The line went silent. Chowdhury glanced up and noticed Wisecarver standing in the doorway of the Situation Room, watching him.
“Too risky,” answered Patel. “If we call off our interceptors, how can we be certain that the pilot won’t strike Shanghai?”
Chowdhury glanced once more at Wisecarver, who’d taken a menacing step in his direction. “We’ll abort the strike; you have my word. The president will—”
Wisecarver slapped the phone from his grip. In the time it had taken Chowdhury to utter his first sentence and then half of his second, Wisecarver had covered the distance between them. “You don’t speak for the president,” Wisecarver snapped, planting the heel of his shoe on the phone, so that when Chowdhury reached after it, he appeared as though he were groveling at Wisecarver’s feet, which in a way he was.
“Please,” said Chowdhury. “You’ve got to give us a chance to call it off.”
“Not after Galveston,” he answered, shaking his head. “Not after San Diego. Do you think this administration or this country will tolerate”—for a moment he struggled for the appropriate word, and then found it, plucking it like fruit from a branch—“appeasement.”
Chowdhury remained on his knees, his hands still reaching pathetically for his phone as he glanced up at Wisecarver, who, with a halogen bulb from the ceiling framing his head, seemed to glow strangely, like a vengeful saint. “There’s only one pilot left,” Chowdhury said weakly. “What are the chances he’ll even make it to his target? If we call the Indians off, we could save him… we could stop all of this.”
Wisecarver reached down toward his foot. He picked up Chowdhury’s phone and tucked it into his own coat pocket. Then he offered Chowdhury a hand, hoisting him up from the floor. “C’mon,” said Wisecarver. “On your feet. No need to stay down there.” The two stood next to one another in the empty corridor, sharing a quiet second as if to diffuse the tension between them. Then Wisecarver glanced up toward the lights that had framed his head a moment before. “There’s a quote from the Bible,” he began, “or maybe it’s the Talmud or Qur’an? I can never remember which. But it’s one I’ve always appreciated. It goes, Whosoever destroys one life has destroyed the world entire, and whosoever saves a single life is considered to have saved the whole world…. Or at least I think that’s how it goes. Tell me, Sandy, are you a religious man?”
Sandeep shook his head, no.
“Me neither,” said Wisecarver. He walked off with Chowdhury’s phone.
At first the shore was just a smudge on the horizon. Then the contours of the skyline formed. At one mile out, Wedge would begin his ascent, climbing to his attack altitude. Everything would depend on altitude and time. He needed to take on at least ten thousand feet so that when he activated and then dropped his payload it would have sufficient time to arm. He needed to do this quickly so that the antiaircraft systems that lurked below couldn’t find their mark. As he approached the city, his thought pattern was simple, almost primordiaclass="underline" Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes, each breath seemed to say.
At five miles out he could see traffic on the roads.
At three miles he could see the waves breaking on the beach.
At two miles the individual windows in the skyscrapers winked at him as they caught the sun—
Then he rocketed his stick, hard back.
The Gs pressed on his chest like an enormous hand. Pinpricks of light did their familiar Tinker Bell dance in his vision. Had anyone been listening, they would’ve heard his grunts, which were like a tennis player hitting from the baseline. A long stream of tracer fire arched toward him from the shore as he careened above Shanghai. Wedge rolled his plane belly skyward. With his cockpit hung toward the ground, he glimpsed two wispy missile launches, whirling upward toward his head. He deployed the last of his chaff and flares, dumping the white-hot magnesium beneath him and hoping it would be enough to confuse the missiles.
His altimeter orbited past three thousand feet.
Behind him, the pair of Indian Sukhois now appeared. He’d flown low enough and fast enough that they couldn’t have tracked him. They must’ve figured he was heading here.
His altimeter passed four thousand feet.
The Chinese systems didn’t distinguish between him and the Indian pilots. All three of them corkscrewed and juked through the antiaircraft fire that chewed up the sky while their engines, with a dismal rumble, forced them ever higher. Wedge struggled to reach his drop altitude of ten thousand feet while the Sukhois kept up the pressure, slotting into position on his tail. Any second they’d take their shot. Wedge knew he needed to deal with the Sukhois if he was ever going to get up to altitude.
He barreled right.
We’ll decide it here, he thought, at five thousand feet.
Beneath the three aircraft, the city was lit up, spitting tracers in every direction. When Wedge had barreled right, the Sukhois had barreled left. The two sets of aircraft traveled in opposite directions along the circumference of a shared circle whose miles-long diameter was nearly the size of Shanghai itself. Wedge couldn’t help but admire the Indian pilots, who had made an astute tactical move. By giving up their position on his tail they’d each be able to make a head-on pass, leveraging their two-to-one advantage.
Wedge made his orbit around the city and prepared to meet the pilots somewhere along that path. They would come at each other like jousting horsemen of another era — lances down, forward in their saddles, the issue decided in a blink. Events were playing out in seconds and in fractions of seconds. This is it, Wedge thought — the it he’d been chasing for the entirety of his life. He was ready. His thoughts returned to his family, to that lineage of pilots from whom he’d descended. He could feel his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, their presence so close it was as if they were flying off his wing. A certainty possessed him: the advantage in numbers wasn’t with the two assholes in the Sukhois but with him, Wedge.
Odds are four to two, motherfuckers, he thought — and almost said it aloud.
He locked onto the first Sukhoi, releasing a sidewinder from his wingtip, while simultaneously firing an exhalation’s worth of rounds from his cannon. The Sukhoi did the exact same to him, so that their air-to-air missiles passed one another in mid-flight. However, the first Sukhoi had made a mistake. When Wedge diverted toward the second aircraft, so, too, had the sidewinder fired by the first. Wedge was out of chaff and flares to confuse the sidewinder, but if he could bring it in close enough to the second Sukhoi, that might disorient it.
The second Sukhoi observed the threat of the incoming sidewinder.
From its fuselage, it deployed chaff and flare.
Wedge could see the sidewinder spiraling toward him as he rushed closer to the second Sukhoi, like a three-way game of chicken. Then the sidewinder dipped on its axis, following a burning piece of chaff. Simultaneously, both Wedge and the second Sukhoi released bursts from their cannon. When the two passed one another, there was a sound like a limb snapping off a tree….
… Blue sky everywhere, it turns to black, then rushes back to blue.
The wind on Wedge’s face.
When he bolted awake, the stick had flopped out of his right hand. Wedge grabbed it, snatching back control of his Hornet. Checking his instruments, he hadn’t lost much altitude. He couldn’t have been unconscious for long, maybe a second, like an extended blink. A puddle was growing beneath his legs. He touched his right thigh and could feel a protrusion. A piece of steel — likely from the fuselage — had embedded below his hip. Two thumb-sized holes — around thirty millimeters, a little larger than his own cannon — had pierced the front-left and back-right of his cockpit, hence the wind on his face.