Sky Masters

8

They had kept the landing lights off until seconds before touchdown. The only lights on around the entire base were the runway-end identifier lights and blue taxiway lights — all “ball park” lights on the parking ramps, exterior fights, and streetlights near the runway were out. Looking from the cockpit, the entire northern part of the island of Guam appeared as dark and as deserted as the thousands of miles of ocean they had just crossed.

The aircraft, as black as the tropical night sky from which it descended, used the runway closest to the parking area and did not touch down until nearly halfway down the two-mile-long runway at Andersen Air Force Base so it would spend as little time as possible exposed to view while taxiing. At the end of the runway, it taxied rapidly across the wide north ramp to a row of large hangars and pulled straight into the first one. The hangar doors were closed behind it seconds later as the engines were shut down. Security patrols began an immediate sweep of the area, using dogs and light-intensifying night-vision equipment to search for intruders.

The interior of the huge hangar brightly illuminated the sleek, bat-shaped outline of the B-2 Black Knight stealth bomber. Maintenance crews checked the aircraft and immediately began opening inspection and access panels. A few moments later the belly hatch swung open and three men climbed down the access ladder.

As Major Henry Cobb, Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan, and Brigadier General John Ormack emerged from the huge black bomber, General Elliott, General Stone, Jon Masters, and Colonel Fusco were there to greet them. “Good to see you guys,” Elliott said, shaking each of their hands and handing each of them a beer.

“We’re damned glad to be here,” Cobb exclaimed. “My butt is wondering if my legs have been cut off.” All three aviators looked completely exhausted and thoroughly rumpled, but their smiles were genuine as Elliott made introductions all around.

The formalities of every military flight still had to be accomplished, so Elliott and the others waited patiently as Cobb and McLanahan completed their postflight walk-around inspection of the bomber and sat down with several aircraft-maintenance technicians to explain the few glitches found during flight. Afterward they were taken to a conference room at the command post, where sandwiches, more beer, and several other members of Stone’s staff were waiting to greet them.

“I must say, this is a pretty impressive showing,” Rat Stone said after the three crew members were settled down. “Deploying a B-2 from South Dakota to Guam with only three hours’ notice, then flying nonstop all the way. So what’s it like to spend nearly seventeen hours straight in a stealth bomber?”

“The first ten aren’t too bad, sir,” Ormack replied with a tired grin. “Henry made the takeoff and the first two refuelings, but I was too wired to sleep. We switched just past Hawaii. When we got out of radio range of Hawaii, it was absolute murder to stay awake until the next refueling — near Wake Island, as it so happens. The last four hours were the worst — too keyed up to sleep, too tired to concentrate, having to make those timing orbits so we wouldn’t land too early and get our pictures taken by the Chinese spy satellites. I’m too old for these butt-busting missions.”

“Well, you did good,” Elliott said. “You landed right on time — the Chinese bird should be passing overhead right about now. Unless there’s a sub out there we haven’t found yet, we may have pulled this off — deploying a stealth bomber seven thousand miles in total secrecy. How’s the bomber look?”

“Everything’s in the green,” McLanahan said. “We brought spares for most of the critical components, and we have the computerized blueprints on the PACER SKY mod installation.” He turned to Jon Masters and said, “The system was working like a charm, Doctor Masters. We were able to monitor some of the Ranger battle group clear as day. The NIRTSats found a few Chinese ships operating in the Celebes, but I don’t think there’s going to be a problem with them as long as we stay clear of them.”

“That’s exactly what we intend to do,” Stone said. “We got a cryptic but urgent report from the State Department that the Chinese Navy might try something against the fleet if we move into the Celebes Sea, so except for the RC-135 overflight — and he’s been instructed to stay at extreme sensor range from any Chinese vessels — we’re staying well away.”

“Well, the RC was still a few hours from on-station, but he should have the Chinese ships’ position from the NIRT-Sat — he shouldn’t have any problem staying out of the way. I recorded the NIRTSat transmissions, and we can download it from the memory banks right away.” McLanahan stifled a big yawn, finished the rest of his beer, then added, “Rather, you can. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

From thirty thousand feet, the radar aboard the RC-135X radar reconnaissance aircraft could pick out the dense clusters of islands, atolls, and coral reefs of the Sulu Archipelago. At the very tip of the peninsula was the area that most of the ten radar operators on the RC-135 reconnaissance aircraft were concentrating on.

In the center of the converted Boeing 707 airliner was the command station, where Colonel Rachel Blanchard and her deputy, Captain Samuel Fruntz, sat poring over a stack of four-color charts. “Look at this,” Fruntz remarked, pointing at the tip of the Zamboanga peninsula. “Not very subtle, are they? A whole line of vessels stretching from the North Balabac Strait to Zamboanga.” He compared the image to another chart. “Checks right on with that NIRTSat printout we received from Andersen. That PACER SKY satellite is far out.”

Blanchard looked at her younger deputy and rolled her eyes. Fruntz, Blanchard thought, was another “techie” who believed that, whatever the newest technology was, it had to be better than any of the “older” technology, even if the older technology was only a few years old. Blanchard had been in the reconnaissance business for twelve years, mostly as pilot or copilot flying EC- and RC-135 aircraft for the Strategic Air Command — this was only her second tour as recce section commander — and she had been dismayed at the new emphasis on space-based reconnaissance systems, or “gadgets” as she called them. Even the latest high-tech satellites had serious limitations that only well-equipped planes like the RC-135 or the newer EC-18s could overcome.

Blanchard had flown or seen just about every one of the sixty different iterations of the C-135 special mission/reconnaissance/intelligence-gathering aircraft. The RC-135X, nicknamed “Rivet Joint,” was the latest and best of the older RC-series aircraft; the newer series was designated EC-18 and was a hundred times more cosmic than even the RC-models. Rivet Joint had been designed to map out precise locations of coastal enemy air-defense sites for targeting by Short-Range Attack Missiles or cruise missiles that armored long-range bomber aircraft. By combining sensitive radiation sensors with powerful radar and infrared images, one Rivet Joint aircraft could update three thousand miles of coastal air-defense sites in one day. Blanchard used to fly reconnaissance missions in conjunction with SR-71 Blackbird spy planes — the SR-71 would fly toward the Russian coastline until Soviet air-defense missile-site radars activated, and then the RC-135 would plot out all the locations of those missile sites. It was a deadly game of cat-and-mouse that, thankfully, she had never lost.

“Hey, Sam,” Blanchard told her younger partner. “Does that gadget’s data tell you what kind of ships those are?”

“No, but it—”

“Didn’t think so. Our radar can identify those ships — PACER SKY’s printout just gives a position and velocity readout,” Blanchard said. “Without ISAR identification data, we could only report those ships as a possible hostile, and that’s only based on their formation, not their type.” She referred to a sheaf of computer printouts he had received from the RC-135’s intensive-signal processors. “Here it is: the largest ship in that string is a probable Hegu-class fast attack missile craft. What good is satellite intelligence that only gives you half the story?”

“Because we wouldn’t have to truck three thousand miles to find out the Chinese are moving a big convoy into Zamboanga,” Fruntz said.

Blanchard remained unimpressed.

Fruntz continued: “Look at this: PACER SKY is telling us there might be defensive missile batteries set up on the eastern shore of Jolo Island or Pata Island, in the middle of the Sulu Archipelago. See that? That’s the kind of info we need before we drive into the area.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t make that much difference, because we’re still going to drive into that area,” Blanchard said. “If there’s a SAM site or radar on those islands, they’re not going to turn ’em on until we get closer.”

“It beats getting surprised,” Fruntz insisted. “I’d rather be ready for a radar to come up than have the bejeezus scared out of us.”

“I like surprises,” Blanchard said, but then added quickly, “Sam, you go into these sorties expecting the shit to hit the fan at any time. Too much information, and you start getting complacent. You gotta be ready for anything. Expect the unexpected…”

“Radar four reports surface contact,” one of the radar operators suddenly called out. “Slow velocity… now showing ten knots, heading westbound.”

“There’s something that NIRTSat thing didn’t find,” Blanchard snickered. “No matter how gee-whiz that satellite is, thirty-minute-old data is still thirty-minute-old data — and it’s garbage to us.” She turned to the radar operator and said, “I need a designation on that last contact, Radar. Get on it.”

“Signal two shows primary search radar on that surface contact,” another operator called out. “Showing C-band, three-seventy PRF… calling it a Rice Screen air-search radar…”

“Radar four has an ISAR probable on that return, calling it a EF4-class destroyer… now picking up escorts, probably as many as four, within ten miles of EF4.” The ISAR, or Inverse Synthetic Aperture Radar, mounted in the two prominent fairings on the underside of the RC-135’s fuselage, could paint a nearly three-dimensional picture of a ship and, by combining it with a computer data base of thousands of such radar images, could usually match the radar image with a ship in its computer memory. The larger the ship, the more accurate the match, and a destroyer-class vessel was a very large radar return.

“Jeez, they got some pretty fancy firepower out here,” Blanchard said. “A destroyer-class boat this far south.” She turned to the forward part of the aircraft. “Comm, code and send immediately to Andersen and Offutt on separate channels the position of that last contact. It’s the biggest gun the Chinese have this far south — I want to make sure everybody knows about it.” To the radar operator, she asked, “What’s our range to that EF4?”

“Range, four-seven nautical miles,” the operator reported.

“That’s close enough,” Blanchard said to Fruntz. Fruntz was already leafing through pages of computerized text on the EF4 class of Chinese destroyers. “What’s the scouting report on those things?”

“Antiship and antisubmarine missile destroyers,” Fruntz read. “About ten in the Chinese inventory, possibly with five more in ready reserve and five more overseas. Helicopter pad, big-time antiship launchers… holy shit, listen to this gun fit: four 130-millimeter dual purpose, eight 57-millimeter or 37-millimeter antiaircraft guns, and four 25-millimeter antiaircraft guns. Rice Screen three-D long-range air-defense radar system — they call it a ‘mini-Aegis’ system — X-band ERF-1 or X-band Rice Lamp fire-control radar for the guns. Some fitted with Phalanx self-defense guns, Ku-band radar.”

“Anything about antiair missiles?”

“Yes… helicopter pad removed from some vessels and replaced with various stem-mounted missile systems,” Fruntz replied. “Some fitted possibly with HQ-61 missiles, one twin mount, Fog Lamp H- or I-band fire control, max range of missile, six nautical miles — pretty small missile. Others possibly with French naval Crotale, max range eight nautical miles, X-band fire control. Some with HQ-91 French Masurca dual-rail mount… shit, max range thirty nautical miles, S-band pulse-Doppler tracker.”

“As far as we’re concerned, we’ll assume the worst case,”

Blanchard said. “Forty miles out from that EF4 is perfect for now.” She paused for a moment, then added, “But that Rice Screen radar has me worried. That’s a no-shit early warning and fighter intercept radar system. Why have a boat with that kind of radar on board way out here unless—”

“Flashlight, Flashlight, Flashlight, this is Basket,” the radio report interrupted. Basket was the call sign of the E-3C Sentry Airborne Warning and Control System radar plane that had accompanied the RC-135 on this mission. The AWACS plane could scan for hundreds of miles in all directions, locating aircraft at all altitudes and vector friendly fighters in to intercept. Emergency reports from an AWACS controller were always prefaced by calling out a sortie’s call sign three times — the RC-135 was under attack. “Bandits at your twelve o’clock, Blue plus five-five, flight level zero-niner-zero, speed five hundred.”

Range calls were always given in color codes in case the enemy fighters somehow were able to eavesdrop on the encrypted radio messages between aircraft; Blue meant fifty miles, Yellow meant twenty miles, Red meant zero miles, and Green meant subtract twenty miles. When a dogfight started, the controller would drop the color codes and issue warnings as fast as he could. All radar targets were being called “bandits,” or hostile targets, in this area with Chinese troops nearby — of course, anytime a target began flying over five hundred knots, it was automatically considered an enemy fighter until proven otherwise.

“Showing four targets now, Blue plus forty, speed passing five-zero-zero. Bullet flight, take spacing and stand by.” The AWACS plane not only issued warnings to Flashlight, the RC-135X plane, but also to Shamu Three-One, the KC-10 aerial refueling tanker that was supporting both the Navy and Air Force planes on this mission; two KA-6 Navy tankers to use as tactical spare refueling aircraft; and four Navy F-14A Tomcat fighters of VF-2 Bullets from the USS Ranger, which was steaming about one hundred miles east of Talaud Island just outside Indonesian waters. The Tomcats were armed with four medium-range Sparrow radar-guided missiles and four shorter-range Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles; since they were along only as escorts and, according to the Rules of Engagement, not authorized to attack from long range, none of the escorts carried the long-range AIM-54 Phoenix missile.

Two of the F-14s, Bullet Four and Five, were with the RC-135 acting as primary escorts, and the other two, Bullet Two and Three, were shuttling to the KC-10 tanker for refueling. Four more F-14 fighters were ready aboard Ranger, loaded with long-range Phoenix missiles as well as Sparrows and Sidewinders, to assist the Air Force recon planes and defend the battle group in case of trouble…

… And it sounded like there was going to be trouble. With unknown aircraft heading their way, this was no place to be for one of the U.S. Air Force’s most sophisticated spy planes. The data was important, but not important enough to risk the manpower or the hardware. “Time to leave, Grasshopper. We’re calling it a night,” Blanchard said. Being flippant about a possible fighter attack usually wasn’t her style, but she had found after pushing a crew for so long that the initial wave of excitement that hit a crewman who suddenly found himself or herself under attack sometimes caused costly mistakes; if you could relax a person during that initial fear-heavy period, he performed better.

“Pilot, this is Recce One, execute egress now,” Blanchard continued. “Crew, this is Recce One, terminate all emissions, secure your stations and queue your data for transmission. Report by station when complete.” She watched her status board light up with coded intelligence-data packets waiting for transmission; Blanchard and Fruntz could pick out the most important ones for immediate transmission, or send them in all in one quick burst, or send them one by one in ordered, error-checked bundles. They preferred the last method until the bandits got closer and posed a more serious threat. Then Blanchard and Fruntz would use the faster 57,000-kilobit-per second routines, shoveling the data out as fast as the RC-135’s computers could handle it.

“Flashlight, turn left heading one-four-zero,” the AWACS controller called out. “Manado airfield will be at your twelve o’clock position, two-five-zero miles.” Manado, a good-sized city on the Minahasa Peninsula of northern Indonesia, was the first emergency landing site; on a southeast heading, they were also flying away from the Philippines and toward their tanker and the USS Ranger, which was stationed in the northern Molucca Sea about five hundred miles farther east.

“Flashlight copies,” Blanchard’s pilot replied. He unconsciously pushed the throttles up to near military power, trying to claw every bit of distance between himself and the unknowns.

It took only a few moments for Blanchard and Fruntz to finish their primary job — safely transmit the reams of radar and sensor data collected on this short trip. They began yet another error-checking routine after all the data was transmitted, where the receiving station on Guam would compute check sums from each line of data from their transmission, then compare the sums with Blanchard’s information. If it matched, Blanchard would erase the verified data and repeat the process with another data file. The verification process was the most time-consuming — satellite transmissions even at the best of times were relatively slow and prone to interruptions — but it was the safest way of ensuring that the information had been transmitted and received without errors before they would risk erasing it… and the information would all be erased before the enemy fighters got within striking distance.

This shit was happening too fast, Lieutenant Greg “Hitman” Povik thought.

Night carrier operations were the absolute worst. Flying combat sorties was bad enough, but a night cat shot was sheer terror. Strapped into a sixty-thousand-pound machine, blasted out into the darkness from zero to one hundred and fifty knots in two seconds. Hard enough to flatten eyeballs. Hard enough that the brain thinks you’re in a steep nose-high climb, so your tendency is to push the nose down to the water — that will kill you in one second if you succumb to the feeling. You have no outside reference, no sign of up or down or sideways, no natural cues. The ultimate in sensory deprivation, even though you’re surrounded by instruments.

So you keep full afterburner and back pressure on the stick until after the shot, after you’ve cleared the deck and established a positive rate of climb. Believe the instruments, because your brain will kill you if you let it. Positive rate of climb, positive altitude increase — gear up. Passing one-eighty, flaps and slats up. Passing two-fifty, wings moving back, turn out and listen up for your wingman.

Everything is still dark, so you stay on the instruments. You hear radio calls coming from everywhere, from planes hundreds of miles away and from planes just a few miles away. Slowly, the real poop starts to-filter in: wingman’s up, wingman’s got you locked on his radar so he can catch up without the carrier’s radar or the E-2 Hawkeye’s radar operators vectoring in. Vector to the tanker — an F-14 sucks a lot of gas for takeoff, and the good guys are three hundred miles and a quarter-tank of gas away still. Check the cockpit, get a check from your RIO — Radar Intercept Officer, Lieutenant JG Bob “Bear” Blevin — check oxygen and pressurization, check weapons, check everything.

Soon the sounds of the hostile area filtered in. An Air Force reconnaissance plane is less than a hundred miles from the Philippines, within pissing distance of Chinese warships. Intelligence says Chinese patrol planes, with fighter escorts, might be up. They say the Chinese ships might have antiair missiles and guns and might just shoot first and ask questions later. Great. With nothing but black surrounding you, you feel more alone than you’ve ever felt before — there’s nothing but miles of ocean between you and dry land or deck.

Things happen too quickly, even though the Air Force plane is hundreds of miles away. Blevin makes radio contact with the KA-6 tanker, and they maneuver to intercept. The small KA-6 will transfer only a few thousand pounds of fuel, but it’s better to fly overwater with full tanks as much as possible in case of trouble.

Night aerial refueling ranks right up there with night catapult shots in the anxiety department. Povik has to drive up behind the KA-6 tanker, find a tiny four-foot-diameter lighted basket, and stick a three-inch nozzle inside it by maneuvering his forty-five-ton air machine around it. Meanwhile, the KA-6 is turning in a racetrack pattern so it won’t fly too far from the carrier, which makes the hookup even more difficult. With gentle coaching from Blevin, Povik made the hookup on the second try, and he managed to stay hooked up and made the transfer all at once. He maintained visual contact on the tanker while his wingman made contact and got his gas, and then they got a vector from their E-2C Hawkeye radar plane controller to the west.

No sooner had they finished refueling, and they were transferred to the Air Force E-3 AWACS radar plane’s controller, who was providing air coverage for all the planes operating near the Philippines. The Navy guys had trained a few times with Air Force controllers, but they still used different terminology and never seemed to shut up — they seemed determined to read off every number on their radar screens and let the fighter crews work their own navigation solutions. But after filtering out the chatter — obviously those AWACS guys were nervous too — Povik and his wingman in Bullet Five were vectored in to visual range of an Air Force RC-135 reconnaissance plane. It looked like a KC-135 tanker, but without the refueling boom and with lots of odd bumps and antennas all over it.

All that, from cat shot to now, took less than an hour. Now they had unidentified aircraft bearing down on them. Povik didn’t even have time to get himself comfortably situated, get his heads-up display set up just right, and tighten his straps — the fight was starting right now.

“Bullet flight, take spacing and check your lights,” Povik radioed to his wingman. He turned to check that his wingman was configured properly — no missing missiles, lights off, nothing funny-looking out there — before he disappeared into the darkness. Now they were relying on the Air Force AWACS controller to keep them separated, yet working as a team as they prosecuted these bandits.

“Bullet flight, this is Basket. Four bandits twelve o’clock, Blue plus twenty, flight lev— er, angels fifteen. Possible second flight of two bandits, angels ten.” The AWACS controller was trying hard to use Navy terminology for this intercept, such as “angels” for “thousands of feet” or “port” and “starboard” for “left” and “right,” but the more excited he got the more he was stumbling over his tongue. “Starboard ten for intercept.”

“Bullet flight copies.” Povik’s backseater could just as easily lock onto the incoming Chinese fighters with his AWG-9 radar, but the radar emissions could be detected at incredible distances and the longer he kept his radar off the more they kept the element of surprise.

Just then they heard on the international Guard radio channel: “Unidentified aircraft at ten thousand meters altitude — this is fighter unit seven.” The accent was heavily Oriental, not Spanish or Filipino — but Chinese. “You have violated restricted airspace. You will reverse course and drop your landing gear immediately.”

“Bullet flight, additional bandits departing Zamboanga area,” the AWACS controller radioed on the air frequency. “Number unknown at this time.”

“Range from the bandits to Flashlight?” Povik said.

“Range Blue plus zero,” the controller replied.

Fifty miles. The fight was going to happen in a matter of seconds. Obviously the Chinese fighters weren’t going to be content with chasing the American planes away — they wanted to intercept and capture them.

“Unknown aircraft, you have violated restricted airspace,” the warning came again, more insistently this time. “You are not responding as ordered. Decrease velocity, lower your landing gear, and follow us or you will be attacked. This is your final warning!”

Povik considered shutting off the Guard channel, but he might need it later. This guy was getting on his nerves, but he would shut up very soon once the furball started. “Where’s Bullet Two Flight?” Povik radioed to the AWACS controller.

“Departing Shamu at this time, range to you Blue plus ten.” Sixty miles. It would take them too long to get in on the fight here — they would be in a position to engage just as the Chinese fighters caught up with the RC-135. That was far, far too late.

Povik had a decision to make right now, but it really wasn’t much of a chore to make it. Their primary mission was to protect the Air Force recon planes. They had plenty of firepower — all they needed was time. They needed to get those Chinese fighters turned away from the Air Force heavies.

“Bullet Four’s coming left forty-five. Bullet Five, stay with me.”

“Two.”

“Go ahead and lock ’em up, Bear,” Povik said. They wanted the Chinese fighters to follow them — it was okay to hit them with the radar now. Povik executed a hard left turn to a westerly heading and pushed his throttles up to full military power. “C’mon, you peckerheads,” Povik cursed to himself at the Chinese fighter pilots. “Do it, do it!”

“Bullet flight, four bandits turning to intercept, now at your two o’clock position, forty miles. Second flight of bandits confirmed at angels ten, trailing bandits maintaining heading one-four-zero.” The tactic worked — sort of. Every degree the Chinese fighters turned, and every five seconds they interrupted their pursuit, meant another two miles of safety for the RC-135 recon plane. They were obviously going after the more glamorous prize — downing an RC-135 was too easy. Downing a fighter was more macho. But the two extra bandits weren’t going to be distracted — they were heading straight for the RC-135.

“Bullet flight, two bandits peeling off from pursuit, returning to heading one-five-zero to intercept on Flashlight.”

“Dammit!” Povik berated himself. After a few seconds of obvious confusion, the Chinese fighters decided to break into two groups and go after the RC-135. Well, at least they got the odds more in their favor — two-vee-two heading away from their heavies, and two-vee-four still closing. Another advantage: the farther the Chinese pilots flew away from their radar ship, the harder their job would be. “Bullet Two flight, can you get the four inbounds?”

“Affirmative, Hitman,” the pilot of Bullet Two replied, using Povik’s call sign. “Bullet Two flight has a contact on the four southeast-bound bandits.”

“Bullet flight, be advised, Bullet Six flight of two airborne, ETE ten minutes,” the AWACS controller reported. Two more Tomcats were on the way. Well, Povik thought grimly, everybody was paired up and the dancing was going to begin.

“Check the gas gauges, Hitman,” Povik’s RIO said. “We got about ten minutes before we gotta start heading back.”

“Thanks, Bear,” Povik replied. “Ten minutes max, then we split.”

“Bullet Two flight, push Eagle for your controller.” Povik switched to the new pre-planned frequency — as a security precaution, actual frequencies were never read over the air, no matter how secure the radios were — checked in his wingman, and checked in with the new AWACS controller; now the Air Force controller could stop saying “Bullet Two flight” to differentiate them between the other two Tomcats. “Bullet, bandits at your three o’clock, thirty miles. Say your bingo.”

“Bullet Two bingos in eight mike,” Povik replied. Povik’s wingman reported the same — Povik knew he would do so unless his fuel state was worse than his own. The gauges actually said ten minutes, but always subtract two minutes for the wife and kids, he thought. The AWACS controller, if he was worth a shit, would subtract another two minutes and start vectoring the Tomcats toward the carrier after six or seven minutes.

If past experience were any indication, the fight would be over in less than two minutes… one way or another.

“Message from Basket, sir,” an operator reported. “They report six enemy fighters, probable Chinese origin, engaging the F-14 escorts, three hundred miles northwest of Mandao. Flashlight is southeast-bound, withdrawing from the area.”

General Stone was on his feet and beside the radio operator in a heartbeat; Elliott was behind him, listening intently. “Tell Flashlight to dump their data buffers and get the hell out of there. Shamu should stay available for emergency refueling, and Basket should stay to control the intercepts — but I want them as far away from the Philippines as possible.”

“All units withdrawing from the area at best speed… Basket reports more fighters airborne from Zamboanga. No visual contact made, but Basket reports the enemy fighters made a warning-message broadcast ordering the aircraft to reverse course and follow them. Operators report the pilots spoke English and sounded Oriental.” The operator flipped a switch and spoke briefly, then reported, “Communications center confirms a good secure data download via DSCS from Flashlight and Basket.” Stone nodded with a silent sigh of relief. The lives of his crew members were vitally important, but it was also important to preserve any data they might have collected up to this point.

“Carrier Ranger is launching two more fighters to assist,” the operator reported. “Reports of more fighters launching from Zamboanga area. Ranger is declaring an air-defense emergency with a two-hundred-mile exclusion zone.”

“Verify that all aircraft are in international airspace,” Elliott told Stone. “If any of the aircraft are attacked, we’ve got a case for retaliation.”

Stone nodded. To the radio operator, he said, “Order Basket to download a radar map of the entire area and then verbally read off INS and GPS latitude and longitude, then range and bearing from radio and radar checkpoints to verify position accuracy. Tell them to repeat the report every sixty seconds until they are clear of the attackers.” As the radio operator relayed the orders, Stone said to Elliott, “The Chinese not only have attacked Zamboanga, it looks like they’ve fortified it and brought fighters in to seal the area. That was a major defense installation.”

Elliott referred to a chart of the Philippines that had been set up in the command post. “From there they can control access to the southern Philippines.”

A Navy captain, who was acting as the Navy liaison to the STRATFOR, said, “That EF4-class destroyer is definitely the key, sir. Flashlight reported a Rice Screen radar system in operation — it’s the most sophisticated radar system in the Chinese fleet, and it’s almost as good as an Aegis system but without the weapon systems. He can control almost the entire Celebes Sea from that one platform. With shore-based aircraft, he can control antiair and antisurface forces for hundreds of miles.”

“What we need,” Stone said half aloud, as if daring himself to say the words, “is permission to launch an attack from Ranger on that EF4-class boat.” Elliott and the others in the command post looked at the Air Force three-star general wordlessly; surprised at his reaction but silently wishing the same thing.

“Unfortunately, that’s pretty unlikely,” Elliott said. “We’re lucky Washington authorized this mission — I would think there’s no way they’d approve a preemptive strike on a Chinese naval vessel.” He paused, then added grimly, “Unless, of course, one of our recon planes gets shot down…”

One of the hardest tasks for a fighter pilot, and the most important skill that every good pilot possessed, was situational awareness — the ability to instantaneously paint a picture of the world around him in his mind without the help of radar planes, fancy electronic displays, or even backseaters. Luckily Povik had that knack — he had been honing it during his twelve years as a naval aviator, all of them in carrier-based fighters.

Bullet Two and Three, plus the extra Tomcats launched from Ranger a few minutes ago, would have to take care of the four Chinese fighters chasing the reconnaissance plane. That left Bullet Four and Five to deal with the two bozos that broke off to chase them. Bullet Five had closed back with Povik, but he was not right on his wing. They were in a combat-spread position that allowed either Tomcat to assist the other if they came under attack. It was a purely defensive position, but it could be quickly switched to an offensive one if necessary.

Unfortunately, a more advantageous offensive stance was not authorized. Under the ROE, the Rules of Engagement which were carefully briefed to each pilot by the Carrier Air Group commander, the Tomcat pilots could not attack unless they were attacked first or unless a hostile aircraft was within one hundred miles of Ranger. The ROE then allowed them to use their weapons only to break up an engagement and allow all friendly fighters to disengage — although few commanders expected their naval aviators to deliberately miss or back away from a fight.

“Five minutes to bingo,” Povik’s RIO said. “Time to get out of here.” Povik was continuing to maneuver on a more or less westerly heading, still trying to put as much distance between the two Chinese fighters and the RC-135 as he could until the two extra Bullet fighters arrived.

“Few more turns and then we’ll bug out,” Povik said. “I need to make sure those bozos on us can’t go after that recon plane.”

The Chinese fighters were laying off for now — they were still about nine miles somewhere behind them, closing only when Povik tried a large turn but backing off again when he returned to straight and level. Povik’s ALR-45 threat-warning receiver was showing the Chinese fighter’s position as an “S” with a diamond around it on his rear hemisphere — that was the fighter’s search radar, reported to be a Type 225 Skyranger range-only radar. That meant the Chinese probably didn’t have radar-guided missiles, which in turn meant they wouldn’t attack unless they were within about five to six miles. According to Intelligence, these were supposed to be J-7 fighters, copies of the Soviet Union’s MiG-21 fighter. The Chinese had another fighter, called the J-8 “Finback,” with an L-band multi-mode radar, but that would show on the threat warning receiver as an inverted V “bat-wing” symbol, not an “S.” The Finback was supposed to be deployed only to protect cities and, the spooks said, would probably not be encountered way out here.

“Bullet, Bullet Two flight of two is engaging the other two bandits,” the AWACS controller reported. “I show you two minutes to bingo. You’ve got two, possibly four more bandits northwest of your position at Blue plus forty, closing at six hundred knots.”

That was all Povik was waiting for. “Copy, Basket. I’m not getting any radar warning signals from these guys — they just might be sitting on us.” Povik’s older, less capable ALR-45 threat warning receiver was little more than a glorified fuzz-buster that could tell him that there was a threat out there but not reliably tell where or what. “We’re bugging out of here. Bullet Five, I’m coming left first. I’ll take anybody who tries to get behind you.”

“Two,” came the usual wingman’s reply.

Povik had just started his hard left turn when he heard his wingman scream, “Missile launch! Hitman, missile on you!”

“Shit,” Povik cursed at himself, not one squawk from his threat-warning receivers — sometimes they were useless pieces of garbage. “Gimme chaff and flares, Bear. Find the missile!”

“I can’t see it!” Blevin shouted. His oxygen mask was flattened against the right side of the canopy as Povik tightened up his left turn and the G-forces increased. “I can’t see it!” He continued to hit the chaff-and-flare buttons; he could see each flare cartridge flying into the darkness, burning as bright as a welder’s torch, but not the enemy missile. His F-14 was equipped with one ALE-29 pod loaded with thirty infrared missile-decoy flares and one ALE-39 box loaded with sixty chaff cartridges to decoy radar-guided missiles. The pods were supposed to be slaved to the AAR-47 IR warning sensor and the ALR-45 radar threat-warning receiver so cartridges would eject automatically, but the system had so many false alarms that the decoy dispensers were left on manual all the time.

“Hitman!” his wingman shouted. “On your left! Missile turning inside you! Hit your burners!” Blevin fought the G-forces and stared out the left side. He saw the missile immediately — a tiny yellow phosphorescent dot, growing larger as it spiraled in on them.

Povik didn’t hesitate — he jammed both throttles to max afterburner and felt the satisfying kick as eight gallons of raw fuel a second were dumped into the burner cans, creating a flame a hundred feet long behind the Tomcat. It was a last-ditch move to defeat a heat-seeking missile that was locked onto your aircraft instead of on a decoy flare — light the afterburners and hope the long flame steered the missile away in time…

Blevin cried out, “Jesus, oh Jesus…” But just as he expected the missile to hit, he could see it veer to the right and pass behind them. “It’s turning away! Burners off, increase left break!” Blevin was thrown against his shoulder straps as Povik yanked the throttles out of afterburner and into 80-percent power, and he continued to hit the flare eject button until the Chinese missile was lost from sight. Thankfully, the missile did not explode after sensing it had missed — it had passed close enough that its warhead would have done considerable damage. “God damn! It’s past us… I can’t see any more.” He searched both sides of his Tomcat to make sure it wasn’t circling to re-attack.

“That damn thing was locked onto us, not just our tailpipe,” Povik said. When he spoke, he noticed his chest heaving as strongly as though he’d finished a wind sprint. So this is what real combat felt like….. He remembered their intel briefings, which told them that the Chinese did not yet have infrared guided missiles with a sensitive enough seeker to lock onto an aircraft fuselage. The Tomcat’s AIM-9R Sidewinder missiles were advanced enough to seek a fighter’s hot wing leading edges, but the Chinese PL-2 and PL-7 Pen Lung missiles were supposed to be only capable of locking onto a hot exhaust dot. Bullshit. “We got some bad intel, I think…”

“Bullet Four, bandits turning right away from you, range eleven miles,” the AWACS controller reported. “Bullet Five, bandit moving across your nose at six miles… Four is well clear at your five o’clock position low.”

“Bullet Five, fox two,” Povik’s wingman cried out. He looked up just as an eerie streak of light flashed out above them. A second streak lashed out — Povik’s wingman was going for the jugular, not just to scare anyone off. The heat-seeking AIM-9R Sidewinder missiles curled to the right and dipped lower, chasing the fighters. Seconds later there were two explosions; the second explosion was much larger and more sustained as the damaged Chinese fighter began to cartwheel to the ocean. They caught the Chinese fighter in a perfect pincer maneuver, with the bandit so intent on killing the guy in front of him that he forgot about the second Tomcat slashing in from above. Luckily, the second Chinese bandit didn’t try his own pincer move — it might have worked, because Povik’s wingman was definitely tunnel-visioned in on his own quarry, and Povik’s Tomcat was on the wrong side of the energy curve and probably didn’t have the speed to defend.

“Bullet Five, splash one,” the AWACS controller reported. “Second bandit at your two o’clock position, high, looks like he might be extending. Heading zero-two-five to intercept. Additional bandits now at your eleven o’clock position, high, Blue plus thirty miles. Be advised, bandit number two heading northwest now, decelerating and descending rapidly, looks like he might be CAPing for his buddy.” The second Chinese fighter was apparently going to set up an orbit over his damaged wingman to help out in a search and rescue effort — he was out of the fight for now. “Will advise if he tries to re-engage. Bullet flight, say bingo.”

That reminded Povik to check his own fuel state, and it was worse than he figured — even those few seconds in afterburner sucked up a lot of precious fuel. He was two thousand pounds below his bingo fuel level — he would be in emergency fuel levels in just a few minutes. They were in big trouble even without four more bad guys on their tail. “Bullet Four is bingo, give me a vector to home plate.”

“Bullet Five is three minutes to bingo,” Povik’s wingman added..“I can take a vector to Bullet Two flight if they need help.”

“Don’t think that’ll be necessary, Bullet Five,” the AWACS controller said. “Bullet Two flight is engaging, Bullet Six flight is airborne, and Bullet Eight flight is reporting ready. Home plate wants you to RTB. Heading one-three-two, stand by for your approach controller.”

“Copy, Basket,” Povik replied. That was perfectly fine with him, Povik thought. There was a time to fight and a time to run, and there was nothing ignoble about running now.

“Take the shot, Banger!” Lieutenant Commander Carl Roberts shouted. “Take the damned shot!”

Chasing down the four Chinese fighters — they still did not know what kind of fighters they were dealing with — was getting deadly serious. While continuing warning messages on the Guard channel, the four Chinese fighters continued barreling straight for the RC-135, not bothering to perform any diversionary jinks or heading changes. Although the four aircraft had split into two groups, with one group going high and the others a few thousand feet lower, they were just barreling in on the four Tomcats, not trying to maneuver or jink around at all. They were simply going balls to the wall — the higher group nearly at five hundred and fifty knots, the lower jets about five hundred knots.

The threat to the Air Force plane was obvious to Carl Roberts, the radar intercept officer on Bullet Two. He had locked up the bandits on radar immediately, hoping that the squeal of the AWG-9 radar on the Chinese fighter’s threat warning receivers might make them turn away. No such luck. The Chinese fighters kept coming. “You got no choice, Banger,” Roberts shouted again to his pilot, Lieutenant James Douglas. “These guys will blow past us unless we slow ’em down, and a missile launch is the only way.”

Douglas was only on his second cruise as an F-14 aviator after spending several years in “mud pounders” like A-7s and A-6 bombers. Air-to-mud guys, Roberts thought, were much different than fighter pilots. Bomb runs took discipline, timing, strict adherence to the plan — qualities that were probably big minuses in fighter pilots. Real fighter jocks used the ROE as a guideline, but relied on their wits to defeat an enemy — you never went into a fight with the whole thing worked out in your mind ahead of time. Unfortunately, Douglas always did. “The ROE says…”

“Screw the ROE, Banger,” Roberts said. “You gotta attack. Ranger's declared an air-defense emergency, and the bubble’s out to two hundred miles now. These guys are too close already. Take the shot…”

“Bullet, bandit at twelve o’clock, twenty miles,” the AWACS controller reported. “Range to Flashlight, forty miles. Range to home plate, Blue plus seventy…” The controller kept on rattling off an endless stream of numbers at Douglas; the young pilot turned the litany out of his mind. They had the intercept, that’s all that mattered now… “A head-on shot will miss. It’s low percentage…”

“So what? If he jinks away from the Sparrow, we mix it up with him. Take the shot…”

“Gimme a few seconds to get an angle on ’em…”

“We don’t have time for that, Banger — those bozos might even hit each other. Either way, we keep them from driving right into the recon plane. Take the damned shot…”

“A nose-to-nose Sparrow shot won’t do shit,” Douglas said — Roberts knew he was really confused when his young pilot used first names instead of his call sign. “We gotta try something else.” On interplane frequency, Douglas said, “Lead’s going vertical. Take spacing and watch my tail.”

“Two.”

“Hang on,” he said to Roberts. “I’ll try a vertical jink; maybe these guys will break off and go for me.” Roberts was going to protest, but Douglas wasn’t ready to listen: he pulled his F-14 Tomcat up into a 45-degree climb, a radical move but well within the 65-degree maximum-depression angle for the AWG-9 radar — losing a lock-on with the Chinese fighters would be disastrous right now — waited a few seconds for about a hundred knots of airspeed to bleed off, then began to level off. The radar remained locked on with the range now closing to fifteen miles.

“Shit. Nothing’s happening…”

“You gotta take a shot, Banger. These guys won’t stop.”

“Lead, this is Two. No dice. The Chinks aren’t moving. I’m well clear.” Douglas’ wingman was prompting him to take a missile shot as well.

Just then they heard on their AWACS controller’s frequency, “Bullet flight, home plate sends code Zulu-Red-Seven, repeat, Zulu-Red-Seven, proceed immediately. Acknowledge.”

“Jesus, Banger, get the sonofabitch…” Roberts knew they had screwed up. While Douglas was trying to decide whether or not to shoot, the Chinese fighters were about to blast within the one-hundred-mile “bubble” surrounding Ranger and her escorts, which were demarcated by the Indonesian island of Talaud. Now the fighters were a clear threat not only to the Air Force reconnaissance planes but to the carrier itself, and the role of the Tomcats changed as well; now their job was to protect the five thousand men on Ranger and the other ships in its battle group. Ranger was ordering the Tomcats to engage and defend the carrier at all costs. The RC-135 and the EC might have to be sacrificed…

“Bullet Six has a judy,” the third flight of Tomcats reported. “Clear Poppa.” The third and probably the fourth flights of Tomcats were armed with AIM-54 Phoenix missiles, which were designed to kill enemy aircraft from ranges of over eighty nautical miles — as soon as the RIO locked onto a target, a Phoenix missile could probably hit it. But a Phoenix usually shot into a “basket,” a section of airspace near the enemy fighter, and then the missile homed in on illumination signals from the launch aircraft — that made it very dangerous for any nearby fighters who might be in or near the missile’s basket. Bullet Six could not engage as long as Bullet Two was in the area.

“Bullet Two is engaging,” Douglas cried out on the interplane frequency. He snapped his Tomcat into a steep left rolling dive, pulling on the stick to keep the fast-moving Chinese attackers on his radarscope. “Bullet Three, release, clear, and cover to the right.”

“Bullet Three’s clearing right.” Douglas’ wingman made a hard climbing right turn, quickly moving up and away from the kill zone and accelerating back toward the fleet. If Douglas missed and the Phoenix missiles from Bullet Six and Seven missed, Bullet Three could make one last shot at the fighters with his Sparrow radar-guided missiles; it was up to Ranger's escorts to get the bandits.

Roberts coached his frontseater in as they completed the turn above and behind the Chinese attackers: “Range twenty miles… seventeen miles… holding at seventeen miles… good tone, clear to shoot…

“Fox one, fox one,” Douglas called out as he pressed the button to launch a Sparrow missile.

He was preparing to arm a second one for immediate launch when he saw a dim flash of light ahead of them, then another, then several more brilliant long tongues of flame slash across the darkness. Even at their extreme range, there was no mistaking it — eight huge missiles, with exhaust plumes the size of space-shuttle boosters, were being launched by the Chinese fighters! “Missile launch! Bandits launching missiles… six… seven… eight of ’em, big ones!”

The plumes reared back and down as the missiles climbed skyward. Douglas thought he could hear the rumble and even feel the power of those huge missiles as they climbed nearly out of sight. “Can you pick ’em up on radar, Zippo?” Douglas screamed. “Can you see those fuckin’ missiles?”

“I’m tryin’! Shit! Get your nose up! I’ll try for a lock-on!” Roberts cried out. Douglas hauled back on the stick and hit the afterburners as Roberts put the AWG-9 radar into range-while-search mode for maximum range capability against the big, fast-moving missiles. “Contact! Got ’em! Got one at thirty miles! Locked on!”

“Fox one, fox one, Bullet Two,” Douglas called out on the interplane frequency. The big Sparrow missile slid off the rails and immediately went straight up, using its powerful first-stage motor to gain maximum altitude.

“It’s not gonna make it,” Roberts said. He could feel an uncontrollable shiver coursing up and down his back. The Sparrow was launched near its extreme maximum range and it climbed too high, too fast, and he could see that the missile’s motor had already burned out. His AWG-9 radar showed the Chinese missiles already accelerating to six hundred knots, but the Sparrow was closing at only eight hundred knots because it had to climb so high to sustain its unpowered glide. “Shit, shit, it’s not gonna make it…”

“Bullet Three has a judy on the missiles,” Douglas’ wingman suddenly shouted on the radios. “I got a lock-on! I’m going after them!”

“Bullet Two is clearing off the missiles,” Douglas radioed to the inbound Tomcat fighters as he pulled into a steep left climb and turned away from the Chinese fighters. “Bullet Two is clear.” The incoming Tomcat pilots immediately let loose with a four-missile barrage of Phoenix missiles — some designated for the Chinese fighters, others for the missiles that were now headed for the Ranger and her escorts.

With their heavy missile loads gone, however, the Chinese fighters really began to move. Seconds after the missiles were in the sky, the AWACS reported the Chinese going nearly supersonic and making a sweeping left turn back to the northeast. “Bullet flight, be advised, Basket’s got music,” the AWACS radar plane reported — they were picking up jamming signals from the enemy fighter-bombers. “Bullet Two, bandits at your ten o’clock position, twenty miles. Bullet Three, bandits at your six o’clock, ten miles.” Suddenly a huge explosion, followed by a ripple of orange and yellow fireballs, erupted in the sky ahead of Douglas as one of the Phoenix missiles found its target.

“Splash one bandit, splash one! Bullet Two’s got the other one,” Roberts cried out. The last remaining Chinese fighter had pulled directly into his line of fire as he made his postattack turn, and even at his present speed the tight turn bled off all his energy, which made the shot even easier. The steady warbling tone in Douglas’ headset was replaced by a high-pitched tone as the AWG-9 radar switched from range-while-search mode to pulse-Doppler-single-target-track mode for missile lock-on, and Douglas squeezed the trigger and let fly his third Sparrow missile.

But the jamming from the Chinese attackers was too great — the missile tracked well for only a few seconds before veering right and beginning a death-spiral to the dark waters below. There was still one enemy fighter out there.

Douglas found himself in a near-panic. He had only one Sparrow remaining — his Sidewinders were useless against a target so far away — and no fuel to continue the chase. He was helpless. If he jammed in the afterburners to chase down the last fighter, he would run out of fuel long before reaching Ranger.

The decision was made for him moments later: “Bullet Two, disengage,” the AWACS controller called. “Bullet Six flight is at your six o’clock, thirty miles. Clear up and starboard and RTB; I show you four past your bingo.” Douglas checked their fuel, and it was worse than that — they were just a few minutes from emergency fuel — they needed an AK-6 tanker immediately. Douglas and Roberts could do nothing else but head back to Ranger and hope they still had a deck to land on as they listened to the chase unfold…

“Bullet Three, contact home plate immediately,” the AWACS controller reported. Lieutenant Commander John “Horn” Kelly flicked his radios as fast as his shaking fingers could work the buttons.

“Bullet Three, go.”

“Bullet Three, take a shot and clear,” the controller aboard Ranger said. “Five-two is ready to engage in sixty seconds.”

“Five-two” was CG-52, the USS Bunker Hill, an Aegis-class guided-missile cruiser-escort that could detect targets out to 175 miles and track and engage sea-skimming targets out to 40 miles; it carried SM-2 Aegis vertical-launch surface-to-air missiles. In addition, a special system called BGAAWC, or Battle Group Anti-Aircraft Warfare Coordination, allowed the Bunker Hill to remotely control the SM-2 Standard antiaircraft missiles aboard the cruiser Sterett and the Sea Sparrow missiles aboard the destroyers Hewitt and Fife, which were the Ranger’s other three escorts.

Kelly’s RIO, Lieutenant “Faker” Markey, sang out immediately, “Got a judy on the missiles, Horn… I got ’em locked up. Shoot away.”

“Good work, Faker.” On the Ranger’s tactical frequency, Kelly radioed, “Bullet Three, copy, fox…”

Suddenly, on the emergency Guard frequency, they heard, “Missiles! Bandits firing missiles! Horn, check six…!”

The AAR-47 infrared warning receiver beeped just then, and several flare cartridges shot off into the night sky as Markey’s left index finger began to madly jab the “Flare” button — the supercoded, electronic “eye” of the infrared warning seeker had detected the motor-ignition flash of a missile less than eight miles behind them. Kelly pulled the throttles to near idle power, rolled inverted, and pulled the nose to the ocean, trying to get his hot tail vertical and away from the missile’s seeker. “Find that missile!” Kelly shouted.

Markey’s response was almost immediate: “I see it! I see it! High above us… it’s passing over us…”

A flash of light caught Kelly’s attention — to his horror, he noticed the flash was one of his own decoy flares. The hot phosphorus blob seemed to float just a few yards alongside the American fighter. It was bright enough to attract the enemy missile. “Stop ejecting flares!” Kelly screamed. “It’ll follow us down…!”

But it was too late.

In his panic, Markey kept on ejecting decoy flares as the Tomcat continued its break and dive, and the trail of flares caused the Chinese Pen Lung-9 heat-seeking missile to snap down in the wake of the Tomcat, where it reacquired the F-14’s hot exhaust and finished its deadly voyage. The PL-9’s twenty-two-pound high-explosive warhead detonated on contact, shredding both engines instantly and destroying the Tomcat long before the crew had a chance to eject.

The Combat Information Center in an Aegis-class guided missile cruiser was like sitting in a giant big-screen video arcade. Four operators — the embarked group commander of the Ranger battle group and his assistant plus the TAO, or tactical action officer, and his assistant — each sat in front of two 42-inch-square, four-color computer screens that showed the entire Ranger battle group, using computer-generated symbology and digitized coastal maps, creating a “big picture” of the entire battle area and highlighting friendly and enemy vessels and aircraft in relation to the fleet and any nearby political boundaries. The incredible MK-7 Aegis weapon system could track and process over one hundred different targets beyond five hundred miles in range by integrating radar information from other surface, land, or airborne search radars; the SPY-1 phased-array radar on the Bunker Hill itself had a range of almost two hundred miles and could spot a sea-skimming missile on the horizon at a range of over forty miles. Aegis was designed to defend a large carrier battle group from dense and complicated enemy air and sea assault by integrating the entire group’s air-defense network into a single display and control area, and then providing long-range, high-speed decision-making and automatic-weapon employment for not only the Aegis cruiser’s weapon itself, but for all the ships of the battle group — Bunker HilPs Aegis system could control the weapons of all the Ranger's battle group.

It all sounded complicated, very high-tech, and foolproof — but at that moment, staring down the barrel of a gun, it did not seem very foolproof.

The Aegis air-defense system was designed to have the battle group commander and the ship’s commanding officer direct fleet defense from the Tactical Flag Command Center, but with an aircraft carrier in the group and a rather tightly packed deployment of ships, the Ranger battle group commander, Rear Admiral Conner Walheim, was aboard Ranger consulting directly with the carrier’s officers, so his deputy for antiaircraft warfare, Captain Richard Feinemann, was on the Aegis console. And because the Bunker HilPs skipper preferred to stay on the bridge during such operations, the ship’s Tactical Action Officer was representing him on the Aegis console.

Lieutenant Commander Paul Hart was the Bunker Hill’s TAC, and the Aegis system was his pride and joy — while the captain preferred to stay on the bridge during these engagements and monitor them on his ASTAB automated status board monitors, Hart was in his element in the dark, rather claustrophobic confines on the CIC. Feinemann was a lot like Hart’s skipper — he was a boat driver who had little patience for the dazzling and sometimes confusing array of electronic gadgets deep within the heart of a warship. He was an ex-destroyer skipper and antisubmarine-warfare action group commander who had spent a length of time on shore studying newer antiair radar integration systems such as Aegis, but had little actual experience of it. Although Hart was the Aegis expert, Feinemann was still in overall command of antiair fleet defense and would command all antiair assets in the group from Bunker Hill.

The big LSDs, or large-screen displays, were a bit intimidating for Feinemann, so he had his data-input technician give him a constant verbal readout of significant events on the screen while he tried to keep up. The data-input officer made a comment to Feinemann, prefaced with a short expletive, and the group AAW officer scanned the screen in momentary confusion — both because he couldn’t spot the event and because no one in Bunker Hill's CIC seemed very excited. “We’ve lost contact with one of our fighters?” Feinemann asked incredulously.

“Yes, sir,” Hart responded. “That B-6 must’ve got him before Bullet Three could take a shot. It was a long-range crossing snapshot, too — he must’ve been carrying PL-9 missiles.”

Feinemann stared at Hart in complete surprise, wondering what in hell the young officer was babbling about.

Hart continued. “Those C601 missiles got past both the Tomcats and the Phoenix missiles.” He turned to the tactical-alert intercom and radioed, “Bridge, CIC, I show four inbounds, altitude seven hundred feet, speed five hundred fifty knots, bearing two-niner-seven, range forty-two miles and closing, Charlie-601 antiship missiles. One bandit turning outbound, range now six-seven miles.” To his communications officer he said, “I need all Bullet aircraft to stay clear. Have Basket take them northwest for their refueling and to counter the new inbound bandits, but tell Basket to keep them away from my engagement lane. If Ranger launches the ready-alert birds, make sure Hawkeye or Basket takes them well north.”

“How do you know those are C601 missiles, and how do you know those were Chinese B-6 bombers, son?” Feinemann snapped. “You’re making reports-to your bridge on enemy aircraft that, as far as I can see, you have absolutely no information to make. You’re also chasing away three air-defense fighters from possible engagements without knowing all the facts.”

“The flight profiles, sir,” Hart explained patiently. “They launched two missiles each from over a hundred miles’ range — that’s too far for a C801. Those missiles climbed first, but now they’re descending to about a hundred feet, and they’re cruising at about six hundred knots — typical profile of a C601 missile…”

“It’s also the profile of an Exocet, a Harpoon, or a Soviet AS-5 missile, or any number of antiship missiles,” Feinemann pointed out, his eyes narrowing on Hart.

“If we were facing off against the French or the Soviets, I’d agree, sir,” Hart replied. “The reports from the recon plane say that a Chinese EF4-class ship was in the area and that Chinese troops invaded Mindanao; I’d assume that the fighters and these missiles are Chinese. My guess is still a C601, and that’s what I’ll assume when we begin responding.

“As far as the carrier aircraft — each plane was carrying two missiles plus air-to-air weapons, and it was doing some heavy active jamming, not just uplink trackbreaking. That’s too much payload for a J-7, B-7, or Q-5 fighter — it has to be a B-6 Badger bomber.

“And as far as the Tomcats are concerned, I want them out of the way. Aegis can prosecute sea-skimming targets better than a Tomcat, and I’m not worried about enemy fighters right now — I’m worried about those missiles. In sixty seconds I’ll start worrying about the inbound fighters.” Hart was expecting a reply; when he got none, he added, “Sir, I need clearance to release batteries and engage when those missiles cross the horizon.”

“Your captain might be impressed with your amateur intelligence analysis, Commander Hart,” Feinemann said irritably, “but the Admiral needs concrete data before he can commit any forces under his command. He can’t operate on guesses.”

“Then you can tell him, sir, that we’ve got four subsonic inbounds that broke the group’s bubble a minute ago,” Hart said, trying to control his temper. He couldn’t believe he was having an argument over target identification with this man, with four deadly — and possibly nuclear — missiles heading straight for them. “I make estimates on the threat based on my observations, but the bottom line is that I want weapons on-line to stop these things from hitting the carrier. In thirty seconds I start acting on my own authority; I’m requesting permission to commit now.”

“You commit when the Admiral tells you to!”

Hart had had enough. He hit the intercom button. “Bridge, CIC, emergency, request permission to release the batteries fore and aft and engage.”

The Bunker HilPs skipper did not hear the argument between his TAO and the group commander’s AAW deputy, and he certainly knew the procedures with an embarked group commander, but with a threat this big heading in, he didn’t hesitate. “Bridge to CIC, batteries released fore and aft, clear to engage.”

“Understand clear to engage. Clear forward and aft missile decks, clear forward and aft missile decks.” From that point on, Hart ignored Feinemann — everything else was inconsequential except his radar, his console, and his weapon system. If the man had anything to say, it would have to wait until after he dealt with the inbounds.

The Bunker Hill was the first Aegis cruiser to use the Mk 41 vertical-launch system, where missiles were loaded into individual canisters and then fired vertically — the system was far less complex, more redundant, faster, and required fewer guided-missile mates to operate the launchers than the older Mk 26, Mk 22, or Mk 13 “merry-go-round” launchers. Bunker Hill had two VLS launchers, one fore and one aft, each with sixty-one missiles — combinations of SM-2 Aegis antiaircraft missiles, Tomahawk ship-and-land-attack cruise missiles — some with low-yield nuclear warheads — and ASROC antisubmarine rocket torpedoes.

Hart had been extensively briefed on exactly what options were open to him as tactical action officer — he knew that the only weapon in his arsenal right now was the SM-2 Aegis missile, and his only job was to protect Ranger and its escorts. Even though this was probably the exact situation that the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy was in when they launched their nuclear antiship missile at the tiny Philippine fleet near Palawan, Hart knew he would never be authorized to let fly with one of his nuclear-tipped Tomahawks, even in retaliation.

Hart checked to be sure the Aegis system was in AAW COMMIT mode and used a trackball on his console to move a circle cursor to the data blocks representing the inbound antiship missiles. The ASTAB monitors instantly gave him performance data on the inbounds, displayed IFF radioidentification information — there was none — and classified them as hostile. If they were friendlies — unlikely but possible — they were flying without radios, without exchanging coded identification signals, and flying well off the established fleet approach procedures — and they were going to die. “Give me trial engage,” he told his data-entry technician.

“Trial engage,” the tech replied. Instantly the data block began to blink and a readout on the ASTAB monitor gave a list of the missiles that Aegis would select. On the LSD, a yellow line showed the computer’s best guess as to the Aegis missile’s track, the intercept points with the incoming missiles, and the positions of all the ships and aircraft in the battle group once the engagement was made. “Aegis wants to commit ten missiles,” the data-entry tech reported. “We got Bullet Two within twenty miles on impact.”

The number was significant because if there were nuclear-tipped C601 antiship missiles, the Tomcats would fry in the blast. But if Hart waited any longer, Bunker Hill would be doing the frying. It was also significant because the Mk 41 launcher could rapid-fire only seven missiles at one time. He selected sixty-four nautical miles range on his LSD to keep careful watch on the intercept, then said, “Understood. We’ll do six from the forward launcher and the rest from the aft launcher. Clear trial engage, sound the horn, engage weapon commit.”

“Trial engage clear.” A muted horn sounded throughout the ship, followed by, “Attention all hands, missile alert actual, missile alert actual, stand by for missile launch.” The tech then reported, “Launchers in the green and reporting clear. CDS enable. Weapon commit in three, two, one, now.” The ASTAB monitors cleared, and they began to show the Mk 41 launcher status and the status of the missiles in the forward launcher that were being chosen by the Aegis system for the first ripple. A button marked “Hold Fire” was blinking rapidly in the lower-left corner of the communications panel, where both Hart and his data-entry tech could reach it — Feinemann had a blinking Hold Fire button as well, and he had full authority to use it.

Aegis selected ten missiles and began a pre-programmed ten-second warmup and target-data transfer cycle. “Missile counting down, ten missiles in the green… missile one forward in five… four… three… two… one… launch! Missiles away.”

Up on the forward deck of the Bunker Hill, a twenty-five-square-inch white door popped open atop the Mk 41 VLS launcher, and a cloud of white smoke engulfed the entire forward portion of the cruiser. Once every two seconds, an Aegis SM-2 missile lifted free of the Bunker Hill, climbed to ten thousand feet in just a few seconds, then arched over and began its intercept. The missiles’ autopilots steered them into an intercept “basket,” an area in which the incoming targets were predicted to fly. When the Aegis SPY-1 radar detected the SM-2 missiles approaching the “basket,” the SPY-1 would activate an SPG-62 X-band target illuminator which would “paint” the incoming Chinese missiles, and the SM-2 Aegis missiles would home in on the radar energy reflected off the enemy missiles.

“Six missiles away forward,” the tech reported. “Forward launcher secure and reporting clear, plenum status normal, refire status normal. Counting down on aft launcher… in three… two… one… mark.”

The canister door on the aft launcher flipped open and the first SM-2 fired…

But something happened.

Instead of shooting skyward, the SM-2 rose about twenty feet above the launcher, the solid-propellant motor stopped running, and the missile slipped backwards, crashed to the deck, and exploded.

The concussion threw half of the Aegis crew members to the deck. Feinemann was the only one able to react — he hit the Hold Fire button to ensure that no other missiles from the aft launcher tried to launch. “Status report!” he cried out. “Get me a status report!”

The damage-control alarm was ringing throughout the Bunker Hill, and there were a few seconds of momentary panic as the CIC lights went out, the emergency lights finally clicked on, and a few purple wisps of smoke issued from the ventilators, “Status report, dammit!”

Hart’s ears were ringing hard — from the blast, the confusion, or the sudden disorientation of having the normally steady deck heaving beneath him, he couldn’t tell which — but he managed to straighten himself in his seat and help his tech up. Several ASTAB monitors had gone down, and Feinemann’s LSDs were blank. “Mark 7 system is faulted… both launchers shut down.… SPY-1 is still on-line,” he reported. On the intercom, he shouted, “Bridge, CIC, Mark 7 system fault, recommend immediate AAW command transfer.”

“CIC, bridge, copy, command transfer to Sterett.” With SPY-1 still operating, the cruiser Sterett could act as pseudo-Aegis cruiser by receiving Aegis data via the Battle Group Anti Aircraft Warfare Coordination system on its Mk 76 weapons-control consoles.

The transfer was made, but far too late.

Three C601 antiship missiles, air-launched versions of the huge Silkworm missile, survived the Aegis counterattack made by Bunker Hill and the Sea Sparrow antimissile barrage by Sterett. One missile was destroyed by combined Sea Sparrow missile hits by Sterett and Phalanx Close-In Weapon System gunfire seconds before it reached Bunker Hill, and a second missile was destroyed by a last-second burst of gunfire from the Ranger's portside Phalanx gun just a few hundred yards before striking the carrier…

The last missile hit the carrier Ranger just aft of the port bow.

The missile’s titanium nosecap pierced the outer hull of the carrier before the eleven-hundred-pound high-explosive warhead detonated, ensuring that most of the missile’s deadly force was directed inside the vessel.

“Bullet Six flight, say your bingo status,” the controller aboard the Air Force E-3C AWACS plane radioed.

“Bullet Six is seven minutes to bingo,” Lieutenant Jason “Razor” Penrose reported.

“Ditto for Bullet Seven.”

“Copy. Stand by… Bullet flight, code is ‘slippery,’ repeat, ‘slippery.’”

Razor Penrose couldn’t believe what he just heard. The code word “slippery” meant that their carrier Ranger was damaged, extent unknown, and no one would either launch or land. Dammit all to hell. They missed and it had cost them! Because they couldn’t get the fighters or the big missiles, Ranger was hit.

Fortunately, there were other code words for more serious damage, so there was a possibility that they wouldn’t have to divert — it could be something as noncritical as a damaged aircraft on the deck or foul arresting gear. There were a few nearby divert runways available, and dozens more as long as the K-10 tanker was still available. The closest landing facility was a small runway on the island of Sangihe, one hundred and thirty miles to the southeast. With a KC-10, however, they could reach and rearm on Guam, fourteen hundred miles to the northeast. They still had lots of options…

But Penrose had no plans on diverting right now. As long as he had gas and guns, he was going to stay aloft. Their primary job now was to protect their damaged carrier.

“Three bandits at twelve o’clock, forty miles, high, northwest-bound at high speed, they appear to be withdrawing,” the AWACS controller continued as calmly as if he were reporting the weather. The three surviving first-wave fighters had done their job — deliver the big antiship missiles — so they were bugging out. “Four additional bandits, one o’clock, Blue plus twenty miles, southeast bound, looks like they want to engage.”

“Basket, give me a SITREP. Who do we get up?”

“Bullet Two, Four and Five are emergency fuel and are rendezvousing with Shamu,” the AWACS controller reported. “They report nine AIM-7s and five AIM-9s between them. They will stay with Shamu and Basket after refueling.” No report on Bullet Three, Penrose noted — the Chink bastards got Kelly, damn them. “Bullet Eight and Nine are airborne, ETE ten minutes; they are staying within a hundred miles from home plate for inner defense. They are max loaded with four AIM-54s, two AIM-7s, and two AIM-9s apiece. You’ve got two KA-6s up but they’ll have to tank with Shamu before you can use them. One Hawkeye up, range one-niner-zero miles east. Flashlight is at your three o’clock, eight miles, low, southeast bound at vee-max.” The big spy plane was on the deck, trying to lose itself in the radar clutter of the sea. “Basket is southeast of your position, one-one-zero miles. Say your load and fuel.”

“Bullet Six flight of two, two -7s, two -9s, seven minutes to bingo.”

“Copy, Bullet Six flight. Vector to join on Flashlight, starboard to heading one-one-zero, take angels eight.”

“Negative. Bullet Six flight wants a vector to the inbounds.” Penrose had had enough of screwing with trying to protect the Air Force’s radar plane — his job was to protect the fleet and keep any more Chinks from lobbing missiles at his home.

“Your OPORD says to escort the RC, Bullet flight…”

“Fuck the ops orders, Basket. I want a vector to the inbounds.” On interphone, he told his RIO, Lieutenant Commander John Watson, “Lion Tamer, lock those inbounds up if this bozo doesn’t give us a vector…

That was usually not very good practice — they would keep the element of surprise if Penrose’s RIO kept his radar off — but if he had to, they would go it alone…

There was a brief pause from the AWACS controller, but he was obviously not in the mood or not authorized to argue. “Roger… Bullet Six flight, four bandits at one o’clock, fifty miles, take angels three-five, that’ll put you ten thousand above them.”

“Six flight.” Penrose held his heading and started his climb. “Bogey-dope.”

“Bandits at your one o’clock, level, fifty miles, closure rate eleven hundred. Be advised, Bullet flight, Flashlight reported naval radar and possible naval antiair at your twelve o’clock, two hundred miles. You may be coming within detection range.”

“Six copies.” Well, if that happened, they’d be about even — it was a two-vee-four, but there was not yet any sign that they’d been detected. Penrose wasn’t going to turn on his radar until absolutely necessary.

“Two.”

“One o’clock, moving to one-thirty, forty miles… thirty miles, two o’clock, low…”

They weren’t going in completely blind. Penrose’s RIO was adjusting his IRSTS, or Infrared Search and Track System, a long-range heat-seeking imager that could detect and display hot targets at medium to short range; his was one of the few older F-14A models with both an IRSTS sensor as well as the typical TCS telescopic camera system, in side-by-side chin pods. IRSTS allowed the crew to launch missiles against targets at long range and activate their AWG-9 radar only a few seconds before the missiles impacted — that was precisely what they were trying to do now.

“Two-thirty position, thirty miles…” Penrose corrected his course to keep the bandits within the 30-degree limit of the IRSTS seeker. “Cowboy, can you get an IR track on these guys?”

“We got ’em all the way,” Penrose’s wingman, Lieutenant Commander Paul “Cowboy” Bowman, replied. “Ready when you are.”

“Stand by.” On interphone Penrose asked, “Got ’em yet, Lion Tamer?”

“Hold on… tally-ho, finally got ’em… IR track. Compiling data… got a good data feed. Wish we had a laser ranger right now — their guys would be dog meat. Be advised, Razor, my radar’s coming on three seconds after missile launch. We won’t be invisible no more… okay. I got a firing solution. Clear to launch.”

“Good. Lock up the rest as soon as the radar’s on.” On the interplane frequency, he called out, “Seven, give it to ’em. Bullet Six, fox one.”

“Seven, fox one.”

Penrose squeezed the launch button on his radar, and the light-gray outline of his Tomcat fighter lit up again as the big Sparrow missile leaped into the dark sky. He could see a missile from his wingman slash through the sky just a few hundred feet away — the two missiles appeared to be flying in formation as they streaked toward their targets. The missiles seemed to track perfectly…

But suddenly Penrose’s missile seemed to diverge away faster and faster — his wingman’s missile curved to the right, tracking all the way, but Penrose’s Sparrow was going off in the weeds. “Lion Tamer, what’s going on…?”

“Damn! Radar’s not coming up!” Watson shouted. “Shit, it cooled down too much!” A status light to the right of the RIO’s tactical information display read ENV STBY, meaning that the system would stay in nonradiating mode until the electronics fully warmed up.

“Two! Take the lead! Six is gadget-bent!”

“Seven’s taking the lead.” Penrose began searching to his right, hoping he could see his wingman, but he made it easy for him: Bullet Seven had his left engine in min afterburner, both to help Penrose find him and start closing in on the Chinese fighters faster.

“Cowboy, got a tally on you, kill your burner,” Penrose said. The burner flicked off. They continued their right turn to put themselves right on the four Chinese fighters’ tails.

Lion Tamer’s APR-45 radar threat scope suddenly came to life. It showed first a friendly search radar directly ahead — Bullet Seven — and, seconds later, several bat-wing symbols appeared off to the right as the Chinese fighters, after detecting the Tomcat’s radars, activated their own search radars to find their ambushers. All four bat-wings were superimposed, with a diamond around the closest one.

As Penrose searched out his canopy bubble to see if he could see any of the enemy fighters, he saw a tiny puff of fire in the distance — Bullet Seven’s Sparrow missile had exploded.

One of the bat-wings promptly disappeared.

“Bullet flight, splash one bandit,” the AWACS controller reported. “Dead bandit descending rapidly, turning right, decelerating. Two bandits breaking left, same altitude, nine miles. One bandit looks like he’s descending, heading straight ahead… lone bandit is thirty miles from Flashlight, appears to be closing on him.”

“Six, go after the solo. I’ll take these two.”

“Negative. I’m bent. I’m staying with you.”

“I can take these two. Use your IR and the AWACS. Get the solo.”

“Dammit, Cowboy, if those two are bugging out, let ’em. Don’t get sucked into a one-vee-two. Let’s go get the solo together.”

“We got these two locked up, no sweat. Take the solo. I’ll be back in a flash.” He punctuated his sentence by banking hard left in pursuit. Penrose and Watson were suddenly right between two enemy cells.

“You gotta protect the recon plane, Razor,” Watson told him.

“Fuck the recon plane. My wingman might be in trouble…”

“So what happens when that bandit smokes that RC-135? There’s eighteen guys on that thing.”

He was right — he had no choice. “Shit. We’re going after the solo. Basket, Bullet Six, vector to the solo inbound.”

“Bullet Six, bandit at your twelve to one o’clock, eleven miles, five thousand below you, airspeed six hundred thirty.” Penrose shoved his throttles to full military power, anxious to get within missile-firing range but not enough to risk using afterburners and getting himself in a low-fuel situation — he fully intended to go back and see to Cowboy after dealing with the lone bandit. “Lion Tamer, what’s with the radar? Can’t you get it going?”

“Keeps resetting. I’m recycling it…”

This is going from bad to worse, Penrose thought. On interplane, he asked, “Cowboy, how goes it?”

“We got one in the kill zone,” Penrose and Watson heard on the interplane frequency. “Looks like the other guy’s bugging out — he’s out of it. Thirty seconds and I’m back with you.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Penrose said. “Shoot and clear. Basket, dammit, keep an eye out for Seven’s trailer.”

“Basket copies. Second bandit on Bullet Seven is two o’clock, eleven miles, accelerating, descending. Bullet Six, your bandit is twelve o’clock, ten miles. Your bandit is twenty-five miles from Flashlight and closing…”

Watson manually slewed the IRSTS along the bearing given by the AWACS controller and finally found the Chinese fighter, a tiny green dot on his screen. He hit the “Lock” button, and a big square superimposed itself on the dot; a second later as the IRSTS refined its aiming and stabilized its gyro platform, the square compressed to slightly larger than the dot, and a stream of tracking figures appeared on the screen. Watson slaved one AIM-9R Sidewinder missile to the IRSTS boresight, and Penrose heard a low, menacing growl as the missile’s seeker head locked on. “Got the Chink on IR, Razor,” Watson said. “Select a Sidewinder and nail this bugger.”

“Bullet Seven, second bandit climbing through your altitude, two o’clock, twelve miles…”

“Bullet Six, fox two…” Penrose shot one Sidewinder, decided against selecting his last one — Cowboy might need the extra missile.

The tiny missile raced ahead, obliterating the IR sensor in the sudden glare, but the missile tracked straight and true this time and they were rewarded by a huge ball of fire far ahead of them.

“Bullet Six, splash two.”

“Good shooting, Razor,” Penrose heard Bowman reply in between deep grunts — Bowman was performing his anti-G force grunts called M-maneuvers. He was obviously right in the middle of a hard-turning battle, but the cocky sonofabitch still found time to chatter on the radios. “Bullet Seven, fox one… die, sucker, die!”

“Bullet Seven, warning, second bandit four o’clock, high, eight miles, descending behind you…”

“Cowboy, dammit, get out of there!” Penrose shouted. “Cowboy, extend, extend!”

“Bullet Seven, starboard turn to evade… Bullet Seven, extend… Bullet Seven heading zero-nine-zero, thirty degrees starboard to extend… Bullet Seven, check altitude… Bullet Seven, if you are in a spin, release your controls… Bullet Seven, if you are in a spin, release your controls and lower your landing gear… Bullet Seven, Bullet Seven, altitude warning… Bullet Seven only, Bullet Seven only, eject, eject, eject…” No use.

Penrose never got another transmission from Bowman.

“Basket, this is Six, vector to Bullet Seven’s last position.”

Penrose could hear the panic, the gut-wrenching anxiety, in the controller’s voice. “Er… Bullet Six, lone bandit at your nine o’clock, forty miles, he’s northwest-bound at six hundred knots, altitude ten thousand and descending. Appears to be withdrawing. No other bandits detected. Say your bingo.”

“I said, I want a vector to Seven’s last known position, dammit…”

“No ELT, no transmissions… Six, say your fuel.”

Penrose finally curbed his anger long enough to check his fuel — he was well past bingo, and with a damaged carrier and his tankers more than a hundred miles away, he was in emergency fuel conditions now. “Basket, Six requests you vector a KA-6 over here, because I’m not moving from this spot until I make sure there’s no ELT or distress calls. You better call Sterett or Fife or somebody over here to investigate, because I’m staying right here until we find Cowboy.”

“Bullet Six… Six, all group vessels involved at this time.” The controller sounded as if he were trying to think of some detached, official-sounding terminology to tell Penrose that no one was likely to come and search for wreckage or survivors. Penrose suddenly remembered the Ranger and knew they weren’t going to send any big ships anywhere near this area for a long time — the Chinese held it too tightly. “Shamu rendezvousing with Basket and Flashlight for recovery. Orders from home plate, return and prepare for divert recovery. Acknowledge.”

The battle was over. The Chinese lost four plus damaged a carrier, the Americans lost two. Penrose felt as if he had been beaten up by an entire street gang.

Who won this one?

Who the hell won this one?