Over Eastern China
As the five F-15s under his command broke off and started on a course to intercept the ten Chinese Shenyang J-11s, Smith realized he was holding his breath. And that he couldn’t seem to get it going again.
In his helmet, he could hear the broken English of one of the Chinese pilots warning them off. Undoubtedly another was on the radio to their base, trying to get rules of engagement from a long, complex, and confused chain of command.
For better or worse, Smith’s people had no such issues. The buck stopped with him.
General Baron was right about his pilots. They were flawless. They flew in perfect formation, holding until they were at the edge of missile range and then all firing simultaneously.
The moment the contrails became visible, they broke formation and went after the Chinese aircraft that hadn’t been targeted. Four of five missiles hit home, with the last passing over the top of one of the Chinese fighters as it dived desperately toward the ground.
There were now six J-11s against the five Americans. Smith twisted in his seat, watching through the canopy while his pilot pushed the trainer’s engines to the very edge.
His combat career had been with the infantry and Special Forces, leaving him with a limited knowledge of aerial warfare. In the end, though, it seemed pretty much the same as the frenzied chaos of ground battles—just a hell of a lot faster and in three dimensions.
It was impossible to pick out individual confrontations in something that looked like a swarm of bees crisscrossed with contrails. One of the F-15s took a series of rounds to its tail, but managed to stay on target and launch one of its missiles at the aircraft in front of it. The AIM-120 hit, but then the damaged American fighter lost control and went into a flat spin that wasn’t recoverable. A fireball erupted to the east, too distant for Smith to tell whether the plane was one of his or one of theirs. A moment later a Chinese aircraft broke from the melee and began streaking in their direction.
“We’ve got an incoming plane,” Smith said, twisting a bit more in his harness to keep his eyes on it.
“I know,” the pilot responded, but other than that he didn’t seem inclined to take any action at all.
“Can we outrun it?” Smith said.
“No way in hell, sir. We’re too heavy and your little toy is compromising our aerodynamics.”
“Can we outmaneuver it?”
“It’s like flying a pig with wings, sir.”
And they were carrying no missiles. Only the Gatling gun.
“ETA to the target?”
“About two and a half minutes.”
It wasn’t enough time—the Chinese fighter was coming up on them fast and none of the F-15s was in a position to break away and engage it.
His pilot rammed the stick forward and Smith found himself pinned to the seat as they dived. The jet shook like it was going to come apart as the Chinese fighter swung in behind.
Smith wanted to look back at the warplane hunting them but the g-forces made it impossible. How close was it? Had it been able to match the ferocity of their dive? Did its pilot have a shot?
His questions were answered a moment later when the cockpit was filled with the dull screech of an alarm. The aircraft behind them had radar lock.
Smith braced himself and managed to find enough leverage to turn slightly in his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the plane only a few hundred yards back, using its superior maneuverability to counter their pathetic attempts to shake it. In the distance he could see the contrails of the ongoing dogfight, but individual planes were impossible to make out.
Smith faced forward again, staring blankly at the back of the pilot’s seat. Did Takahashi know what was happening? Was he laughing while he watched the Chinese destroy their last hope?
Smith’s teeth were clenched so tightly that he could hear them grinding together in his head. He closed his eyes and waited, but nothing happened. He assumed that waiting helplessly to be incinerated had thrown off his ability to mark time but eventually the seconds stretched out long enough to suggest that this wasn’t it. Finally, he opened his eyes and twisted around. The plane was still there, lined up right behind them.
“Why isn’t he firing?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Could he have a weapons malfunction?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
They leveled out and the J-11 disengaged, setting a course back to help his comrades.
The first thing that came to Smith’s mind was that it was a trick. But to what end? That pilot could have killed them with the flip of a switch. Had Castilla managed to get through to his Chinese counterpart? Convince him to pull back?
Smith looked past the plane hurtling away from them and squinted at the dogfight still in progress. As near as he could tell, there were only two Chinese aircraft remaining and both were being double-teamed by the surviving F-15s. It was time to make a decision. The J-11s weren’t going to last much longer, even with the plane coming to their aid.
“Disengage!” Smith said, opening a channel to his men. “I repeat: disengage. Defensive actions only.”