“He’s alive but definitely having trouble with the sea,” said Zen. “Where are those SAR assets?”

“Still trying to get a direct line to the Chinese. They’re not answering our hails. They’re on your radar now.”

“Yeah. More idiots. Can we get a helicopter up from one of the ASEAN frigates?” Zen asked.

“We’re working on it, Zen. Looks like we’re out of their chopper range. Hang tight.”

Zen flew a racetrack orbit over the two men, a simple, lazy oval in the sky. Raven had already made two broadcasts over the international UHF Mayday frequency, using the Chinese planes’ call signs, but had Page 101

not received answers. Zen clicked into the SAR circuit himself and gave it a shot, telling the downed pilots he had their locations and help was on the way.

“Thank you,” came a staticky reply. “Is Commander Won okay?”

“I’m not sure who is who,” replied Zen. “I can see two men down. One of you is in a life raft. The other is just in the ocean.”

The reply was garbled, but Zen made out the words “malfunction” and “problem.”

“Get this,” said McNamara, Raven’s copilot. “The Chinese are warning us off.”

“Tell them to fuck themselves,” Zen replied. He overheard Alou transmitting to the Chinese fighters personally, giving the location of the two downed planes and telling them that the planes had collided with each other. Alou added that they were standing by to assist.

The answer from the Chinese was rather emphatic.

“Their weapons radars are active. We are spiked,” said McNamara, meaning that the radars had a lock on the Megafortress, and the interceptors’ missiles could be launched at any time, though they were probably about ten miles outside their optimum range.

Ten miles equaled a bit less than a minute at their present course and speed.

“They are jerks, aren’t they?” said Alou.

“Incredible,” said Zen. He was tempted to tell Alou to open the bomb bay doors and target the PRC

fighters with their AMRAAM-plus Scorpions. But it was no more than a quickly fleeting thought.

“I think we should tell them they’re being assholes,” Zen suggested. “And in the meantime, offer to pass on messages to their comrades. Give them IDs and stuff. We can break the ECMs on launch. If we don’t shoot the idiots down.”

“I concur. You want to talk with the pilot in the water?”

“Sounds good.”

The Chinese pilot’s name was Lieutenant Tzu—or something reasonably close. He gave his unit identification and the plane he’d been flying to Zen to pass on. At the same time, he asked again about his flight leader.

“He’s definitely in the water, and he’s moving around,” Zen told him. “But his raft doesn’t seem to be working.”

The pilot said something that was overtaken by static. Zen thought he was asking if he could drop a life raft. That was impossible, since the EB-52 hadn’t been rigged for rescue missions, and didn’t carry gear that could be dropped out to pilots. The Flighthawks had no gear at all.

“We’re sorry, but we don’t have that kind of gear aboard. We’ll keep an eye on him,” Zen explained.

“Give me the direction,” said the other pilot.

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The two men were now about six miles apart; surely it would take several hours for Lieutenant Tzu to reach his comrade. But the idea was a noble one, and Zen gave the lieutenant the heading, circling around a few times to make sure he understood.

The J-11s, meanwhile, had decided to play nice. They’d turned off their weapons radar and were asking for vectors to their downed airmen. Alou and McNamara used the computer’s translator module to help communicate as they spoke with them; it turned out to be faster to go back and forth in Chinese than to struggle in English. A Harbin Z-5 seaplane was being scrambled and was en route.

Scrambled was a relative term—the aircraft was only now leaving its base, and at top speed—300

knots—would take an hour and a half to arrive. More than likely, it would be more than two.

The J-11s, meanwhile, were near bingo.

“The Chinese want to know if we can stay aloft over their pilots while they go and refuel,” said Alou.

“They’re just about out of gas.”

“Well, what the hell did they send them down here for if they didn’t have enough fuel to do anything but spin around and go home?” asked Zen.

“You’re asking me to explain the logic of the Chinese command system?”

“Do we have enough fuel ourselves?”

“Tight. We’ll have to try and arrange a refuel as we head south,” said Alou. “We can do it, though.

Mission commander’s call.”

“Well let’s not run out of fuel ourselves,” said Zen. “But you better tell that Z-5 to get a move on—Commander Won doesn’t look like much of a swimmer, even with his lifejacket on.”

COLONELBASTIAN WASseveral hundred miles away, about to enter Brunei airspace, but his voice came through loud and clear on the Raven’s flight deck. Major Alou switched into the private Dreamland circuit, which used a dedicated satellite network to provide around-the-globe encrypted transmissions.

“ Raven here. Major Alou.”

“Bastian. What’s the situation?”

Alou filled him in. The J-11s had taken a quick look and gone home; the Chinese rescue plane was still a good half hour off.

“We’ve asked Texaco to come up and stand by,” Alou added, referring to a KC-10 tanker asset operating in Brunei with the Dreamland team. Its tanks were filled with a special Dreamland jet fuel; though the planes could use the ordinary J-8 blend, the tiny Flighthawks operated better with a slightly tweaked mixture, and whenever possible Dreamland used its own tankers and support crew.

“That’s fine. You say you have video on the Chinese planes’ collision?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve already downloaded it to Dream Command.”

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“Good,” said Dog. “I’ll talk to Major Catsman and Jed Barclay. We’re about to land,” he added.

“Keep me informed. Penn out.”

“ Raven.”

THEHARBINZ-5was a monstrous four-engine seaplane, a big flying amphibian that had been designed as a replacement for the Russian Beriev Be-6. The Z-5 had no American equivalent; it looked a bit like a Consolidated PB2Y from the World War II era, with the fuselage lengthened and slimmed down and the wings set very far back. While slow and ponderous, it was well suited for long-range and tedious SAR

missions over the ocean. It could stay aloft for at least fifteen hours, carried an eight-man crew, and had a pantry full of rescue gear.

By the time the Harbin made contact with Raven, the raftless Commander Won had managed to get his rescue radio working. Zen passed along a message that the pilot was tired but alive. When the Z-5 came in sight, Zen rode Hawk Two out to meet it, looping around and bird-dogging the big flying boat in toward the pilot. He pulled off and watched the lumbering plane touch down, splashing against the water as it came in. The ocean was as calm as a bird bath, and the airplane had no problem coasting near its man to facilitate the rescue.

“They’re saying thank you, and they can take it from here,” said Alou. “Our tanker’s en route to the rendezvous. Good time to split.”

“Well, at least the SAR guys know their manners,” said Zen, climbing so they could tank and begin the long trek home.

Brunei

1630

BY THE TIMEDog returned to the base, the adulation for Mack Smith had reached comical proportions. The Brunei officials spoke in tones that suggested the major might have a national holiday named after him. Even Mack seemed a bit embarrassed by the reaction of the Brunei officials, though this hadn’t stopped him from giving two interviews to the state-run media in a special lounge over in the international airport terminal.