“Helicopters suck,” said Bass.
“It beats swimming.”
“Swimming sucks too.”
“That’s what I like about Air Force guys. You’re so cheerful.”
Bass nodded toward the front of the Chinook. “What about them? Do they have a clue what they’re doing?”
Maxwell looked up at the darkened cockpit. He had been wondering the same thing. Sneaking four troop-carrying helicopters and four noisy gunships across the Taiwan Strait into the most heavily defended air base in China was a trick of incredible audacity. What would happen when they triggered the alarm in the PLA’s elaborate sensor net? What would happen when the air defense ring around the Chouzhou perimeter detected their unwelcome presence? The big twin-rotored Chinooks were the furthest thing imaginable from stealth aircraft.
He remembered Chiu’s response when the question was raised in the final briefing. “Privileged information,” was all he would say. “We have assets to deal with the base defenses. We will enter the Chouzhou perimeter without interference.”
Assets? Maxwell decided not to press him. He assumed it meant they had operatives on the ground at Chouzhou. What kind of operatives? It made sense not to disclose details, in the event they were captured.
But what about the sensor net? How did they plan to suppress the surveillance radar that constantly probed the sky over the Taiwan Strait?
Did the Chinook pilots know what they were doing?
“It doesn’t matter now,” Maxwell said. “We’re along for the ride until we get to Chouzhou and find the Black Star.”
Bass nodded. His face became gloomier.
By the hum of the airframe Maxwell guessed that the Chinook was up to speed, something around a hundred-forty knots. An occasional wink of light passed by the blackened cabin window. A hut in the mountains? A boat at sea? No way to tell.
They were in the second of the four Chinooks. Leading the column were the Super Cobras. If they ran into trouble, the rocket-firing gunships would be the first to engage.
He caught Mai-ling’s eyes on him. She looked oddly subdued, dressed in the ninja costume, her face blackened. Gone, at least for the moment, was the defiant attitude, the look of confidence in the almond eyes.
For a moment Maxwell let himself remember. He could still sense the warm touch of her skin.
She seemed to be reading his thoughts. She nodded and gave him a tentative smile.Chiu noticed. He looked at Mai-ling, then switched his gaze back to Maxwell, his eyes narrow and penetrating.
Chiu was a snoop, Maxwell thought. He had already learned from his sentries about the walk on the darkened ramp last night. So what? To hell with Chiu.
Chiu abruptly rose and went to the forward cabin. Along the way he stopped to clap several of his commandos on the shoulder, rapping his knuckles on their helmets, giving words of encouragement. Maxwell noticed how each of the young special forces soldiers looked at Chiu with reverence.
For all his personality deficiencies, Chiu had the total loyalty of his men. His troops would follow him into hell.
Is that where we’re headed? With that question in his mind, Maxwell reached for his holster, checking that the clip was shoved all the way into the grip of the .45.
Chiu was carrying on an animated conversation with the two pilots on the elevated cockpit deck. Their heads were nodding, and they pointed to a display on the panel.
After several minutes Chiu returned to the cabin. He huddled for a moment with one of his platoon leaders, clapped him on the shoulder, then he came back to where Maxwell and Bass were seated.
Chiu glanced at his watch. “Half-way across the strait,” he said to Maxwell. “Thirty-five minutes from Chouzhou.”
Maxwell nodded. He glanced out the round window again. Nothing but blackness. He knew they were skimming the surface of the ocean, probably no higher than fifty feet. Again he felt the impotence of a fighter pilot trapped in a clattering, low-flying helicopter.
Bass was right. Helicopters suck.
It was eerily quiet in the bunker. Sitting at his desk inside his cubicle, Franklin Huang heard no explosions from the complex outside, no sirens, no clamor of fire trucks and ambulances. The war seemed to have entered a lull.
Huang considered again the faxed brief on his desk. Glaring at him from the black-and-white sheet was the visage of Colonel Chiu Yusheng. The colonel looked grim and unsmiling in the photo. His hard features glared at the camera as if he ready for hand-to-hand combat.
So this was the legendary Chiu. Huang had heard of him.
According to the classified brief sheet, Chiu had participated in over a dozen clandestine operations inside mainland China. He had been inserted by raft, submarine, helicopter, and on one occasion, an ultra-light aircraft. The sheet only alluded to Chiu’s objectives, which Huang inferred to be intelligence gathering, rescue and retrieval of operatives, and a certain amount of discreet sabotage.
Huang nodded appreciatively. Colonel Chiu was a man of diverse talents.
Next to the briefing paper on Chiu was a report from the chief of the southern sector air traffic control center. Two nights ago, a U.S. Navy C-2 had been cleared into Taiwanese airspace. The American airplane had arrived at a low altitude from the southwest — the sector where the USS Ronald Reagan and its strike group were known to be stationed. The turbo-prop aircraft had landed at Chingchuankang base, then departed forty-five minutes later. Nothing more had been reported.
Huang stared at the report. What was the purpose of the visit? To drop off the two Americans? If so, it could mean that two U.S. Navy personnel were participating in a mission commanded by Colonel Chiu.
What mission? To where?
One more clue lay on Huang’s desk. A series of reports that Taiwanese jets were being felled by some invisible weapon. Pilots were speculating that the Chinese possessed a phantom fighter that could attack without being detected. Even more oddly, one of the F-16s lost was flown by some over-zealous U.S. Air Force pilot, an advisor to the Taiwanese Air Force.
Huang tilted back and considered the information. A picture was emerging, like the pieces of an intricate mosaic.
A commando raid against an unspecified target, presumably on the mainland.
An invisible Chinese fighter.
Involvement of Americans, probably pilots from an aircraft carrier.
As Huang’s imagination ranged through the possibilities, he kept coming back to the same hypothesis. It was farfetched, but after all that had occurred in the last three days, nothing surprised him. Madame Soong had already demonstrated that she was willing to take insane risks.
Yes, this was something she would do.
He didn’t have all the pieces yet, but he was close. It was time to issue a warning. He reached again for the satellite phone.
Sirens. Why?
Col. Zhang set his tea cup down on the rosewood desk in his office. He stared for a moment at the blacked out window. Why were the air defense sirens wailing again?
He thought again about the strange telephone call from PLA headquarters in Beijing. General Tsin had received a vague warning from a highly placed source in Taipei that some kind of commando raid was in progress. The target was unknown. It was unlikely that the rebels would be brazen enough to attack Chouzhou, but—