“Great, thanks. Can you get us range and bearing on the Chinese?”
“Yes, sir… zero-four-zero for one hundred. No altitude yet.”
“Roger, thanks.”
With his inexperienced yet obedient copilot looking eyes-out for the bogeys 100 miles away — which could not be seen even if they were on fire — Mendez saw an opportunity for training.
“Okay, Michelle, they’re way out there, and it’s gonna be hard to see them coming at us nose-on — even inside ten miles. But, as we continue north, their bearing is probably going to drift to the east, and you may not pick them up until they’re joining on our right wing. We’re looking for two aircraft, maybe more, and they operate J-11s out of Blood Moon. How many vertical tails does a J-11 have?”
“Two, sir.”
“Good… okay, you’ve got lookout on the right side of the jet. Keep a running commentary when you get a tally.”
“Roger that, sir,” Michelle responded, as she adjusted her sunglasses against her boom mike headset.
Mendez told his crew to expect an intercept, and observers took stations next to the large windows forward of the wings on both sides of the P-8 as Cox monitored the Triton and linked information from Blue Ridge. The American flight path would have them pass 90 miles west of Blood Moon Atoll on a crossing track designed to allay any fears of attack.
Leveled at 24,000 feet, the two J-11s cruised at .95 Mach. Bai took glances at Hu over his right wing and noted him falling further behind. “Get on bearing!” Bai scolded and soon saw Hu move up and into position. Bai’s helmet headset crackled with a GCI update on the American.
“Eight-two flight, single bogey now two-five-zero for forty, 8,000 meters, tracking three-five-zero. P-8.”
“Eight-two copies.” Bai sweetened the intercept heading and scanned his IR display.
“Wait! A second bogey is two-one-zero at twenty, 10,000 meters, tracking southwest!”
Bai craned his neck up and to the left, searching empty sky for the unknown bogey.
“Eight-two flight looking. Number Two, take tactical formation.
Acknowledge!”
“Tactical formation acknowledged!” Hu answered, and Bai saw him accelerate and pull up and away to take the proper position and help scan for threat aircraft. Now that there were at least two dangerous bogeys in the vicinity, and Bai could not rule out escort fighters.
“Eight-two flight, do not attempt radar lock! Use passive means to identify and join in escort.”
“Eight-two, roger,” Bai muttered into his mask microphone, then added, “Request course to intercept.”
“Fly heading two-eight-five to intercept the western bogey,” the controller answered. “Thirty miles. Eastern bogey tracking southwest.”
Bai banked right and saw Hu match his turn. Looking high to his left, he saw a glint and identified a large American surveillance drone on a parallel course.
“Eight-two flight has a tally on an enemy drone, my ten o-clock high, three miles, tracking southwest. No factor.”
“Roger, eight-two, maintain sight if able.”
On his infrared display, Bai saw the heat silhouette of an American P-8 patrol aircraft and continued in his easy right turn to intercept. He would cross close and in front to send them an unmistakable signal of strength, then circle left behind it and join on the right wing. Hu was out of position again, almost on top of him by 1,000 feet.
“Maintain your position!” Bai barked, and Hu overbanked away to correct.
Bai now saw the P-8 silhouette, in the familiar shape of a 737 airliner, about ten miles away. He climbed above the Boeing’s altitude and steadied on a bearing to come within waving distance of the American cockpit. He accelerated toward it, satisfied that Hu was out of the way and in acceptable tactical formation. With small corrections, he aimed for a position ahead of the P-8 and assessed the rate of closure on a challenging 90-degree cross-in-front intercept. The P-8 grew bigger, and he saw letters on the tail and a number on the nose. It maintained a steady place on the left half of his windscreen. Bai held his left wing down to maintain position and noted his airspeed at .97 Mach.
Perfect!
As he shot past, Bai was rewarded with an image of the copilot looking up at him, mouth agape. Once clear of the American, he pulled hard left, and his g-suit exploded around his legs and torso as it inflated. Grimacing under the pressure, he twisted in his seat to watch the American over his shoulder. Bai would circle around with Hu in welded wing. Hu….
Where’s Hu?
Bai rolled out and scanned to his left where Hu should have been. He checked his six between his twin vertical stabs. Nothing! Which was soon followed by dammit!
“Do you have me in sight?” he radioed to Hu on their tactical frequency. Bai’s blood pressure rose when he did not answer at once.
In meek admission, after several seconds, Hu answered. “Negative.”
Bai gritted his teeth in apoplectic fury. “Do you see the American?”
“Yes, Shang Wei Bai,” Hu growled back in his own frustration.
“I am at his six, two miles, going to his five in a left turn.”
“Visual,” Hu answered.
“Join up!”
Bai was beside himself in rage. His wingman, unable to hang on, was embarrassing both of them in front of the Americans who were still tracking north. He needed to stay close to them and push them away from Blood Moon, but first he had to expend precious time and fuel to get his half-witted wingman to rejoin. He held a left-hand rendezvous turn away from the American aircraft while keeping one eye on it, and another on Hu now stabilized on his bearing line. The big turn caused them to fall behind the Americans, and once Hu was almost in parade formation, Bai overbanked into him to set up another run. But not before berating his wingman once again.
“Hu Sheng, stay locked on me in parade, welded wing. We are going to brush him back right-to-left one more time. Stay with me! I don’t want any separation!”
“Wilco.” Hu’s irritation seethed within him as he answered. Hu swore he would fly the tightest formation he had ever flown, and not move a millimeter out of position. He would show Bai!
Bai rolled out three miles at the American’s four o’clock, bumping up the airspeed to overtake it and cross again in front in an effort to back the Yankees away. He concentrated on the P-8 course and closure, maneuvering by imperceptible movements of the stick. He could see the American was again stabilized on his canopy, in the “crotch” formed by the bow and the rail, and Bai nudged the stick a hair left to sweeten the pass. He was going to fly them right by the nose, co-altitude, showing the Americans nothing but planform as he whizzed past in a show of raw force — and courage. After they cleaned out their pants, the Americans would leave the Southern Sea and never return.
Bai gave the stick a gentle input as he heard his airframe moan under the dynamic pressures of airspeed and engine thrust. The P-8 now filled his field of view, and he saw the copilot’s face, a face filled with alarm and fear.
Heh, heh, heh, Bai murmured to himself, and noted the American push his nose down as Bai’s J-11 rocketed past.
Bai jerked his head left to keep sight as he passed only 10 meters in front of the Boeing. Then, a flash, and the flaming spray of Hu’s disintegrating Flanker emerged from a huge fireball. Instinct overriding his stunned disbelief, Bai pulled up and rolled inverted to keep sight as a shower of burning debris fanned out to the left of the P-8, its nose gone as it entered a dive. Only a single J-11 horizontal stabilator could be discerned from the maelstrom of smoking debris that arced down and away. That fluttering control surface was the last remnant that could serve to identify that the glob of burning and tumbling metal was once the People’s J-11. The P-8 rolled on its side, dive angle steepening with no nose left. Soon, the right wing was ripped from its root, and the aircraft began to corkscrew down.