“Follow me to the runway, standard formation take-off on GCI frequency. Once clean, I’ll put you into tactical formation. Have your radar in search, and don’t lock anything until told. Unless I’m on fire or I ask you a question, I don’t want to hear you on the radio.”
“Yes, sir, Shang Wei Bai,” said a humiliated and fuming Hu.
The pilots grabbed their helmets and bolted out the door into the humid salt air. They dashed to their jets as linesmen started huffer carts and pulled gear pins. To the north Bai saw thunderstorms, and to the west — toward Vietnam — skies were clear. In familiar sequence, Bai tossed his helmet to a linesman, jumped onto the ladder and bounded up, dropping himself into the ejection seat as the linesman followed.
“Comrade Shang Wei Bai, are we under attack?” the nervous linesman asked as he hooked up Bai’s g-suit and oxygen connections.
“I don’t know,” an irritated Bai answered as his hands flew through the cockpit setting switches for start. He gave the signal to start and noted Hu just stepping into his cockpit. Heavenly Spirits, help us, Bai thought. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on starting his own jet.
With both engines screaming at idle power, he lowered his canopy to drown out the piercing noise. The air conditioning kicked in, cooling his sweat-soaked flight suit. He keyed the mike.
“Aircraft eight-two checking in for vector!”
“Eight-two, your vector is two-one zero, and the threat is an American P-8 recon aircraft, 320 kilometers flying at 8,000 meters.”
“Eight-two flight of two copies. Say tasking.”
“Identify and escort.”
“Eight-two copies.”
Bai knew that the American probe could be escorted, but chances of an escort coming up from the south were remote. He would be ready for any American fighters, even for Malay or Australian Hornets that could be tucked in close to the patrol aircraft. Unlike Hu, who relied on good fortune, Bai prepared himself for any eventuality. They would race to the south and intercept the American outside of 100 miles.
He signaled his linesman to pull the wheel chocks and pulled out of his spot, sweeping Hu with his exhaust as he taxied to the runway arming pit. “Contact now two-one-two at 290 kilometers,” the GCI controller updated him.
Bai raised his hands above the canopy rail as the technicians pulled the pins on his two radar missiles and two heat-seekers. Once arming was complete, he saluted them and turned to the hold short, observing Hu taxi up to arm his missiles. Bai looked at his watch. They would be rolling in two, maybe three more minutes, a mere eight minutes since the klaxon sounded. He looked at the winds and determined he could place Hu on his right side for the formation takeoff.
“Eight-two, flight of two for takeoff, right turn out,” Bai transmitted, telling more than asking the tower for permission to take off.
“Eight-two flight, you are cleared for immediate takeoff! No traffic in the airport vicinity.”
“Eight-two, roger, cleared for takeoff,” a confident Bai answered.
Bai took the runway and Hu followed, crossing behind him and taking a position next to Bai where the two pilots could exchange hand signals. Hu gave Bai a thumbs up—ready to go—and Bai signaled to run up the engines. Bai checked his gauges in the green, and once again looked over his right shoulder at Hu, already waiting with his thumbs up. Bai looked forward and raised his right arm. In one motion, he shoved the throttles forward with his left arm while he released his hold on the brakes and dropped his right arm in a sharp chop.
With Hu matching Bai’s power setting and “flying” formation on his lead, the Flankers rumbled down the runway at Blood Moon, the power of their engines in afterburner pushing on their spinal cords.
Bai maintained a steady course on his side of the runway and glanced at Hu, slipping behind. Bai shook his head in disgust and retarded his throttles a percent so Hu could keep up. In seconds, they passed 100 knots, and seconds later, Bai felt his nose wheel bounce as the aircraft transferred lift to the wings. He saw Hu regain position next to him—finally! — and signaled with his right hand for rotation. At 180 knots he applied slight back pressure on the stick, and the two J-11s lifted their noses in a graceful and precise transition to flight. Their four engines bombarded Blood Moon with a booming force that vibrated everything on the island as they cleaned up and turned right.
“Southern Control, Eight-two, flight of two is airborne under your control,” Bai transmitted. He turned to Hu and saw him nod. At least he’s up the same frequency Bai thought.
“Roger, eight-two flight of two, fly heading two-four-five to intercept a single bogey bearing two-one-seven for two hundred and forty kilometers. Flight level two-four-zero. Acknowledge!”
Bai read back the instructions to the satisfaction of the GCI controller. Passing 10,000 feet on the way up to 24K, he signaled Hu to take tactical formation and did a time/distance calculation. Flying at nine miles per minute, he and Hu would intercept the American in a little more than fifteen minutes, and with the lumbering P-8 on a northerly track, it would be sooner than that.
Aboard Gooney-11, a P-8 Poseidon that had taken off from Singapore two hours earlier, the Tactical Coordinator Lieutenant James Cox took the call from the E-3 Sentry orbiting off Cam Ranh Bay. He keyed the ICS to inform the cockpit and the Mission Commander, his XO Commander Stan Mendez, piloting Gooney-11 from the left seat.
“XO, we’re gonna have company. They just launched interceptors out of Blood Moon.”
“Roger, Jimmy, when do we expect them?” Mendez answered.
“About ten mikes, sir, and they’ll be coming from the northeast.”
“Roger,” Mendez said as he scanned across the instrument panel to the northeast horizon. He informed his copilot Lieutenant Junior Grade Michelle Ross of the change in plan.
“Michelle, I’ve got the airplane. You keep your eyes peeled for these two fighters coming from the northeast.”
“Yes, sir, you’ve got the airplane.”
“I’ve got the airplane.”
With Gooney-11, flying north at 24,000 feet, was a high-altitude Triton surveillance and reconnaissance UAV, thirty miles north of them at 50,000 feet. The Triton, under the control of the P-8, was transiting to a station northwest of the Spratly group to observe Chinese naval, coast guard, and fishing fleet movements. Seventh Fleet watchstanders aboard USS Blue Ridge monitored the progress of Gooney-11 and the Triton real time.
Mendez knew Chinese fighter pilots were aggressive — the 2001 EP-3 midair collision off Hainan came to mind — and he had been intercepted by them before.
He had an idea.
“Jimmy, bring the Triton down and slew its TV on us. The guys on Blue Ridge can send this video back. May help.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Cox answered from his TACCO station and entered the commands.
The Triton responded, set up a healthy rate of descent, and turned south to overfly its “mother ship,” Gooney-11. Cox slaved the EO sensor, and soon a white dot appeared on the screen among the high stratus clouds on the southern horizon. “I’ve got us locked, sir.”