The anchorwoman then read a statement from the PRC Defense Ministry that conveyed Beijing did not intend to blink.
American aggression in waters and near islands that have belonged to China for hundreds of years will not be tolerated, and if the People’s Republic is illegally attacked, the United States will pay a price in blood greater than that paid in their three Asian wars of the last century.
Wilson shook his head in disbelief, still unable to comprehend what was happening. He had never thought an actual shooting war with China would, or could, occur; the price paid for both countries would be too high. However, Washington and Beijing appeared hell-bent on it. He sensed his staff officers watching him as he watched the broadcast.
“CAG, are we going to actually fight the Chinese?” the Admin Officer asked.
As the others waited for an answer, Wilson kept his eyes on the television screen.
“Yes, I do believe we are.”
At that moment, 8,000 miles away at half-past seven in the morning, Bai Quon looked over his right shoulder as he pulled power and overbanked his Shenyang J-11 fighter off the perch position for Shuwhen Island’s 3,000 meter Runway 23. Behind him, also with wheels and flaps down in the domestically produced copy of the Russian Su-27 Flanker, Bai’s new wingman Hu Sheng, returned from his first patrol over the South China Sea. Westerners identified this isolated outpost as one among the Spratly Islands.
With an official rank of Hai Jun Shang Wei in the People’s Liberation Army Naval Air Force, 29-year old Bai was the equivalent of a captain in foreign air forces. Hu was a mere Zhong Wei whom Bai was entrusted with leading and teaching. After the morning’s difficult training sortie, the frustrated Bai hoped — for the sake of the J-11 Hu was flying — that the new guy could at least keep the jet from going off the runway into the warm aquamarine water past the overrun.
For an instant, Bai thought about how hundreds of miles to the north the aggressive and reckless Americans were violating Chinese territorial waters and shooting at People’s Republic ships. What was next? A surprise attack against high-value targets on the mainland? The disruption of the People’s trade by sinking ships with no warning? Who knew with the Americans, who were aided by the savage Japanese and the traitorous Vietnamese. Or the mixed-breed Filipinos who had western names and worshiped a western god.
These are Chinese home waters! Bai thought as his jet picked up speed in the approach that was more knife-edged fall than controlled turn. Bai did like one aspect of the western influence: their name for Shuwhen was Blood Moon Atoll. Bai smiled at the red visual that name provided for what the fierce People’s Republic would do to trespassers.
Passing ninety degrees of turn, Bai eased the bank and brought the power up a bit. He checked Hu high to his right and, by instinct, maneuvered to come low and fast across the waves and over the crushed coral fill soil. He then “kissed” the runway in a cocked-up attitude while he held the nose off to slow the jet before he had to apply the wheel brakes halfway down. With 9,000 feet of runway that handled H-6 bombers with ease, Bai, and even the ham-handed Hu, had plenty of concrete.
Moments before he touched down, while crossing the beach in his flare, Bai glanced left. As promised, Liu Qi was there, waving at her flyboy. She wore a white blouse over her dark slacks and waved at Bai with one arm high over her head. As Bai floated past her at 160 knots, he pulled both throttles to idle and gave a quick wave with his left hand. Even where she was standing, 100 meters away, she saw it and her heart soared. As his wheels touched down, Bai smiled to know that on an island of few available women, Liu was the prettiest and she had eyes for him. He would enjoy her charms later.
After they had taxied clear and shut down, Bai opened the canopy. He was at once surrounded by heat and humidity and felt himself perspiring even before the linesman placed the ladder next to the canopy rail. The political commissar, wearing a flight suit he hadn’t needed to use in years, met him at the bottom of the ladder and shouted a question.
“Comrade Shang Wei Bai, did Zhong Wei Hu perform in an acceptable manner with the People’s J-11?”
Bai looked at Hu’s jet in disgust before he answered. Its engines still whined as Hu seemed to struggle in the cockpit to complete the post-flight checklist.
“Has he ever flown an airplane before? He cannot maintain formation and got lost on the radio most of the time. He lost sight of me on two practice engagements and lined up on the wrong side of me as we came into the closed pattern. I had to cross him under in view of the whole island, and we look like garbage! We need experienced pilots on Blood Moon, Comrade Political Commissar, especially now with the Americans gearing for war.”
Hu finally shut down his jet. As the high-pitched engine whine subsided, Bai removed his helmet. Hu’s furtive glances at Bai and the commissar gave him away; he knew his flight lead was not happy with him. The commissar was now able to speak to Bai in a normal volume.
“Comrade Hu’s father is the Party official responsible for energy production and allocation and a personal friend of the Chairman.”
Bai rolled his eyes. The commissar caught the gesture and snapped at him.
“You will train him, Bai Quon! And you will keep him alive in the service of the People’s Republic!”
Bai studied the apparatchik and considered his words. “And will an American missile stop flight in midair when it learns the pilot’s father is a high-ranking Party official?”
“You have your orders!” the older man bellowed as he spun away, leaving Bai to fume. A downcast Hu walked around the nose of his jet toward his flight lead for a debriefing he knew would not go well.
At the same time Bai began Hu’s debriefing, 600 miles to the north, She Kou chugged past the opulent hotel skyscrapers and extravagant motor yachts that lined both sides of the Sanya River on Hainan’s southern coast. Liao Chang had only heard of the lavish lobbies and the bedrooms the size of houses among the clouds, daring not to raise his eyes to them the many years he had put to sea under their condescending gaze. The yachts, with their polished wood decks and gold fittings, featured sumptuous food made by chefs whenever you wanted. And girls, dazzling girls who sunbathed by day on the raked bows of the luxury vessels cruising the waters in haughty superiority, and who by night wore the finest clothes and danced at the best clubs till dawn. Oftentimes, the rusted and smelly She Kou, escorted by screaming gulls and belching diesel exhaust, would putter past them returning from one of its hard and dirty voyages to catch the fish the girls would eat later that week on the Chinese Riviera. Not that any of them would deign to lift their eyes to Liao’s boat that served the People’s Republic so well.
That was about to change! Today!
Liao strained to see the banners and klieg lights on the market docks. They would be waiting for him there, Party officials in pressed suits and a car to take him to a ceremony honoring him for his courageous service. Trim, young female reporters would record the event and wish they could be the wife of the PRC’s newest hero who served his nation at the helm of its most powerful warship, She Kou.