Over Eastern China
General Masao Takahashi adjusted the focus on his binoculars and panned them slowly across the jet’s side window. On both sides of him his men were doing the same with their naked eye—silently watching the events unfolding in the sky to the south.
It was impossible to follow the chaos of the dogfight, or even to reliably differentiate between the US F-15s and the Chinese J-11s. What he could say with certainty, though, was that the Americans’ surprise attack had been successful. The odds were roughly even now.
He dropped the binoculars and went forward to the cockpit where he grabbed a headset. “Connect me to Chengdu tower.”
The pilot flipped a switch on the radio and then returned his attention to the windscreen, leaning into it and scanning the tangled contrails being created by the warplanes.
“Chengdu tower. This is General Masao Takahashi in Prime Minister Sanetomi’s plane. Your aircraft have engaged a group of American fighters to our south. Please advise. What is the situation?”
These communications were undoubtedly being monitored at the highest levels, and he could use that to keep the Chinese off balance. It seemed likely that President Castilla had already informed them that Takahashi was attempting to deliver some kind of weapon, using that as cover for the incursion into China’s airspace. Clearly they didn’t trust the Americans and had decided to stop them. All he had to do was make sure they stayed the course and unwittingly destroyed their only chance at survival.
“Stand by, General,” a voice over the radio responded.
“Tower, is this an exercise? Please advise. We appear to be within missile range. Should we change course?”
“Stand by.”
Takahashi isolated the mike and spoke to his pilot. “What is our ETA to Chengdu?”
“We should be at the outskirts in fifty-three minutes, sir.”
Takahashi looked out at the dogfight, now barely discernible on the horizon. The distance was nothing more than an illusion, he knew. The fighters’ superior speed would allow them to close it in a matter of seconds.
Squinting into the sunlight, he focused on a contrail near the center of the chaos. There was something strange about it. Something different about the way it reflected the sunlight.
“Binoculars!”
One of his men rushed to bring him the pair he’d left on the seat and Takahashi put them to his eyes. A jolt of adrenaline coursed through him as he saw that a lone fighter had broken away and was on course to intercept them. He kept the lenses trained on it long enough to analyze the profile and confirm that it was American.
“Tower, this is Takahashi,” he said into his headset. “One of the F-15s has broken away and is on course to intercept us. Connect me immediately to President Yandong. We are on a diplomatic mission and the prime minister is gravely ill.”
“We are connecting you, General,” the voice responded. “Please stand by.”
Another fighter broke away and gave chase. Takahashi watched, feeling the pounding of his heart ease slightly. It was Chinese and it was overtaking the F-15 at a rate that would put it behind the American fighter well before it got within range of Takahashi’s jet.
Nothing could stop him now. Not the Americans. Not the Chinese. This was his destiny. They would land in Chengdu and while the doctors pronounced Sanetomi dead, he would release the weapon that would exterminate their entire useless race.
Of course the Japanese government would insist on the immediate return of the prime minister’s body, and Takahashi would solemnly accompany it on its journey back to home soil. He would make speeches about his admiration for the politician, about his patriotism and dedication. In reality, though, he would be waiting for the first subtle signs of weakness in Chengdu’s infrastructure. For the confused and typically secretive reaction from the Chinese government as it tried to protect its power. And finally for the country to descend into chaos.
The general watched the F-15 begin evasive action, but its maneuvers seemed awkward and heavy in comparison with the fighter hunting it. Any moment now the American threat—and indeed America’s domination of the world—would be over. The question was, what should he do about this affront? Would he magnanimously ignore it? No, that would demonstrate weakness. Perhaps the sinking of an aircraft carrier. A demonstration of not only Japan’s ability to defeat the American navy but its willingness to act in the face of aggression.
The J-11 was locked in behind its prey now and Takahashi watched the American pilot futilely try to shake it off. Nothing he did, though, had any effect. Nothing could save the aircraft now.
Takahashi counted the seconds in his mind as they ticked past, but the Chinese pilot didn’t fire.
“Chengdu tower,” he said, trying to keep his sudden uncertainty from creeping into his voice. “The American aircraft is still on an intercept course. Are we connected to President Yandong?”
No response.
“Chengdu tower, I—”
He fell silent when the Chinese fighter suddenly broke off and swept south.
“Where is the nearest population center?” he said to the pilot.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Find out and change course for it!” Takahashi said. He brought the binoculars to his eyes again but couldn’t find the F-15. Running to the back of the plane, he pressed the side of his face to one of the windows, trying to get a line of sight.
The fighter was close and continuing to overtake them. Its gray paint scheme and dual tail fins were fully distinguishable despite the sun’s glare.
“Sir!” the pilot shouted from the cockpit. “The closest significant population concentration is approximately fifteen minutes to the north.”
Takahashi ran forward again and picked up a headset as his security men kept their eyes locked on the windows. “Put me on a channel monitored by the F-15 and change course for that city.
“US military aircraft. This is General Masao Takahashi of the Japanese self-defense forces. We are diverting from Chengdu. What are your intentions?”
Silence.
“US military aircraft!” Takahashi repeated, starting to feel the unfamiliar sensation of panic rising in him. “I repeat, this is General—”
He was thrown backward, slamming his head into the back of the empty copilot’s seat as the pilot suddenly banked right. For a moment, he thought the buzz filling his ears was a result of the impact, but it didn’t take long for him to recognize it for what it really was: the F-15’s Gatling gun.
Takahashi crawled back to the headset on the floor, but the cable connecting it to the control panel had been severed. When he looked up, he saw the American fighter coming in from the east, the flash of the twenty-millimeter rounds fully visible through the windscreen. This time there was nothing the pilot could do. The bullets ripped through their wing, causing the jet to buck wildly. Takahashi managed to get into the copilot’s seat but a moment later the metallic screech of the wing’s structure tearing away filled the cockpit.
The jet lurched sideways and Takahashi tried to get hold of the seat’s harness as the whistle of the air passing over the damaged aircraft grew deafening.
The pilot wrestled with the stick for a moment but then just gave up and allowed the plane to spin toward the earth.