing less than a thousand pounds, deployed short stubby wings and horizontal and vertical stabilizers and descended toward the sea. As they got closer to the surface, they activated their turbojet engines, increasing their speed to over 300 miles an hour, and leveled off at 500 feet above the sea. One missile’s engine failed to light off despite dozens of automatic relights, and it glided for another nine miles before hitting the ocean and breaking into pieces. Another missile, performing its automatic self-test, determined that its navigational and sensor accuracy was not within its standards; it performed a systems reset, still found its systems faulty, then automatically performed a suicide dive straight down into the rock-hard sea.

One by one, the missiles took up five-mile-long figure-eight orbits at its assigned patrol point, took a GPS satellite fix to nail down its navigational accuracy, and activated its passive electronic sensors. The frequency and pulse rate of every signal received was instantly compared to signatures in their computer memories, and if it matched, the missile immediately began homing in on the signal. Each missile would then instantly report back to McLanahan by datalink that it was locked on.

“All surviving Rainbows tracking,” McLanahan reported. “I’m sending a couple back into their orbits.” Several Rainbows had locked onto the same radar, so McLanahan had to divert a couple of them back into patrol racetracks so he didn’t waste any missiles. “Looking good, guys.”

“Interceptor Group One ready for launch, sir,” the officer of the deck reported.

“Very well,” Admiral Yi responded. “Have Interceptor One establish a high combat patrol at the last known—”

Just then, they heard a loud booom! roll across the sea. Yi ran over to the port rail and saw a cloud of smoke coming from the destroyer Kang. “Something hit the Kangl” the lookout shouted. Seconds later, another loud explosion rang out, and Yi watched in horror as a piece of the Mao's Kilo-band fire-control radar for the SA-N-9 antiaircraft missile system crashed to the deck just aft of the bridge. Seconds later, another loud explosion rattled the ship. “Smoke coming from the Kangl Looks like he took a missile hit! ”

“Never mind the Kangl Get me a damage report on my ship! ”

The phone from Engineering rang just then, and the OOD took the damage report: “Kilo- and Ku-band fire-control radar array and X-band targeting radar for the Granit missiles hit, sir,” the officer of the deck reported. “No casualties, no injuries. The flight deck is clear.”

Thank the stars, Yi murmured to himself. Yi had never before been in combat — he had been based ashore during the Philippine and Vietnamese naval conflicts — and the speed of the attack, combined with the sudden realization that this big high-tech steel ship was vulnerable and they were very far from friendly shores, was beginning to invade his consciousness, replacing pure, abject fear with all other thoughts about his crew and his ship. “Very well.” He slammed that phone down and picked up the one to his Combat Information Center. “Combat, bridge. Status report.”

“SA-N-9 antiaircraft system is down to optronic guidance only,” the combat officer responded. “Granit targeting system is degraded. We can tie it to the India- or Sierra-band navigation _radars for target acquisition — as long as the target does not go outside the missile’s sixty-degree seeker cone, it will track by itself.”

Yi had to consciously straighten his shoulders and force himself to think to keep from panicking. “Very well. I want a full damage-control report, weapons stations first. Switch to backup fire-control sensors.”

“Lookouts report missiles inbound! ” the quartermaster shouted suddenly. “Small missiles, one hundred meters above the water, slow speed, numerous missiles! Should we engage?”

Yi felt his knees buckle and his heart pound in his chest. Enough, dammit, enoughl “Signal the formation, secure all fire-control radars, now!” Yi shouted frantically. “Shut them down now\ Order the entire battle group to switch to manual or optronic fire control.” His instructions were carried out just in time, for a few seconds later Yi saw a small cruise missile streak overhead with a tiny whistling sound. It was performing a wide oval pattern about two hundred meters above the ship. “My God,” he muttered as another missile whistled past, orbiting a bit lower and in the opposite direction — it felt as if they were large irritating mosquitoes buzzing just out of reach. “Use the AK-630s and shoot those damn things down, damn you — but do not use fire-control radars!”

“What should we do, sir?” the officer of the deck asked. “The Kang and Changsha cannot attack without using their radars.”

“Be silent, damn you,” Yi shouted. “Have Missile Attack Squadron One move forward in the group and attack the Nationalist frigate using optronic sensors. That should keep it busy so it cannot launch any more missiles against us, and maybe we will get lucky and destroy it. I want every ship in this fleet to go on the attack and destroy that rebel frigate immediately!”

Those small missiles must have been launched by a submarine or stealth aircraft, Admiral Yi thought. His long-range radars were not the best, but if there were any normal aircraft within a hundred kilometers or any subs within five kilometers, they would have detected them. That means that Taiwan was getting assistance — and with weapons that sophisticated, that assistance had to be from the United States.

“Any word from Beijing?” Yi asked.

“Beijing advises that a message is being relayed through the Army Air Force and Navy to provide support so that we may have some coverage in case Taiwan launches attack aircraft.”

Yi swore again, then said, “I want whatever air support the PLA can provide out to support us immediately,” Admiral Yi shouted. “Is that clear? Patrol aircraft, helicopters, gliders, I do not care! Tell Beijing in the strongest possible way to get us some air support! What about our fighters?”

“Interceptor One is ready to launch, sir.” Yi looked out toward the flight deck. They had modified the takeoff positions on the carrier to allow up to three fighters to take off nearly simultaneously: the first fighter started at the holdback position farthest to port on the 195-meter launch point; another waited at the number two holdback launch position on the 210-meter spot at the port fantail; and a third fighter was being steered into position at the number three launch position at the starboard fantail position. The first Su-33 ran its engines up to full afterburner power, the steel wheel chocks retracted into the deck, and the fighter accelerated down the flight deck, then up onto the “ski jump” and into the sky. Once the first fighter cleared the bow, the second fighter began its takeoff run. The first fighter disappeared from view for a few moments as its momentum carried it down, but seconds later it could be seen gracefully arcing through the sky. Ten seconds later, the second Sukhoi-33 was airborne, chasing its leader.

“Get Interceptor Two up on deck and ready to go as soon as Interceptor One finds that American bomber,” Yi ordered. “Find that American stealth bomber! ”

The NIRTSat radar satellite reconnaissance system used six low-orbiting satellites, with as many as three taking high-resolution “snapshots” of the desired target area simultaneously, then combining them electronically into a three-dimensional picture. But taking and processing these high-tech snapshots took time, sometimes as long as two minutes. McLanahan s supercockpit display system could predict the movement of ships and aircraft based on their previous position, heading, and speed, but in the heat of battle, two minutes was a very long time to be without up-to- date information.

As soon as the newest hi-res photo came in, McLanahan was on the interphone. “The carrier is launching fighters,” he reported excitedly. “I’m picking up two heading north and climbing fast, passing five thousand feet. And I’ve got several small escorts overtaking the northern destroyer. Looks like they might be geting into launch position. Stand by, crew, radar coming on.” He moved the cursor on the supercockpit display, designated all of the vessels closest to the Taiwanese frigate, then hit the computer command button: “Identify.”

WARNING, ATTACK RADAR SWITCHING TO RADIATE… WARNING, ATTACK RADAR RADIATING… ATTACK RADAR SWITCHING TO STANDBY, the computer reported. In three seconds, the powerful Inverse Synthetic Aperture Radar on the EB-52 Megafortress measured each vessel in three dimensions with six-inch accuracy. It took another twenty seconds for the computer to compare each ship’s measurements to the data in its memory files and identify each ship, along with its primary weapon and electronic fit.

The computer read off its search results: TARGET SIX IS JIANGWEI–CLASS FRIGATE, it announced in a very human-sounding female voice. ANTIAIR HQ-61 FOG LAMP, 100-MILLIMETER RICE LAMP DIRECTOR, 30-MILLIMETER ROUND BALL. ANTI-SHIP EIGHT EACH YJ-1 SQUARE TIE, 100-MILLIMETER SUN VISOR, 30-MILLIMETER SUN VISOR. TARGETS THREE, FOUR, SEVEN, NINE, HUANGFENG-CLASS GUIDED-MISSILE BOATS. ANTIAIR, 30-MILLIMETER, ROUND BALL FIRE-CONTROL RADAR. ANTI-SHIP FOUR EACH HY-1, 30-MILLIMETER, TARGET FIVE AND EIGHT, HOUKU-CLASS MISSILE BOATS, ANTIAIR 25-MILLIMETER. ANTI-SHIP, TWO EACH HY-1.

“That middle frigate is a real threat for us,” McLanahan said. “We could easily be within range of that HQ-61.”

“The range of a Hong Qian-61 is only six miles, sir,” Vikram said. “I heard of an improved version with triple that range,” McLanahan offered. “That frigate might be carrying it.”

“An improved HQ-61? I never heard about that.”

“And what if it’s really a Crotale SAM system?”

“Crotale has a max range of eight miles,” Vikram said. “We’re twenty- six miles from the PLAN fleet.”

“Emitter, if you ever want to make captain someday,” Cheshire suggested, “just nod and say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

“Yes, sir,” Vikram complied.

“Good boy,” Cheshire said. McLanahan gave his DSO a thumbs-up.

“I don’t think the Tacit Rainbow attack deterred them,” Elliott said, with a smile. “I think we’re still an item of interest. Let ’em have the Wolverines.”

“Agreed,” McLanahan said. “Stand by for pylon missile launch, crew.” His fingers were flying over his touch-screen supercockpit display, designating nine vessels as targets. He then armed four of the attack- configured AGM-177 cruise missiles and programmed all four with all nine possible targets. The cruise missiles would attack the target list in order. If a target was not destroyed, it would attack; if missed, it would reattack; if destroyed, it v/ould move to the next target in the list. “Stand by for pylon missile launch, crew. Wings level.” McLanahan then hit the voice command button: “Launch commit Wolverines.”

WARNING, LAUNCH COMMIT PYLON LAUNCH ATTACK WOLVERINE MISSILES, the computer responded on interphone, then entered an automatic launch hold.

“Launch,” McLanahan ordered, canceling the launch hold. The Megafortress crew felt a slight shudder as the tiny bomb bays on the wing pylon weapons pods opened and four missiles were ejected into the slipstream. “Center up on the steering bug, pilot, heading zero-two-five to the refueling anchor point, and let’s get out of here.”

Admiral Sun Ji Guoming’s executive officer did not wait for a reply before hastily knocking on his superior’s office door and rushing in. The first deputy chief of staff was studying a large map of Taiwan and the east coast of China that had updated positions of several Chinese and Taiwanese military units depicted on it, including intelligence estimates of their size and strength. The aide bowed as Sun turned angrily toward him and said, “Sir!”

“I asked not to be disturbed!”

“Message sent here directly from East Fleet headquarters for the chief of staff,” the aide went on. “The commander of the carrier Mao is requesting assistance.”

“Assistance? Where is it? What’s happening?”

“In the Formosa Strait, fifty kilometers south of Quemoy Island. The admiral informs us that the Mao and its escorts have been ordered to halt and submit to an inspection by a frigate of the Taiwanese navy…”

“What?” Sun shouted, leaping to his feet in absolute shock and surprise. The carrier battle group was still at least a day from its attack staging position near the Nationalist-held island of Quemoy — it should still be well inside Chinese waters. The attack on Quemoy was not supposed to start for another week at the earliest! “You say they are being confronted by the Nationalist navy?”

“… and they are being supported by what they believe is an American stealth bomber firing cruise missiles! ”

Sun’s head snapped back to his aide as if he had heard a gunshot right behind him. “A stealth bomber? How do they know? Have they seen it?” “Intermittent radar contacts, but shortly thereafter a series of devastating anti-radar missile attacks,” the aide replied. “The weather is clear, their radars are operational, but they cannot detect the aircraft attacking them. The captain said he had no choice but to shut down all radar systems after he and one of his escorts, the Kang, were hit by antiradar cruise missiles that came out of nowhere.”

“Follow me,” Sun ordered, and he and his aide ran out of the office and onto the private elevator that took them down to the chief of staff’s underground command center. The command center was little more than a large radio shack, manned around the clock with communications specialists broken into four sections, representing the army, navy, air forces, and Second Artillery Corps, which controlled the land-based nuclear ballistic missiles. Except for exercises, it was rarely visited by anyone much above field grade rank, so it created quite a stir when Deputy Chief of Staff Admiral Sun Ji Guoming burst into the chamber and over to the chief of staff’s seat. “Senior controller! ” Sun shouted, as he put on his headset.

“Sir! ” a voice responded. “This is Major Dai, senior duty controller.”

“I want to speak with the commanding officer of the carrier Mao Zedong right now,” Sun ordered. “And put up a chart with locations of naval air units in the Quemoy area and unit resource report data on our Sukhoi- 27 wing.”

“Yes, sir,” Dai replied. In moments, a hastily sketched map of the Formosa Strait region went up on a rear-projection screen in front of Sun. “Sir, naval air units in current mission-ready status in the Quemoy region include the Nineteenth Air Wing at Quanzhou, with thirty J-6 fighter- attack planes, and the Seventh Air Wing at Juidongshan, with twenty- two J-6 fighters. In addition, the Fifty-first Air Wing at Fuzhou is operational with nineteen H-6 bombers.”

“I want all three wings put on immediate combat alert,” Sun said. “Any units on ready alert right now?”

Another long wait; then: “Negative, sir.”

“Beginning today, those three air wings shall have one-third of their flyable planes on twenty-four-hour combat alert,” Sun ordered. “I want as many J-6 fighters loaded with air-to-air weapons and cannon ammunition and launched as possible, and be sure they have functioning gun cameras. Their target is any unidentified aircraft in the vicinity of the Mao carrier group. What about the Sukhoi-27s?”

“The Second Air Wing at Haikou currently has twelve Su-27 fighters operational.”

“Twelve?” Sun retorted. “It was reported all forty planes allotted for combat operations were operational! Damn you, Major, it is the command section’s responsibility to see to it that the general staff has accurate information!” Dai stiffened and lowered his head in submission. It would be far too late to launch the Su-27s, Sun thought — the J-6s would have to do. “Get those J-6s airborne, and I want an Ilyushin-76 radar plane launched as well to assist in the search. Where is the chief of staff right now? ”

“I will check, sir,” the senior controller said. His staff was working more quickly now. “Sir, the chief of staff is in quarters. Shall I ring him?”

“Negative. Notify me at once when the chief of staff checks in with the command section.”

“Yes, sir… Sir, Admiral Yi on the carrier Mao is on channel two.” Sun switched his communications selector to the proper setting: “Admiral Yi, this is Admiral Sun. How do you copy?”

The transmission was heavy with static — obviously this was an HF shortwave radio patch, not a satellite hookup. “I read you, sir,” replied the voice. “Do you wish a status report?”

“Go ahead with your status report, Admiral.”

“We are in visual contact with a Taiwanese flagged warship, the Kin Men, a guided-missile frigate,” Yi reported in a loud voice, as if he were shouting across the sky. “The frigate has opened fire on my group, hitting the destroyer Kang with missile fire. The Kang suffered minor damage and is still operational. The Mao destroyed several inbound missiles with terminal defenses but was hit by small anti-radar missiles launched by a suspected stealth aircraft operating in the vicinity in concert with the rebel ship. Minor damage only. We are still operational. We attempted to return fire but have encountered heavy jamming and anti-radar cruise missile attacks, and we are currently running silent and relying on passive sensors. I have launched two fighters in air defense configuration. We are still in contact with the Nationalist vessel.”

“Have you made contact with the stealth aircraft?” Sun asked excitedly.

“Negative,” Yi replied. “We get intermittent radar contacts, but nothing solid. We are currently attempting to make contact via Optronics, and our fighters are airborne and beginning the search. Over.” “Admiral Yi, you will destroy that Nationalist frigate,” Sun ordered. “Order a full-scale attack by every vessel in your battle group. You are permitted to use every weapon in your arsenal…” He paused for a moment, then emphasized, “… every weapon. Do not allow that rebel frigate to escape under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Yi replied.

“Admiral Yi, you will then launch an immediate attack on Quemoy Island from long range,” Sun said. “Again, you are ordered and authorized to use every weapon in your arsenal. Do you understand?”

There was a very long pause, during which Sun thought they had been cut off; but then: “Comrade Sun, I must have clarification,” Admiral Yi radioed. “You are authorizing and ordering me to use any weapon in my battle group to attack and destroy the Nationalist military forces on Quemoy Tao. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Sun said. “Any and every weapon in your arsenal is free to use. Your attack will commence immediately. And find that stealth bomber and blow it out of the sky! ”

When Sun looked up after that interchange, he saw almost everyone in the command center staring at him. The senior controller’s eyes were bulging. “Sir… I am sure you are aware that the Mao battle group carries nuclear attack weapons. Your order to the Mao could be interpreted that you ordered a nuclear attack against—”

“I ordered nothing of the kind, Comrade Dai,” Sun said. “Only the minister of defense or the president can issue such an order, correct?” The senior controller nodded blankly. “Now, what I want is an immediate launch of those fighters. Crews should be responding to their planes by now. ”

“Yes, sir,” the aide said. “The alert has been issued. I shall type up the order and submit it to the chief of staff for his approval.”

Sun swung on his aide angrily and shouted, “Did I order you to type anything or submit anything to General Chin? I want those fighters in the air in less than thirty minutes — I will notify the general and get his approval. I want to be notified personally of every development immediately. Now, move!”

As the aide hurried off, Sun knew that he was never going to tell Chin or anyone else of this — until and unless the American stealth bomber was brought down. Then his hope was to personally deliver a gun camera tape of an American stealth bomber being shot down to President Jiang — and use it to begin his campaign to rid China’s waters of the United States and its lackeys.

In attack mode, AGM-177 Wolverine missiles moved too fast to be tracked by NIRTSat satellite snapshots, but the missile’s datalink information allowed McLanahan to watch in absolute fascination as the missiles closed rapidly on their quarries.

All Wolverine missiles were programmed to execute a turn shortly after launch so the enemy could not simply trace the missile’s flight path directly back to its launch point; missiles coming from many different directions also made it appear as if there were more attackers out there. Each Wolverine missile executed its “dogleg” as it glided down from launch altitude to sea-skimming altitude, between fifty and one hundred feet above the sea, guided by a pencil-thin radar beam that precisely measured the distance from the belly of the missile to the waves. During the glide, the missile automatically opened its turbojet engine air inlets and exhausts, warmed up the electronics for its radar and imaging infrared sensors, and activated its threat sensors, countermeasures system, and GPS satellite navigation system. With the GPS locked on to at least three satellites, it now had target circular error accuracy of less than thirty feet; once it locked onto eight satellites, its navigation precision was good to within six inches in both position and altitude. Just before reaching its cruise altitude, the computer commanded the turbojet engine to start, accelerating the missile to over four hundred miles an hour.

With a ripple of microhydraulically controlled skin, the Wolverine missile turned on a dime and headed for its first target. Once lined up on target, it activated its radar for just two seconds and compared the range to the target received from the radar to the range to target on its navigational flight plan — the two figures were within seven feet of each other. The missile sampled the GPS navigation information again, then took a longer radar fix of the target, getting bearing as well as range— now the two were within two feet of each other. Satisfied, the missile signaled back to the EB-52 Megafortress that it was on course and ready to attack.

Patrick McLanahan opened a new computer window on his large supercockpit display, then ordered the sensor feed from the missile displayed in the window. The radar image showed a bright white rectangle, with the missile’s sensor’s crosshairs centered on it. McLanahan switched to imaging infrared, and a small orange speck appeared; magnified, McLanahan could discern the long, gracefully swept bow, tall amidships superstructure, and huge bow-mounted 100-millimeter gun of the big Chinese Jiangwei-class guided-missile frigate. McLanahan ordered the missile to alter course to align itself with the longitudinal axis of the Chinese frigate for its attack.

Just then, a bright orange circle superimposed itself on the Chinese frigate’s icon on the supercockpit display; simultaneously, Vikram called out, “Foxtrot-band air search radar up…” Then, a few seconds later, along with a slow-paced deedle… deedle… deedle! warning tone: “… India-band target tracking radar…”

“Looks like they’re locked onto all four Wolverine missiles,” McLanahan said.

Suddenly they heard a fast-pitched deedledeedledeedle! warning tone in their headsets. “Missile launch!” Vikram shouted. “No uplink bearings in our direction… second missile launch… three, four missiles in the air, tracking the Wolverines… X-band gun control radars up on the patrol boats, looks like they got a lock-on too. Shit, looks like every Wolverine missile is an item of interest.”

“Pick up my window numbers twenty and twenty-one,” McLanahan suggested, “and watch the Wolverines in action.”

The instant the first Hong Qian-61 antiaircraft missile left the Chinese frigate’s rails, the Wolverine missile immediately matched bearings to the uplink signal’s bearing, which meant that both missiles were heading nose-to-nose. Then, an instant before impact, the Wolverine missile accelerated to its top speed of 600 miles an hour, released bundles of radar-decoying chaff and infrared-decoy flares, and jinked away, using its mission-adaptive fuselage to turn twice as fast as the antiair missile could possibly turn. The HQ-61 missile still had a solid radar lock and hit— on the cloud of chaff.

As soon as it executed the first twenty-G turn, the Wolverine missile immediately dropped more chaff and flares and executed another turn toward its first target. It picked up the “Round Ball” fire-control radar trying to track it, and dropped more chaff and flares. The gunners aboard the Chinese Huangfeng-class patrol boat opened fire with their 30-millimeter guns, shredding the chaff cloud with hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Seconds later, the Wolverine missile, untouched, sped overhead and dropped its first bomb-bay load of thirty-six baseball-size bomblets. The Wolverine missile couldn’t fully align with the vessel’s longitudinal axis after evading the gunfire, so only about half of the bomblets hit the vessel — but it was enough to cause a fire in two of the patrol boat’s Hong-Yang-1 anti-ship missile canisters. With the two port launch canisters on fire and the two starboard canisters damaged, the skipper of the patrol boat had no choice but to stop his attack run and jettison all four of his missiles overboard before they exploded and sank his ship. With nothing but his 30-millimeter gun remaining, he was effectively out of the fight.

The same Wolverine missile did better on the second and third PLAN patrol boats. Instead of crossing perpendicular to the target’s path, the missile scattered its second load of bomblets directly down the second vessel’s centerline. The two aft HY-1 missile canisters exploded, driving the vessel’s stern down, then flipping the 173-ton patrol boat end- over-end through the air before crashing down into the sea. The Wolverine’s third target, a lightly armed but faster sixty-eight-ton Houku-class patrol boat, managed to start a fast turn toward its stricken partner just as the Wolverine began dropping bomblets, so only a few of the one- pound bomblets hit the ship, causing minor damage. The Wolverine’s final suicide-attack target, the lead Jiangwei-class frigate, finally stopped it with a double punch from two HQ-61 antiaircraft missiles and murderous fire from the frigate’s two starboard 30_:millimeter guns.

But even as advanced as the Jiangwei-class frigate was, its biggest fault was its downfall — its lack of antiaircraft armament. The Jiangwei had a single Hong Qian-61 sextuple missile launcher forward — only six missiles, and no magazine reloads. The frigate fired one missile at each Wolverine missile shortly after they got within range, then fired the last two at the first Wolverine missile to get close. It stopped that Wolverine — but two more Wolverines, attacking from different directions, struck the frigate with 250-pound warheads after successfully attacking their assigned primary targets with bomblets.

The fourth Wolverine missile used the success of its three brothers to score the biggest hits. With all of its previous targets already hit and disabled, the fourth Wolverine had the luxury of expending all of its weapons — three bomb bays full of cluster bombs, plus a 250-pound penetrating blast warhead — on the Jiangwei-class frigate alone. McLanahan switched his supercockpit window to the sensor view of the fourth Wolverine missile; the rest of the crew called up repeater views of the strike sensor on their multifunction displays and watched as the last Wolverine dropped its first load of cluster munition directly on centerline, circled around, dropped again, circled in the opposite direction, dodged some cannon fire, dropped its last load of cluster bombs in the stern area of the frigate, executed an impossibly sharp triangular course reversal, and plowed into the frigate just a few feet above the waterline, directly amidships on the starboard side.

“Shit! Did you see that?” Nancy Cheshire shouted. “That thing was alive! I saw at least a dozen fires on that ship before the last hit! Excellent!”

“Oh… my…,” was all Vikram could say.

“Let’s get out of here, pilots,” McLanahan said. “We’re supposed to be on our way to the air refueling track.”

“High-speed aircraft climbing rapidly, now at two o’clock, twenty- three miles, heading north,” Emil Vikram reported. Vikram’s threat scope was a duplicate of McLanahan’s God’s-eye view, but it displayed only air-borne targets — the sudden appearance of two high-performance fighters less than thirty miles away were the main targets. “Nav radars fired up on the carrier, bearings locking on the Kin Men—I think they might be able to use their nav radars to target the Taiwanese frigate. That carrier might be ready to let go with a big salvo. Sun Visor fire-control radars from the second destroyer locking on the Kin Men too.”

“I’m going within Scorpion missile range of the frigate,” Brad Elliott said. “We’ll back up the frigates antiair weapons. Patrick, we’ve got to attack that carrier now. There’s no way it’ll get away unless we attack! And if it launches more fighters, we’ll be sitting ducks! ”

“Brad, we are already in deep shit by launching those Wolverines,” McLanahan argued, looking over the top of his instrument panel to look at Elliott in the pilot’s seat. “My nose is cold until we get—”

“Missile launch! I’ve got two missiles lifting off from the Mao… going supersonic! ” Vikram shouted. “Two Granit missiles on the way! ”

“Dammit!” McLanahan shouted. “Emitter, can you get them?”

“I’ve got them!” the defensive systems operator shouted. “I’ve got the missiles! ” He touched the Granit missile’s symbols, then touched the command trigger on his interphone panel and said, “Launch commit Scorpions one and two.”

WARNING, WARNING, LAUNCH COMMIT SCORPION MISSILES. Then, after a few seconds: missiles away. At that instant, one AIM-120 radar-guided missile leapt off a wing pylon from each wing and streaked toward the Chinese anti-ship missiles.

“The Kin Men is launching missiles!” McLanahan shouted. “Stand by for a second salvo from the—”

“I’ve got a second salvo from the carrier! ” Vikram shouted. “Another two Granit missiles lifting off… Square Tie radar down, must’ve got hit by a Rainbow missile… looks like the Taiwanese frigate is firing more antiaircraft missiles… Sun Visor radar down…” Vikram immediately fired another two Scorpion missiles at the Chinese anti-ship missiles.

“Range to the lead destroyer is down to twenty miles,” McLanahan warned. “Let’s do a left turn to reposition. Left turn heading one-six-zero. We’ll go out two minutes, then—”

Suddenly, Vikram shouted, “Another missile launching from the Mao … this one going ballistic! They’re launching an M-11 missile! Missile heading toward the mainland… turning east, heading for Quemoy… another missile lifting off! Two M-11 missiles in the air!”

McLanahan shouted, “Brad!” but Elliott already had the EB-52 Megafortress in a hard right turn. “Lock ’em up, Emitter! You’ve only got a few seconds…”

“They’re out of range!” Vikram shouted. The M-ll missiles were huge 13,000-pound solid-fuel rockets; they lifted off slowly but accelerated quickly and flew to much higher altitudes.and speeds than anti-ship cruise missiles. “Dammit, I missed them!”

“Get ready in case they launch a second salvo! ” McLanahan shouted. “We—”

“Shit, I’ve got that lead Chinese destroyer in sight!” copilot Nancy Cheshire shouted. While they were focusing on the Chinese M-ll missile launch, they had drifted to within twelve miles of the Chinese destroyer Kang—and there it was, right in front of them, way out on the horizon but close enough to see its enormous size. “Continue right turn, let’s get out of here! ”

“Missile launch!” Vikram shouted. “Second salvo of M-ll missiles in the air! ” But he was ready for them this time — within two seconds of detecting the launch, two Scorpion missiles were in the air chasing them down. But seconds later, they heard a dee die dee die dee die! warning tone in their headsets. “Missile launch!” Vikram shouted. “That destroyer launched Crotale missiles on us!"

“Full countermeasures!” Elliott shouted. Vikram immediately activated the EB-52’s AN/ALQ-199 MAWS (Missile Approach and Warning System), which used rear- and side-looking radars to search for the incoming missiles. Once the radars locked onto the incoming missiles, the computer system automatically ejected chaff and flare decoys to try to steer the incoming enemy missiles away. At the same time, tiny laser emitters popped up from the Megafortress’s fuselage and fired beams of laser energy at the missiles, attempting to blind the missile’s sensitive seeker heads.

The Chinese destroyer Kang had shut down its tracking radars because of the Tacit Rainbow anti-radar missiles buzzing around, so the only guidance left for the Crotale missiles was their own heat-seeking sensors, which were sensitive both to decoys and to the MAWS laser beams. One by one, the French-built Crotale missiles were diverted safely away from the Megafortress, and they crashed harmlessly into the sea.

“Kang reports launching Crotale missiles at extreme range on a large multi-engine aircraft that closed to within sixteen kilometers of their position,” the officer of the deck reported to Admiral Yi on the bridge of the carrier Mao. “They also reported spotting anti-missile decoy flares on the horizon. They have lost contact.”

Admiral Yi was already on the communications links, taking reports from squadron leaders in his fleet. “Hit? Hit by what? We detected no missile launches from the Nationalist frigate.”

“They appeared out of nowhere, sir,” the skipper of the Jiangwei-class frigate 542 reported. “Four large high-speed targets, all from different bearings, all around us. We fired -61s, but they all missed; we tracked them with fire-control systems, but they evaded our gunners. Patrol boat 1107 destroyed and lost with all hands. Patrol boats 1209 and 1136 on fire. Minor damage to patrol boat 1332. We have suffered major damage, one fire on deck three starboard not yet under control, one hole just above the waterline. We are being assisted by patrol 1108.”

“Were they fighters? Maybe rebel F-16s dropping bombs?”

“Sir, I have never seen aircraft move like that,” the skipper replied. “I swear to you, sir, they seemed to be able to move at right angles, as if they were on rails. They were subsonic, but we could not track them— our antennas could not move fast enough! ”

It had to be some American secret weapon, Yi told himself as he blankly hung up the phone. Unless the Nationalists were getting help from cosmic sea gods, that was the only explanation — some kind of high- maneuverability air-launched missile fired by the American bomber. “Vector the fighters to the last bearing of those flares,” Admiral Yi ordered.

“Bridge, Combat,” the intercom blared. “Fighters have made visual contact! They report contact with an American B-52 bomber! ”

Yi s mouth dropped open in surprise. A B-52, a nearly forty-year-old plane — and it had wreaked havoc throughout his battle group. “Shoot it down! ” Yi shouted. “Tell those pilots to engage! I want to pick up that plane’s wreckage and show it for all the world to see! ” He then concentrated on his watch. “Missile flight time?” he shouted.

“Forty seconds to first detonation, sir,” the quartermaster responded.

“Sound collision,” Yi ordered. “Signal the battle group to sound collision.” The alarm bells began ringing all across the ship; down below, men put the final clamps and cables on the helicopters up on deck and began clearing the flight decks.

“Got ’em!” Vikram shouted. “Crotales no factor… Scorpions closing in on the M-11s!” He watched in fascination as the AIM-120 Scorpion missile’s icons quickly and smoothly merged with the Chinese M-ll ballistic missile icons. What incredible power! Vikram thought gleefully. We’re shooting down ballistic missiles, shutting down radars, turning away antiaircraft missiles, and getting ready to blow a carrier out—”

“Fighters!” Nancy Cheshire suddenly shouted out on interphone. “Two fighters at eleven o’clock high! They’ve got us in sight! ” Just then, the threat receiver came to life with a fast, high-pitched deedledee- dledeedle! and a female aural “Missile launch… missile launch… missile launch! ” warning. At the same time, streams of radar-decoying chaff and heat-seeking missile decoy flares began automatically ejecting from both internal tail ejectors. At the same time, Elliott grabbed the control stick and hauled it over hard left with his left hand, then jammed the throttles on the center throttle console to full military power.

Emil Vikram’s fingers were flying over his defensive weapon controls, immediately activating the ALQ-199 HAVE GLANCE active countermeasures system. On the Megafortress’s raised dorsal pod, tiny radar emitters popped up, slaved themselves to the enemy aircraft bearing from the threat receiver, and began tracking first the larger fighters and then the smaller, faster-moving Pen Lung-9 air-to-air missiles fired by the People’s Republic of China People’s Liberation Army Air Force Su-33 carrier- based fighters. As the missiles closed to within a mile, the ALQ-199 MAWS active countermeasures pods began firing laser beams at the missiles, blinding the sensitive radar sensors in the missile’s nosecap. Any PL- 9 missiles not decoyed by the chaff bundles or flares were hit by the lasers.

“Get on the horn, get some help up here!” Elliott shouted. “Clear on all weapons!”

Ignoring secure communications procedures, Cheshire activated the satellite transceiver and called, “Buster, this is Headbanger, we’re under attack, two Sukhoi-33s!”

“Copy, Headbanger,” Samson replied. “We’re trying to contact the ROC Air Force for assistance. Use everything you got to get out of there. Stand by.” The Megafortress crew got very quiet — they knew that help was very far away, and they were on their own.

“Stand by for AMRAAM launch!” Vikram shouted on interphone. The Sukhoi-33 s began a lazy right turn right in front of the Megafortress— they were obviously not expecting a counterattack by such a large, lumbering target. Vikram quickly locked up both Su-33s on the EB-52’s modified APG-73 attack radar from less than five miles away. “Roll wings level… birds leaving the rails, now. ” In two-second intervals, the last two AIM-120 Scorpion AMRAAMs streaked off the left and right weapon pod launchers, and at less than six miles the medium-range active- guidance missiles were almost unstoppable. “Splash two!” Vikram shouted.

“How about that, Emitter — you’re a damned ace!” Cheshire said.

“Don’t start congratulating each other yet — I’ve got two more carrier fighters airborne,” McLanahan said. “Emitter, do you have contact on—?”

Ccrraacckkl

Suddenly it seemed as if every molecule of air in the cabin were sizzling and popping like electrified popcorn. The interphone began to crack and sputter with loud static. Several aircraft systems popped offline, although all four engines continued to run perfectly.

“Hey, I just got some kind of spike in the electrical system,” Nancy Cheshire reported. “Number two generator’s off-line, essential bus B breakers popped. Check your systems, guys, before I reset.”

“What was that?” Vikram asked nervously. “I never got any spike like that before.”

“Just check your systems, D-so,” Elliott responded. “Station check. Cabin altitude is eight thousand… fuel system…” Just then, a terrific rumbling reverberated through the Megafortress, followed by a tremendous buffeting. Unsecured charts and checklist booklets flew through the cabin, and anyone who didn’t have their lap belts tightly snugged down felt the tops of their helmets bounce off the ceiling. “Jesus!” Elliott gasped as he tightened his grip on the control stick. “We running through a typhoon, or what? Anybody got anything?”

“I’ve got my stuff in standby,” McLanahan reported. “I suggest a heading of dead east. Let’s get some distance from that Chinese battle group until we get our gear back on-line. Emitter, get your switches in standby so Nancy can get that generator back on. Brad, let’s ask the Kin Men if he’s got anything.”

“Rog,” Elliott said, switching radios: “Gabriel, this is Headbanger, how copy? Gabriel, this is Headbanger on Fleet Two.” Deciding that Captain Sung had dispensed with the code words by now, Elliott tried, “Captain Sung, this is Headbanger, you read?”

Just then, there was another sudden snapp! of energy that raced through the Megafortress — but this time, in a right turn toward the east, Elliott saw what caused it: “Holy shit, crew, I just saw a bright flash off to the northwest through the clouds! Jesus… oh man, I think it was a nuclear explosion! ” He watched in horror as concentric rings of pure white clouds began to form far off on the horizon. The circular clouds raced across the sky, slowly dissipating as they got closer, until they disappeared — but moments later, another rumble and a hard shudder coursed through the big bomber. “I think that was the shock wave, crew. I think Quemoy got hit by a nuclear explosion! ”

“That shock was much less than the first one,” McLanahan said. “We’re a good forty miles from Quemoy — but we were only about ten miles from the Kin Men. I’ll be able to tell once my radar is back on-line, but the NIRTSat recon system isn’t showing the Kin Men on the board, and we can’t raise it by radio.”

“The Kin Men got hit by a nuclear anti-ship missile,” Cheshire stated flatly. The entire crew was stunned into silence, and no one argued with Nancy Cheshire on this point. A few years earlier, Nancy Cheshire had been flying in that very same seat in the very same EB-52 Megafortress (but before Jon Masters’s new modifications), on a mission over Belarus during the Lithuania-Belarus conflict. They had used an AIM-120 Scorpion missile to shoot down an SS-21 surface-to-surface nuclear missile that had been launched by pro-Soviet forces against the Lithuanian capital of Vilnius — and, it turned out, against the Belarussian capital of Minsk, in an attempt to kill any anti-Soviet supporters and heat up the Cold War once again. Cheshire had been on board the EB-52 when the SS-21 had missile created a partial nuclear yield just twenty miles away, temporarily blinding her. Her crew had barely managed to fly the crippled bomber to safety in Norway. “We don’t have anything to protect here anymore. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Let’s get a piece of that carrier and the destroyer first,” Elliott said angrily. “Son of a bitch, we should put that thing on the bottom of the ocean right now for what they’ve done! ”

“Brad, forget about the carrier and give me a hard right turn to the east,” McLanahan interjected. “We’ve got to get out of the area until we sort out our avionics problems and get some guidance on—”

“Fighters!” Cheshire shouted again. “Just above our altitude, nine o’clock, about five miles! You got ’em, Emitter?”

“I don’t have anything!” Vikram shouted in a high-pitched voice filled with fear. “No radar, no Scorpion missiles…”

“Relax, Emitter,” McLanahan said. “Get your stuff back on and let’s see what we got. Check your tail cannon, see if you have control of the airmines.”

Vikram turned all of his equipment to OFF, waited a few seconds instead of a few minutes, then turned them directly back to ON instead of waiting to warm them up in STBY. He then activated his helmet-mounted “virtual” steering controls for the Stinger tail defense airmine rockets. The B-52’s old .50-caliber or 20-millimeter tail guns, which had been removed a few years earlier along with the gunner, had been replaced on the EB-52 Megafortress with an 80-millimeter launcher that fired radar- or radio-controlled rockets. The rockets, called “airmines,” were detonated either automatically or by manual command out to nearly four miles; they contained dozens of tungsten steel cubes that could shred aircraft skin or shell out an engine if sucked into an engine inlet.

Vikram experimentally moved the airmine cannon by moving his head — wherever he “looked,” the cannon pointed in that direction. Right now the display was blank, except for the azimuth and elevation readouts, the missiles-remaining counter at 50, and the status readouts, which all read ON with flashing red letters except for the cannon itself, which read ok in green letters. “Looks like the cannon is okay,” he reported. “But the radars and datalink are still down. How can I track them if I can’t see them?”

“They’re coming around!” Elliott shouted. “Three o’clock, same altitude, about five miles.”

“If that’s all the information you got, Emitter, that’s what you use,” McLanahan said. “You’ve got to visualize where the fighters are, then lay the airmines out there and detonate them manually where you think the fighters will be.”

“But I don’t understand how—”

“There’s nothing to understand, Emitter — just do it!” McLanahan shouted. “Now!”

Vikram focused his attention on the virtual gunnery display. He tried to imagine the fighters rolling in hard toward their target, arming missiles or guns, tightening the turn, decreasing the range… and then he pulled the trigger three times. A loud bang bang bang! and a brief, sharp shudder rocked the EB-52. In his virtual display, he saw three large circles moving away from him; the size of the circle represented the range from the bomber and decreased as the rocket got farther away… except the circle size did not decrease. Vikram moved his head to steer the first missile — nothing. He punched the detonate button with his right thumb — again, no indication that the missile had detonated.

“I think the radio link to the missile is down,” Vikram said.

“Then don’t try to manually steer or detonate the missiles,” McLanahan said. “Prearm all the missiles to detonate at two miles — you’ll just have to start pumping them out across the whole rear quadrant.”

“But I won’t know if I hit anything,” Vikram protested as he punched in new arming instructions for all the remaining rockets. “Sounds like a waste of airmines.”

“If you don’t stop those fighters, Emitter, we’ll waste a hell of a lot more than a few airmines,” McLanahan said. “Start pumping them out.” Quickly but methodically, Vikram started laying down lines of airmine rockets, describing a figure-eight pattern centered on the Megafortress’s tail. The crew heard several loud pops! and a sharp, hard rumble through the plane as the cannon fired the rockets into the sky.

“Bandit, nine o'clock!” Elliott shouted on interphone. “He’s firing guns!” The fourth Su-33 fighter had broken off his wingman’s position when the leader had seen the exploding airmines and circled around, both Chinese fighters staying well away from the bomber’s tail. Vikram swung the turret left, and fired. Elliott tried to help by breaking hard right to put the fighter back into the airmine cannon’s lethal envelope, but not in time. Several 23-millimeter cannon shells hit the Megafortress’s number four engine, causing it to disintegrate in the blink of an eye. The engine-monitoring computers immediately sensed the turbine overspeed and shut the engine down before it exploded. But the sudden loss of the right outboard engine, coupled with the steep right turn and full thrust on the left engines, threw the Megafortress into a steeper right break…

… too tight: the turn steepened, the airspeed decreased, the angle of attack increased, and the tight turn quickly wrapped into a 5G accelerated stall. The crew felt the rumble of the stall along the huge wings, felt the rumble deepen as the departed slipstream banged first on the spoilers, then the fuselage, then felt the neck-jarring jolts as the slipstream grabbed the V-tail assembly and rocked the bomber in both pitch and yaw simultaneously. No matter how much the pilots moved the control stick, the bomber would not respond — all of the control surfaces had been immobilized by a 300-knot blast of disrupted air, acting like a huge whirlpool slamming the bomber in every direction at once.

“Wings level! Wings level!” Cheshire shouted. The Megafortress was still in a one-hundred-degree right bank, and it felt as if it was tipping farther right, threatening to roll upside down.

“Controls won’t respond!” Elliott shouted on interphone. “No response!”

“We got it, we got it! ” Cheshire shouted cross-cockpit. She still did not have time to put on her oxygen mask. The fire #4 warning lights came on, but in the Megafortress that was only an advisory — the aircraft had already responded to the fire, shutting down the engine, activating the firefighting system, and rerouting fuel, hydraulic, bleed air, pneumatic, and electrical systems away from the stricken engine. “Damn, we lost number four!” Cheshire shouted. “Number four’s already shut down! General, try airbrakes. Bring the power back to idle. Emitter, nail that fighter, for Christ’s sake! ”

“My gear’s in reset, Nance!” Atkins shouted back on interphone. “I’m blind for the next ninety seconds! ”

“Stand by,” Elliott responded. “Airbrakes six, power coming back…” All of the crew members were thrown forward into their shoulder straps as the airspeed rapidly bled off. Elliott held the control stick full forward, easing it slightly left every few seconds to test if the controls were responding. At first it felt as if the nose was rising, threatening to send them into a tail-first spin right into the sea, but a few long, tense seconds later, the nose tucked under and the artificial horizon attitude indicator stopped its tumble. Elliott applied slight left rudder and left bank, and the left wing came down slightly. In very, very gradual increments, he fed in left bank, being extra careful not to bleed off any of the slowly increasing airspeed. He felt a slight rumble in the wings and fuselage and lowered the airbrakes. The rumble remained — they were still right at the initial buffet, right at the edge of the stall.

“Passing five thousand!” Cheshire shouted.

As the bank decreased below forty degrees, Elliott smoothly began reapplying power, and the airspeed increased faster. Now, with the wings almost level, the nose down below the horizon, and airspeed increasing, he slowly began feeding in back pressure to decrease the rate of descent. At first there was no response — their airspeed had decreased below flying speed, way below — so he held the stick forward and fed in a bit more power.

“Four thousand feet! ”

Another try — this time, Elliott felt pressure on the stick as he pulled, and he kept the back pressure in until he felt it mush again, then released. The nose was ten degrees below the horizon now, and the stall buffeting was all but gone. A bit more back pressure… no, too much, forward again, nose moving down, airspeed increasing, good… a bit more back, wings level, good, no mushing, a bit more back pressure, pitch up to eight degrees, six degrees…

“Three thousand feet!”

Elliott slowly began moving the throttles forward. Power spooling up to one hundred percent, another try for more altitude… good, nose coming up to four degrees, almost level, airspeed still rising, descent rate decreasing… “Two thousand… one thousand… Jesus, Brad, you got it?”

There! Nose on the horizon, airspeed right at takeoff speed, wings level — they were flying again! Elliott looked up from his airspeed indicator and saw how close they got to the ocean… shit, the waves looked close enough to be spraying salt water on them! The radar altimeter read 200 feet, just barely out of the cushion of air known as ground effect. They were flying! “I got it, crew, I got it,” Elliott said triumphantly. Airspeed was above 200 knots, so he lifted the nose above the horizon, and the radar altimeter started up… 250, 300, well out of ground effect now and we’re still flying and airspeed’s still incr—

The 23-millimeter shells from the Chinese Sukhoi-33’s gun attack stitched a single line of inch-wide holes along the upper fuselage of the Megafortress beginning just aft of the trailing edge of the right wing, straight up and across the crew compartment. The steel shells punctured the avionics “canoe” on the fuselage just before tearing into the aft and center body fuel tanks, causing a terrific explosion. The shells continued through the crew compartment, piercing Emil Vikram’s ejection seat and shredding his head, body, instrument panel, and left-side fuselage area, missing McLanahan and Elliott by only inches. A scream erupted from McLanahan’s lips as he watched his partner get blown to pieces right before his eyes. Vikram’s chest looked as ragged and raw as an old scarecrow — thankfully, the pieces of his helmet hid his decimated head. Blood spattered against the forward crew compartment and left-side cockpit windows just before the left windows disintegrated. The crew cabin explosively decompressed, creating a sudden solid fog in the cockpit, then a virtual hurricane of thundering wind and violent sound. Brad Elliott was thrown to the right as his head and upper torso took the entire brunt of the hurricane-force winds ripping through the blasted left cockpit windows.

Through her screams of terror and shock, copilot Major Nancy Cheshire’s training took over. She was battered by the hurricane-force slipstream and shocked by the explosions ripping through her plane, but she managed to focus on her one and only priority: flying the airplane. Everything else had to wait. Still two hundred feet above the South China Sea, the EB-52 Megafortress was still flying and still accelerating, so she held on to those two facts with every ounce of her skill, experience, and strength. The wings were still attached, three of the plane’s four engines were still running and still producing smash, and they hadn’t hit the rock-solid ocean yet — and it was her job to keep it that way.

“Guard your throttles!” she heard a voice thunder. Just as she laid her hands on the throttle quadrant, Patrick McLanahan reached across the center console and began unbuckling Elliott’s lap belt and parachute harness straps. “You okay, Nancy?” McLanahan shouted over the wind- blast.

“Yes!” she shouted back. She didn’t dare take her eyes off her instruments, but out of the corner of her eyes she saw McLanahan detach Elliott from his ejection seat, drag him out of the pilot’s seat, lay him down on the deck between the pilot’s seats and instrument console, hook up his oxygen mask and interphone cord, turn his regulator to oxygen 100 %, and begin checking his wounds.

“How is he, Patrick?” Cheshire asked.

“He looks okay,” McLanahan replied. “A few cuts on the left side of his face and shoulders.” He quickly wrapped bandages from a first-aid kit around the worst-looking wounds. Thankfully McLanahan had thought to detach the man from his seat rather than simply undo his shoulder straps, because now Elliott had a parachute on and at least had a fighting chance to eject or do a manual bailout if they got hit. “How are you doing up there?”

“I feel like I’m suddenly flying an ambulance plane rather than a bomber. ”

“Can the wisecracks, co,” McLanahan snapped — but he was happy that Nancy Cheshire was still cracking wise. If she was too quiet or too serious, it was an indication they were in serious trouble! Satisfied that Elliott was breathing on his own and secured the best he could be, he crawled back into his seat and called up the aircraft systems status page on his supercockpit display. “Number four’s shut down, no further fire indications,” he announced, acting as copilot while his only other surviving crew member flew the plane. “Successful fuel system transfer, successful hydraulic and electrical shunts. Auto transferring fuel from the fuselage and mains to the wings, because I think we’re leaking fuel.”

“We’re on the deck at mil power and four hundred knots, and I think that’s all we’re going to get out of her,” Cheshire added. “We’ve lost the left-side windscreen and all of the left-side controls and indicators. At least it’s warm out there.”

“Defense is tits-up,” McLanahan reported after doing a status check on the defensive suite. “All weapons went into emergency safety shutdown with the engine fire. I’m going to reset everything. Radar should be up in ninety seconds. If we still have weapons, they’ll be up in two minutes. Nav systems successfully reset and reloaded. All weapons went into emergency safety shutdown.”

“What about those fighters out there, Muck?” Cheshire asked.

“If we can see him and track him on the attack radar, there’s a chance,” McLanahan said as he started to check his own equipment. But a few seconds later: “I’ve got no-go lights on all internal and external weapons, Nance — they might’ve been hit by a bullet or damaged by the fire. Looks like we got squat. Left turn heading zero-four-five, co. We’re heading right for Taiwan. If we got any help out there, that’s where they’ll be. I’ll do another restart, but I think my stuff is dead.”

“Any contact with the Taiwanese air force?” Cheshire asked on interphone.

McLanahan tried all the radios. “Negative,” he responded. “The electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear explosions shut down all the radios. Nothing’s getting through.”

“We won’t make it,” Cheshire said. “That Chinese fighter is probably lining up on us right now. Without weapons or countermeasures, he can slice us up at his leisure.”

“I’ll jettison the wing weapons pods so we can get max performance,” McLanahan said. Moments after punching off both wing pylons: “Hey, I’ve got a green light on the bomb-bay Striker missiles! The wing weapons pods must’ve been damaged from the explosion on the number four engine — jettisoning the bad missiles cleared the continuity faults on all the other missiles. But there’s still no way we’re going to hit a fighter with a three-thousand-pound Striker missile…” But that didn’t stop him from repowering the Striker missile rotary launcher and getting the eight remaining missiles on-line.

“Radar’s up!” McLanahan shouted over the screaming windblast coming through the Megafortress’s shattered left windows. “Bandit six o’clock, five miles!”

“Nail him! ” Cheshire shouted on interphone. “Launch the Strikers! ”

“Got him!” McLanahan shouted. He touched the fighter symbol on his supercockpit display, which designated the target, then hit the control stud on his trackball pad and spoke, “Launch commit Striker.”

CAUTION, NO AIR-TO-AIR weapons available, the attack computer responded.

“Override that caution,” McLanahan ordered the computer. “Launch commit Striker.”

WARNING, WEAPON SELECTION OVERRIDE, WARNING, WEAPON PERFORMANCE HAZARDOUS, RECOMMEND LAUNCH ABORT… RECOMMEND LAUNCH ABORT…

Just then, they felt the Megafortress’s tail slide to one side, followed by a heavy buffeting. “Jesus, I think we’re hit! ” Cheshire shouted.

“Launch,” McLanahan ordered.

WARNING, LAUNCH COMMIT STRIKER, BOMB DOORS OPENING.

“Wings level!” McLanahan shouted. “Gimme a slight climb.” Cheshire raised the nose and leveled the wings. As she did so, she felt the rumble of the aft set of bomb-bay doors swinging up into the bomb bay, and a Striker missile was ejected into the slipstream. The missile dropped two hundred feet, wobbily stabilized itself, then ignited its first- stage rocket motor. Just as the bomb doors slid closed, another electrical spike drove through the EB-52’s electrical system, sending the good systems back into reset.

The Chinese Sukhoi-33 pilot had just released the trigger on his fighter’s cannon after a three-second burst from the left rear quadrant at about a half-kilometer distance when he saw the big 2,900-pound missile ignite its rocket motor. The missile shot straight ahead, climbed almost straight up, then looped backward and down right toward him! He got off a quick one-second burst at the bomber before dropping decoy chaff and flares and breaking hard right away from the missile and plugging in full afterburner power.

Guided by the Striker’s onboard radar, the Striker missile heeled sharply, ignoring the tiny clouds of chaff dropped by the fighter. With incredible precision, the Striker missile lined up on the Sukhoi-33’s tail and cruised in. The Chinese pilot made a last-ditch dodge to the left, but even the high-performance jet was no match for the speed of the big Striker missile at full thrust. The explosion completely vaporized the fighter — nothing recognizable was left to hit the water.

“I’m blind again,” McLanahan shouted on interphone. He started to roll the trackball across the screen to highlight the target — again, nothing. “I think I lost my system, Nancy,” he said. “I’ll try a reset. Let’s hope this last asshole runs out of gas or—”

Suddenly, Cheshire screamed, “Fighters! Twelve o’clock! Right in front of us! Launching missiles! My God!” She could clearly see the twin trails of air-to-air missiles leaving the wing hardpoints of the plane in front of them, streaking directly toward them — it was as if the missiles were aiming directly for her! It was like watching a demonstration video of an air-to-air-missile launch. Nancy Cheshire closed her eyes and waited for the impact, waited for the explosion, waited for death…

… so she didn’t see the missiles streak just a few dozen yards overhead, past the Megafortress, and hit the last Chinese Sukhoi-33 carrier fighter, seconds before it opened fire on the EB-52 from close range.

When she found herself still alive, Cheshire opened her eyes. There before her, making a graceful left turn to parallel her course, was another EB-52 Megafortress! The second Megafortress, paired with hers, had come off the refueling anchor when the shooting started and had just arrived in the area. “Oh my God, it’s Kelvin and Diane’s crew,” Cheshire breathed. “When the shooting started, I forgot all about them coming on station. They must’ve just come off the tanker and headed right down here when they heard the shooting start.”

“What a beautiful sight,” McLanahan said to Cheshire. He was behind her again, checking on Elliott. “Get on their wing — it looks like they’re headed back to the air refueling anchor.”

“You got it,” Cheshire agreed. “How’s Brad?”

Elliott’s oxygen blinker looked OK, so he was breathing; McLanahan checked for any signs of chest trauma or bleeding, and found nothing. Elliott’s eyes were closed, but when McLanahan gently touched his eyelids, the veteran three-star aviator opened his eyes. “Quit fucking with me, nav,” Elliott groused.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“I feel like I’ve got a two-thousand-pound bomb on my chest,” he responded. “The windblast must’ve knocked the wind outta me.”

“Any other pain? You’re not having a heart attack on me, are you, sir? You took one hell of a slam by that windblast when the cockpit windscreen let go. ”

“Hey, I’ll compare EKGs with you any day, Muck,” Elliott grumbled, trying to sit up against the starboard bulkhead. “We okay?”

“Kelvin Carter showed up and saved our bacon right at the nick of time,” McLanahan said. “We’re on his wing, heading back to the anchor.” Elliott nodded. He looked a little pale, and his oxygen blinker showed a slightly shallow, labored breathing pattern. McLanahan removed a flight glove and tried to take Elliott’s pulse, but he shook McLanahan’s fingers off his wrist. “Get away from me and help Cheshire fly the beast,” Elliott said. “I’m fine. It’s her flying you need to keep an eye on now.” “Har har,” Cheshire said.

“Brad…”

“Get out of my face, nav. I’m fine,” Elliott said.

Deciding that there was nothing more he could do for his friend and aircraft commander now, McLanahan nodded. He retrieved both his and Elliott’s flight jackets and covered the pilot up with them. “I’ll check on you in a few,” he said.

“You better not wake me up trying to play nurse,” Elliott said, giving his young protege a thumbs-up. “Get back to your seat. And Muck… I mean, Patrick?”

“Yeah, Brad?”

“We had to take on those Chinese warships, didn’t we?” Elliott asked. “We had to help defend those ships, didn’t we?” The pain in his eyes was obvious — but whether it was from his injuries or from having doubts about his actions, McLanahan couldn’t tell.

“We had to do something, Brad — we’re not out here flying around for nothing,” McLanahan replied.

The smile in Elliott’s eyes seemed to light up the cockpit, despite the windblast damage. “You’re damned right, Muck,” Elliott breathed behind his oxygen mask. “You’re damned right.”

“Mr. President, there is no one on Capitol Hill more aware of the need for extreme security than me,” the new Senate Majority Leader, Barbara Finegold, said, as the group settled in for the meeting in the White House West Wing’s Cabinet Room, “but eventually you have to release some information to the congressional leadership. Now might be the perfect time to do it.”

“Senator, as I told you before this photo op began, there is nothing else I can tell you,” the President said, with a forced smile. “I have procedures I need to follow too, and I have to wait on the results of the security review. ”

“I see,” Senator Finegold said, letting out an audible exasperated breath. The seating had been rearranged after the press had departed, so now Finegold, the forty-eight-year-old former Los Angeles mayor and third-term senator from California, was seated across from the President, instead of two seats from him as in the official press photos. On her side of the table was House Minority Leader Joseph Crane and several other prominent House and Senate Democrats. Seated to President Martin- dale’s right was Vice President Ellen Whiting, Secretary of Defense Chastain, House Majority Leader Nicholas Gant, Senate Minority Leader Michael Fortier, and White House Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale; on the President’s left was Secretary of State Hartman, Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman Admiral George Balboa, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman, CIA director Layne W. Moore, and Attorney General Robert M. Procter.

“Great meeting, everyone, thank you,” the President said. Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale stood, a signal for the rest of the President’s advisors to start heading for the door, but the President said, “We have a few minutes more. Any other questions I can answer for anyone?” Hiding his impatience, Hale stood beside the door and listened intently to every word.

“Mr. President, I’m afraid this might require some Senate Arms Services Committee hearings to determine exactly what happened in the Persian Gulf,” Finegold forged on, “and to respond to the question brought up by the media and by several well-known military experts as to exactly how the radar sites in Iran were destroyed. If it’s true that the only way those sites could have been bombed was by an American stealth bomber secretly flying all the way across China and Afghanistan, as has been speculated, I think the congressional leadership needs and has a right to know. ”

“You certainly have the right and the authority to call such hearings,” the President said. Although Kevin Martindale had been successful in regaining the White House by a slim margin, he had not been as successful in helping to keep a majority in the Senate, and Barbara Finegold was a powerful and worthy adversary. Tall, dark, immensely popular, with a fashion models face and figure, she was already being touted as a shoo- in for her party’s presidential nomination in the year 2000, outstripping the former administration’s vice president and a host of other male candidates. “We will cooperate all we can—”

“But the White House would insist on closed-door hearings,” Secretary of Defense Chastain interjected. “All records would be placed in the highest classification level possible.”

“Given the current events concerning China,” Secretary of State Hartman added, “we think that’s the most prudent avenue to take.”

“Fine — I agree,” Finegold said. “Then you agree to cooperate in committee hearings?”

“I might remind the President that the Pentagon’s security review on the events in the Persian Gulf hasn’t even been completed yet,” National Security Advisor Freeman said. “We don’t even really know to what extent everything is classified yet. Our review could take several months.” “I see,” Senator Finegold repeated stiffly. This was the face of the opposition, she thought — this White House was tough, experienced, and well organized under Kevin Martindale. It might take several months for hearings to begin if these political pros put on a full-court press to postpone them.

But the unwritten “three-month honeymoon” period after the inauguration was now over, and the Martindale administration was fair game to any inquiries she could concoct. “Well, I’ll see to it that the SASC gets together with you and the Pentagon folks in drawing up a list of witnesses and agreeing on a format,” Finegold said. “I’m counting on your full cooperation.” The President nodded stiffly and gave her a cocky smile. It was obvious to Senator Finegold that the entire Cabinet had given the idea of Senate hearings very careful thought and had already begun to arrange its ground rules, all of which would be designed so the White House and Pentagon would reveal as little hard information as possible.

“The other matter I wanted to mention to you, Mr. President,” Fine- gold said, leaning forward and interlacing her long fingers on the table, “was your proposal to repeal the 1979 Taiwan Relations Act, which would allow for full diplomatic recognition of Taiwan. Did you think it was wise to announce this proposal to the entire world before consulting with Congress? To my knowledge, you didn’t even consult with leaders in your own party before announcing your intention to support Taiwan’s independence from mainland China and to allow an exchange of ambassadors.”

“Is there a problem?” the President asked. “Don’t you feel we should support Taiwan’s independence efforts?”

Finegold looked angry. “Frankly, Mr. President, I hadn’t thought about it,” she said testily, “just as I haven’t considered what the proper response might be in Northern Ireland, or Cyprus, or dozens of conflicts anywhere else. The point is, we should be deciding these questions together. It would help the ratification process tremendously if the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and the leadership knew what you have in mind before announcing it to the world.”

“My hand was forced by Taiwan’s abrupt vote for independence— they chose not to consult with us, or anyone else for that matter,” the President said. “I felt it was necessary to make a decision and take a stand quickly, before China decided it needed to give its errant province a spanking. I will be sure to consult with you closely the next time.”

“The world still considers Taiwan a province of China, Mr. President,” Finegold said. “We’ve isolated ourselves and put ourselves on a collision course with mainland China by recognizing the Republic of China.”

“Do you think it’s nothing but a rogue republic, Senator?” the President asked. Finegold shook her head in exasperation, and the President went on, “The question is important, Barbara. Read your history books. The Nationalists were our allies in World War Two, every bit as important in establishing a ‘second front’ in Asia as Britain and France were in Europe. Because of a Communist-sparked civil war, our allies were pushed off the mainland and onto a rock in the Pacific Ocean. They’ve endured artillery bombardment, constant military threats, global loss of diplomatic recognition, and economic isolation. Today, they’re one of the richest industrial democracies in the world, and they still count the United States as a friend and ally despite what we’ve done to them over the past thirty years.

“Now they’ve taken a major step in deciding their fate as a nation by rejecting their Communist overlords and declaring independence, and they’ve asked for our support. I proudly gave it to them. I took a stand. Now you have to do so as well.”

“The Congress has got to look at the overall effect on our economy and the military threat,” Finegold argued, “before we vote to repeal the Taiwan Relations Act or ratify your recognition of an independent Taiwan.”

“The net effect of the President’s declaration is zero, Senator,” Secretary of State Hartman said. “China might decide to retaliate by imposing strict tariffs or even banning our goods, but we feel that China cannot long continue such a measure. They need our markets just as much as we need their investments.”

“So you tell American companies to be still and patient while they suffer because we’ve turned away thirty billion dollars’ worth of markets in China in favor of three billion dollars’ worth in Taiwan, all because we like supporting the underdog?” Joseph Crane asked. “If you had consulted with Congress instead of charging off, we would’ve advised further negotiations to help bring the two Chinas back together gently and peacefully, rather than rip them apart suddenly.”

“Mr. Crane, Taiwan has been looking down the barrel of a Chinese artillery piece for the past forty years,” Secretary of Defense Chastain argued. “China isn’t interested in gentle reunification — they’re insisting on total absorption, by force if necessary.”

“China is ready to completely ‘absorb’ Hong Kong,” Crane retorted, “and the process is going along smoothly and peacefully.”

“Apples and oranges, Mr. Crane,” Hartman said. “Hong Kong is Chinese property leased by Great Britain, and the lease is simply expiring. The Republic of China on Formosa represents a free and democratic society that we’ve supported for nearly one hundred years, a society and government that is one of the richest and fastest-growing economies in the world, modeled after our own. Its being threatened by a totalitarian Communist power that wishes nothing less than to eliminate it — not assimilation, not sharing, not coexistence, but complete elimination of its democratic, capitalist foundation. The President has chosen to act to support this Asian friend and ally. The question is, what is the Senate leadership going to do — support the President, or cut his legs out from under him?”

“You’ve put us in a very embarrassing position, Mr. President,” Fine- gold said, addressing Martindale directly. “You are the leader in all foreign relations and matters of state. But those decisions affect the country, and so Congress is given powers of checks and balances over your decisions, in the form of ratifying treaties and passing laws. This relationship expects — no, demands—cooperation and compromise from all parties concerned. Your unilateral announcement of support cuts our legs out from under us. We should support our president, but what if his decision is the wrong one? We can’t absolve ourselves of the blame if our own citizens are hurt by our decisions; we can’t point fingers at the President. At the very least, Mr. President, you’ve forced us to delay any action on repealing the Taiwan Relations Act or recognizing the ROC until we’ve had a chance to study the idea.”

“For how long?” Flartman asked.

“Impossible to say, Secretary Hartman,” Finegold said. “The committee staffs are just now being organized. It could take weeks just to be able to sit down and decide what areas need to be studied.”

“Very similar to the problems you said you’d encounter in deciding about what areas of the air attacks on Iran and the Persian Gulf could be included in Senate hearings,” Crane added.

“You’re not suggesting that we do any less due diligence in examining the risks to national security of revealing details of our military actions just so we can see reasonable progress from Congress in furthering our foreign policy agenda?” Hartman asked incredulously.

Representative Crane smiled mischievously. “If the foot-dragging fits, Mr. Secretary…”

“We all want progress, Secretary Hartman,” Senator Finegold said, putting a hand on Crane’s arm as if to calm him down. “If we all keep that in mind, I think we—”

Suddenly a man in a business suit and wearing a wireless communications earset opened the door, saw the chief of staff standing nearby, and whispered something in his ear. Most everybody in the room recognized the newcomer as Marine Corps Colonel William McNeely, the White House military liaison who worked in an office next to National Security Advisor Philip Freeman’s. He was carrying a plain black briefcase, and Finegold realized with a faint shock what it was: McNeely was the man responsible for the “football,” the briefcase containing a communications transceiver that put the President in contact with the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon and several other military command posts — so he could issue instructions to the nation’s nuclear forces while on the move.

Jerrod Hale quickly stepped over and stooped between the President and Vice President; a moment later, all three shot to their feet. “Meeting adjourned,” the President said quickly. The door to the Cabinet Room flung open, and Secret Service agents flooded in.

“What’s going on, Mr. President?” Finegold asked excitedly as the senior Cabinet members and the President and Vice President were surrounded by Secret Service agents. Finegold and Crane tried to follow, but they were held back inside the Cabinet Room by the Secret Service. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Finegold cried out at the agent holding her.

“You’re instructed to remain here until the President’s party departs,” the agent replied.

“She’s the Senate Majority Leader! ” Congressman Crane shouted at the agent. “She’s supposed to accompany the President.”

“You’re instructed to stay” the agent said in a firm voice, as if he were talking to his pet German shepherd.

The Democratic congressional leadership could do nothing but watch in amazement as three Marine Corps helicopters touched down on the south lawn of the White House and scooped up the President, Vice President, and his Cabinet advisors. “It must be an emergency evacuation,” Finegold said, reaching for a cell phone in her purse. “Something’s happening.”

“Hey! ” Congressman Joseph Crane shouted. “I see Gant and Fortier getting on the helicopter! Why the hell can the Republican leadership follow the President on his getaway choppers, but we Democrats can’t? They got plenty of room on those things…” But his outrage was drowned out by the rapid departure of Marine One. The three helicopters executed a position change shortly after takeoff, a sort of “shell game” in the sky with helicopters to confuse or complicate any terrorists’ efforts to kill the President.

They were finally allowed to leave, long after the helicopters were out of sight, and Finegold and her colleagues, still hopping mad at their snub, made their way to the lower entrance to-the West Wing. They were surprised to see Admiral George Balboa standing in the doorway leading to the driveway just outside the West Wing, talking on a handbag- size transportable cellular phone handled by an aide. He did not see the congressional Democratic leaders approach as he slammed the phone down into its holder in disgust. “Admiral Balboa, I’m surprised to see you here,” Barbara Finegold said in true amazement. “I thought you’d be with the President.”

“A little mix-up,” Balboa offered in a low, rather contrite voice.

“I’ll say. Those two butt-kissers Fortier and Gant hop aboard the chopper and leave you stranded,” House Minority Leader Joe Crane said. “Since when do congressmen steal seats out from under important presidential advisors?”

“I… I was on my way to the Pentagon,” Balboa said.

“Since when does the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff not accompany the President, especially during an emergency White House evacuation?” Finegold asked. Balboa’s eyes widened when he heard Fine- gold describe exactly what had happened — and only then did Finegold know she was correct. “I know Colonel McNeely’s function as well as I know yours, Admiral. Can you answer my question? Why is the chairman of the JCS not accompanying the President during a military emergency? ”

“I should probably not answer,” Balboa said, “except to say that I have responsibilities at the Pentagon right now.”

“I guess with the Secretary of Defense bugging out with the others, you’d be pretty much minding the store,” Crane said. “Where’s your chopper? Don’t tell me you gotta drive?”

Balboa looked embarrassed, then hurt. “The… the airspace around the capital has been closed,” he explained. “No aircraft can depart until…”

“Until NEACP departs,” Finegold added — and, to her surprise, Balboa nodded. Another correct guess, she congratulated herself. Crane looked a little confused, so she explained, “NEACP, Joe, is the National Emergency Airborne Command Post, the militarized version of Air Force One, designed so the President can be in touch with military and civilian leadership all over the world. It only flies when there’s a danger of some vital command and control center being knocked out — say, Washington, knocked out by a nuclear attack.”

“What!” Crane exploded. “A nuclear attack! You’re saying someone is going to attack Washington… right now?”

“I don’t know,” Finegold said. She turned to Admiral Balboa and projected every bit of charm, influence, authority, glamour, and friendliness she could toward the embittered veteran Navy officer. “Can you tell us, Admiral? We have a right to know.”

Obviously, George Balboa had been struggling with some dilemma for quite some time, well before this emergency, and now the pressure of all these events were coming to a head in his mind. Fie nodded, more to himself than anyone around him, then motioned for them to follow him back inside. Using his passcards, he escorted Finegold and Crane, without their aides, back into the West Wing, then downstairs by elevator to the White FFouse Situation Room. Except for a staff of guards and communications officers, the rather small,unimposing room was empty. “I’m not going anywhere — it would take me an hour to get to the Pentagon in rush-hour traffic,” Balboa said after he closed the door to the secure conference room. “I’m isolated. I can’t talk with my command center or the national command authority.”

“What’s going on, Admiral?” Finegold asked again.

“This is strictly confidential.”

“This conversation is not taking place,” Finegold assured him as sincerely as she could. At the same time, part of her politically brilliant mind was already searching for ways to cover her tracks when — not if—she leaked any of what she was about to hear. “Don’t worry, Admiral — we’ll get a briefing on all this shortly anyway. ”

Balboa nodded. That was true — he would probably be giving the briefing in a couple hours anyway. Fie took a deep breath. “Two nuclear explosions have occurred near the Formosa Straits,” Balboa said breathlessly, as if wanting to get it all out as fast as he could. Crane gasped in surprise again; Finegold remained impassive. “Both were low-yield devices. One occurred at high altitude near the island of Quemoy, which is a Taiwanese island near the coast of mainland China; the other occurred at sea level in the Formosa Strait, about sixty miles south of Quemoy.”

“My God,” Crane muttered. “Are we at war with China?”

“The detonations occurred during a naval skirmish between a Chinese carrier battle group and a couple of Taiwanese warships,” Balboa went on. He fidgeted nervously, which told Finegold that he was concealing some other tidbit of information, probably something about American military units involved in the skirmish. “Both Taiwanese vessels were destroyed. No word yet on the Chinese ships.”

“And what about the American forces?” Finegold asked. Balboa began to look like a fish out of water — he realized, as if waking up from a bad dream, that he had said too much. “What happened to the American subs?”

Finegold saw the hint of relief in Balboas face — she had guessed wrong. “All four subs shadowing the Chinese fleet are safe,” Balboa said.

“Thank God,” she replied. Time to take a chance, roll the dice, Barbara Finegold told herself. She leaned toward Balboa, turning him away from Joe Crane so it felt as if they were talking alone and confidentially, and asked, “What about the stealth bombers? Did they make it out? Hopefully they were far enough away when the nukes went off.”

Balboa looked into Finegold’s eyes, searching to see whether or not she knew or was just guessing. In response, Finegold gave him her sternest, most confident expression, not breaking lock with his eyes even for a moment. Balboa asked himself the question, Does she know about the bombers? and his tortured mind answered, Obviously so.

“They’re safe,” Balboa said. “They weren’t involved in the nuclear explosions — in fact, they probably shot down other Chinese missiles and may have even intercepted the missile that exploded over Quemoy, resulting in only a partial yield. They’re safely on their way back.”

“Good… that’s damned good news, Admiral,” Finegold said. Outside, she appeared relieved, but inside, her brain and her guts were leaping. The President sent stealth bombers over the Formosa Strait— bombers that could apparently fire anti-missile weapons? In the face of harsh congressional investigations that he might have illegally used stealth warplanes to bomb Iran, the President actually dared to use them again, just a few weeks later, in the middle of a China-Taiwan conflict? It was absolutely amazing, incredible, unbelievable! And now the “skirmish” was blowing up into possibly a full-scale nuclear war, one in which the United States was obviously going to get involved — and the President’s hands were in deep, deep, deep shit, up to his armpits. The new President of the United States was possibly illegally involved in precipitating a nuclear war. “This information will go no farther than this room.” “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Crane gasped, finally getting up to speed with the others. “You’re saying that…?”

“Let’s drop it, Joe — we’re not here to pump the admiral for information,” Barbara Finegold said, although she wanted nothing more than to do just that. “This conversation didn’t take place. It did not take place. All we needed to know was that the evacuation was precautionary, and that no American forces have been mobilized.”

“Yes, completely precautionary — definitely not a prelude to war, and no American forces are on alert,” Balboa verified. “Our guys may have fired some weapons in self-defense…”

“The bombers?”

Balboa nodded as he continued, “… but no attack orders were ever issued by the President. None.”

“We can support self-defense,” Finegold said. “Even helping to protect innocent lives and property, especially if we knew the Chinese might use nuclear weapons. That action is acceptable.”

“That’s all that was used,” Balboa added, looking as if a huge weight had been lifted from his chest. As long as he believed this conversation was off the record, Finegold thought, he felt confident in saying just a little bit more. Of course, she never said it was off the record, just that it never took place — which, of course, it obviously did. She took one more flyer: “You should be proud of your guys out there, Admiral.”

His relieved expression hardened into a dark scowl, and Finegold was afraid she had said too much — or maybe she had hit the nerve that had been jangling in Balboa’s brain all this time. He said fervently, as if pleading with her, “Don’t look at the Navy, Senator. Not our ballgame.”

“Jesus,” Finegold gasped with as much sympathetic horror as she could summon. “You mean, the President shut your boys out again in favor of some other secret no-name sandlot pickup team?”

“You got it,” Balboa responded bitterly, now convinced that the Senate Majority Leader really did know the entire score. “You got it.”

That was all he had to say — but Barbara Finegold’s heart was leaping in pure, abject joy. He had already said quite enough — and it might be enough to bring down a president.