seemed to be trapped or unable to open their doors.
The mayhem reminded Emily of her crash that morning.
It’s happening again,
she thought, sorting through her broken memory.
But what’s happening!?
SOUTH CHINA SEA
D rew hauled his jet up into the sunrise, twisting his head from side to side. The
Samuel Grant
lay below. A second Aegis destroyer was also in sight. His gaze left the ocean for the sky. What if more enemy fighters were inbound?
The Chinese MiG had just swept overhead, passing Drew at a downward angle as he climbed to 3000 feet.
We’re too low,
he thought.
To the west, the dark landmass of Vietnam had brightened in the sunrise, its coastline emerging from shadows to brown and green. Yellow light glistened on the always-changing surface of the ocean. Then the MiG slammed into the water.
“Shit,” Drew said. He’d had nothing to do with the other pilot’s death, but the sight filled him with dread. He thumbed his radio. “Six Oh Two, this is—”
“Missiles four o’clock high inbound!” Bugle yelled.
Drew forgot everything else. He dove for the ocean again as Bugle relayed their position and status on their control frequency, yammering through as much data as possible in case they were hit.
“This is Five Oh Four we’re under fire from bandits inside our screen I think in sector ten we’re fielding an EMP attack repeat a major EMP attack!” Bugle yelled as Drew accelerated into a steep turn to his right, firing chaff and flares from his aircraft’s belly. With luck, the air-to-air missiles behind him would retarget the incandescent chaff.
“No good! Still tracking!” Bugle screamed.
Drew punched more chaff and flares, executing a thirty degree cut left.
“Now they’re at seven o’clock!”
Drew reached 1100 mph as the missiles closed in. The G forces were a smothering weight. It crushed Drew against his seat. Fortunately he was layered in gear, each component blending man to machine. The Nomex sheath of his G suit was packed with air bladders that expanded under acceleration, pushing the blood up from his legs and abdomen into his chest and head, where he needed it, while the form-fitting straps of his torso harness secured him to the KOCH fittings on his seat.
The pressure felt like being squeezed under the heel of a giant boot, but Drew was familiar with this pain. He was more stunned by the gleam of purple and blue reflecting in vast pools across the ocean.
“Here they come!” Bugle screamed.
As he leveled out at 75 feet, Drew glanced up, taking his eyes off the water.
The morning sky was full of color, a light show very different than his whiteout. The atmosphere appeared to be painted with immense waves of blue and violet—an aurora—something he’d never seen south of Anchorage or Helsinki. The South China Sea was near the equator, well below the Tropic of Cancer. Auroras at this latitude were impossible.
There wasn’t time to wonder. Nor was there room for it inside the tight, deft hurricane of his mind, which was practically empty of thought. This close to the brink, Drew was no more than his instincts.
He punched a third round of chaff as he hauled his jet into another shuddering climb to 500 feet, 750, 1000…
The missiles exploded behind him. Drew felt the concussions against his aircraft—felt himself still breathing—his heart beating—and he laughed inside his mask with the invincible glee of a naval aviator.
It didn’t last.
“Nice work! We have bandits at ten o’clock high!” Bugle yelled. “Chinese fighters!”
“Weapons hot,” Drew said as he touched his fire control system.
“They’re going for the
Grant.
”
“Shit—”
Drew’s radar page and armament load indicator were out. With these systems malfunctioning, safety checks might prevent him from firing his missiles, and an EA-18G was not a fighter. Drew had self-protect capability in two AMRAAM missiles, but no gun. Electronics filled the space in his nose where an F/A-18
The mayhem reminded Emily of her crash that morning.
It’s happening again,
she thought, sorting through her broken memory.
But what’s happening!?
SOUTH CHINA SEA
D rew hauled his jet up into the sunrise, twisting his head from side to side. The
Samuel Grant
lay below. A second Aegis destroyer was also in sight. His gaze left the ocean for the sky. What if more enemy fighters were inbound?
The Chinese MiG had just swept overhead, passing Drew at a downward angle as he climbed to 3000 feet.
We’re too low,
he thought.
To the west, the dark landmass of Vietnam had brightened in the sunrise, its coastline emerging from shadows to brown and green. Yellow light glistened on the always-changing surface of the ocean. Then the MiG slammed into the water.
“Shit,” Drew said. He’d had nothing to do with the other pilot’s death, but the sight filled him with dread. He thumbed his radio. “Six Oh Two, this is—”
“Missiles four o’clock high inbound!” Bugle yelled.
Drew forgot everything else. He dove for the ocean again as Bugle relayed their position and status on their control frequency, yammering through as much data as possible in case they were hit.
“This is Five Oh Four we’re under fire from bandits inside our screen I think in sector ten we’re fielding an EMP attack repeat a major EMP attack!” Bugle yelled as Drew accelerated into a steep turn to his right, firing chaff and flares from his aircraft’s belly. With luck, the air-to-air missiles behind him would retarget the incandescent chaff.
“No good! Still tracking!” Bugle screamed.
Drew punched more chaff and flares, executing a thirty degree cut left.
“Now they’re at seven o’clock!”
Drew reached 1100 mph as the missiles closed in. The G forces were a smothering weight. It crushed Drew against his seat. Fortunately he was layered in gear, each component blending man to machine. The Nomex sheath of his G suit was packed with air bladders that expanded under acceleration, pushing the blood up from his legs and abdomen into his chest and head, where he needed it, while the form-fitting straps of his torso harness secured him to the KOCH fittings on his seat.
The pressure felt like being squeezed under the heel of a giant boot, but Drew was familiar with this pain. He was more stunned by the gleam of purple and blue reflecting in vast pools across the ocean.
“Here they come!” Bugle screamed.
As he leveled out at 75 feet, Drew glanced up, taking his eyes off the water.
The morning sky was full of color, a light show very different than his whiteout. The atmosphere appeared to be painted with immense waves of blue and violet—an aurora—something he’d never seen south of Anchorage or Helsinki. The South China Sea was near the equator, well below the Tropic of Cancer. Auroras at this latitude were impossible.
There wasn’t time to wonder. Nor was there room for it inside the tight, deft hurricane of his mind, which was practically empty of thought. This close to the brink, Drew was no more than his instincts.
He punched a third round of chaff as he hauled his jet into another shuddering climb to 500 feet, 750, 1000…
The missiles exploded behind him. Drew felt the concussions against his aircraft—felt himself still breathing—his heart beating—and he laughed inside his mask with the invincible glee of a naval aviator.
It didn’t last.
“Nice work! We have bandits at ten o’clock high!” Bugle yelled. “Chinese fighters!”
“Weapons hot,” Drew said as he touched his fire control system.
“They’re going for the
Grant.
”
“Shit—”
Drew’s radar page and armament load indicator were out. With these systems malfunctioning, safety checks might prevent him from firing his missiles, and an EA-18G was not a fighter. Drew had self-protect capability in two AMRAAM missiles, but no gun. Electronics filled the space in his nose where an F/A-18
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