A split-second later, Zhang felt his jet buffeting, trying to stall and drop from beneath him. He relaxed pressure on the stick, lowering the nose, letting the diamond-shaped wing regain stable flight. Another mistake.
Again the two fighters swept past each other. They were so close Zhang could see the enemy pilot peering at him through the top of the canopy. Who was he? Zhang wondered again. Where did he learn to fly the Dong-jin? Zhang could almost feel a grudging admiration for his boldness. Almost.
The missed shot and the near-stall had cost him more advantage. Now they were even in the scissors, crossing nearly canopy to canopy. He resisted the urge to yank the stick again, try for another shot — and stall out in the process. The gwai-lo had maintained his altitude advantage.
Be patient, Zhang ordered himself. Wait for him make a mistake. He doesn’t know this airplane. You do.
He reminded himself that he had already scored thirteen air-to-air kills with the Dong-jin. Fourteen, if he counted the lumbering Airbus carrying the Taiwanese President. That made him, Col. Zhang Yu, the top scoring fighter ace in the world at the moment.
The thought made him almost giddy. It was appropriate — no, inevitable—that the pilot of the stolen Dong-jin be added to Zhang’s list of victories. Kill number fifteen. He would be a triple ace.
The scissors fight had depleted the airspeed of both jets. With each turn now, they were bleeding off altitude. The duel was taking them southward, down the middle of the strait. Away from the coast of Taiwan. Away from the coast of China.
“We will be fuel critical in a few minutes, Colonel,” said Yan in the back seat. “We have to turn back to Chouzhou.”
Zhang glanced at the fuel counter. Yan was correct. The lower altitude and the need for maximum thrust were depleting their fuel at a horrific rate.
But turning back was not an option.
“Colonel, I repeat. Our fuel is low. We have to—”
“I heard you. We have to destroy the other Dong-jin first. We will choose a field on the coast that is nearer our position. Keep a continuous radius of action for our fuel state.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two fighters were in a stalemate. Zhang knew that in the end it would be fuel — and the distance to a safe landing — that would determine the outcome. He was not willing to forfeit the last flyable Dong-jin because he exhausted his fuel in a fight with a damned gwai-lo bandit. The Dong-jin was too precious to lose.
But the worst of all outcomes would be if the gwai-lo got away in the stolen Dong-jin. That could not be permitted.
Zhang would have to gamble.
“This looks bad, Brick. We’re getting farther and farther away from Taiwan.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“We’re running out of fuel. Eleven-hundred kilos.”
“I know that too. I’ve got a fuel counter.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
She didn’t have any. Maxwell returned his attention to the fight with the Black Star.
As a fighter pilot, he hated this — sloshing through descending scissors turns, trading off energy and altitude in order to maintain turning speed. For all its effectiveness as a stealth aircraft, the Black Star was not intended to be an air combat maneuvering fighter. If he were in a Super Hornet, he’d be in full afterburner, going vertical on this guy. This reminded him of fighting in the old A-4 Skyhawk.
They were consuming fuel at a greater rate than he expected. In a matter of minutes he would be too low on fuel to make it Chingchuankang or Chai-Ei or even Kaohshing, near the southern tip of Taiwan. They would be forced to eject over the water — a prospect that filled him with gloom.
He shoved the thought from his mind. The middle of a one-vee-one was the wrong time to worry about ejecting. Think, Maxwell. Beat this guy before he runs you out of gas.
The basic rule in a turning fight was to get inside your opponent’s turn. When you had an angle on him, you had a shot. If you and your opponent were evenly matched, neither gaining angles, you turned with him, waiting for him to make a mistake.
The ChiCom pilot — Colonel Zhang, according to Mai-ling — hadn’t made any more mistakes since he’d taken the gun shot after the first turn. But he had been airborne longer than Maxwell, and that was working against him. He had to be sweating his own fuel.
Their noses crossed again, passing within a hundred yards. Maxwell saw Zhang’s up tilted helmet, peering at him through his own UV goggles. Maxwell had a slight advantage in altitude. It might be decisive. It all depended on how he played it.
Put yourself in Zhang’s cockpit. What is he thinking now? He’s low on fuel. He knows he can’t bug out without being killed. He’ll make another mistake. He’s going to do something desperate.
What?
“Colonel, we have to disengage.” Yan’s voice was emphatic. “We barely have enough fuel to make land.”
Zhang was silent for a moment. They had fought long enough that the gwai-lo would also be fuel critical. “How much fuel does the enemy have?”
“Not enough to land in Taiwan. He has to go almost twice the distance that we have. We have forced him to lose the Dong-jin, Colonel. Now we must disengage.”
Zhang didn’t bother telling Yan that they couldn’t disengage. Not without giving the gwai-lo bastard a shot at them.
Still turning in the scissors, he glanced inside the cockpit to see the altimeter unwind through three thousand meters. He looked out again as the enemy scissored back across. The gwai-lo was gaining altitude, gaining advantage. If this continued, Zhang would be the first to run out of altitude as well as fuel.
He had to break the stalemate and run for it. He needed an opening.
He’s getting desperate, thought Maxwell. Throw him some bait.
In a few minutes they would be at sea level. No more turning fight. They would either both go into the water or one would get a shot at the other.
Give him an out. See if he goes for it.
They crossed again, nose to nose, Maxwell on the high side. Instead of reversing his turn, Maxwell rolled into a steep right bank, as if he were trying to ram Zhang’s Black Star.
But he didn’t pull hard. He rocked the wings, making it appear as though the jet were buffeting under the excessive G load. Would he go for it?
Zhang rolled into a steep left bank and pulled hard to escape the collision. Then he kept pulling, nose down, diving for airspeed.
Headed for China.
He’s going for it.
Maxwell continued the right-hand roll, following the Black Star around and underneath. He rolled out directly behind, his nose buried low. Too low for a gun shot. But he’d have a missile shot in a couple of seconds.
He pulled hard on the stick. His eyes were locked on the fleeing Black Star. “Select heat missiles,” he ordered.
“What?” Mai-ling answered.
“Heat missiles. I’m in guns right now.”
“I thought you were trying to shoot him with the gun.”
“We’re out of range. I need heat missiles.”
“I don’t understand. He’s right there. Why don’t you shoot him?”