would carry its Vulcan cannon.
Buffeted by storm winds, he leveled out at 1500 feet and raced for the
Grant.
The sky was in chaos. Beneath the warm, gauzy light of the aurora, the U.S. planes were scattered. Many of their ships had also peeled off course, the precise formation of the Carrier Strike Group dissolving into a more crumpled shape. A few of their warships had turned toward the
America.
Others were drifting away.
Orange streaks of fire ripped from the
Grant
into the sky as Drew approached—Tomahawk missiles intended for the enemy ships—and he saw its 20mm Phalanx guns blazing, too.
The gunfire struck one of the Chinese fighters. The MiG lost a wingtip and part of its nose. Then the rest of its wing disintegrated and it tumbled, plunging toward the water.
Much closer, an American helicopter lay upside down in the ocean, rocking in the wake of the
Grant.
The destroyer hadn’t altered course to avoid the bird, much less slowed to help, which meant the whiteout hadn’t been limited to the sky. It had affected everyone in the Carrier Strike Group.
It affected the Chinese, too
, Drew realized.
To the north, smoke lifted from the bump on the horizon that was Hainan Island. He’d supposed this fire was caused by U.S. missile strikes. What if it was another crashed Chinese aircraft? The first MiG should have blasted him. Drew had been a sitting duck at close range, naked to guns or missiles. Now he believed the MiG hadn’t been in control even before the Chinese pilot spiraled into the water.
In fact, Drew wondered why the missiles fired at him had come from
behind
that Chinese plane. Those weapons had been released by another enemy fighter and could have locked onto their own man instead of Drew.
They’re as confused as we are,
he thought as he banked up and over to chase the surviving MiG. The maneuver was pure reflex. His brain might have been finding excuses for the enemy, but his body—his training—acted to kill.
Behind Drew, Bugle was also working at high speed. Bugle’s radar page was functional and he yelled, “I brought you on target! He’s locked!”
The Chinese MiG dodged across the strike group, attempting to lose Drew.
But the MiG was outmatched.
“I said he’s locked! You got him!” Bugle yelled.
Drew hesitated, allowing the other aircraft to slip away for a heartbeat as they roared together through the sunrise. He believed the Chinese had started the fighting, but it was a misunderstanding. They were all victims.
And yet if he let the MiG escape, the enemy pilot might hurt people on his own side.
“Yaaaah!” Drew shouted, squeezing his trigger.
The missile didn’t release.
“The computer dropped the designation! You need to—” Drew shouted as he pulled his trigger again. This time, the AMRAAM launched.
Bugle’s lock was true. The weapon went supersonic and curved after the MiG, impacting its tail. The plane tore apart in a fireball. No one ejected. Drew knew he’d killed the man, but he quashed his feelings as he veered around to return to the north perimeter.
He saw one MiG engaged with three F/A-18s. The MiG wouldn’t last. The bigger obstacle was the Chinese surface-to-air missiles that arrived from the coast, slicing past the aircraft. American fighters ruled the sky, but for how long?
Drew raced to join them, shouting at Bugle, “Jam those SAMs before someone gets hit!”
“I’m working it!”
Were the Chinese ships also off course? One of their destroyers looked like it had increased its speed, careening toward the U.S. fleet.
The whiteout wasn’t an assault,
Drew thought. The light had been something else. But the situation was already out of hand. Both sides believed the phenomenon was a weapon, and now their skirmish was devolving into war.
The danger in any escalation was larger than one man’s life. Drew was less afraid for himself than for his entire nation, because their attack subs would be safe from the EMPs beneath the water.
What did the
Buffeted by storm winds, he leveled out at 1500 feet and raced for the
Grant.
The sky was in chaos. Beneath the warm, gauzy light of the aurora, the U.S. planes were scattered. Many of their ships had also peeled off course, the precise formation of the Carrier Strike Group dissolving into a more crumpled shape. A few of their warships had turned toward the
America.
Others were drifting away.
Orange streaks of fire ripped from the
Grant
into the sky as Drew approached—Tomahawk missiles intended for the enemy ships—and he saw its 20mm Phalanx guns blazing, too.
The gunfire struck one of the Chinese fighters. The MiG lost a wingtip and part of its nose. Then the rest of its wing disintegrated and it tumbled, plunging toward the water.
Much closer, an American helicopter lay upside down in the ocean, rocking in the wake of the
Grant.
The destroyer hadn’t altered course to avoid the bird, much less slowed to help, which meant the whiteout hadn’t been limited to the sky. It had affected everyone in the Carrier Strike Group.
It affected the Chinese, too
, Drew realized.
To the north, smoke lifted from the bump on the horizon that was Hainan Island. He’d supposed this fire was caused by U.S. missile strikes. What if it was another crashed Chinese aircraft? The first MiG should have blasted him. Drew had been a sitting duck at close range, naked to guns or missiles. Now he believed the MiG hadn’t been in control even before the Chinese pilot spiraled into the water.
In fact, Drew wondered why the missiles fired at him had come from
behind
that Chinese plane. Those weapons had been released by another enemy fighter and could have locked onto their own man instead of Drew.
They’re as confused as we are,
he thought as he banked up and over to chase the surviving MiG. The maneuver was pure reflex. His brain might have been finding excuses for the enemy, but his body—his training—acted to kill.
Behind Drew, Bugle was also working at high speed. Bugle’s radar page was functional and he yelled, “I brought you on target! He’s locked!”
The Chinese MiG dodged across the strike group, attempting to lose Drew.
But the MiG was outmatched.
“I said he’s locked! You got him!” Bugle yelled.
Drew hesitated, allowing the other aircraft to slip away for a heartbeat as they roared together through the sunrise. He believed the Chinese had started the fighting, but it was a misunderstanding. They were all victims.
And yet if he let the MiG escape, the enemy pilot might hurt people on his own side.
“Yaaaah!” Drew shouted, squeezing his trigger.
The missile didn’t release.
“The computer dropped the designation! You need to—” Drew shouted as he pulled his trigger again. This time, the AMRAAM launched.
Bugle’s lock was true. The weapon went supersonic and curved after the MiG, impacting its tail. The plane tore apart in a fireball. No one ejected. Drew knew he’d killed the man, but he quashed his feelings as he veered around to return to the north perimeter.
He saw one MiG engaged with three F/A-18s. The MiG wouldn’t last. The bigger obstacle was the Chinese surface-to-air missiles that arrived from the coast, slicing past the aircraft. American fighters ruled the sky, but for how long?
Drew raced to join them, shouting at Bugle, “Jam those SAMs before someone gets hit!”
“I’m working it!”
Were the Chinese ships also off course? One of their destroyers looked like it had increased its speed, careening toward the U.S. fleet.
The whiteout wasn’t an assault,
Drew thought. The light had been something else. But the situation was already out of hand. Both sides believed the phenomenon was a weapon, and now their skirmish was devolving into war.
The danger in any escalation was larger than one man’s life. Drew was less afraid for himself than for his entire nation, because their attack subs would be safe from the EMPs beneath the water.
What did the
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