Who can you trust? She didn’t know. Is Huang a leak? Maybe, maybe not. It is too dangerous to take the chance of compromising the operation.
General Wu understood her decision. “It is a matter of combat tactics,” she heard him tell the ministers. “In order to eliminate China’s ability to mount an invasion force, it was necessary to expose our fighters to heavy enemy defenses. Now that has been accomplished, and we will restrict our losses while we maintain air superiority.”
Not a great answer, Charlotte thought, but good enough. Whether or not they believed it, the ministers had no choice except to accept it. Old Ma, ever the pragmatic politician, just shrugged. At the end of the table, Huang lapsed into a silent sulk. The other ministers were busy taking notes, whispering among themselves.
Charlotte concluded the business of the cabinet. It had gone as well as she could have expected. Her leadership had been tested, and she was still in office. If the Chouzhou mission succeeded, they would applaud her decision to maintain silence. If it failed, it wouldn’t matter. Taiwan would be finished.
She gathered her papers and rose. The ministers scrambled to their feet. The meeting was over.
He should have figured it out, Bass thought. It was some kind of board of inquiry. Something the Navy did when they snatched Air Force exchange pilots out of the drink.
The civilian had to be a spook. The glasses, the haircut — CIA, NSA, something like that. He didn’t have a name tag. The two-star was in charge of a bunch of ships, including the big one they were on.
The red-haired captain seemed to be running the meeting. The other two were Navy commanders. One was obviously an intel officer. He looked like every other intel officer Bass had ever seen. Same accusing eyes, same shitty attitude.
The other officer, whose name tag read “Brick Maxwell,” was a tall, athletic-looking guy with a brown mustache. He had a set of penetrating blue eyes and wore a bemused grin on his face. He had the body language of a fighter pilot. Bass wondered what he flew and if he was any good.
The captain pulled out a well-chewed cigar. He stuck it in his mouth and peered at Bass. “I’m Captain Boyce, the Air Wing Commander. The Reagan is your new home, at least until we can figure out what to do with you. Admiral Hightree here commands the strike group, and this is Mr. Ashby. He’s on loan to us from the NSA.”
Bingo, thought Bass. A spook.
“Commander Wentz here is the Flag Intelligence Officer. The other officer is Commander Maxwell, who commands one of my Hornet squadrons.”
Bingo again.
“Everything we discuss here is classified top secret, need-to-know only,” said Boyce. “Do you understand?”
“Sir, I have a Top Secret clearance.”
Wentz said, “We already know your security clearance. The subject matter here happens to be several levels above your clearance limit.”
Bass nodded. Above Top Secret?
“This falls into special category intelligence — SPECAT— meaning highly restricted and compartmentalized. You’ve been cleared at this level only for as long as it takes us to debrief you.”
Bass nodded again.
Wentz’s eyes bored into Bass. “This subject matter is so sensitive that its declassification review date is twenty years from now. Any disclosure or unauthorized discussion will result in trial by court martial and lengthy incarceration. If you have no questions, sign this declaration of intent and understanding.”
He shoved a clipboard across the table.
Bass picked it up and began signing the papers. Typical intel puke, he thought. They were all jerks.
They took seats around the conference table. The intel officer punched the start button on a tape recorder in the center of the table. Boyce unwrapped a fresh cigar. “Your wingman,” he said. “What happened to him?”
Bass had to think for a second, reconstructing the image he had seen behind Wing-lei’s jet just before the explosion. It still seemed like a bad dream.
He told them what he saw.
When he finished, Boyce and Maxwell looked at each other. Maxwell was nodding his head. “This ‘glimmer’ you call it. How far behind your wingman’s jet was it?”
“A mile, maybe. It lasted just a second, then I saw Wing-lei’s jet blow.”
“Any RWR alert?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Did your wingman report being spiked?”
”I don’t think so. I had just checked his six, looking for any threat, and that’s when I saw the… glimmer.”
Everyone at the table leaned forward. “Describe it,” said Boyce.
“Sort of a shimmering, mirage-like distortion. I just saw it for a second, out of my peripheral vision. I thought it was an aircraft at first. It might have been the heat from Wing-lei’s afterburner.”
Boyce looked at Maxwell and nodded.
“Did you see anything impact his jet?”
“No. It just blew.”
“What was your reaction?”
“Get out of Dodge. A gut move. I figured I was next. Nine-G limiter pull for the deck. It was the right move because the missile — whatever it was — missed a direct hit. I must have taken shrapnel in the tail when the prox fuse went.”
For a moment, Boyce and Maxwell were both silent. Maxwell seemed deep in thought, focused on some faraway object.
Boyce was on his feet. “Goddamnit, it had to be a fighter — a Flanker or another Fishbed. He sneaked into the fight and nobody saw him.”
“Why didn’t their Hawkeye pick him up?” asked Maxwell.
“They missed him. Maybe he entered low, then came straight up.”
Maxwell shook his head. “Not against the E-2 radar. It’s optimized for over water ops. Besides, with that many fighter radars covering the sector, I’d give spitters a near-zero probability.”
Boyce looked exasperated. “Okay, what then? Something got behind the F-16s without being detected and took them both out. I’d bet my ass and a box of Cohibas it’s the same something that flamed Dynasty One.”
A silence fell over the group.
Finally, Maxwell said, “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
Boyce stared. “Maybe. You care to elaborate?”
Maxwell started to speak, then he looked at Bass. Boyce just shrugged. “Him? He’s not going anywhere. His boss said to keep him until hell freezes over or the war is finished, whichever takes longer. Plus he just signed his life away. We own this little mercenary.”
Bass forced a smile. Navy guys. It must come from living on boats. No booze, no women. It gave them a warped sense of humor.
CHAPTER 7 — THE WEDGE
“A what?” Boyce shoved the cigar back in his mouth and stared at Maxwell.
“Stealth fighter,” said Maxwell.
“You mean, like the F-117? Low radar signature, low observability?”
“Never mind low,” offered Catfish Bass. “How about zero? If it was another fighter that hosed us, the thing was invisible. Not just to radar, but to the naked eye.” Bass was starting to relax now that he wasn’t going to jail. At least not immediately.
Boyce snorted. “We went through that already. There ain’t no such animal.” He kept staring at Maxwell. “Isn’t that right, Commander Maxwell?”