By the time the horizon lightened to the east and Mother was safe inside his carrier after his alert-watch-from-hell, the last of the unmanned aircraft was airborne. People in nearby villages knew better than to ask about the unusual and repeated sounds they heard throughout the night.
As they approached the coastline, the strange aircraft fanned out in shallow climbs to their programmed stations. Passing 50,000 feet on their way up to 145,000, sunlight shone on the skin of the long-winged vehicles for the first time ever. Each of the 423 aircraft was on an independent flight profile to enter a max-endurance orbit, where it could work alone or in concert with others. Fueled for weeks aloft, each carried a small compliment of air-to-air and air-to-surface precision weapons. Heaven’s Shield moved into place, deployed as the high ground over the South China Sea.
Qin, like the wise warlord Sun Tzu, would wait there for the enemy to come up.
CHAPTER 46
The following morning, Wilson led his air wing closer to Qin’s trap.
He cruised west 25,000 feet above a clear Philippine Sea with three other Rhinos in a wall formation, with Olive as dash three. They searched the surface below for traffic to identify, track, and kill as needed.
Below them, puffy clouds, illuminated by the brilliant late morning sun, dotted the expanse of ocean all the way to the horizon 100 miles distant. Empty and desolate for most millennia, the seas were now full of man-made objects engaged in all manner of commerce from fishing to hauling manufactured goods in their giant holds or jammed containers stacked high on deck. Among them were pleasure craft or passenger liners. Most were neutral or friendly, but some were enemy in disguise: modern day guerillas and spies conducting seemingly innocent passage amid legal commerce. Clark, if he wanted to strike inside the South China Sea, had to first clear the Philippine Sea of threats and tattletales.
The leatherneck Joint Strike Fighters from Solomon Islands were a valuable asset. Their electronic sensors, data linked to Wilson and the other American aircraft and ships — from E-2s to AWACS, P-8 Poseidons to guided-missile destroyers and their Fire Scout UAVs — identified what contacts were friendly, neutral and enemy. If there was a question, fighters from divisions like Wilson’s could investigate. They saw it all on their screens — everything on the surface and in the air — without exposing themselves.
Wilson arched his back and adjusted his mask as his autopilot led them west. They would search another 150 miles, turn north for 50, and then return to the ship. Over his right shoulder, but well beyond visual range, another Hancock division of Super Hornets searched its assigned sector. If he opened up his screen in wide scale, he could “see” them among the clutter of contacts. Depressing the display push-tile he decremented down to assess the contacts along his sector, and slewed the cursor over several to get a course and speed readout. Far to the south, John Adams’ aircraft were also scouting ahead as the three capital ships led the Americans toward Leyte, still over a day’s steaming away.
Wilson’s display showed an unidentified aircraft at the top of the screen. The linked track was almost like a radar lock, and Wilson could watch it march down the screen and assess closure. It seemed to morph, and Wilson decremented again to break it out better. Several other linked tracks surrounded it. A formation was heading east toward them at high closure.
Wilson keyed the radio. “Lookout, Sniper one-one. Contact of interest, Track 1077, on our nose, low.”
After a moment, the E-2 controller responded. “Affirm, Sniper. Investigate, vector two-six-zero for fifty-five.”
“Sniper one-one.”
Wilson paddled off autopilot and nudged the stick left. The tracks showed the contacts below 10,000 feet. Wilson steadied up southwest, checking the sun position so he could bring his Rhinos in unseen from above. Olive, with a new guy they called Size as her wingman, drew closer. Mullet was on Wilson’s other wing as Number 2.
Wilson commanded his FLIR on Track 1077 to identify it. There was no reason for an airliner to be below 10,000 out there, and it could be a UAV that the software had misidentified. To be sure, Wilson had to visually ID it, a challenge with the scattered clouds below. What is this guy doing? he thought.
Olive and Size crossed under Wilson, and Mullet remained in tactical wing on Wilson’s left side. The sun was now over their left shoulders as they scanned down and right for aircraft. Wilson eased them below 20,000 feet and saw the track slide down the right side of his screen. He scanned outside, searching between the columns of cloud for an early tally, but Olive saw it first.
“Tally a Y-8! Two-thirty low, heading east!”
Wilson picked it up and overbanked down, almost on top of it. The four-engine turboprop droned ahead unconcerned. It was light gray in appearance with a red star-and-bar marking on each wing. Wilson figured it to be an ASW variant or an ELINT bird, snooping in order to send targeting info back to the beach. Wilson keyed the radio transmitter.
“Lookout, Snipers are marking on top of a Y-8, Track 1077! Identified bandit! Engaging! Armstrong!”
“Roger, Snipers!”
Wilson bumped the castle switch and selected his AMRAAM. By habit, he scanned around the enemy aircraft and saw a glint to the north. He froze as a large fighter—a Flanker? — turned toward the Y-8 and Wilson.
There had to be another one, and as soon as Wilson saw it in trail, Olive sang out. “Trailer J-11! One mile! I’m in hot! Size, sanitize west!”
All on the frequency were alerted that there were not only PRC aircraft out here but fighter aircraft, hundreds of miles from the South China Sea. The linked track showed neutral, and, to add to the confusion, there were other “neutral” contacts on the surface below them. Were they also PRC? Were they able to spoof the F-35 sensors somehow?
Were there more?
Wilson skipped the Y-8, which was not a threat, and engaged the northern fighter that was. He scanned to his left and picked up the trailer—J-11?—and saw it pitch up toward Olive.
“Tally on the trailer! Olive, you take him, and I’ve got the guy to the north. Everyone look for others!”
As soon as Wilson finished his call, he saw his fighter pull up and into him from two miles. Wilson squeezed the trigger hard and pulled his throttles to idle. He felt a jolt and then heard a dull whooommm as he saw the missile shoot forward trailing big, white smoke.
“Fox-three on the bandit fighter to the north!” Wilson transmitted. Just then his HUD symbology went crazy, dropping lock and jumping all over the place.
Upon seeing Wilson’s missile come off, the Flanker broke down and right, spitting out chaff and flares. Wilson’s HUD lines were jumbled spaghetti, and his radar showed drop-lock. He checked left and saw Olive and Size with the trailing fighter. When he returned to his bandit, Wilson saw his AMRAAM, motor still firing, fly through a chaff bloom and continue north and out of the fight. The missile had gone stupid. Shit! he thought. With the big fighter now reversing back and into him, he needed help.
“Mullet, Flip, can you engage with our guy?”