“Keep an eye on them,” said Bree. “Hang with me, Flighthawks.”
Zen rolled Hawk One just ahead of the big Megafortress as she pulled level. He tightened Hawk Two on Quicksilver’s tail; if one of the subs did fire a heat-seeker, he hoped to be close enough to help suck it off.
The video on Hawk Two caught one of the crewmen aboard the first Kilo covering his head as Breanna came over. The others had thrown themselves to the deck. The second submarine had started to change course south when they reached it.
“Maybe they got the message,” said Collins.
“They’re broadcasting?” Bree asked.
“Negative,” said Collins.
“We have communication from a Navy plane,” said Chris. “They’re en route; about two hundred and twenty nautical miles to our south-southwest. Call name is Pegasus 202.”
“Tell them to stand of until we what the Sukhois are doing,” said Bree.
As Zen edged back toward the debris field, he saw one of the freighters was once again moving toward the survivors. A small boat was being lowered from its side.
“Okay, this is shaping up,” he told the others, passing along what he was seeing. Breanna began a wide, banking track to take the Megafortress back up to a more comfortable altitude.
“Hold on. Somebody’s broadcasting to the civilian ships, in English,” said Collins. “Telling them to stand off. They want them to move out of the area. It’s the sub, that Kilo—definitely Chinese.”
“Pipe it in,” said Bree.
The accent made the words difficult to decipher quickly, but it was clear the speaker did not want the civilians nearby. Breanna clicked her transmit button when he paused, identifying her plane, then asking the speaker to do the same. There was no answer at first, then the speaker repeated, more or less, what he had said before, adding that the Chinese Navy had the situation under control.
“Other sub is diving,” said Chris.
“Those suckers are going to start shooing at each other,” Torbin warned. “Sukhois are tracking.”
“Collins, tell the civilian ships to move back,” said Bree. “Torbin, see if you can jam those radars so they can’t lock—”
“Missiles in the air! Sukhois are firing—AGMs—ship missiles, I mean. Shit!”
Dreamland Command
August 22, 1997, 2358 local (August 23, 1997, 1458 Philippines)
“PACCOM wants to talk, sir,” said the lieutenant just as Dog was going to take a quick break. “Admiral Allen.”
“Don’t they sleep out there?” asked the colonel, returning to his console.
“It’s only about nine in Pearl.”
“Rhetorical question,” said Dog. “Let ’er rip.”
The screen at the front of the room blinked white, then transformed into a high-resolution video feed showing a small office area filled with a half-dozen frowning Navy commanders. The script at the bottom of the screen identified the source as CinCPacSIT, a top-level secure facility for Pacific Command. Admiral Allen, with his sleeves rolled up, stood in front of a large map table, his face as red as the flag used to provoke the proverbial bull.
“What in hell are you doing out there?” Allen demanded.
“Excuse me?” said Dog.
“Bullshit on that.”
“With all due respect—”
“Stow it, Bastian. What is happening out there? Why are you picking a fight with the Chinese?”
“I’m not, sir.”
“Are you trying to be the second coming of Brad Elliott?”
“Colonel Bastian hadn’t expected Admiral Allen to be happy about the incident. But he didn’t anticipate the personal attack. Nor did he appreciate the comment about General Elliot. “Sir, I’m operating under strict orders,” he told the screen, controlling his own rising anger.
“What yahoo gave the order to start a war with China?” demanded Allen. “I want an explanation, Bastian.”
Allen made an obvious attempt to control his temper, his hands pulling down the sides of is shirt.
“As you can read on the Web net,” Dog said, pausing between nearly every word, “two Sukhois Su-33’s took off from a Chinese carrier and approached our aircraft while on routine patrol. They seemed to think the U/MFs were missiles, they took evasive action, and one of the Chinese pilots put is plane into an unrecoverable spin. His loss was regrettable.”
“I don’t believe it happened that way,” said Allen. “You’re telling me the Chinese pilots are that bad?”
“I’m not critiquing the flying abilities of the Chinese, sir.”
“Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”
“By?”
“Damn straight. You didn’t even clear the mission with my people.”
“It’s not my role to inform you.” Dog wasn’t exactly sure what had happened—generally, the theater commander would be notified of an important operation by Washington, and the Navy certainly had had input prior to the Whiplash Order being issued. It was possible Allen had been bushwhacked by Washington—but it was also possible he was trying to exert control over Colonel Bastian and the operation.
Which wasn’t going to fly.