“Roger that. How’s our flight line and runway?”
“The Japanese have a sweeper, sir, and that helps. We’ve done two FOD walkdowns here and one on the runway an hour ago with the people I could spare. No guarantees we got it all, sir.”
Wilson nodded. An engine could suck up a paper clip and destroy itself, but Air Wing Fifteen would have to risk it. Wilson was due for some good luck. He offered his hand.
“Leland, great job. Take care of yourselves here, and who knows, we may have to come back.”
“Yes, sir, good luck. Hope you can keep the bad guys far away. Wish I could be back on a flight deck with you all.”
Wilson smiled and patted him on the back. “Hope to serve with you again one day.”
Wilson bounded up the ladder, strapped in, arranged his kneeboard and charts — and waited. To save fuel, and to intercept Hancock on time once she entered international waters, they would start in ten minutes, to be followed by the Broncos and the Panthers, then the Sharks and War Horses. Across from Wilson, the morning silence was broken as an E-2 started the first of two turboprop engines. It would take off first to act as radio relay and controller. At the far end of the flight line, a Sierra started up to act as a SAR asset. Wilson hoped that the ship would be close enough to take the helos aboard tomorrow.
With possible Chinese forces nearby, they had to limit emissions, and Olive had briefed all to use hand signals and keep their radars silent. The weather was clear for an expected 1.5-hour transit to where the ship would be. They would find it, join overhead, assess the deck, and come into the break hook down. The goal was not to say a word. If trouble did occur, Atsugi was less than 100 miles away. Better to save the jet and crew and ask forgiveness later.
Wilson was about to signal for start when he saw Weed heading toward his jet at a trot. The plane captain lowered the boarding ladder, and Weed scrambled up.
“Flip, the Chinese have a formation of bombers inbound from the southwest. Get outta here! ASAP!”
The news electrified Wilson. “How many? How far out?”
“Don’t know, but a formation came up from the Luzon Strait, and a Japanese AWACS picked them up. No raid count and don’t know if they are escorted, but INDOPACOM and Seventh Fleet are on it. Go now, and we are right behind you. If we can’t get aboard, we’ll bingo to the beach and try to come out later.”
As Wilson listened, he saw two Japanese pilots run to their alert F-15 Eagles. “Okay, go. Get word to Lookout. Call the beach and tell them we are sending everything now!”
Weed slapped Wilson on the shoulder. “You got it,” he shouted before scrambling back down the ladder.
Around them other aircraft started up, and the flight line became a mixture of kerosene exhaust gases generated by the deafening roar and whine of turbine engines. Wilson gestured with both hands the two-finger turn-up signal, which was repeated in each cockpit up the line.
Expedite.
At that moment, in the central Philippine Sea, hundreds of miles from any islands, four PLA(AF) H-6Ks, each carrying CJ-20 land-attack cruise missiles, turned to a heading of 055. The ancient Cold War bombers, copies of the Soviet Tu-16 Badger design, had updated airframes with search-and-track radars and modern “glass” cockpits that allowed for precise kill-chain targeting. Finding stationary Iwo Jima was going to be easy, and they would launch their large missiles at range to overwhelm the island and finish the job begun by the nuclear submarine.
They were in two groups of two, each formation flying in spread with the second group three miles behind. They were far from home, having taken off two hours before in the early morning darkness of Shaodong. Crossing the first island chain at 30,000 feet, they watched the sun lift into a blazing red sky, a good omen that spelled doom for the American planes trapped on Iwo Jima. With this group of warplanes destroyed, the PLA could narrow the threat sector to Guam in the east and Malacca in the south. Another American carrier unable to fight was vital to ultimate victory, and the confident young men in each bomber sensed their place in PLA history would be written this day.
They completed their combat and arming checklists to ensure each 3,500-pound weapon had precise fly-to coordinates before detonating over soft American and Japanese aluminum that, in an instant, would become flaming torches. Two weapons were assigned to the tower/ops building and one to the comm antennas on Suribachi. The Japanese would receive a sharp bite for cooperating with the Americans, and all in the region would think twice before giving aid to those who did not belong in East Asia.
One by one, the lead jet’s bombardier lifted the arming switches to four stations. Then he lifted a red protective cover and pushed down on the MASTER ARM button. The lights corresponding to each station turned yellow, and, when the pilot selected his arming switches, they would change to green and allow the bombardier to ripple-fire each cruise missile in a 20-second sequence. Once the three wingmen saw the first missile come off they, too, would initiate launch so that, in less than two minutes, all 16 weapons would be flying under their own power in a coordinated attack the likes of which the PLA(AF) bomber force had never conducted. The bombers would then return to Shaodong the way they had come, enjoying the surface-to-air sanctuary provided by a Type 055 cruiser off Cape Engaño. They now were on their own, but not too concerned; no American threats had been reported.
The pilot in the lead cockpit spoke over the ICS. “Initiating final weapon sequence. Armament switch… depressed. I show green lights above all loaded stations.”
“Look!” the copilot exclaimed with his head turned right. When the pilot leaned forward, he saw, to his horror, the flaming wing of his wingman a mile away, rolling through ninety degrees in a steepening dive as it belched black smoke. An excited call came from one of the trailing H-6s, and in shock the copilot turned to look at his pilot with wide eyes above his mask. Without speaking a word, they each realized what was next. The pilot wrenched the yoke in a sharp max-deflection left bank.
It was too late. Another SM-6, launched from the VLS tubes of Earl Gallaher far to the northeast, received its last E-2 data link guidance from Lookout 601 and, in a supersonic glide from the stratosphere, slammed into the H-6 at the left wing root, exploding the big turbofan engine and blowing the wing off the heavy bomber. The missiles on it were wrenched loose, and one detonated as the airstream pushed it back into the carriage pylon at 18 g’s. Two giant pieces of flaming aluminum cartwheeled through the sky trailing thick smoke. They ejected smaller pieces of fiery debris as they began their five-mile trip to the serene blue Philippine Sea below. In the cockpit, the pilots’ faces were smashed into the control columns by the sudden deceleration, rendering them unconscious. The bombardier and EW Officer seated behind them were killed by the initial blast, and, a minute later, the copilot awoke to freezing chaos, pain, confusion, and a final helpless dread as the world spun and the sea drew closer.
The trailing bomber pilots, after their own moment of shock at what they had witnessed ahead, each turned to escape. The H-6 on the left took a missile in the nose that killed the crew and destroyed both engines, which soon began to smoke and flame. The bomber entered a graceful corkscrew, and, halfway down, both wings were torn away. A massive fuel and weapon explosion followed. Only unrecognizable pieces emerged, streaming all shades of black and white smoke as more aluminum rain pelted the far seas.