One of the hallmarks of Tsin’s long career was his abiding obsession to return Hong Kong and Taiwan to the sphere of the PRC. Hong Kong had come with relative ease, the result of long negotiation. Dealing with the dispirited Great Britain was like eroding a stone with dripping water. The former colony was returned to China in 1997.
Taiwan was another matter. Instead of clinging to the mantle of a decaying empire, it had thrived as a protectorate of the United States. Indeed, the status of Taiwan had been an ongoing source of tension between the PRC and the U.S. for half a century.
Five years ago General Tsin had cultivated Franklin Huang as a compliant negotiating partner. When Taiwan became a part of mother China, Huang was to be installed as the provincial governor.
At least, that had been the understanding. It hinged, of course, on his assuming the presidency after Li’s untimely death in the Airbus. It should have been only a formality. He would replace the Vice President who would have the good sense to step down when confronted with the gravity of Taiwan’s situation.
She didn’t step down. She declared war.
“It was a surprise to all of us,” said Huang. “She gave no indication that she would initiate military action.”
“You have made a serious misjudgment, Huang. Now you must correct your mistake. If you do not, I promise you that you will end your career gathering shit in the worst of China’s collective pig farms.”
Huang could feel his destiny slipping like an eel from his grasp. “What would you have me do, General?”
“Get rid of the Soong woman.”
“She has the support of several cabinet ministers, including old Ma. Most of the military general staff is backing her.”
“That is your problem. Do what has to be done.”
“Do you mean that I—”
He heard the connection go dead.
Lowering the phone, he considered Tsin’s words. Do what has to be done. He knew what that meant.
Colonel Zhang Yu couldn’t believe it. An easy kill. And he had missed.
Gazing back over his shoulder at the blue haze above the strait, Zhang thought again about the encounter with the American Hornet. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure. It was a trap. And he had nearly been snared in it.
The damned Hornet pilot. Somehow he evaded the missiles Zhang fired at him, then he nearly killed him with a shot of his own. It was luck — and the Dong-jin’s miniscule infra-red presence — that allowed Zhang to defeat the missile. Then the devil American had escaped even though Zhang was sure he had put several rounds from his cannon into the jet.
It all started with the idiots in Air Defense Command. They had scrambled him to intercept what they said was an American EA-6 Prowler. It was urgent that he shoot it down, even though it was escorted by eight Hornet fighters.
The presence of a Prowler so close to the mainland could mean only one thing. The Americans were entering the war. They were coming to the aid of Taiwan.
“It wasn’t a Prowler, was it?” Zhang said on the intercom.
“No, Colonel,” answered Lieutenant Lo Shouyi, from his station in the back seat of the Dong-jin. Lo was Zhang’s weapons systems officer. His voice quavered.
“What was it then?”
“A decoy of some kind. It was delivering a radar signature like that of an EA-6.”
“That much was obvious. It was your task to determine the difference. Why did you not recognize the false signature?” Zhang knew the young man was terrified. Flying such a critical mission with the PLA air force’s most eminent squadron commander was a grave responsibility.
“I… had only the radar, Colonel. It was showing a precise image of an EA-6.”
Zhang wanted to shoot the incompetent fool. He had fallen for the Americans’ little hoax. Not until Zhang saw his missile impact the target did the truth strike him. They had been duped.
It still didn’t make sense. For what purpose did they send so many fighters to escort a worthless robot aircraft?
As the possibilities flitted like fireflies through Zhang’s mind, one thought kept inserting itself back into his consciousness. It was the only logical explanation. They wanted to draw you out.
Which could mean only one thing. They knew — or strongly suspected — the existence of the Dong-jin, the stealth fighter the Americans called Black Star. They wanted to confirm its identity so that they could find a way to counter it. Or destroy it.
The secret of the Dong-jin was no longer a secret.
The brown-and-green patchwork of Fujian province was slipping beneath them. Zhang eased the throttles back another increment, setting up for the approach to the base at Chouzhou. He would leave the plasma field of the Dong-jin energized until he’d landed and cleared the runway. The Taiwanese F-16 pilots would like nothing so much as to catch the strange-looking fighter when it was vulnerable, with its gear and flaps out.
Zhang broke radio silence to announce his arrival. “Chouzhou Tower, Dong-Jin One is ten kilometers on final.”
“Dong-Jin One cleared to land on runway zero-two,” answered the tower controller. “All surfaces reported satisfactory.”
Zhang grunted his acknowledgment. The 3,000 meter northeast-southwest runway was cratered the night before by enemy bombs. Emergency crews had been working nonstop to patch the holes in the vital runway. Without the hard surface, Zhang’s three Dong-jin stealth jets could not operate. Without the Dong-jin, they could not stop the Taiwanese Air Force from decimating their bases.
By the time they landed and cleared the runway, Zhang had gotten over his initial fury about the encounter with the Americans. Time was on his side, he reflected. Even if the Americans knew the secret of the Dong-jin and passed their knowledge to the Taiwanese, it was too late. Nothing would change the outcome of the war. The Dong-jin was still invincible.
But that didn’t excuse the fools who had vectored the Dong-jin into the Americans’ trap. Such incompetence must not go unpunished.
He rolled the jet down the ramp of the wide-doored revetment and brought it to a halt. The hangar doors closed behind him. He climbed down from the cockpit, not bothering to wait for Lo in the back seat.
He strode over to the squadron security officer, an unsmiling major who was armed with an automatic pistol. Zhang gazed back at the Dong-jin’s cockpit. Lieutenant Lo was still unstrapping, watching them with wide, fearful eyes.
“Arrest him,” said Zhang. “He is charged with dereliction of duty.”
“Yes, Colonel. And then?”
“Execute him.”
Watching the resupply ship pull away, Commander Lei breathed a sigh of relief. It had been necessary to rearm and reprovision at sea even though their home port, Keelung, was only 140 kilometers away. He had fired all the Harpoons and needed resupply. He had also expended half a dozen Mk 46 torpedoes, two of which had killed the Chinese Kilo boat.
Even if he had the time to cruise back into port, which he didn’t, it was too dangerous. Keelung was only thirty kilometers north of Taipei, Taiwan’s capitol, which was now under savage bombardment by PRC missiles.
The Chinese had nothing as good as the Harpoon, but they had something good enough — the C-801 Sardine. The short-range missile was armed with its own GPS guidance unit, courtesy of the U.S., and was now finding targets on the island of Taiwan with uncanny accuracy. Like the Taiwanese did with the Harpoon, the PLA had converted the C-801 to a land-attack missile and reconfigured the guidance system to a GPS tracking unit.