Island Warriors

TWENTY-SEVEN

Cruiser officers and crew were usually known to be fairly tight-assed, cold professionals when it came to their jobs. But as they watched the number of confirmed kills building on their screens, the captain could hear an undercurrent of muted exclamations and cheers breaking out around the compartment. One of the electronic warfare technicians, commonly known as earthworms, even ran over to give the air tracks supervisor a high five. They both broke away immediately after, looking a bit ashamed of their emotional outbreak, but neither was able to completely hide the grin on his face.

Oh, hell. Let them celebrate. It’s not often that you know you’re going to be painting twenty fighter profiles on your superstructure within the next week.

For indeed, the computer had awarded confirmed kills for every missile they’d launched. A second shot on any one target had not been necessary, and all the shots had been well inside parameters. Even the destroyer, with her six missiles total, had each downed the target.

Yes, overall, an impressive record. But even as he joined in the muted celebration, the captain felt a sense of uneasiness sweep over him. Twenty missiles, twenty kills? No misses, no mechanical problems? Sure, maybe — but that hadn’t been his experience with technology. Parts rub, seals go bad, a stray electron hits the wrong beam of light — shit happens. And while he’d be glad to take the twenty missiles — twenty kills record if warranted, something deep inside of him worried.

“Lead aircraft inside their engagement zone,” the TAO announced. “Captain, we have time for four more shots on the far edge of the MEZ, if you want them?”

“Hell, yes, I want them,” the captain said, and this time the cheers in combat rose to audible levels. He watched what had quickly become such a smooth operation as four more missiles were launched.

“Captain — I have aircraft inbound from the north.”

“The north! What the hell?” He listened as his TAO called out the data and began an initial query of the aircraft.

“Looks like one of our fighters, sir. And it’s breaking IFF Mode Four. Whoever it is, it is definitely a friendly. No way I can target.”

“Call the carrier. Ask them if one of their boys is lost. Because he came out of nowhere as far as I could see — down from the Kurile Islands. And,” the TAO continued, a look of worry growing on his face, “he’s headed for the Jefferson.” Now worry dominated his expression. “Captain, the Jefferson doesn’t have air protection right now — and if we’re going to do something, we need to do it now. Should be within weapons range of the Jefferson in approximately five minutes.”

“Call the carrier, ask him what else is going on. And stand by to take it out.”

Coyote listened to the request for information coming over the circuit, and then turned to his TAO, a puzzled look on his face. “Who the hell is that? Some tanker or something? The Air Force get lost again?”

“I don’t know, sir — but if it’s squawking Mode Four, it’s definitely a friendly.”

Coyote swore quietly. “I’m going to kill some son of a bitch when I get back Stateside. What the hell are they doing, flying in this area without letting me know?”

Suddenly, a familiar voice came over an open, nonencrypted circuit, using designated code names instead of their real identities. “Big Brother, this is Homeplate. Be advised I have a friendly inbound for recovery — no time to generate message traffic or SPINS on it. But we’re taking her on board. I can’t explain anything else, Big Brother — just trust me on this one. Home plate out.”

“Batman!” Coyote roared. “Damn it, tell me what’s going on here.”

But there was silence on the circuit. Coyote turned to his communications officer, frustrated. “Where is he?”

The communications officer shook his head. “Jefferson only has one classified circuit. If he has a contact inbound, he’s probably talking to him on that. He can’t do both at the same time, sir. He just came on this frequency to let us know not to shoot.”

Coyote paced the compartment, barely able to contain himself. The roar inside TFCC was continuous as the air boss and the flight deck crew raced to launch every fighter in the inventory. There was so little time, so little.

As the wave of Chinese aircraft rolled in toward the carrier, the cruiser would attempt to eliminate as many of them as possible. Even the destroyer, operating under the cruiser’s guidance, could attempt to get off a couple of shots with her shorter range missiles while the enemy was inside the missile engagement zone, or MEZ.

But MEZ was a painfully small window of opportunity and within minutes the Chinese aircraft would be in the FEZ, or fighter engagement zone, and that was where the true test of skill, training, equipment and people would take place. American lives would then be on the line as the fighters took them on one by one.

“How many in the first wave?” Coyote asked.

“It looks like about seventy, sir,” the TAO said. “Using the cruiser’s data.”

And the cruiser’s data would be better than most, given the powerful SPY-1 radar. Still, there was a chance she could be mistaken — there might be fewer. Some processing error, human or machine, could lead to false contacts.

No. Don’t even consider that. Go with the numbers your people can give you, don’t depend on false hope. Because if seventy aircraft are inbound now, you can bet that there are another seventy behind them somewhere, already starting to launch. We’ll have to go for maximum damage from the very first, no quarter given or expected, in order to avoid being overwhelmed in very short order.

He clicked the mike on. “Weapons free, all Chinese forces declared hostile. Good luck people — let’s make them pay for this.”

Batman and Tombstone had known this, he knew now. The complete and utter frustration of sitting in TFCC, watching the intense engagement take place without your participation. There could be no more frustrating feeling, your fingers clenching, moving involuntarily as though you were in the lead aircraft yourself. Why hadn’t they told him it was this difficult?

“First engagement, sir. The cruiser’s targeted ten of them — we have a launch, we have a launch.”

On the tactical display, a series of ten missile symbols rippled into being, all barreling straight up from the cruiser and toward the incoming flight. The destroyer added another three long-range missiles to the pack. Although her slower fire control system was not able to process as many immediately, the Aegis was able to provide targeting data directly to her.

“Seventy minus thirteen, what’s that leave?” Coyote asked.

“Fifty-seven, sir,” the TAO answered, leaving unspoken the words that everyone was thinking.

Fifty-seven if all the missiles found their marks. And if, in the process of shooting them down, our own people don’t screw up badly enough to get in the path of the incoming. Because we can’t afford to lose even one of our own, particularly not to friendly fire. Not with the odds the way they are now.

And how many waves of seventy fighters will the Chinese send out? We don’t even have an accurate count of their air inventory, damn it.

Doesn’t matter. Right now, if it flies, it dies, and that’s all there is to it.

Thor was totally focused, and was ignoring the quick thrill of adrenaline in his blood. Discipline, that’s what it was about — the ability to control the blood lust that rose up in you as you contemplated what was to come, to control the fear that lay right behind it. Because this was the moment you trained for, dreamed about, you knew everything about in the world except how it would actually feel when you went into combat for the first time.

But this wasn’t Thor’s first time. Oh, no, not by a long shot.

“Packer flight, picture,” the monotone voice of the Hawkeye broke it. “Inbound on radial two seven zero, three waves of twenty units and one of ten. Composition fighters, supported by Mainstay command and control aircraft as well. Hornet one zero six, target lead,” and the Hawkeye continued, doling out assignments to maintain air clearance between the units. “All flights, observe missile engagement zone safety restrictions. Launch from cruiser is going down on your three o’clock at this time. Stand well clear, guys — it’s going to get messy.”

Thor throttled back slightly, and felt the Hornet sink gently beneath him. He’d get his chance — no point making the problem any more complicated than it had to be.

“All flights, Hawkeye. Cruiser has launched another ten missiles. Stay well clear of missile engagement zone.”

Twenty-three total? Well, we appreciate all the help we can get, boys and girls, but it’s going to come down to knife fighting. And that’s my business.

Norfolk watched the missiles arrow out on virtually identical paths, then break apart as a shotgun load would do. Each missile was assigned to a different target, but the computer was instantaneously calculating the probability of a kill and whether or not a second weapon was needed on any one aircraft. Each missile took its guidance originally from the computer on board the cruiser, with initial course and target location fed into it just microseconds before it launched.

During the first few moments of flight, the picture inside the missile’s tiny brain was updated. Right now, combat was as busy as it ever would be, monitoring the initial stages of the flight and preparing any instantaneous corrections that needed to be done. As each missile continued on toward its target, it would finally acquire the enemy aircraft with its own seeker head, and at that point use its own illumination to guide it to the final kill.

“At least the fighters are staying out of the way,” the TAO said. “Good thing, too.”

Norfolk just grinned. He knew that many members of the cruiser community felt that aircraft were virtually obsolete, that a cruiser could completely protect a carrier from every possible air threat. But he wasn’t of that school, having seen far too many fights in too many parts of the world to believe that the ship was as invulnerable as most people thought. It was the low-tech stuff that screwed you up the worst, he had learned. Mines, small boats with handheld launchers, the stuff you didn’t see until it was right on you.

“Reporting target acquisition, missiles one through twelve,” the TAO announced. “On terminal—bingo.” He turned excitedly to the captain. “Ten kills, sir.”

“Ten kills assigned by the computer,” the captain corrected. A computer’s decision that a missile had intercepted its target, detonated successfully, and eliminated a threat was a good deal different from seeing the fireball yourself. “Let’s wait for the air crew confirmation.”

The TAO looked slightly taken aback, but he was too busy with his duties to worry about it.

Nonfolk turned his attention back to the screen. I hope you’re ready to go, boys and girls. Because this is going to get very nasty before very long. I don’t know how many fighters they have in their inventory, but they’re certain to have more aircraft than I have missiles onboard. Even with the United States’s help, even with perfect targeting, there’s no way I can take them all. Not in time.

“Whoa!” Bird Dog hollered. “You see that, Music? Did you ever see such a beautiful thing in your life?”

Music craned his head around to look out past Bird Dog’s ejection seat. In the air ahead, there were nine small fireballs, ugly and obscene against the blue sky.

But it wasn’t nine fireballs — it was eighteen men. Sure, Chinese, sure — but aviators just like he was. For a moment, Music felt his stomach curl into a hard knot. Was he the only one who felt this way, who realized that the people they were blasting out of the air were just regular guys? He had to be — no one else was worried. And if there’s one thing that Music was at this point, it was very, very worried.

“Looks great, sir,” he agreed heartily, wishing to hell he was anywhere else except in the back seat of this Tomcat.

“You’re damn right it looks great.” Bird Dog shouted. “What you’re looking at is a better chance of us going home in one piece with our aircraft around us!”

Music looked down at his console. The computer was reporting ten direct hits, and then it added another three to the total as the destroyer’s missiles found their targets. Music glanced back up at the sky and counted again. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve — no, there were only twelve fireballs, not thirteen.

“I count twelve, sir,” Music said.

“Yes, twelve — that’s what I’ve got. Hold on, Music — it’s almost our turn.”

“But sir… the computer shows thirteen kills. I don’t get it. What about the other aircraft?”

“Don’t worry, kid. There’ll be enough for all of us.”

“But sir, if they say it’s thirteen, but it’s really only twelve, they might miss one.”

“Give me a vector, Music,” Bird Dog ordered. “Forget it, just worry about what you see. Save it for another twenty years until you’re an admiral, OK? For now, give me a target.”

“Not yet, sir. Another wave of missiles is outbound.”

Bird Dog swore quietly. “I burn more fuel up here than I do weapons.”

As Music listened to his pilot bitch, he tried to keep track of the fireballs. But with Bird Dog wheeling around in the sky, staying clear of the missile engagements while still ready to pounce in the second, it was difficult to stay oriented. Sometimes he thought he counted ten, other times thirteen. There was no way to tell for sure. Maybe the computer was right — maybe a few fireballs were hidden behind the others. But somehow, he didn’t think so.

“Fastball, you watching this?” Bird Dog said over tactical. “You stay in place, buddy. None of that bullshit from before.”

“Roger, Lead,” Bird Dog heard Rat acknowledge, and knew she got his message. Fastball might be a hothead, but Rat seemed to have some degree of control over him. She was simply reminding him of that fact.

“That Rat, she’s something else,” Bird Dog said admiringly. “If it were me, I’d never climb back in the cockpit with that cowboy. She’s got all the right stuff. She even saved Fastball’s ass last cruise — you remember, when she punched them out when they were in that flame-out on final?”

“Yes, Bird Dog.” So that was the ideal, was it? To be bloodthirsty? And even Rat was managing to show all the right stuff, was she? Even a woman. Music felt his own personal failings more strongly than he ever had before. And the worst of it was, there was no one he could talk to about it.

“I don’t know why you’re so pleasant to them,” Fastball snapped. “The way everybody acts, you’d think Bird Dog was some sort of god.”

Rat bit back the comments she longed to make. Sure, Bird Dog was… well, Bird Dog. Abrasive, arrogant and sometimes downright infuriating. But outside of the admiral, through a weird combination of events, Bird Dog probably had more combat time than any other pilot on the ship, including the CAG. Okay, so he punched out more times than anyone had a right to expect in a career, but he brought his RIO back safe and sound. And that’s not something you could say about every pilot, now, was it?

So what are you doing back in this cockpit? This idiot almost got you killed twice, and you still fly with him? Are you out of your mind?

It was me or a nugget, a colder part of her mind responded. And a nugget, he stands no chance of coming back — somebody has to keep his ass out of trouble.

And that someone would be you?

Yes.

Stupid idea. But in that last furious conversation in the ready room, when they’d almost come to blows, she thought she had straightened him out. There would be no more of this pilot attitude, no more ignoring her and never giving her the dot. They would fight the aircraft as equals, and he would listen to her opinion. Even on matters involving flying, although she acknowledged she would have to defer to him on those.

“Music, picture,” the E-2 said. “You copied my last?”

“Roger. Give me a target, hot guy,” she heard Bird Dog answer for his RIO. A vector to a target followed, and then the E-2 Hawkeye coordinating the air battle jumped in on the circuit.

“Tomcat two zero niner, come right to course 000 to rejoin your lead. Acknowledge.”

“What?!” Fastball started swearing.

“You heard the man, Fastball,” Rat said crisply. “Now move your ass. Let’s get going.”

“But the fight’s back here,” Fastball whined. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair, I’m going to—”

Rat cut him off. “You’re going to do exactly as you were told,” she said crisply. “Because if you don’t, you will be explaining to the CAG and the admiral why you’re back on board without your canopy or your RIO. I told you, I’ve had it with your attitude. A professional follows orders, Fastball — follows orders, whether they involve the opportunity for personal glory or not. So you may not like getting broken off to fly CAP for the destroyer, but the fact is that she puts her ass on the line to keep your airfield float. The least you can do is return the favor. Now, if I don’t see this aircraft turning in approximately five seconds, I’m out of here.”

“Okay, okay. But I’m going to have a talk about this with the CAG when we get back on board,” he muttered. He yanked the Tomcat into a violent turn, slamming Rat into the side of her ejection seat, and building up Gs to the point of forcing her into an M1 maneuver to counteract the effects.

You’re not the only one who’s going to be talking to people when we get back aboard, she swore silently, fighting to remain conscious. XO, CO, then CAG, then the admiral if I have to. One way or another, you idiot, I’m going to do my best to see that you’re grounded.

“Raiders, picture. Bogies now FEZ, follow indicated vectors and take targets at will. Good hunting. See you back on the boat.” With that, the Hawkeye slipped back into a monitor mode as the individual flights of aircraft broke out to seek out their targets.

Thor had been following his target on his HUD since the initial call, and was already mentally fighting the battle. He would come in high, with Archer taking the low slot, and let Archer draw a bogie off to the south. As soon as the MiG turned, Thor would drop in behind into the killing position. He clicked on his mike. “You ready, Archer?”

“As ready as ever, boss,” the other Marine’s voice came back. “Inbound now!”

Archer slammed his wing over, rolled out of position, and bore down on their designated target. Thor kicked in his afterburners, gained altitude, and headed in the same direction although slightly offset, hoping he could circle back slightly and be in the perfect position.

He looked down and saw that Archer was already in afterburner, and called out a warning. “Watch your fuel consumption, Wayne. We don’t have time to tank.”

A single click on the mike acknowledged his transmission. As he watched, Archer cut back out of afterburner.

But the Fencer had figured out what was happening, and was kicking butt and heading for the sky. The bogie pilot clearly understood the need to gain altitude to avoid being trapped in a pincer maneuver, and Thor swore quietly. He had hoped it would work first time out, but evidently that was not to be.

“Take low, Archer. Watch my six — I’m going to try to shoo him back down toward you.”

“Roger, sir. Take him out as soon as you can. Don’t worry about me.”

Thor laughed out loud. “Oh, don’t worry about that — you’ll get your chance.” Thor kicked in the afterburner for a moment as well, getting a head start on his climb. It was important not to let the Fencer gain too much altitude on him. While the aircraft were relatively equally matched in terms of endurance and performance, there was no time for a long drawn-out game as each one sought the advantage. No, this needed to be fast and brutal. There were simply too many Chinese to waste time.

As the Fencer headed for altitude, Thor backed off slightly and let him get ahead, then converted his upward motion into a sharp, gut-wrenching turn. Then he continued to ascend, staying on the outside of the Fencer’s path and waiting for the breakaway. “Go north of us, Archer,” Thor called out, already figuring out the geometries in his mind. “Cut him off if he tries to break out of this.”

The old laws of gravity applied to fighters just as surely as they did to the apple that fell on Sir Isaac Newton’s head. What goes up, must come down, and an aircraft was no exception to the inevitable rule. Oh, sure, she might go up faster than usual, but coming down was going to be a bitch.

“Thor, I got a Fitter on my ass — he’s got me locked.” Archer’s voice was a little higher than normal, betraying worries. “I’m heading back toward you. Pull him off if you can!”

“Roger — I’ll keep an eye on his buddy as well.” Thor broadened the arc of his turn slightly, gained a visual on Archer, and saw the Fitter on his tail. As they closed range on him, he was immediately faced with a decision: wait for his designated contact to come back down within range or turn away from this engagement and chase the Fitter on Archer’s tale.

There was a good chance that Archer could handle the other aircraft himself; it was simply a matter of driving him into the vertical game, then waiting for him to make a mistake. But if Thor broke off from his current target, there was every chance the Fencer would slide back in behind the MiG and reverse exactly the scenario Thor had had in mind for him.

But I know what I’m doing. Archer’s the new kid on the block. I better buster down after him.

“Let’s give him a little taste of metal to keep him honest,” Thor muttered. He designated the target, waited for tone, and toggled off a missile at it. He felt the Hornet jolt slightly as the massive weapons leaped off his wing and headed for altitude. “That’ll keep him busy for awhile.”

As Thor shed some altitude, he kept a visual on Archer. His wingman’s situation was clearly becoming increasingly desperate. Archer was weaving and bobbing around in the sky, but the Fitter seemed to anticipate his every move. Archer had him slightly off angle now, and Thor knew that the other pilot was waiting for the perfect shot up Archer’s tailpipes. That was the advantage of having numbers in your favor — you could afford to wait to take the shot, gang up on a poor defenseless Hornet. Well, it wasn’t going to happen that way, not on Thor’s watch.

Thor peeled off altitude quickly now, descending like a plummeting rock, the sleek, aerodynamic lines of the Hornet adding to his acceleration. He aimed directly for the Fitter, not wasting any time on the niceties of aerodynamics. To an outsider, it would look as though Thor intended to simply forget the missiles and ram the other aircraft out of the sky.

“He’s got me, he’s got me,” Archer howled, his voice anguished. “Jesus, Thor, I can’t shake him.”

“On my mark, break hard to the left,” Thor said. “Three seconds, now. Two, one, mark! Break left, break left!”

Archer kicked his Hornet into a steep left turn, so hard and sudden it seemed that he would surely stall. He immediately dropped his nose down to allow the aircraft to gain speed. Thor engaged his nose gun, and stitched a line of rounds down the Fitter’s side. Fluid spurted immediately, whether from hydraulics lines or fuel tanks, Thor couldn’t tell. The Fitter departed controlled flight for a moment and lost the advantage of position he’d had on Archer. Archer whipped his Hornet over and around, falling neatly in behind the Fitter in a textbook demonstration of aerial combat tactics.

“All yours, buddy,” Thor sang out as he pulled away from them and grabbed for altitude. “I got some unfinished business up above.”

A short touch of afterburner quickly eased the Hornet’s objection to simultaneously turning, ascending and maintaining airspeed. The throaty roar sounded like the purr of a hungry lion.

Just as the Hornet reached sixty degrees nose up, silver and black flashed below Thor, a streak of aircraft moving past him in afterburner. The Fencer, the one who’d evaded the trap he and Archer had in mind. As soon as the Fencer cleared Thor’s gun engagement range, it pulled up into a hard climb, darting ahead of Thor.

“So you want it like that, huh?” Thor kicked the afterburner back in and executed a corkscrewing maneuver that danced the Hornet across the sky until it was directly below the climbing Fencer. He then converted all of his motion into a climb, and kept pace, watching for the Fencer to heel over at the top of his arc or to peel out of the climb and entice him into a horizontal game.

“Splash one Fitter!” he heard Archer cry over tactical. “Hang on, Thor, I’m on my way!”

“Roger.” What’s the big hurry, junior? I think I can manage to—

Suddenly, Thor saw the reason for Archer’s concern. Three Fencers had broken away from the fur ball and had evidently decided that Thor’s Hornet would be their next project.

Shit! I fell for it! The lead Fencer above him had been no more than a distracter, and while Thor’s attention was focused on it and Archer’s situation, the air immediately to his south had filled up with bogies. Above him, the lead Fencer, its diversionary role over, rolled out of the climb and streaked off to the north.

“Got tone, got tone — break right!” Archer’s voice snapped. Without hesitating, Thor slammed his Hornet into a hard roll to the right, holding the roll as he lost altitude and tried to swing in high on Archer. Two AMRAAMS cluttered the air around him, and for one heart-stopping moment, Thor thought they’d locked on him. He was now at the same altitude as the pursuing Fencers, but descending, while the Fencers were just now rolling out to follow. Their orderly pursuit shattered into chaos as they realized that there were missiles inbound, and they muddied the air with chaff and flares.

Too late. The AMRAAM knew better. After wild, last-ditch spirals in an attempt to shake the missiles’ locks, two of the Fencers exploded into flames.

“That’s better,” Archer said, hot satisfaction in his voice. “That’s lots better.”

“One on one,” Thor said. “Our friend in high station is headed back down.” The original Fencer seemed brighter on Thor’s HUD than any of the other targets. That bastard’s mine.

“I’m on him!” Archer shouted, giving chase on the remaining Fencer. Archer snapped hard to the right and caught the last of the group of three with a short burst from his nose gun. The Fencer spouted long streamers of red hydraulic fluid and oil from the forward part of its fuselage. The volatile fluids snaked into the screaming turbines, and it was all over. They immediately ignited, and within moments, the aircraft exploded into shards of metal and gobbets of flesh.

“Mine!” shouted Thor, and peeled off toward his target. The remaining Fencer evidently had reassessed his tactical position and had come to the same conclusion that Thor had: it sucked. Without the other three Fencers to provide a diversion and killing force, facing two pissed off Hornets, discretion was the better part of valor. The Fencer turned and tried to run.

“Not so fast, you bastard!” Thor said. He tucked his Hornet in behind the now desperately weaving and bobbing Fencer. It was as though he could read the other pilot’s mind and anticipate his every move. It was an equal match of skill and capabilities, and for just a second Thor was tempted to let it play out, to harry the now-panicked Fencer like a cat playing with a mouse.

Too many other targets. Thor toggled off a Sidewinder and watched the heat-seeker slide up to kiss the Fencer’s exhaust. He cut hard to the left, just in time to clear the resulting explosion.

As he turned back into the fray, waiting for his next target, Thor felt a momentary flash of… what? Embarrassment? Shame? There was no point in playing with another pilot who was as good as dead. It was Thor’s job to kill them, not to like killing them. He should take personal satisfaction in his own skill, not in the death of another. Because that’s what he hoped he’d get from a bogie if their positions were ever reversed: a quick kill.

“Hornet one zero six, bogies at your three o’clock, high,” the AWACS rapped out, identifying Thor’s next targets. “Number, three. Engage at will.”

Archer glided in to form up on Thor’s wing, and the two turned to meet their next set of foolhardy Fencers and Fitters who thought they could mess with the United States Marine Corps.

Even though he would never admit it, Bird Dog’s greatest strength as a fighter pilot was his ability to do math. Not simple addition and subtraction, although Bird Dog himself would have pointed out that his sole purpose in life was to subtract enemy aircraft from the correlation of forces. And while that was indeed the end result, it was not what kept him alive.

Bird Dog’s ability to do math had very little to do with numbers and everything to do with spatial relationships. Some part of his cerebrum was able to instantly calculate vectors, angles and even do the calculus necessary to determine exactly where a given aircraft with X amount of acceleration and Y amount of increasing drag would end up in relation to his own aircraft. It also measured with incredible precision the distance between objects, and that ability had allowed him to slide in between two objects — say, a rock and a hard place, or a cliff and another aircraft — when other pilots might have thought twice about it. Bird Dog’s mathematical ability was coupled directly to his eyes and bypassed his consciousness.

Now, that part of Bird Dog’s mind was assessing the air in front of him and correlating it with his HUD as well as the actual count of enemy aircraft downed as tallied by the exultant cries of the other pilots over tactical. It processed the data, compared it with the briefing he’d had just as he launched, and came to an ominous conclusion: there was an aircraft missing. Not an American aircraft, no. He knew where all those were, and he didn’t question the fact that he did. No, the conclusion that surfaced in his mind, supported by a host of highly analytical processes that Bird Dog was never conscious of was that there was a Chinese aircraft missing from the tally.

Could someone have splashed it and been squelched on tactical? No, he hadn’t heard a partial report cut off by static or any other indication that someone had gotten down and dirty and not been able to tell anyone about it.

Maybe the missile barrage took out an additional aircraft early on and someone had screwed up the count? No. While he couldn’t have told anyone why he knew that was not so, he knew that was not the answer. He’d seen the distant specks of black that indicated an aircraft and a missile simultaneously trying to occupy the same airspace, and the registers in his mind had automatically toted up the numbers.

But if there was one missing, where was it? Why wasn’t it on his radar? And why wasn’t anyone else worried about it?

Bird Dog toggled his ICS. “Music, what were you saying about the count? You know, what the cruiser said and how many fireballs you saw?”

“It’s off. Or at least I think it is. The cruiser reported thirteen kills and there — well, I could have been mistaken I guess.”

“No. What?”

“I only counted twelve fireballs.”

Bird Dog thought for just a second, then said, “We gotta find that other aircraft, Music. It’s out there somewhere. I don’t know why nobody else sees it or is worried about it, but for whatever reason, we’re the only ones who know something’s wrong.”

“Why don’t we see it?” Music asked, his words coming in hard grunts as Bird Dog kicked the Tomcat into a steep climb, ignoring the Hawkeye’s vector guidance. “They don’t have stealth, do they?”

“Naw, not that we know about. They could, I guess. But then we wouldn’t have the original count right, would we?”

“So where is it?”

The answer to most problems and questions in the air is: altitude. Altitude buys a pilot time, time to sort out exactly what’s gone wrong, time to find some configuration of speed and control surfaces that will convince an aircraft to keep flying, and, in the very worst of circumstances, time to make sure somebody knows exactly where he’s punching out. So, faced with the problem of a missing enemy fighter, Bird Dog figured that altitude was the least likely thing to hurt him.

“How can you lose a fighter?” Bird Dog asked, trying to list the options. “Outside of range, maybe. If it’s not stealth and nobody’s holding it, then where is it? Turned tail and gone home? No, we would have seen it depart the pattern. It can’t be out of range of every Tomcat and the Hawkeye. So it’s in range somewhere. If we were over land, it’d be behind a hill or something, but we’re—shit! Music, that’s it! It’s on the deck somewhere, down so low we’re losing it in the sea state! That’s got to be it!”

“He’s crazy, then,” Music said flatly. “Not in sea state five.”

“Yeah, crazy. Or very, very good.” Bird Dog flipped over to tactical. “U.S., you got a problem. You got a sea-skimming Fencer or Fitter inbound, somebody heading in for you just barely clearing the waves. You got anything that would correlate with that?”

“Bird Dog, you gotta be kidding,” the Hawkeye broke in. “There’s nobody down that low.”

“Yeah? Count it again, buddy. Add up what came in, what’s gone down, and what’s in the air now. Then you tell me.” Bird Dog waited impatiently for a few seconds, then rolled the Tomcat over inverted to get a better look at the surface of the ocean. “You watching for him, Music?”

“I’m trying not to puke, Bird Dog.”

“You puke on the canopy now and I’ll punch you out,” Bird Dog threatened. “I swear to god I will.”

“Wait!” Music said, forgetting his nausea in the rush of adrenaline spiking through his veins. “There — your dot, Bird Dog!”

“That ain’t a dot, that’s a—shit, there it is! U.S., I got a visual. Engaging. Fastball, you’re on your own for a few miles while I nail this Fencer playing hovercraft.”

Rat spoke up then. “Bird Dog, we should take high station on you.”

“Leave him alone,” Fastball snapped. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“I just think—”

“Then don’t. Not about flying.”

Music listened to the argument between pilot and RIO spill over the airwaves, desperately hoping that Rat would win this one. But Fastball had the ultimate veto authority over any plan about where the aircraft should go. It wasn’t like Rat had controls in the back seat.

“Talley-ho!” Bird Dog shouted, putting the Tomcat into a steep dive, so steep that Music felt the gray creep in around the edges of his vision. “Come on, Music, let’s nail this bastard!”

“He’s your lead, Fastball. You don’t let your lead wander off on his own,” Rat said coldly.

“It ever occur to you that we’re a little outnumbered up here, Rat?” Fastball shot back. “Bird Dog knows what he’s doing. We can do more good up here, taking out a few more of these Fencers while he’s cleaning up that little mess down below. By the time he gets back up to altitude, we’ll probably have another six kills under our belt.”

“Is that what this is about? Getting more kills than Bird Dog?”

“No! That’s not it at all! What, you think you’re not good enough to get us six more kills with the gas we’ve got left?”

“Bullshit. That’s not the point.”

“He doesn’t want backup,” Fastball snapped.

“Like you don’t want an RIO?” she asked.

There was a moment of silence. Rat listened to the progress of the air battle around them, to the other pilots calling out their kill counts, their next targets — and, occasionally, a curse, followed by a Mayday as an American was overwhelmed by the attackers. She knew Fastball wanted to be in the thick of it, knew how hard it was for him to turn away from the fun ball and do what was right. It was a choice she couldn’t force him to make.

The aircraft suddenly dropped out from under her, throwing her hard against her ejection harness. “Okay, okay,” Fastball said. “He shouldn’t be going down on his own, should he? I know that, you know that. But it’s Bird Dog, Rat, and he’s going to be one pissed-off pilot when we get back to the boat, us heading down to back him up when he says he doesn’t need it. You know how he is.”

“Yeah, I do. He’s a whole lot like you,” Rat said softly.

“He’s only four miles from the carrier,” Music said, his face buried in the radar hood. If he could just get the right resolution, maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to get a radar lock on the target. Without radar contact, he had no way to target the missile.

“A little more than that,” Bird Dog said, not really consciously marking off the miles, but knowing it was true anyway. “We got time.”

“Not much.” Hell, where is he? He’s got to be in here somewhere. But it’s all static, all reflections off the waves — he must be suicidal to be that low in this sea state! But they all are, aren’t they? Their pilots, ours. Bird Dog’s going down there to find him, as much to prove that he can do anything a Fencer can do better, longer and harder than anything else. And I’m not going to like it one little bit — no, I’m not.

As Music tried every trick he knew to pull the contact out of the clutter, he suddenly realized with a gut-wrenching sense of relief that this was his last combat flight. He knew how RIOs felt about pilots, how they all bitched about the maniacs sitting in the front seat, and he’d chimed in, trying to sound exactly like them, but knowing at some level that he was far more serious about it. RIOs bitched to let off steam, to hide the fear. But for Music, it went far deeper than that.

He understood the importance of what they were doing out here, of the necessity for fighters and fighter pilots and for strong military forces. In the interest of their national security, America had to be able to be the biggest kid on the block. And it wasn’t that he was afraid of doing his part. He’d volunteered, hadn’t he?

It was just that he thought there ought to be another way — that there had to be another way — of resolving conflicts. You go out and beat somebody up, they’re going to wait until they’re strong enough to beat you up. Not a question of being afraid, not that at all. No, it was a question of choice.

The last time I’ll fly. So I better do a damned good job of it.

Just then, two bits of sea return merged, stabilized and turned into a target. “Your dot, Bird Dog,” Music said. “Definitely your dot.”

“I got a visual on him,” Fastball announced. “Looks like it’s going to be a wasted trip, Rat.”

Rat gritted her teeth. Fastball would always rub it in, wouldn’t he? She knew how the story would be replayed on the carrier when they got back.

“See, he’s already got a missile on him,” Fastball said. “I don’t know why I ever listen to you, Rat. You’re such a—”

The surface of the ocean exploded into a fireball. A hot wave of expanding gases rushed over them, buffeting the Tomcat violently. Fastball swore as he fought for control, then finally pulled the Tomcat out into level flight.

“What the hell??!!” he shouted, adrenaline pumping through his system.

Rat stared down at the ocean, numb. “Suicide mission. Like the one that nailed the USS Cole,” she said. “That was no normal explosion — man, that thing had to be packed with explosives.”

“Bird Dog — where is he?”

Rat stared down at her radar screen, searching for the contact that the system would label as a friendly Tomcat. Static stared back at her, the superheated air along the surface of the ocean wreaking havoc with waveforms and transmission paths. “No joy,” she said softly.

“He’s gotta be down there somewhere!” Fastball insisted. “That was Bird Dog!”

Over tactical, a chatter of reports streamed in as the carrier insisted on asking what the hell was going on while the air boss vectored helos into the area. The explosion had flung shrapnel toward the carrier, and several pieces of metal traveling at supersonic speeds had skewered both aircraft and personnel in the hangar bay and on the flight deck. Damage control teams were fighting one small fire and the yellow gear was moving in to shove the burning aircraft over the side, the only way to control a Class Delta metal fire.

“Somebody want to come get me?” a familiar voice said irritably over the air distress frequency.

“Bird Dog!” Fastball shouted. “He’s alive!”

“I’m over on the starboard side, just after your wake, Big Boy. Call it four hundred feet and opening,” Bird Dog’s voice continued. “Let’s make it snappy, okay? And get me another aircraft ready.”

“How’d you get over there?” the air boss asked, after he’d relayed vectors to the SAR helo.

“I figured it out right before I took the shot, so I did a bunny hop over the carrier. Timed it so the bulk of the carrier would shield us from most of the blast, but we ended up in the drink anyway,” Bird Dog said, his voice seriously aggrieved. “I almost had it, but there was a hell of a lot more explosives on it than I figured.”

“And he had time to punch out,” Fastball said, awed at the speed at which Bird Dog had deciphered the situation and gotten himself clear. “Time to figure out when to shoot, kick in afterburner and clear the carrier, then get back down low enough to be shielded. The blast must have nailed him through the open hangar bay. And then, on top of that, he manages to roll enough to avoid punching out into the carrier and time it so that they stay clear of the stern.”

Evidently the air boss made the same conclusions, because when he spoke again, his voice was filled with gruff respect. “Roger, Bird Dog, we’re on our way.”

“Medical for my RIO,” Bird Dog said, his voice starting to mirror the strain now. “I think he’s hurt bad. I want to…”

As Bird Dog’s voice trailed off, the circuit was filled with a flurry of orders. Within the next fifteen seconds, the rescue helo had a swimmer in the water holding the pilot and RIO’s faces out of the water as a rescue basket was lowered to them. Bird Dog regained consciousness just long enough to insist that Music take the first ride up.

Bird Dog watched Music being hoisted up to the helo, then turned his attention to staying alive. The large waves were alternately lifting him to their peaks and then tossing him into the valleys, and the spray was so heavy that it was hard to draw a deep breath. The life jacket was doing a good job of keeping him afloat, but it was up to him to keep his head out of the water and time his breaths so he wouldn’t take in a lungful of water.

Finally, it was his turn. The rescue carry basket descended, and he swam over to it, cursing when it swung out of reach. Finally, he managed to hook one hand around the bottom of it and pulled it toward him. He pulled himself inside, strapped in, and raised a thumbs-up at the hoist operator. With a hard jerk, the rescue basket began its ascent.

As it came level with the side hatch of the helo, Bird Dog was already struggling with the strap, trying to undo it even before he was inside. “Stop that!” a crew member snapped, and swung the basket inside the helo. He motioned to the other man to shut the hatch, and then glared at Bird Dog. “What do you think you’re trying to do, you idiot?” He grabbed for a hand hold as the helo banked sharply away from the area and back toward the carrier. “I go to all the trouble to pull you out of the water, and you’re trying to get thrown back in. If you fall out, I’m leaving you there.”

“How is he?” Bird Dog asked, letting them undo the straps. Music was stretched out on his back, pale and only semi-conscious. A corpsman was already ripping apart the flight suit to take a look at the wound.

“He’ll live,” the corpsman said. “Didn’t even break the bone. Once it heals up, there’s no reason he can’t be back in a flight status after some physical therapy.”

At that, Music groaned and opened his eyes. “No more flying. That’s it for me.”

Bird Dog stared at him, disbelief in his eyes. “What do you mean, no more flying? Come on, Music, I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”

Music shook his head weakly. “It’s not for me, Bird Dog. It’s just not. As soon as we get back on deck, I’m turning in my wings.”

“Back to the fight?” Rat said, and then she noticed that the Tomcat was already ascending again.

“Back to the fight,” Fastball said grimly. “Watch my ass, Rat. We’re going to kill us some Fencers.”

Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. Fastball hadn’t gotten six kills, but he sounded fairly content with the three he’d managed to rack up. The last had been a real son of a bitch, stitching a line of bullets down his vertical control surfaces before finally wandering into Fastball’s own guns.

As the American forces headed for the tanker, then lined up for a shot at the deck, the few remaining Chinese aircraft were already facing the consequences of failure as they landed.

Captain Chang was seated in his stateroom, his back to the door. He heard his second in command announce Major Ho, but, as they’d planned, he did not answer.

The door opened and hesitant footsteps sounded on the spotless white tile. Still Chang did not turn. This was the first test.

Five minutes passed, and there was no sound behind him. Not an impatient throat clearing, not a scuffle, not even a sniff. Finally, Chang wheeled around to stare directly at the top of Ho’s head. The younger man’s bow was as deep as Chang had ever seen, and Ho was waiting to be acknowledged with a patience and submissiveness that Chang would not have expected from him.

Good. He understands that much about respect. Perhaps there is hope.

“Sit,” Chang said flatly. “Sit, and listen.”

Ho unbent and slipped into the chair in front of Chang’s desk. He perched on the very edge of it, his back straight, his eyes staring at the floor. At that moment, Chang’s plan changed.

“There is no need to review your conduct and your decisions,” Chang began. “By now, you have understood what you did wrong, correct? And how your own pride and ego led to mistakes that almost cost men’s lives. There is no shame in misunderstanding another culture — there is shame in failing to admit to your misunderstanding. As a rule, you must assume that others are honorable until they prove otherwise. You did not allow the Americans that opportunity. Is this a correct summary of your understanding?”

“Yes, Captain.” Ho’s gaze was still fixed on the deck.

Chang leaned back in his chair and studied the man. Certainly he had the family connections and the education to go far in the military — indeed, he could walk the line between the ancient sources of power and authority in Taiwan and the emerging technocracy that was so at odds with tradition. If he were of the right character, Ho could play a key leadership role in Taiwan’s future.

But is he? Has he learned from this, or will it simply sour him, instill in him a desire for revenge? I have the power to ruin him right now. Ruin him, or save him. Which will it be?

“Look at me,” Chang ordered. Hesitantly, Ho raised his head and met Chang’s gaze.

The windows to the soul — and what do I see there? Remorse. Sorrow. Deep shame. Yes, he understands. And if he understands, there is hope.

“Wisdom comes from experience,” Chang said finally. “My report will contain the recommendation that you be ordered to a shore station in the United States for further liaison duties. Perhaps with their army this time.” Chang leaned forward, his voice intense. “Our country’s future will depend on knowing and understanding the United States. You have seen yourself how deadly mistakes can be. Some day, I will retire. It would be of some comfort to me if I knew that there were men such as you, men of pride and honor with the willingness to look beyond the surface to find other men of honor in other cultures. Can I count on you? Are you one of those men?”

Ho shook his head. “Not yet, sir. But I will do my best to follow your example.”

Chang nodded once. “Then go. Return to the ship, make your apologies and prove that my confidence is not mistaken. I shall be watching, Major. I wish to be proud.”

With that, he dismissed the army officer and turned back to the never-ending pile of paperwork on his desk.

Sarah Wexler had never seen the ambassador from China looking quite so — well — what? Embarrassed, perhaps? Chagrined? Or even apologetic? She doubted that anyone who didn’t know him as well as she did wouldn’t even notice it, but there was definitely an undercurrent beneath the smooth, diplomatic facade he always presented to the world.

He stood in her doorway, motionless, his head inclined slightly. How long has he been standing there? Not long, she figured, judging by how Brad, standing directly behind the ambassador, was impatiently shifting his weight.

“Yes?” she said, not really asking a question as much as acknowledging his presence.

T’ing deepened his bow, then said, “May I speak to you privately?”

A request, not an order. That’s a good start. Aloud, she said, “Regarding?” She shot a glance at Brad and continued with, “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of my staff.”

Now that didn’t go down well with Brad, did it? I doubt he likes being considered just part of the staff.

“Very well.” T’ing’s gaze told her he was not pleased. “China is withdrawing her petition requesting sanctions against America.” He turned abruptly to leave and bumped into Brad.

“Will there be an apology forthcoming?” Wexler asked, her voice still cold.

“No.” He turned back to face her. “You cannot reasonably expect that, can you? Your government will have to be content with what is offered.”

That brought her to her feet. “Oh, really? Is that how you see things?”

He gazed at her for a long moment then said quietly, “I would like to speak to you privately. Please.”

Please, is it? She nodded. “It’s okay, Brad.”

Once they were alone, T’ing slipped into the chair in front of her desk and some of the stiffness in his posture slid away. “I have delivered the message from my government. I cannot elaborate on their position, you know. My orders were quite clear. But privately, I wish to assure you that I have been — perhaps not as well advised as I would like.” He spread his hands out, palms up. “It is no secret that I have many sources of intelligence. And in this instance, they were sufficiently at odds that I was forced to make a choice. Perhaps I made the wrong one. Had I known the truth of the matter, perhaps things might have gone differently.”

So they don’t tell you everything either, do they, my friend? She regarded him for a moment, seeing the similarities in how they’d each been forced to operate. “They want all of our skills, don’t they? But in the end, we represent our governments, and must advocate their positions. Even when we know better.”

His face relaxed. “So you understand, yes?”

“Yes.”

T’ing took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “But we’re more than just hired guns, you and I. We do make a difference. For instance, there was some talk of demanding restitution for the attack on our amphibious group. I would like to think that it would have been rejected without my input, but I certainly argued strongly against it.”

“Well, then. Where do we stand now?”

“With Japan and Russia arguing over the position of the Kuriles, I suppose. It will come back to this forum eventually, but for now we can safely ignore it.”

“For now.”

There was a long silence, not an uncompanionable one. Finally, he stood to leave. “Dinner tomorrow?”

She walked him to the door. “Pacini’s, eight o’clock.”

Tombstone fingered the brown official government envelope, knowing what was inside and not wanting to touch it. Somehow, this made his loss seem continually fresh. The monthly arrival of Tomboy’s paychecks, because her military pay continued as long as she was listed as missing and not declared killed, was a constant reminder of his loss.

Looks like I’m not the only one who can’t believe she’s gone. Tombstone stuck the envelope in his top desk drawer, along with the last three he’d received. Someday soon he’d have to decide what to do with them, but ignoring them for now seemed like the most attractive option he had.

“Mister Magruder?” a voice said hesitantly over the speaker on his telephone. “Someone is here to see you.”

“Who?” he said, slightly befuddled. No one came to see him here who didn’t already have the security codes to all the doors. And if they didn’t have the codes, they had no business being here.

“He won’t give his name. But he said to tell you it’s about going west.”

The phrase reverberated in his mind. Go west — the last words his father had etched on the walls of a Vietnamese POW camp. Tombstone shot out of his chair and headed for the front office. His uncle was only slightly behind him.

A small, wiry man was seated in the reception area. He was well-dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit and highly polished shoes. He stood, offered his hand, and said, “Thank you for seeing me.”

“I’m not sure we’re to that stage yet,” Tombstone said. “Want to tell me your name, just for starters?”

The man shook his head. “I could give you a name, but it would mean nothing.”

“Then how about telling me what that phrase means to you?” Tombstone shot back, every nerve on edge. He had thought he had finally resolved his father’s fate in the cold woods of Ukraine, but to hear those words again… was there something he’d missed? Had the grave he’d been assured was his father’s been someone else’s?

“The more important question is what those words mean to you. I think,” and Tombstone now noted a slight foreign accent to the man’s voice, “that they will mean hope. Is this room secure?”

Tombstone glanced at his uncle, who shrugged. “The conference room would be better.” His uncle led the way past the receptionist and into a utilitarian conference room furnished with a sturdy if decidedly plain table and chairs.

“This is secure enough for anything that concerns those words,” Tombstone said when they were inside it and the door shut behind them. “Now start talking.”

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” the man said. He opened the large brown envelope he was carrying and withdrew a photo. Without words and with a faint expression of pity, he passed it over to Tombstone.

Tombstone drew in a sharp breath. His world reeled around him, and for a moment he had the crazy idea that he just might pass out. His uncle moved closer and peered over his shoulder, then swore quietly.

Tomboy’s face, bloody and grim, stared back at them. The picture captured her from the waist up, and it was clear from her posture that her hands were tied behind her. Tombstone saw her iron will etched into every line of her face, and knew by the hard set of her eyes and the tightness in her muscles that she was an unwilling participant in this photo shoot.

A hand intruded into the picture right at about chest level. It held a newspaper — Tombstone held the photo closer, and made out the words NEW YORK TIMES. The date was almost too blurred to read.

Almost. A fresh shock reverberated through him, and his breath froze in his throat.

The man nodded, fresh sorrow in his eyes. “Yes. This was taken last week.”

“Where?” Tombstone gasped, struggling for the words, not daring to trust the fresh hope blossoming in his chest. “She’s alive!” Joy coursed through him, followed immediately by the deepest anger he’d ever experienced. She was alive — and she was captive.

“I think we should sit down,” the man said gently. “It is a long story.”