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Osan Air Force Base
South Korea
28 February
0850 Local Time
The flight of four F-22 Raptor stealth fighters crept down the taxiway one by one. As they reached the end of the runway, their aircraft were checked over one last time and their training chaff and flares were armed by the maintenance personnel wearing orange vests. After they were armed, the four Raptors lined up short of the runway and passed each other a thumbs up indicating they were ready for takeoff.
In fifteen-second intervals, each aircraft took the runway and lit its afterburners. They each roared down the runway, raising the landing gear just after taking off as they rocketed toward the clear blue skies.
With their transponders giving away their position, the stealth fighters were monitored by North Korean and Chinese controllers as they made their way out over the Yellow Sea. The four aircraft split up to protect their simulated areas of responsibility against the Kunsan-based American F-16s that were simulating the aggressors for the afternoon mission.
Twenty minutes after the “Fight’s on call,” the flight lead called “Knock it off” and directed the flight to rejoin from their respective lanes. Once joined up, the four-ship of F-22s flew to the awaiting KC-135 orbiting just outside the protected training airspace.
They each made their way across the tanker’s refueling boom, filling up their internal fuel tanks for another simulated fight in the airspace. After the fourth aircraft topped off his tanks, the flight lead saluted him off as he climbed away from the formation.
The pilot turned off his ATC transponder as he spiraled upward above the orbiting tanker, climbing through forty thousand feet before turning northwest. He checked his cabin pressure as he continued climbing through fifty thousand feet. Approaching the altitude known as “Armstrong’s Line,” he risked severe decompression sickness and even death if the F-22’s pressurized cockpit were to suddenly decompress. Without a pressure suit, his body’s external fluids like saliva, tears, and the liquids wetting the alveoli in his lungs would boil. His specialized high-altitude G-suit would only give him seconds to make an emergency descent from the high altitudes he would be flying.
He leveled off above sixty-thousand feet and checked his systems. His calculated engine fuel flows were exactly where they needed to be for the nearly one-thousand-mile round trip mission, but he was well aware of the possibility that he would only use half that range.
A few minutes after leveling off, the pilot checked his datalink display. He had a single encrypted message on his display with the word TEXAS. The mission was a go. His heart started beating faster.
The cockpit was eerily quiet. His radios were turned off. With his earplugs and helmet, he could only hear the steady roar of the Pratt and Whitney engines beneath him. He looked out over the water and saw tiny white caps. He imagined the waves crashing beneath him and the misery of trying to find the inflatable raft if he were to get shot down over the water.
As he crossed into Chinese airspace, the pilot checked his countermeasures and electronic protection suite display. The system was designed to alert him of any enemy aircraft or surface to air missile systems in the area, and then warn him if they were targeting him. His radar display showed a fighter patrol just to the west, but the system had determined that they weren’t a threat yet. With his altitude and radar cross section the size of a small bird, they would have to be specifically looking for him to know he was entering their airspace.
He could see the coastal city of Dalian to his right. At his altitude, he could barely make out Tianjin in the distance. He switched to his weapon status displays. His payload showed green and ready inside the weapons bay. He double-checked his mission coordinates a final time. Everything was green.
He was flying nearly twelve miles per minute as his Raptor approached the Chinese mainland. As the distance counted down on his navigation display, he reached up and flipped the MASTER ARM switch to ARM. The F-22 streaked across the sky as the aircraft went “Feet Dry.”
The pilot said a small prayer, realizing he was possibly going to go down in history as the pilot who dropped the first bomb of World War III. “God help us,” he said as he pressed the red weapons release button on top of the side stick.
The Raptor’s weapons bay doors opened and a six-foot long bomb fell from its weapons rack. Once the bomb was safely separated from the aircraft, the bay doors slammed shut and the pilot’s HUD showed a timer counting down to impact. Satisfied that the bomb was on its way, he started a turn back to the southeast as the doors closed.
The two hundred- and fifty-pound GBU-39 Small Diameter Bomb began its free fall toward the target. Its pop-out wings extended as the bomb’s internal GPS unit picked up satellites and began guiding the bomb’s glide profile toward its target.
The F-22 sped away from the target as the bomb glided toward Beijing. The pilot had done his part of the Top Secret mission. The rest would be up to history.
* * *
Situation Room
White House
Washington, D.C.
27 February
2145 Local Time
“Madam President,” Clifton’s active Chief of Staff said as he approached the conference table where she was sitting in the Situation Room. “We have President Lingwei up on video chat now. It’s time.”
“Excuse me, General,” she said as General Kelly stood with her. The two had been discussing their military options in retaliation for the Chinese operation at Midway in the event that Clifton’s plan failed.
She followed Plonski into the secure video teleconference room. She nodded for Plonski to leave, and stood in the middle of the room as President Lingwei appeared on screen. His stern expression betrayed a hint of annoyance with the impromptu chat request, but he smiled diplomatically anyway as he realized she was on the screen.
“You look well,” he said. It was the first time they had seen each other since just after her election. Their conversations had been limited to the phone since she had returned to Washington.
“As do you, Mr. President,” Clifton said. “I was hoping to talk to you about my proposal.”
Lingwei’s fake smile vanished. “As I told you on the phone earlier, Madam President, that while we are willing to work with your government to find the people responsible, our government is not willing to make concessions on either of your demands. Both would be severely detrimental to our economy.”
“I understand that, Mr. President, however, I implore you to reconsider,” Clifton said as she looked up at the bright red LED clock above the teleconferencing screen. She had only minutes remaining. “A war between our countries will not be good for your economy either.”
“And as I have told you already before, Madam President, we have no knowledge or involvement in the horrific acts that happened to you and your people. It is unfortunate that it had to happen, but Colonel Fang was not acting on behalf of the People’s Republic of China or the Politburo,” Lingwei said dismissively. “Threatening war between our two countries over circumstantial evidence is unacceptable. If you should continue this rhetoric, I will be forced to bring this matter up to the United Nations Security Council.”
“You disregard my warnings at your own peril,” Clifton replied. “Do not mistake my willingness to negotiate for weakness.”
“I am sorry, Madam President, but I am very busy. Please address any further matters through our Emb—”
Lingwei ducked as there was a loud crash behind him and dust kicked up. He was sitting in his office, which had a view of the open courtyard behind him. Clifton could see people running as the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound inert concrete bomb landed exactly on target in the fountain of the courtyard.
Lingwei looked back over his shoulder as the dust and water settled and then returned to the screen. Clifton folded her arms and watched in silence while waiting for him to gather himself. He pushed off two men who appeared on screen to evacuate him.
“What did you do?” Lingwei snapped frantically at Clifton.
“You may think I’m a fool, Mr. President, but I assure you, I am well aware of the games you are playing,” Clifton said confidently. “Assassination attempts by your government will not be tolerated. You are not as well protected as you think.”
Lingwei’s chest was heaving as he nervously looked back out the window. “You would dare bomb me? This is war!”
“No, Mr. President, war was your attempt at Midway and your disregard of my warnings. What you just saw was my last warning. It was a training round filled with concrete,” Clifton said.
“You are insane!” Lingwei yelped.
“I guess watching people shot and beheaded right in front of you will do that to a person,” Clifton said as she closed her eyes.
“So, what’s it going to be, Mr. President?” she asked angrily as she reopened her eyes. “Are you ready to come to terms? Because the next one is going to be real.”