Her night vision goggles gave her an advantage, but she knew the enemy would have camouflaged their location. It would be difficult, but not impossible, so she took her time scanning the area she thought the most likely place to establish a hide site. Its size would depend on how many were in the party, but she imagined the footprint would be small.
“No!”
Punky dropped to the ground when she heard the woman’s scream. It sounded close, but she couldn’t see anything in the green-hued scenery that pointed at its origin. She ached with exhaustion and her limbs felt heavy, but the sudden shot of adrenaline fueled the athlete inside who wouldn’t let her quit. Deep in her subconscious, she recalled back-to-back water polo matches and the overwhelming fatigue she had battled through to claim victory and knew this was no different. Ten years might have elapsed, but she was still the same girl who knew what it took to win.
It pays to be a winner, she thought.
There wasn’t room for anything short of complete victory. In water polo. In school. In life. It was a lesson her father had imbued in her at a young age, and a lesson that propelled her up off the dirt and over the lip of the ridge. Bringing her pistol up in front of her, she carefully picked her way down the hillside, her head slowly panning left and right as she searched for her target.
After several minutes, she saw a beam of light arcing up from the bottom of the hill, and she froze. She lowered herself to the ground, suddenly wishing she had worn something other than a red hoodie. Even one of her black concert hoodies would have been more appropriate as she slinked through the night in search of her uncle’s killer.
Keeping an eye on the light, she continued creeping down the slope and winced when her boot scraped against a rock. She froze as the flashlight’s beam focused on a spot less than ten yards below her, then suddenly clicked off. Punky studied the ground that had been illuminated by the light, puzzling over the growing unease in the pit of her stomach. It looked like a narrow ledge, sheltered by a large boulder on one end, but the earth seemed to flutter in the breeze in an unnatural way.
What the hell is that?
She took another step, then froze. Through her night vision goggles, she saw several specks of light glowing from where the earth fluttered. She tilted her head up and looked at the same spot underneath her goggles, but she saw nothing. Tilting her head back down, the specks of light returned.
Then it dawned on her.
Camouflage netting.
Chen breathed a sigh of relief when the pair of Joint Strike Missiles fell away from the jet and began racing across the ocean toward the Abraham Lincoln. Whether or not the missiles succeeded in sinking the aircraft carrier, the damage would already be done. Within days, American news outlets would report on the emotionally distraught pilot who had attacked an American symbol of dominance and then martyred himself by ramming his jet into the badly damaged ship.
It was the perfect plan. It was a shame the one person who had made it all possible would die with his shipmates. And in doing so would usher forth her rise to prominence within the Ministry. Chen smiled as she thought about the accolades Shanghai would shower upon her when she returned home.
Only five more minutes, she thought, watching the timer countdown how much time remained until the anti-ship missiles reached their target. In five more minutes, she would have stirred the hornet’s nest, but it would be too late. While the Lincoln’s damage control sailors fought to extinguish fires and control flooding, the stealth fighter at her fingertips would slip through its air defenses and deliver the final blow. Just five more minutes.
Suddenly, a flash of light distracted her from the missiles’ time of flight. She craned her neck left and right, looking for whatever had caught her attention, but saw nothing through the jet’s infrared cameras. She almost dismissed it — then the light disappeared, and she realized that it hadn’t been shining on the jet but on her actual location.
She ripped the goggles off her head and stared through the camouflage netting into the night. She tilted her head to the side and listened for a clue that someone had discovered her hide site. Hearing nothing, she let go of one of her controllers, temporarily releasing the Joint Strike Fighter from her command, and reached for the silenced H&K MP7 submachine gun resting against a rock next to her.
A total victory would have been preferable, but even if only the anti-ship missiles reached the carrier, the American military would be weakened by the loss of public support and a key strategic asset. It was a victory Chen could live with.
She let go of the second controller and wrapped her fingers around the submachine gun’s stubby forward vertical grip. She spun the barrel up the hill at the sound of a boot scraping against a rock above her head and stared through the camouflage netting at the shifting shadows while her heart pounded in her chest. She flicked the selector lever to fire and peered through the red dot optic, waiting for a target to present itself.
I need to get to the sailboat, she thought.
Wu Tian had stashed the dinghy on the beach at Scorpion Anchorage, what seemed like an impossibly far distance as phantoms closed in around her. But it was her only chance of escape. Backing off the ledge, she pulled the netting over her head and slowly descended from her hide site while keeping the MP7 pointed at where she’d heard the sound.
Suddenly, she was again awash with light, only it was coming from behind her.
“Freeze!” a woman yelled.
51
The sick feeling in Colt’s stomach only grew worse when the solid fuel rocket boosters ignited and propelled both Joint Strike Missiles away from Jug’s jet. He knew the boosters were only designed to get the cruise missiles up to speed before they descended to wave-top height and micro turbojets pushed them supersonic to the target.
Almost at the same time, his Distributed Aperture System designated both booster plumes as targets. He selected one—eenie, meenie, miney, moe—and fired his remaining AMRAAM. “Fox Three,” he said, then watched his last air-to-air missile streak forward of his jet.
“Colt!”
“I’m not shooting at you.”
Colt knew F-22 Raptor pilots trained to shoot down cruise missiles with the AIM-120, but he’d never tried. He gave it a less than fifty percent chance of working, especially from the rear quarter with the Joint Strike Missile already accelerating away from him, but it was worth a shot.
“Come on, baby.”
He looked away from the retreating missiles to Jug’s jet, just as its wings waggled from side to side and it started a shallow left turn to the east. Colt kept his nose pointed at the target and glanced down at his missile’s flyout cue, watching it strain to reach the target. He knew it wouldn’t be enough. The Joint Strike Missile had too big of a head start, and his AMRAAM would run out of energy before it caught up.
“I think…” Jug paused. “I think I have control.”
“Say again?” Colt saw that his AMRAAM had gone into an active state, and he immediately banked left to follow Jug’s jet toward the California shore.
“I’ve regained control of… oh, shit.”
He felt his blood run cold, waiting to hear what could possibly make their situation any worse. “What?”
“Come up Guard.”
Colt turned up the volume on the radio tuned to the International Air Distress frequency and caught the tail end of a stressed transmission: “…decimal seven three degrees north, one nineteen decimal five one degrees west, you are approaching a US Navy warship and will be fired upon. Turn north immediately and identify yourself.”