The missile burst through the curtain of five-inch fire, flying a corkscrew pattern. The Phalanx Gatling guns on either side of Kai Yang were moaning in a ghostly death rattle. The missile continued inbound. Still untouched.
From his bridge, Lei watched in morbid fascination as the fire-tailed Moskit took one last swerve, then aimed for the bow of Kai Tang. Here it comes. He clenched the brass hand rail with both hands and kept his eyes on the incoming missile.
Lei saw a flash in the flight path of the missile. The Phalanx, he realized. The Gatling gun was hitting the Moskit. Another flash. The red plume behind the missile sputtered and diverged from its previous angle.
Lei ducked as the missile skimmed over the bridge of Kai Tang. He braced himself for the explosion.
Nothing.
He swung to follow the track of the low-flying Moskit. His eyes located the red plume in time to see it transform into a billowing orange ball of flame. Lei watched in horror as the ball of flame expanded, exploding outward like a newborn star.
The sky became bright as high noon. He could see the surface of the ocean, his escort ships, the faces of the sailors in their gun turrets.
Chi Chuan, the fueling ship, had taken the Moskit missile amidships. Twelve thousand tons of fuel oil erupted in a thousand-foot-high inferno. The blaze was lighting up the Taiwan Strait for a hundred square miles.
It took eight seconds for the blast to reach Kai Tang. A dull rumble of thunder, then a wave of super-heated wind swept over the frigate. Lei saw the men in the gun turrets duck behind their armor, shielding their faces from the heat. The orange light danced on the skin of the ship like a rising sun.
“Captain,” Lei heard the surface watch officer report, “we show a second Harpoon strike on the target. Looks like the Sovremenny has taken heavy damage. He’s slowed to five knots.”
“Is he firing more missiles?”
“No, sir. No more radar separations. Looks like we shut his missile batteries down.”
Lei’s eyes were still on the blazing tanker a mile astern. A hundred-fifty sailors had just been incinerated by the blast that his Phalanx guns had diverted from Kai Tang.
A seething anger was taking a grip on him. “Give me a bearing and distance on the Sovremenny.”
“Three-one-five degrees, eighteen kilometers, Captain. He’s reversing course. Looks like he’s making for the coast.”
Lei turned to the OOD. “Steer three-one-five, full speed ahead.” Then he barked into the sound-powered phone. “Fire control, reload and stand by all guns, ready torpedo tubes one and two.”
“Aye, sir.” A pause, then, “What are our intentions, Captain?”
“Intentions?” Lei glowered out into the darkness. “We’re going to blow him to hell.”
Time to kill the beast.
Chiu took one last look at the ominous shape of the remaining Black Star. In the dim red light of Shelter Four, it looked like a living object — a great, bat-winged bird of prey. Killing this thing would give him pleasure.
Lieutenant Kee was watching him, waiting for his signal. Chiu gave him a nod, and Kee headed for the door.
Chiu unhooked two grenades from his belt. With slow, deliberate movements, he pulled the pins, one after the other. He tossed one into each jet intake atop the wings of the Black Star. Then he turned and hurried out of the shelter, following Kee.
They were twenty yards away when the grenades exploded, half a second apart. It felt like a subterranean tremor, shaking the ground under Chiu’s feet. He saw the walls of the Shelter bulge outward. The bi-fold door ripped free at one hinge, and black smoke billowed out the gap.
The beast is dead. Chiu turned his back on the destroyed building and headed for Shelter Three.
Maxwell and the woman were already inside the cockpit. “How much longer?” Chiu called from the floor of the shelter.
“One minute,” said Maxwell. “The auxiliary power unit is starting now.” Chiu could hear an ascending whine as the auxiliary power unit inside the jet’s belly cranked up.
He heard a series of explosions outside, three in a row, not more than two or three kilometers away. Mortars, probably fired from just outside the perimeter. If the PLA units managed to take out the helicopters, it was all over. Their only allies were the dissidents who shut down the power station and took out the air defense net. They had long ago run for safety.
He glanced at his watch. Forty-six minutes since they landed at Chouzhou. Already sixteen minutes over his allowance. In twenty minutes, dawn would come. If they hadn’t left Chouzhou by then, they’d be dead.
In the cockpit, Maxwell and the woman were wearing their helmets with the strange goggles. She was talking to him on the intercom, giving instructions, reading the instrument markings, explaining what the displays meant.
Chiu reflected again on what would have happened if he had found her before Bass and Maxwell. He would have put a bullet in her without hesitation. He still had the nagging thought that perhaps he should have done that anyway.
Why had she sneaked away? According to her story, she had gone to find the Black Star squadron commander — someone she called Zhang — in order to kill him. Instead, she had found the other pilot, Major Han, a former colleague who she thought was dead.
And so he was, thanks to Maxwell and that ancient blunderbuss, the .45 caliber pistol.
Which made a nice bit of irony. In accordance with Chinese tradition, it meant that Maxwell, having saved the troublesome woman’s life, was responsible for her.
The notion almost — but not quite — made Chiu smile.
“Ready for engine start,” Maxwell called out. “Stand clear when she energizes the skin cloaking field. There may be a static discharge.”
Chiu wasn’t sure what that meant, but he nodded and moved to the side door.
“When I give the thumbs up, raise the bi-fold door. Then run like hell.”
About time. This had turned into the longest night of Chiu’s life. If he lived beyond dawn, it would be a miracle.
Waiting in the commandeered Bei-jung vehicle was Kee and the wounded American. As soon as the door to the shelter opened, Chiu would join them and they would race for the waiting number three helicopter.
More explosions pounded the apron outside.
“Colonel,” said the commando on the man-pack radio, “helo two reports that the armored column is breaching the perimeter at the southwest corner.”
“Order the Cobras to engage them.”
“They’re already engaged, sir. They’re taking fire from the APCs, and they can see mobile missile launchers approaching.”
Hurry, Chiu urged the American in the Black Star. Their lives could now be measured in minutes.
The whine of a jet engine filled the expanse of the shelter. Then another. The second engine was still accelerating when Maxwell flashed a thumbs up.
Chiu understood. Raise the door.
While the door was raising, Chiu climbed into the waiting Bei-jung. Kee was in the driver’s seat, with the unconscious Bass in the back seat.
He saw Maxwell watching from the cockpit, waiting for the shelter door to fully open. He climbed into the waiting Bei-jung.
“Go,” he ordered Kee, sitting in the driver’s seat. “We’ve done all we can for them.”
As the vehicle pulled away into the darkness, Chiu looked back and gave the pilot of the Black Star a salute.