“So, no, General, they will not lie down. They will rise up, as will the Japanese and the South Koreans and the Australians and the British, and even India, Germany, and Canada — and, of course, Taiwan, with its three hundred thousand trained soldiers and over four hundred advanced fighter jets, including the F-16A Falcon outfitted with the latest weaponry.
“This is not a war we can risk. Nor is it a war the Americans can risk, but I suspect they feel the losses they would incur would not be as significant. We do not have a fleet poised off the west coast of the United States. And to use our nuclear missiles would be to ensure not just our own destruction, but that of the world.
“In addition,” Jiechi added, signaling to an aide, who brought up a series of satellite images onto a large projection screen. “I have received evidence that the two Sukhois that were shot down had not been flying inside our airspace, as previously reported. They were on a direct attack vector over international waters toward the American fleet, a fleet that had already suffered losses from a ghost submarine. Only a fool would think the Americans would tolerate our planes flying over them. Only a fool would think the Americans would risk another attack from any direction.
“The Americans simply defended themselves. Moreover, the American jet we shot down wasn’t invading our airspace. It was flying over international waters. So, it was we who erred here. We were the ones to act foolishly.”
Jiechi could see the blood rising in Deng’s face.
Jiechi continued. “Now is not the time to escalate, to continue this foolishness. Now is the time to be smart. It is the time to defuse this situation before it gets out of hand. We must offer the United States our full assistance following this abhorrent attack on their soil. We must reassure them that we are not their enemy.”
“How did you obtain this?” General Xiangsui demanded, rage in his voice.
“My… own intelligence sources. There are too many satellites today to be able to hide something like this, General,” Jiechi replied calmly as the six PSC members present pointed at the images. His accusation against the general did not go unnoticed.
Deng ignored everyone but Jiechi, staring at the president, holding his eyes and struggling to maintain his composure. In truth, Jiechi’s speech had impressed him, showing more backbone than he’d ever seen before in his protégé. And this intelligence surprised him, but Deng would not telegraph his surprise, nor be cowed by the new president’s sudden courage, or his attempt to go gather his own intelligence. Deng planned to demonstrate how fainthearted the American politicians — and the American people — really were.
“I will have my people review these images,” Deng said. “And make sure they are not… fabricated. Then we can continue this discussion.”
The general stood and looked around the room at the civilian leaders, none of whom made eye contact with him except Jiechi. Then he turned on his heel and left the room, followed quickly by the rest of the military officers in the room.
Col. Lian Guõ could feel the tension between her shoulders and neck as she taxied the Xian H-6 strategic bomber — the Chinese version of the Russian Tupolev Tu-16 “Badger” long-range bomber — toward the end of the runway.
The top-secret mission seemed too risky even to the maverick pilot, but she would never disagree with General Xiangsui’s direct order. Her jiujiu had personally requested that she lead the sortie. A copilot and an electronics officer accompanied her on this covert flight. The latter would manage weapons and defense systems. Normally, a communications officer would also be on board, but given the secrecy, Lian had decided to handle that task and lean more on her copilot for flight management.
It had been at least two months since she had last flown the twin-engine bomber, during “refresher” training intended to keep Chinese pilots qualified in multiple types of aircraft.
With permission from the control tower, Lian crossed the runway threshold and aligned the nose with the centerline. Advancing the twin throttles, she took off at precisely four o’clock in the morning.
Once airborne, she contacted departure control with her call sign: China Southern Airlines Flight 463.
A Leung-2 reconnaissance satellite provided timely updates on the position of their target as Lian leveled the bomber at a cruising altitude of thirty-one thousand feet and speed of 450 miles per hour, appropriate to the Boeing 737–700 passenger plane that normally used that call sign.
As soon as they left Fuzhou airspace, Lian shut off all external lights.
“I guess boring is good,” Lt. Cmdr. Juan Ricardo mumbled under his oxygen mask as they started the final racetrack of their BARCAP this turbulent predawn morning.
“Boring is always good,” replied Lt. Amanda Diamante from Dragon Two-Zero-Four, which had been speedily repaired by Master Chief Gino Cardona’s team, though not without receiving her fair share of “bend-over time” from Commander Benjamin Kowalski. Besides the damaged fuel line that had caused the engine to flame out, the rest of the damage to her Super Hornet had been cosmetic, just more character-building scars, easily patched.
In fifteen minutes, two relief F/A-18Es from the “Bounty Hunters” (VFA-2) would be launched to relieve the Dragons, and then Ricardo could look forward to a steaming cappuccino.
The darkness concealed a thick layer of clouds obscuring the stars and the moon. But even in spite of the poor weather conditions and the added difficulty of flying a tight formation in it, Ricardo felt at ease.
He keyed his radio. “Dragon Two, how’s the fuel?”
“Lookin’ good. No problems,” Amanda answered in a tired voice. “How about you?”
“I’m fat,” Ricardo replied as he moved his head back and forth to relieve the muscles in his neck and shoulders. “Looking forward to sleeping in for a change.”
“Yeah,” Amanda said. “This nightshift business sucks.”
“Dragon One, Liberty Bell.”
Ricardo recognized the voice of Lt. Cmdr. Steve Barlow, the CICO aboard an E-2D Advanced Hawkeye.
Ricardo sensed trouble. “Dragon One, go.”
“We have a situation,” Barlow said in a tight voice. “I have a single bogie thirty miles out at your seven for three-one-zero. The aircraft is using the call sign China Southern Air Four-Six-Three. I just checked, and that’s a flight number that normally is a Shanghai-to-Hong Kong shuttle. But the departure time doesn’t line up, and they’re several miles off course. When I inquired, the pilot said she was a check airman and they’re breaking in a new crew on the route.”
“And I sense you don’t buy it?” Ricardo asked, glancing back at Amanda’s jet remaining just behind his starboard wingtip.
“Nope,” Barlow replied. “I mean, who the hell lets a trainee get seven miles off course, especially when every airline in this hemisphere knows we’re out here?”
“Good point, my friend,” Ricardo replied. “We’ll check it out.”
“Roger that,” Barlow said. “Dragon, your unknown is heading three-four-zero at three-one-zero. Now twenty-eight miles away.”
“Three-forty and up to thirty-one thousand,” Ricardo replied as he began a shallow turn to a heading of 340 degrees and a climb to Flight Level 310, or thirty-one thousand feet. “You catch that, Deedle?”