Strike Zone (41 page)

Z
EN HAD THE
plane fat in his target screen; two bursts from his cannon and it would go down. All he needed was an okay from Colonel Bastian.

A Chinese Chengdu J-7 was on a rough intercept from the northwest, its intentions unclear. It wouldn't be a factor for another two or three minutes, however; by then this should be over.

As he waited, Zen checked
Hawk Four
, flying a routine trail behind
Raven
. He decided to put it into a preset position ahead of
Raven
called Escort Two; the robot would fly seven miles ahead of the mother ship's left wingtip. That would give him a reasonable position to deal with the communist interceptor if it continued south and he was still hanging behind the 767.

C
³
acknowledged his command, whipping the tiny plane forward. When he'd first learned to handle the Flighthawks, Zen would have insisted on taking the
plane himself. But he'd grown to trust the computer, and knew he could concentrate on
Hawk Three
and the 767.

“Hawk leader to Raven. Colonel, what's the story?”

“Dream Command is checking on something.”

“That J-7 is going to afterburners,” said Delaney.

“Coming for us?” asked Zen.

“We'll know in a minute,” said Delaney.

Dreamland
1200

J
ENNIFER SAW IT
on the screen as Dog nagged them again for an update. She pointed to the break in the transmission so Major Catsman could see as well.

“This back here is them saying they have radio trouble,” said Jennifer. She paged back to the translation screen, trying to get the right place.

She couldn't find it, and for a moment she doubted herself, thought that her anger at him had made her unconscious mind invent it. She stabbed at the cursors.

Where is it? Where is it?

“Wait,” said Catsman, grabbing her hand. “Calm down. Go back. Just relax. We have time.”

Two backspaces.

“Colonel, it looks like the aircraft you're querying was having intermittent radio trouble shortly after takeoff. They may not be able to hear your hails. I'm not sure why they didn't turn back,” said Catsman. “But maybe you can get their attention visually.”

Jennifer pushed back from the screen. Tears were falling down her cheeks.

She hadn't invented it.

“Are you all right?” asked Catsman.

Slowly, she nodded.

The major put her hand on Jennifer's shoulder. “We won't shoot down the wrong plane. We won't.”

Aboard
Raven
0305

Z
EN ACCELERATED OVER
the right wing of the 767, pushing past the cockpit. The pilot in the big jet did what any self-respecting pilot would do when a UFO blasted across his bow—he ducked.

And took the aircraft with him. Fortunately, the big jet was athletic enough to handle the violent jerk on her controls fairly calmly—if rolling through an invert can be considered calm.

“Getting some radio flickers but nothing intelligible,” said Wes upstairs. “I think Jennifer's right—I think he's having radio problems and didn't realize it.”

“Wouldn't he have checked in with civilian controllers?” Zen asked.

“Well, given the situation between the two Chinas, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't talk to them at all, and vice versa. His flight plan has him heading for South Korea.”

Whatever the situation, the 767's pilot appeared to realize he was in fact in trouble. Rather than coming back to his original course, he turned southward, as if he were heading back to Taiwan.

“Taiwan Mirages have him on their radar,” said Dog. “They're going to hook up and escort him home.”

“Roger that,” said Zen. “But if he's not our guy, who is?”

On the Ground in Kaohisiung
0305

T
HE
M
ARINE CAPTAIN
wanted to blow the bunker entrance with C-4, but Danny wouldn't let him.

“That'll kill them for sure,” said Danny. “Best bet's to keep digging.”

“Sooner or later they're going to run out of air,” said the Marine. “We can't get those big blocks out of the way.”

“Maybe we can get some earthmovers from the city,” suggested Danny.

“God knows how long it'll take to get them here.”

Danny stood back. Blowing the hole open looked like the only option—but it risked killing his men to save them. Even if they moved far from the entrance, the shock of the explosion might weaken the already damaged bunker.

The rest of the facility had now been searched; it seemed a good bet that the nuke was down there.

If they blew the concrete to bits, would they blow up the bomb as well?

No—because if it weren't safed against accidental explosions, it would have gone off already.

Assuming it was there.

Go with a minimum charge.

“Set up the explosives,” Danny told the Marines reluctantly. “One of my men will help. Make sure the
people inside know what we're doing. Yo, Boston. Get over here and put some of your demo training to work.”

 

S
TONER PUSHED THROUGH
the dust, the dim beam from the flashlight dancing against the walls. The path had taken two turns and gone down two flights of stairs, widening somewhat as it went.

The bunker had definitely been intended as more than a place to hide a nuke or two. As he walked, Stoner worried that he would run into guards. He'd retrieved his hideaway Glock from his leg—the Beretta had been lost in the blast—holding the gun in his hand. The flashlight was strapped to his wrist, casting the shadow of the gun ahead as he walked.

He walked slowly, stopping every second or third step, waiting, listening.

What was this place? he wondered. A cement hole in the ground, a hiding place?

He turned the corner and something flashed in his face. He fired his gun and felt incredibly cold.

Cement and the tang of gunpowder stung his eyes. No one was there—he'd tripped another EMP-shielded motion detector. He was at the entrance to a paneled room.

He took a step, then froze, belatedly thinking of booby traps.

Fortunately, there weren't any.

“My lucky fuckin' day,” he said aloud.

The room itself was empty, except for a small couch. A Taiwanese flag hung on the wall. On the wall opposite it were some framed papers and scrolls. Most were in Chinese, but one was in Latin with a name written in Roman letters:

Ai Hira Bai

A diploma or certificate of some sort. He was in the professor's lair.

A door on his right was ajar, revealing a bathroom.

To the left, a set of steps led downward. Stoner walked to them. Another light came on, but this time he was prepared.

The steps led to a small office dominated by a wooden desk with a glass top. Beneath the glass was a map of Mainland China. He reached for the top drawer, opening it gently. It was empty, except for an envelope with Chinese characters on it. Stoner's ability to interpret ideographs was somewhat limited, but he thought the words meant “To the next generation.”

 

B
OSTON WATCHED THE
Marines set the charges amid the rubble. The passage was blocked by an extremely large and thick piece of the wall; to get it out of the way they had to use considerable explosives. There was simply no way of knowing what other damage it might do.

“How we looking down there, Boston?” asked Captain Freah.

“Uh, the charges are just about set,” the sergeant told him. “A good hunk of C-4.”

“Understood. Make sure you're far enough away.”

“Yeah.”

“Something bothering you, Boston?”

“Uh—”

“Look, Sergeant, the thing about Whiplash is, you have an opinion, you share it. You got me? I didn't pick you to join the squad because I thought you were
stupid. I want to know what the hell it is you're thinking. Talk to me.”

Boston had been in the Air Force for a while, but no officer had ever spoken to him exactly like that. While there were definitely good officers around, the usual attitude toward NCOs and enlisted men in general edged more toward tolerance than partnership.

Was Freah different?

Maybe it was the fact that they were both black.

Or maybe what he and Colonel Bastian and the others said was true—Dreamland was a team effort.

“I have a weird, weird idea,” offered Boston. “We could use that Osprey to pull some of these big suckers off. I saw this big crane helicopter do that once back home when this building—”

“Pull the charges out of there now,” said Freah, cutting him off. “Next time you get an idea, Sergeant, you share it right away, you got me?”

“Damn straight, sir,” said Boston. “Damn straight.”

Aboard
Raven
0315

Z
EN JUMPED INTO
Hawk Four
as the Chinese J-7 closed to within fifty miles of the Megafortress. The J-7 was essentially a MiG-21, with all the pluses and minuses of the venerable Russian design. Zen could take it in a heartbeat; as a matter of fact, the computer itself could handle the plane if pressed—C
³
had shot down almost enough MiGs to rate as a bona fide ace.

The Chinese pilot repeated roughly the same challenge the others had, telling
Raven
they were in sovereign
airspace and to get his Yankee butt home. Zen laughed; Chinese pilots seemed to think they could make up for the shortcomings of their aircraft by boasting. As a class, they had to rate among the most cocksure flyboys in the world—which was saying quite a lot.

Dog gave a bland reply and held to his course.

They had one more aircraft to check out, another 767 whose flight plan said it was heading for Beijing. The ID had already checked out.
Hawk Four
was about forty miles behind it; overtaking it at the present speed would take nearly eighteen more minutes, by which time the plane would be nearing landfall just south of Shanghai.

“Controller's telling that J-7 to hang with us,” said Wes. “He's got fuel problems, though.”

“Any transmissions from the 767?” asked Zen.

“Negative.”

“Zen, be advised we have a ground radar trying to track us,” said the copilot. “You see that on your screen? Fan Song­style radar—getting some more action here.”

“Just flashed in,” said Zen as the icons indicating different ground intercept and guidance radars began to appear on his screens. The Fan Song radar was associated with Chinese V-75 SA-2 Guideline missiles, originally designed by Russia in the late 1950s but updated at regular intervals since. “Stealthy” did not mean “invisible”; the long-wave radar could detect the EB-52 at roughly ten miles. But unless the Megafortress had to fly directly over the site, it was unlikely to be successfully targeted. The Flighthawk was even more difficult to detect.

“We're out of their range,” noted Delaney. “Fresh flight of Mirages en route from Taiwan coming up behind us, uh, should be on the radar in ten, a little less.
Look here, J-7's turning around. Looks like the skies are friendly once more.”

“Roger that,” said Zen, jumping back into
Hawk Three
and pressing toward the 767.

On the Ground in Kaohisiung
0320

W
HILE THE
O
SPREY
was brought in to move the debris, Danny Freah went to the staging point down by the harbor to speak with one of the Taiwanese officers in charge of the forces there. By now the government had been informed by Washington that an operation was under way to apprehend terrorists pursuant to existing treaties, but details were still waiting Danny's completion, and in any event the Taiwan president had not yet been contacted.

The Taiwanese were angry but Danny wasn't ready to explain what was going on or turn over control. While there were now more than a dozen Marines at the entrance to the site, the Americans would soon be outgunned, and in any event were under orders not to use lethal force against their allies. So Danny tried an old politician's trick of diverting attention. He told the Taiwan officer in charge at the gate that the terrorists were probably Mainlanders and were suspected of having more forces in the harbor; they needed help checking the shorelines nearby. The officer retreated to consult his superiors; Danny also retreated, telling the Marines to appear as helpful as possible, but to stall before coming to find him.

Meanwhile, the Osprey hovered over the battery reclamation area. As powerful as the craft was, it
hadn't been designed as an excavator. It groaned and ducked, power plants moaning. Trotting back toward the site, Danny realized he'd have to call it off before it became damaged. Before he could hit his com control, the tilt-wing aircraft lurched backward, then suddenly shot upward—the stone had broken free.

“All right, Boston, set the explosives up,” he said, making his way back toward the area.

“No need to—we can get in. The Osprey pulled the block a couple of yards away.”

There was a shout in the background.

“What's going on?” demanded Danny.

“Marines are okay. One with two broken legs swears he'll beat the crap out of anyone who tries helping him walk.”

“Where's Stoner?”

“Inside somewhere. We're working on it.”

Aboard
Raven
0320

H
AWK
T
HREE
NOTCHED
forty thousand feet, slowly but surely gaining on the 767. But this was another wild-goose chase, Zen realized; not only had the ID checked out but the pilot had spoken to controllers at the Shanghai airport. It was a combi flight, with a dozen passengers and cargo, and it would be landing in about fifteen minutes.

Two fresh Mirage 2000s had been scrambled northward from Taiwan. Bumped by their afterburners into Mach + territory, they would have the Boeing in sight about sixty seconds or so after Zen did. Their fly-by-
wire controls and a subtle but significant change in the design's center of gravity made the planes much more maneuverable than the Mirage III they outwardly resembled. While Zen would still—rightly—prefer an F-15 in a dust-up, the ROC interceptors could definitely hold their own.