Tiger's Claw

ELEVEN

OVER THE SOUTH CHINA SEA

SEVERAL DAYS LATER

“Anytime I get to fly is a great joy,” the weapons officer of the carrier-based JH-37 Flying Leopard attack plane, Lieutenant Du Weiqing, said on intercom to the officer seated beside him, pilot Lieutenant Commander Bo Xueji. The JH-37 was based on the aircraft carrier Zheng He operating in the northern South China Sea one hundred and fifty miles southeast of Shantou, on routine patrol. It was armed with four Ying Ji (Hawk Attack)-83 missiles, which were sea-skimming ramjet-powered antiship weapons, plus two advanced PL-12 active/passive air-to-air missiles on wingtip pylons. “But these overwater patrols are so damned boring.”

“I agree,” Bo said. “But would you rather be back at the ship doing yet another additional duty?”

“Bùyòngle, xièxiè,” Du said. “No, thank you. I got ‘volunteered’ for two more of them yesterday.”

“Which ones?” Bo asked.

“Water survival instructor and assistant flight deck safety officer,” Du said morosely.

“Ah, just more opportunities to excel,” Bo said.

“Of course.” Du put his eyes up to the hood over his attack radar. “I have surface radar contact, twelve o’clock, ninety kilometers,” he reported. He entered commands into his targeting computer, then activated the JH-37’s electro-optical camera. The MFD on the forward instrument panel showed a large replenishment ship. “Looks like a U.S. Navy oiler,” Du said.

“How far are we from Xisha Dao?” Bo asked.

Du called up an electronic chart on one of his MFDs. “Two hundred and ten kilometers,” he replied.

“All warships are supposed to be three hundred kilometers from shore, from other warships, or Nansha Dao or Xisha Dao,” Bo said. “He is in violation of the agreement!”

“It is just an oiler, not a warship.”

“It is a U.S. Navy vessel, and it is in violation of the agreement,” Bo said. “Send the contact information to the carrier and advise we are going to make contact.” Bo began a descent, allowing the Flying Leopard to accelerate past the speed of sound.

“Target image transmitted to the ship,” Du said a few minutes later. “Operations orders us to make contact with the vessel and ask about their intentions.”

“I will certainly make contact,” Bo said. He leveled off at one thousand feet above the sea and nudged the power up slightly to maintain supersonic speed, and they closed the distance quickly. Still going over Mach one, they overflew the oiler. Bo started a hard left bank. “Do I have your attention now, my friends?” he asked.

“Unidentified aircraft going supersonic, this is the replenishment ship USS Laramie,” came the call on the international maritime emergency channel. “You just overflew us going supersonic! That’s not permitted! Back off!”

“USS Laramie, this is Qiánfeng Three-Three,” Bo radioed back. “You are sailing too close to Xisha Dao and are in violation of international agreements. State your intentions!”

“Qiánfeng Three-Three, we are an unarmed support vessel proceeding to port in Kaohsiung, Taiwan, for refueling and resupply,” came the reply. “We are a solo vessel and not a warship, and there are no restrictions on our movements. Do not overfly us again! We see you have some kind of missiles under your wings, so we will assume you have hostile intentions. Stay clear.”

“Assume anything you like, American bastard,” Bo said on intercom. “You cannot just sail around anywhere you like, especially not around a Chinese island.”

“Operations says they are dispatching a frigate to intercept the American,” Du said. “They order us to maintain contact until we reach return fuel state. They are launching another Leopard to relieve us.”

“As long as we are up here, why not practice some antiship missile attacks?” Bo said. “It will give us something to do.”

“Good idea,” Du said. “Master arm switch is off and switch cover is down.”

“My master switch is off as well,” Bo said, decelerating below the Mach to stay within antiship missile launch parameters.

Du ran his checklists and directed the pilot to fly in different directions, practicing attacks against the oiler from different aspects. It was easy to acquire and target the big oiler from the side, but a bit more challenging to get it from the stern and even harder from the bow. Du tried it with and without the radar and with and without the electro-optical sensor.

“This guy is totally dead,” Du said after their fifth pass. He took his eyes out of the radar hood, checked the navigation and systems readouts, made some flight log entries, and then pulled out a bottle of water and looked outside to relax his eyes. “About fifteen minutes before we have to head back to the ship. We can make one or two more passes and then . . . What in the world is that?” he suddenly shouted. Bo followed his weapons officer’s gaze out the cockpit canopy. There, not a hundred meters away off their left wingtip, was an immense light gray bomber aircraft! “Where did that come from?”

“It’s an American B-1 bomber!” Du said. He noticed the American flag painted on the tail, but at the base of the vertical stabilizer it had a U.S. civil aircraft registration number, N-03SM. The wings were swept at about forty degrees. They could see what looked to be a sensor pod under the fuselage on the right side. “How long has he been sitting out there?”

“I never saw anything until just now. Radio contact in to base and ask for interceptors.” While Du radioed back to base, Bo switched to his secondary radio, which was usually set to GUARD, the international emergency channel. “Unidentified American B-1 bomber aircraft,” he radioed in halting English, “this is Qiánfeng Three-Three. We are conducting military patrol operations in this area. Identify yourself immediately.”

“This is Masters Zero-Three,” Tom Hoffman replied, piloting the XB-1 Excalibur bomber. “We’re just going to hang here for a while, check out a few things, and take some pictures. We won’t bug you.”

Although his English was better than most of the pilots in his squadron, Bo was having difficulty understanding the American. “United States Air Force bomber, be advised, we are conducting hazardous military flight operations in this area. You are ordered to exit this area immediately. Acknowledge.”

“We’re not an Air Force aircraft, just a civilian job,” Hoffman said. “We are conducting routine patrol and crew checkout operations in this area. We were told you overflew an American ship going supersonic, and we were sent to check you out. I think it’s time for you to go away and fly back to your carrier.”

“Masters Zero-Three, your request will not be followed,” Bo said, his eyes bulging in disbelief. “This is a People’s Liberation Army Navy military operation. No interference will be tolerated! Exit this area immediately or you may be intercepted by fighter aircraft and fired upon without warning. Acknowledge!”

“Look here, boys,” Hoffman said. “It’s a nice day for flying, so why don’t you just relax and we’ll just have a nice pleasant cruise out here—no reason to start getting all belligerent. Besides, we’re almost inside Taiwan’s air defense zone, and I don’t think they’d appreciate armed bombers flying around so close to their shoreline.”

“No interference will be tolerated!” Bo shouted on the radio. “Leave immediately! Acknowledge!”

“A JN-15 is en route,” Du said on intercom. “About ten minutes out. A JN-20 from the carrier Zheng He is being readied. We are to head back to the carrier to speed up the intercept.”

“Turn tail and run, with this bastard on my ass?”

“The fighters will chase him away,” Du said. “He is just trying to irritate us.”

“Well, he is doing a good job,” Bo said irritably. He forced himself to relax. “That guy has a civilian registration number. Could it be possible for civilians to . . . ?”

“Qiánfeng Three-Three, Operations,” came a radio call from their home base, “advise you . . .” And just then the transmission cut out.

“Operations, do you copy Striker Three-Three?” Du radioed. But as he spoke, his own words were repeated back to him, but delayed about one second . . . and he found it impossible to keep on speaking. He tried his best to ignore his own voice, but it was simply not possible to keep on speaking while his own voice was stepping on him!

“Say again, Three-Three” the operations officer on the Zheng He radioed. “You were . . .” But the transmission was again cut off.

“We are being meaconed,” Du said. “Someone is interfering with our radios, injecting a different signal onto our channel.”

“Could it be from that American bastard flying next to us?” Bo asked.

“Operations, this is Ying Seven-One leader,” came a new voice on the command frequency, “we are tied on radar with Qiánfeng Three-Three and the American aircraft and will take over the intercept. Break. Qiánfeng Three-Three, Ying Seven-One flight of two, inbound, we have you on radar, we will join in two minutes.”

“Three-Three, acknowledged,” Bo responded. “Seven-One, be advised, use caution, our radios are being meaconed, and I think the American is doing it.”

“We have not picked up anything yet,” the leader of the JN-15 formation, Hai Jun Shao Xiao (Lieutenant Commander) Wu Dek Su, said. “We are tied on radar with the American aircraft. Advise you return to base.”

“Acknowledged,” Bo replied. He scowled at the B-1, still steady as a rock on his left wingtip. When he turned left to head back to the carrier, the American B-1 started to turn with him, then quickly descended and was lost from view. “Bastard. Just out for a little cruise, eh?”

“We were done for the day anyway,” Du said.

“Seven-One, tied on visual,” Wu radioed a few moments later. “I will take him on the left side. Take the high perch.”

“Two,” the wingman replied.

In moments the JN-15 fighters had positioned themselves around the American B-1 bomber, the leader off the left side of the nose in good view of the pilot, and the other two hundred feet above and five hundred feet behind the bomber, in a good position to watch all the players and to react if the bomber tried any evasive or dangerous maneuvers. “Operations, Ying Seven-One, visual confirmation, the aircraft is a large four-engine strategic bomber resembling an American Air Force B-1B Lancer bomber,” Wu reported on the command channel. “American civil aircraft registration number November dash Zero Three Sierra Mike. American flag painted on the tail, but no other markings. I see what appears to be a targeting pod under the nose on the right side, but otherwise no external weapons or devices visible. Request instructions.”

“Stay in formation and monitor,” came the reply from the operations controller aboard the carrier Zheng He. “Continue warnings on UHF GUARD. Get him out of this area immediately.”

“Acknowledged.” On the universal GUARD emergency channel, Wu said, “American B-1 bomber, this is Ying Seven-One flight of two JN-15 fighters, warning, warning, warning, you are interfering with military flight operations vital to the defense of the People’s Republic of China. You are ordered to turn east immediately and remain clear of this area. Do you understand? Acknowledge immediately please.”

“Hawk Seven-One, this is Sky Masters Zero-Three,” Tom Hoffman replied, using the English translation for Ying. “I read you loud and clear, but we’re not going anywhere. You and your pals can just go pound sand. This is international airspace and we’re entitled to fly in it just as much as you are. We’ll stay away from your ships but we’re not going anywhere. Now zou kai, go niang yang de!” adding “Go away!” plus a few expletives to his response.

“The American bomber aircraft commander refuses to leave the area!” Wu radioed back to the Chinese controller. “He uses profanity and dares us to attack him! Request permission to fire warning shots!”

“Stand by, Seven-One, stand by,” the operations controller responded. Several moments later: “Negative, Seven-One, negative, do not fire, repeat, do not fire. A single-ship JN-20 is airborne and will intercept in three minutes. If the American bomber does not respond to the presence of our fighters, we may take action. Remain in close formation and monitor position from the carrier group.”

As much as it galled him to do so, Wu stayed off the radios and remained in formation with the B-1 bomber, occasionally nudging closer and closer to make out any other details of the aircraft and to see if he could scare the pilot away just by flying dangerously close to him. The B-1 pilot didn’t appear fazed at all when the JN-15 moved closer. He was also galled by the fact that the Hollywood JN-20 pilot was going to be allowed to chase the B-1 away, not the JN-15s.

“Ying flight, this is Laoying One-One, tied on radar,” the JN-20 Challenger’s pilot reported. It was the JN-20 squadron’s commander, Hai Jun Zhong Xiao (Commander) Hua Ji, himself—he should have known the boss would take this intercept, Wu thought. “Say status.”

“Eagle One-One, this is Hawk Seven-One flight of two, still in close formation with the American bomber, airspeed accelerating now that the Striker is heading back to the ship,” Wu reported. “The JH-37 crew reported some kind of meaconing and interference and suspect it might be from the bomber’s radar, but we are not experiencing any problems.”

“Acknowledged,” Hua replied. “Switch to the target’s right side and I will come up on the left.”

“Seven-One flight, acknowledged. Hawk flight, lead is switching to the right side.”

“Two.”

The JN-15 pilot pulled off a tiny bit of power, then steered below the bomber. With the big plane above him now, he could clearly see the Sniper targeting pod mounted on an external stores station, the three bomb bays, and the other external stores stations, all empty. When he flew all the way around to the other side, the pilot smoothly put the power back in, then slowly climbed until he was even with the copilot’s window on the right side of the bomber. The bomber’s copilot immediately pulled out a small camera and started snapping pictures.

“Masters Zero-Three, this is Laoying One-One,” Hua radioed on GUARD, “confirm you are not armed and not radiating.”

“I’m not confirming anything, One-One,” Hoffman said. “I didn’t clear any of you jokers in. Someone could get hurt—by accident, of course.”

“Do not make any aggressive moves, Zero-Three,” Commander Hua said. “I have you in sight and will close on your left side.”

“You’re not cleared in, One-One,” Hoffman said irritably. It definitely sounded like he was getting agitated. Maybe he was getting ready to bug out. “Stay clear. I am unarmed and flying in international airspace. You guys don’t own this territory. Líkâi, prick!”

“Zero-Three, you are flying in an area where Chinese military operations are under way,” Hua said, infuriated that the American was using such foul language on an open radio frequency. “It is you who is doing dangerous acts. If you will not depart the area immediately, we have no choice but to shadow you until you do.”

“Suit yourself, bozos,” Hoffman said. “Hope you didn’t fill up your piddle pack already.”

Hua pulled his JN-20 Challenger fighter up to the B-1 bomber, taking digital photos of the aircraft from its left side as he got closer, then maneuvered beside and no more than a few yards away from the bomber. The bomber pilot took a few photos, then gave Hua an obscene finger gesture, putting his thumb between his index and middle finger.

“Why do we not blast this guy with our afterburners, like the American fighters did to our JH-37?” Lieutenant Commander Wu radioed on his command channel. There had been a confrontation between a land-based JH-37 and fighters from the American carrier George H. W. Bush in the south part of the South China Sea, where the U.S. Navy F/A-18 Super Hornet fighters tried to chase the JH-37 away with a tactic called a “handstand”—a Hornet pilot pulled directly above the JH-37, then pulled up steeply and hit its afterburners, pushing the Chinese bomber into an almost uncontrollable dive.

But the maneuver resulted in the release of a supersonic antiship missile that steered directly at the Bush—whether accidental or intentional still had not been revealed. The missile was destroyed just seconds before hitting the supercarrier, but the resulting damage of the exploding missile killed fifteen, injured thirty-seven, and destroyed eight aircraft; the Bush was out of commission for almost two years. Although the incident was almost five years ago, it still left a deep scar for most Chinese sailors and airmen.

“Hey, One-One, back away,” Hoffman radioed a few minutes later. “You’re crowding me. The guy on my right is moving in too close too.”

“Sounds like the American is getting nervous,” Wu radioed.

“Maybe if he gets nervous enough, he will leave,” Hua said. “See how close you can move in.”

“My pleasure,” Wu said, and he expertly maneuvered even closer to the B-1 bomber, rattling the bomber’s right wing with exhaust from his engines. “How do you like that, my friend?”

Just then the B-1 bomber started a gentle right turn until it was heading southwest—away from Taiwan’s air defense identification zone, but in the direction of the Chinese mainland, less than two hundred and fifty miles west.

“Careful, Seven-One,” Hua radioed.

“It is not a problem, One-One,” Wu said. “I can stay with him easily. But he is heading toward the mainland.”

“Not for long,” Hua said. On the GUARD channel he radioed: “Masters Zero-Three, this is Eagle One-One, you are not permitted to come within three hundred kilometers of our coastline. Alter course immediately.”

“I don’t think so, húndàn,” Hoffman replied, adding another expletive. “You guys don’t own this airspace or the ocean. We’re unarmed. Get off my wing.”

“Masters Zero-Three, this is your last warning,” Hua radioed. “If you come within two hundred kilometers of our mainland base, you will be fired on.” He checked his navigation displays—less than two minutes before they broke the two-hundred-kilometer line. On the command channel Hua radioed: “Operations, Eagle One-One, verify, am I cleared to engage the bomber inside the . . . ?”

And at that instant Hua caught a glimpse of a large fast-moving object that zoomed past him, no more than a hundred meters above him. Then a loud crashing BANG! and a violent rush of turbulence surrounded him, and he was forced to peel away from the B-1 bomber so he wouldn’t collide with it. “What was that?” he radioed on his command channel.

“A large aircraft, going supersonic!” one of the JN-15 pilots replied.

Then Hua saw it as it performed a steep climbing left turn: it was another B-1 bomber, its wings swept all the way back, going almost too fast to keep in sight! It was gone in the blink of an eye over his left shoulder. “It is another American B-1 bomber!” he shouted. “A second bomber! Operations, do you copy? Another American B-1 bomber!”

“Eagle One-One, maintain contact with the second bomber!” the controller responded after an agonizingly long silence. “We do not have radar contact! Maintain contact! Hawk Seven-One flight, maintain contact with the first bomber, and do not lose contact! Acknowledge!” All the pilots affirmed their orders.

Hua activated his radar as he started a hard left turn to pursue the second B-1 bomber. “Operations, One-One, lost visual, attempting radar lock,” he radioed. “Request launching the alert-five fighters.”

“Hawk Eight-One flight of two will be airborne in five minutes, One-One.”

Hua swore to himself as he checked his radar display—and realized it was being jammed! “Operations, One-One, I am receiving intense electromagnetic jamming!” he radioed. Usually the JN-20’s superior active electronically scanned array radar was very difficult to jam because it shifted frequencies very quickly, but whatever jammers or radars were on the B-1 were much more powerful and faster than his. “Seven-One flight, say status.”

“The first B-1 bomber is turning away from the mainland and heading north,” Wu responded. “We are turning with him, but we will be at required recovery fuel state in five minutes. We are being . . .” And then the radios completely cut out—not jammed or meaconed, but completely silent.

“Seven-One flight, how do you hear?” Hua radioed. But his radio was silent as well, and his radar was still being jammed. Without radios or radar he had no way of knowing where the JN-15s were, so they were required to execute lost communications procedures and return to the carrier. Damn the decision of the air wing commander not to use external fuel tanks, Hua thought—any flight farther than two hundred kilometers, when the carrier was farther than two hundred kilometers from a suitable abort base on land, had to have drop tanks. The air wing commander thought the external tanks spoiled the performance of his jets too much . . .

. . . and at that moment he received a “MISSILE LOCK” warning on his radar threat receiver from his seven o’clock position and less than ten kilometers—he was being tracked by an enemy fighter! Hua immediately put in full afterburner, ejected decoy chaff and flares, and executed a hard climbing left turn. Where did the fighter come from? The enemy fighter zoomed past him, just below and to his left, heading north . . . and Hua caught a glimpse of the B-1 bomber! The American bomber had an air-to-air missile?

Hua tightened his left turn and pulled around behind the B-1 bomber. He had no clearance to attack, but his radios were inoperative, and he had just been highlighted by an enemy aircraft, and that was all the provocation he needed to attack. He armed his missiles and cannon. The B-1 had slowed considerably, and it was fairly easy to see him off in the distance. Even if his radar wouldn’t work, his PL-12 missiles could home in on the bomber’s exhaust and . . .

At that moment the jamming abruptly ceased. “Eagle One-One, Eagle One-One, this is Operations, how do you hear?”

“This is One-One, loud and clear now, Operations,” Hu responded. “Jamming has ceased. I have been locked on by enemy radar from the B-1 bomber, and I may have evaded a missile launch. I have radar lock on the second bomber. It is heading north, altitude seven thousand meters, airspeed . . .”

And at that moment the radar locked onto something else—six more targets, approaching from the north at high speed!

“Attention, attention, People’s Liberation Army Navy fighter aircraft, this is Jiàn Four-Seven-Four flight of six, Chung-kuo Kung Chuan, Republic of China Air Force,” a voice over the emergency GUARD channel said in Mandarin. “You have violated the Air Defense Identification Zone of the Republic of China. You are ordered to turn off all emitters, reduce speed, and lower your landing gear. You will be visually identified and escorted to T’ainan Air Base. The use of deadly force has been authorized. Comply immediately!”

Hua felt the almost overwhelming urge to reply with threats of his own, or even lock them all up with his fire control radar—the JN-20’s AESA radar could track twenty targets and attack six simultaneously—but he choked the anger down and mashed the microphone button of his command channel: “Operations, One-One, I have radar contact on six Taiwanese fighters, repeat, six fighters, type unknown, same altitude, airspeed one thousand two hundred,” he radioed. At that speed they had to be fighters, probably American-made F-15s or F-22s. “Request instructions.”

The wait was agonizingly long. When the Taiwanese fighters were about seventy kilometers away, almost within range of radar-guided missiles, Hua heard, “Eagle One-One, Hawk Seven-One flight, yèying, repeat, yèyῑng. Hawk Eight-One flight will be airborne and will provide cover. Acknowledge.”

“One-One acknowledges,” Hua responded. “Seven-One flight, disengage, fly southwest, descend to eight thousand, join on me.” Yèying, or “nightingale,” was the code word to direct airborne aircraft to return to the carrier as quickly as possible. He had to admit it was a good decision, and he turned hard left and headed southwest away from the Taiwanese. He knew the Taiwanese fighters would not pursue him or order him to surrender again, and a glance at his threat warning receiver verified this—the fighters set up two combat patrol orbits, one at five thousand meters’ altitude and the other at ten thousand. Although the JN-15 was equivalent in performance and firepower to the American-made F-15, and the JN-20 was a generation ahead of anything else in the sky, three versus six were not good odds. Hua really wanted to take on the Taiwanese, but it had to be on his terms, not theirs.