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  “Thirty miles southeast of the southern search box. About two hours’ steaming time.”

  “Request that they move closer to the box but remain clear for the time being, and pass along my . . .”

  “Bridge, Tactical, lost contact with the Eagle Eye!” Fells interjected, using the direct “CALL” function of the intercom to interrupt all other communications.

  Sheridan swore aloud. “Shit! What the hell happened, Ed?”

  “Don’t know, sir. No malfunction annunciations. The thing just went dark.”

  “Crap,” Sheridan muttered. All they had in the southern search box was the Global Hawk now. On the radio, he spoke, “Mohawk Zero-One, how’s it going?”

  “Swimmer’s in the water,” Coffey replied. A moment later: “Sir, swimmer says the person in the water is alive! He’s busted up very badly and may not survive the return flight, but right now he’s breathing!”

  “Sweet Jesus, that’s incredible!” Sheridan said. “Head back to the barn at best speed as soon as your swimmer’s aboard.”

  “About five more minutes, sir.”

  “Call sick bay, tell them we have a survivor inbound, ETE about an hour,” Sheridan said to the officer of the deck. “I want this guy alive.” He switched channels on the telephone. “Tactical, Bridge, Ed, any ideas on what the hell happened to the Eagle Eye?”

  “None, sir,” Fells replied. “But from the initial reports I read about the P-8 incident, they reported the same thing: sudden loss of contact, no indications of a malfunction. It’s possible that whatever hit the Poseidon hit the Eagle Eye too.”

  “Hit it? Like what? A missile, fired from a sub?”

  “Possible, but unless the missile was some kind of a magical silver bullet, the aircraft would have reported multiple malfunctions before losing contact—engine fire, electrical, hydraulics, so on,” Fells said. “Whatever hit the P-8 and the Eagle Eye shut them down in the blink of an eye, before any malfunctions could be reported.”

  “Mohawk One, Zero-One is RTB,” Coffey radioed.

  Thank God, Sheridan breathed. With first the Poseidon gone and now the Eagle Eye gone but hopefully automatically on its way back, the South China Sea suddenly felt like a very dangerous place, and the quicker he got his last air asset back on the deck, the better. “You got the Jayhawk on radar, Ed?”

  “Affirmative, sir,” Fells reported. “He’s doing a hundred knots, and his fuel reserves look good.”

  SOUTH SEA FLEET HEADQUARTERS, ZHANJIANG, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Admiral Chen of the Zhenyuan is on the phone, sir.”

  Admiral Zhen picked up the telephone. “Go ahead, Admiral Chen.”

  “Sir, radar reports another aircraft, possibly a patrol helicopter, heading north away from the search area,” Chen said. “It was observed hovering for several minutes in an area just north of the search box.”

  “A second search helicopter?”

  “The high-endurance American cutters embark two rotary-wing search aircraft, sir, one manned and one unmanned,” Chen said. “The unmanned aircraft has been neutralized, but the second one is heading north at high speed.”

  Heading back to its mothership, Zhen thought. And if it was hovering, it means it could have found something—and if that something could implicate China in the downing of the American search plane, his mission would have failed.

  “Bring down that second patrol helicopter with Wúsheng Léitíng, Admiral Chen,” Zhen said. “I do not want that helicopter to return to the Coast Guard vessel.”

  “Stand by, sir,” Chen said. Zhen’s anger rose as the seconds ticked by. Finally, Chen reported: “Sir, the helicopter is out of range of Silent Thunder.”

  “Then order one of your screening vessels to shoot it down.”

  Another maddening pause; this time, Zhen anticipated the reply: “Sir, we have no destroyers or frigates in position.”

  “Then launch the alert fighter, Chen,” Admiral Zhen said. “Shoot down that helicopter.”

  “Repeat that last, sir?” Chen asked in a high, squeaky voice, obviously not expecting that order whatsoever.

  “That is the second time you questioned an order,” Zhen said. “I repeat, shoot down that damned helicopter! I do not want that helicopter to get back aboard that cutter! Acknowledge my order!”

  “But sir . . . sir, none of our pilots are night carrier landing qualified, sir,” Chen said.

  “What did you say, Chen?” Zhen thundered.

  “Sir, this was a shakedown cruise for the deck handlers and propulsion section crews, not for night flight operations. Our pilots are day carrier landing qualified only!”

  “I do not want excuses, Chen!” Zhen shouted. “Get a fighter and your best pilot airborne now. I do not care if he has to recover on a land base or if he has to ditch, but I want him airborne now!”

  ABOARD THE PEOPLE’S LIBERATION ARMY NAVY CARRIER ZHENYUAN

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Acknowledged, sir,” Admiral Chen responded, but the secure connection had already been broken. He immediately selected the telephone channel for carrier flight operations.

  “Flight operations duty officer Lieutenant Wu, sir.”

  “Captain Zhang, immediately.”

  “Shì de, xiânsheng,” the duty officer replied. A few moments later: “Hai Jun Shang Xiao Zhang, sir.”

  “Captain Zhang, launch the alert fighter,” Chen said. “Vector the pilot to an American helicopter flying north. I want it shot down immediately.”

  “Dui-bu-qi, xiânsheng?” Zhang replied in disbelief.

  “Immediately, Captain,” Chen said in a completely toneless, almost dead voice.

  “Sir . . . Bolin . . .” Zhang said. He was one of the few junior officers on the entire vessel—in the entire fleet—allowed to call the admiral by his first name; they had known each other for years. “Are you damned sure you want to do this?”

  “I have orders directly from South Sea Fleet headquarters, Peiyan,” Chen said in a low voice. “Directly from Admiral Zhen.”

  “But you are still the captain of the Zhenyuan battle group, Bolin,” Zhang said. “You took a chance by complying with that order to shoot down the American patrol plane if it appeared it would not crash. I think you can escape retribution for that. But shooting down an unarmed patrol helicopter?”

  “I have my orders, Peiyan.”

  “I say again, you are the commanding officer of this entire battle group, Bolin,” Zhang said. “You have the ultimate authority and responsibility to refuse any order that might endanger your men or your vessels. Shooting down that helicopter will certainly result in immediate American counterattack on this battle group. Their carrier battle group will be within striking range in just a few hours!”

  Chen hesitated for several moments, scanning the bridge and noting the duty officer and a few of the watchstanders glancing in his direction, wondering what the captain would do. Finally, Chen straightened his shoulders. “Launch the alert fighter, Captain Zhang. Immediately. Attack and destroy the American helicopter. Acknowledge.”

  “Acknowledged, sir,” Zhang responded in a voice even deader than Chen’s had been. “I will fly the sortie myself. Then, if we are shot or imprisoned as murderers, we will do so together.” And the connection was terminated.

  U.S. COAST GUARD CUTTER MOHAWK

  SEVERAL MINUTES LATER

  “It’s a real miracle, Skipper,” the copilot aboard the HH-60 Jayhawk, Lieutenant Lucy Cross, radioed. “The survivor is a woman. She was wearing a flight helmet, so my guess is she was the pilot or copilot. I don’t know how she got out alive. She’s unconscious, and she’s got several broken bones, including a badly fractured neck, but she’s breathing.”

  “How far out are they, Ed?” Doug Sheridan asked on intercom.

  “Still thirty-five minutes, sir,” Edward Fells, the tactical officer, responded.

  “Doctors and medics ready on the helo deck?”

  �
��Medical crew standing by, sir,” the officer of the deck responded after radioing down.

  “Victim is in cardiac arrest,” Cross radioed. “Stand by, Skipper.”

  Shit, Sheridan thought, but this time he didn’t say it aloud. “Do what you can, guys,” he radioed. C’mon, darlin’, he thought, fight, fight! . . .

  “Got her back, Skipper,” the copilot radioed a couple minutes later, the relief evident in her voice. “I think the ASTs just said she was in arrest so they could put their hands all over her chest.”

  “Get your head back in the game, guys,” Sheridan said gruffly, but inside he was breathing a sigh of relief too, thankful that he had some of the Coast Guard’s finest aviation survival technicians serving on his cutter. The ASTs were the workhorses of Coast Guard aviation. They trained as hard as Navy SEALS, knew as much about helicopters as a mechanic, as much about emergency medicine as a paramedic, and as much about . . .

  “Bridge, Tactical, high-speed bogey, sixty miles south, low altitude, speed six hundred knots, heading right for us!” Fells radioed.

  “General quarters, man battle stations,” Sheridan said calmly. He was pleased with how relaxed he felt: just the simple act of talking to the crew about this very eventuality put him instantly at ease. “Stand by on the 76 to repel hostile aircraft.” The 76 was the ship’s 76-millimeter Otobreda Super Rapid dual-purpose gun, mounted on the bow. The gun could engage surface and air targets as far away as eighteen miles. The Mohawk also carried a Phalanx Close-In Weapon System on the stern, a radar-guided twenty-millimeter machine gun that could engage air targets as far as two miles away across the entire rear quadrant of the cutter. “Comm, radio on all emergency frequencies, high-speed aircraft, alter course immediately or you will be fired on. Advise the Jayhawk. Bearing on the bogey?”

  “Bogey bearing one-niner zero, heading zero-one-zero, directly for us.”

  “Helm, steer one-niner zero,” Sheridan ordered. He wanted to match the aircraft’s bearing in order to present the smallest profile possible to the attacker. “Range from bogey to Jayhawk?”

  “Twenty miles, sir. The helo is directly between us and the bogey.”

  He picked up the radiotelephone. “Mohawk Zero-One, Mohawk One, alter course twenty right to stay out of our line of fire.”

  “Mohawk Air One, roger,” Coffey replied, his voice definitely on edge.

  “Range to bogey?”

  “Fifty miles.”

  The officer of the deck handed Sheridan a white Kevlar helmet and streamlined auto-inflating life vest. “The Mohawk is at battle stations, sir,” he reported. “Weapon systems manned and ready. We are heading one-niner-zero, flank speed.”

  “Very well.”

  “Bridge, Tactical, the bogey is altering course!” Fell announced. “He turned hard right! He’s keeping the helo between him and us!”

  “Why the hell is he . . . ?” And his eyes bulged in fear as he realized what the aircraft was doing: “Damn, he’s going after the helo!” Sheridan shouted. “Comm, send to Fleet and Area, unidentified high-speed aircraft pursuing rescue helo, request immediate help! Tactical, range from bogey to helo!”

  “Eight miles.”

  Sheridan picked up the radiotelephone. “Mohawk Zero-One, Mohawk One, you’ve got an unidentified fast-mover about eight miles on your tail and closing fast. Try warning him away on the radio—we tried, but maybe he can’t hear us. Make sure your transponder is on.”

  “Roger.”

  “Range between the bogey and the helo?”

  “Five miles.”

  Sheridan could hear Cross’s radio calls on the UHF GUARD emergency frequency, so there was no doubt she was broadcasting and could hear his instructions. “Range?”

  “Two miles. His airspeed is decreasing. He may be closing in for identification. One mile. Radar returns merging.”

  “Any identification on this guy at all?” he asked. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! U.S. Coast Guard helicopter Mohawk Zero-One, two hundred and sixty miles north of Lincoln Island, catastrophic engine explosion, suspected air-to-air attack, we are going down, we are going down, Mayday, Mayd—”

  And that was the last they heard from the Jayhawk.

  THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF BATTLE STAFF ROOM, THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “We lost two helicopters?” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Air Force General Timothy Spellings, thundered. “Will someone explain to me right now how we can lose two helicopters from one vessel in the same ocean and we’re not in a state of war?” He looked around the conference table, fighting to regain his composure; then he said: “Ed, what’s the status of our surface forces in the South China Sea?”

  “Sir, I ordered the Coast Guard cutter Mohawk to exit the area and head for Manila at best possible speed—I didn’t want it in the area facing off alone against that Chinese carrier,” Admiral Edward Fowler, the chief of naval operations, replied. “If there were any survivors from the crash, we’ll have to send out searchers from the Philippines. The George Washington carrier strike group is proceeding on course to the Poseidon crash site and is at battle stations, but they won’t be in position to launch aircraft for several hours.”

  “If I was a suspicious guy, I’d say whoever is shooting down our aircraft did it precisely when we wouldn’t have any carriers in the area, Ed,” Spellings said. “What did the cutter report?”

  “The Mohawk reported a fast-moving aircraft pursuing their helicopter before it went down,” Fowler said. “We believe the fighter came from the Chinese carrier Zhenyuan.”

  “Damn it,” Spellings breathed. “I’ll brief the president. Send the latest position data to my tablet. We still have the Global Hawk up?”

  “Yes, sir,” Fowler said. “It’ll be on station for about eight more hours, and another one is standing by at Andersen Air Force Base. E-2C patrol aircraft from the Washington should be ready to take over by then as well.”

  “No aircraft gets near our planes or within a hundred miles of our ships without a Super Hornet on its tail,” Spellings said. “I’m concerned about carrier planes attacking that Coast Guard cutter. What other air defense aircraft do we have up?”

  “None, sir,” Fowler said.

  “None? Anywhere?” Spellings asked.

  “Not readily available,” Fowler said. “We rely on carrier-based planes for much of our fighter air patrol activity because of the distances involved. The one exception is the bombers based on Guam—they routinely patrol all across the Pacific and Indian Oceans. They’re the only ones that have the legs to reach out that far.”

  Spellings turned to the Air Force chief of staff, General Jason Conaway. “But those bombers don’t have air-to-air weapons, do they?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Conaway replied. “But they do have very long legs as Admiral Fowler said, as well as excellent radars and electro-optical sensors, pretty good intelligence-gathering and transmission capabilities, and of course if the balloon goes up, they’d be one of the best conventional platforms to get our first licks in. At least one stealth bomber is rotated in every six months.” He paused for a moment, then added, “The Air Force did have bombers fitted with air-to-air missiles a few years ago, but since the American Holocaust and the economic slump I believe that capability has been removed.”

  “What fighter assets do you have that we can use now, Jason?”

  “We can deploy some F-15 Eagles from Joint Base Pearl Harbor–Hickam to Guam and set up an air defense zone until the Hornets from the Washington arrive, sir,” Conaway said.

  “How long will that take?”

  “Several hours to get them out to Guam, sir, and then a few hours to set up a patrol box.”

  “What about getting help from the Philippines?”

  “The Philippines has virtually no air superiority aircraft,” Conaway said. “Their money goes for counterinsurgency light attack aircraft. I think they still have F-5s, but the
y are day VFR aircraft only and probably don’t fly too far from shore.”

  Just as well—Spellings hated the idea of relying on a foreign air force for air cover over his own forces anyway. “Get the Eagles on their way, Jason, and have them bring an AWACS radar plane with them. Ed, I’ll need a recommended comm plan between the cutter and the Filipinos so we don’t start firing on one another.” Conaway and Fowler picked up telephones to issue instructions. Spellings issued a few more orders, then adjourned the meeting and headed for the White House to meet with the national security team.

  Conaway’s call was to Pacific Air Forces commander General George Hood in Hawaii. “How are you, George?”

  “Fine, sir, thank you.”

  “The chiefs just met here in the Tank,” Conaway said. “A Coast Guard search-and-rescue helicopter went down in the South China Sea a short time ago. Coast Guard believes it was shot down by a fighter from the Chinese aircraft carrier Zhenyuan.”

  “Oh, shit,” Hood breathed.

  “CJCS wants F-15s and an AWACS sent to Guam to set up a fighter patrol in advance of the Navy sending a carrier. What do you have available?”

  “Stand by, sir.” The wait was not long: “I have the tanker support available to drag six Eagles out there, launching in about an hour. That’s a fairly routine exercise for us. One AWACS is available, and I can rotate a couple more out there in a day or two.”

  “Get them moving.”

  “Yes, sir. The Thirty-Sixth Wing usually handles these deployments, but if they’ll be doing regular patrols I’d rather put the fighters over on the First Expeditionary Bomb Wing side instead of with the normal transients. Colonel Warner Cuthbert is the commander out there; he’ll take good care of them, and there’ll be a lot fewer chances of fighter activity being monitored from outside the base.”

  “Approved.”

  “We may want to discuss regularly rotating fighters and AWACS planes out to Guam, like Cuthbert does with his bombers.”

  “Write up a plan and send it to me right away,” Conaway said. “There wasn’t money in the budget to permanently station more jets out there, but now I think CJCS will be amenable to that idea, given what’s happened out there today. They might even give us back some fighters that were cut in the latest round of budget hack-jobs they did on us.”