Dancing with the Dragon (2002) (14 page)

"No radar," Ts'ao yelled above the screams coming from the cabin. "Nothing on radar! They show nothing!"

"Turn off the lights!" Zhou ordered. "Exterior and interior!" Ts'ao snapped the switches off. "Dive and make a steep left turn!"

Five seconds later, the pilots and passengers were blinded by a bright bluish-white flash a moment before the ATR-72 exploded, then rolled to the left and exploded again. For more than six minutes, debris continued to impact the Yellow Sea four miles northeast of Lianyungang, China.

MCAS Cherry Point, North Carolina

Lieutenant Colonel Reggie "Reggae" Warrington, commanding officer of Marine Attack Training Squadron 203, the only Harrier training squadron in the United States, walked into his office and handed Scott a mug of steaming coffee.

Reggie and his wife had entertained Jackie and Scott the previous evening. The dinner party had been filled with the revelry of countless war stories from the early days in the Harrier community.

For Scott, the biggest surprise of the evening was Reggie's announcement that he, not a squadron instructor, would be requalifying Dalton in the two-seat TAV-8B.

During the next few days, Scott would attend a concentrated and accelerated version of ground school from early morning until noon, break for lunch, then brief, fly, and debrief two instructional flights with Reggie in the afternoon. The third day would culminate with a trip to the boat to carrier-qualify, followed by a night-flying exercise, including refueling from a KC-130 Hercules.

While Scott was going through the abbreviated requalifying syllabus, Jackie would complete a specialized Harrier ground school, then receive a thorough checkout in the backseat of the attack plane. After a comprehensive review of all emergency procedures, she would be scheduled for three FAM (familiarization) flights and a ride to the boat.

The third and final day of Scott's requalification in the Harrier, two TAV-8Bs, flown by VMAT-203 instructors, would depart at 0600 for Marine Corps Air Station Miramar, California. They would pre-position the jets for Scott and Jackie, then catch the next available military flight back to Cherry Point.

The base was beginning to stir as Warrington sat down behind his desk and blew steam from the top of his coffee mug. "I'm sure you remember what I told you about the Harrier."

"Well, most of it," Scott said.

Reggie took an exploratory sip of coffee. "If you don't want to bust your ass in a Harrier, you must obey the laws of aerodynamics of V/STOL flight. Like conventional airplanes, if you disregard what the flying machine is trying to tell you, things generally go south rather quickly."

A slow grin creased the corners of Scott's mouth. "Yeah, I've been there a time or two--maybe six times."

"In a Harrier it's all over, guarownteed, if you don't obey the basic physics of flight. You can have Sky King 'seat-of-the-pants' flying skills, along with the reflexes of a gunfighter, but the Harrier will nail your ass if you let it draw first."

Scott nodded, reflecting on the close calls he'd experienced in the unique attack aircraft. It could be a handful if you let your guard down.

"We'll start with vertical takeoffs, then work on slow-landing touch-and-go's, followed by rolling-vertical landings to a full stop. After that we'll depart the pattern for some air work."

"Sounds good."

Having flown the AV-8B, Dalton didn't anticipate any problems with his refresher training. However, he knew Warrington was dead right. One moment of inattention, one misstep, and the outcome could ruin your day.

Warrington looked at his wristwatch. `You'd better head for the school yard. I'll see you after lunch."

"Lookin' forward to it, sir."

At precisely 1300, Scott reported to Warrington's office. Dalton had changed into his flight gear and was carrying his helmet. Scott and Reggie briefed airfield operating procedures, FAM-one expectations and maneuvers, and all emergency procedures. Finally, after a lengthy question-and-answer session, they were ready to walk. They checked the aircraft's maintenance records, gave the airplane a thorough preflight, and then strapped in for Scott's first sortie.

Start-up, taxi, and takeoff went very well and Scott rapidly felt at home in the plane again. After a half hour it was as if he had never stopped flying the Harrier.

Chapter
10.

The Strait of Korea

At the first hint of daylight on the horizon, the USSJohn S. McCain, an Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer, slowly closed on the port side of the Chinese-flagged cargo ship Chiang Hai-ch'eng. An SH-60B Seahawk LAMPS Mark III helicopter rose from the aft helo deck of Big Bad John and banked into a shallow 360-degree turn to the right before taking up station on the port side of the destroyer.

Slightly astern of McCain and on the starboard side of the rust-covered Chinese vessel, the USS Vandergrzft, an Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided missile frigate, launched one of its SH-60Bs. The Seahawk helos provided all-weather capability for the detection and interdiction of surface ships and submarines. For close encounters of the worst kind, the helicopters were equipped with Mark-46/50 torpedoes, Hellfire and Penguin air-to-surface missiles, and .50-caliber machine guns.

Two Kitty Hawk-based F-14 Tomcats from the famous Black Nights of VF-154 loitered overhead the Chiang Hai-ch'eng at five thousand feet. Above the sleek fighter planes, two VFA-27 Royal Maces F/A-18 Hornets orbited at seven thousand feet. The four aircraft had refueled from a Marine Corps KC-130 Hercules prior to taking up station over the suspicious cargo ship.

On the bridge of McCain, Comdr. Antonio Lavancia raised his binoculars and carefully studied the Chinese ship. Off to the side, Lieutenant Erik Pomeroy, the ship's damage-control officer, quietly cleared his throat.

"What is it?" Lavancia asked without taking his eyes off the cargo ship.

A stickler for regulations and minutiae, Pomeroy stepped forward to address his commanding officer. "Sir, according to the Convention of the High Seas adopted at Geneva, except where acts of interference are derived from powers conferred by treaty, a warship which encounters a foreign merchant ship on the high seas is not justified in boarding her unless there is reasonable ground for--"

"Erik," Lavancia interrupted, "I am fully aware of the rules of international law relating to boarding vessels on the high seas."

Tall and stooped, Pomeroy started to speak, then decided against it when he saw the muscles in Lavancia's neck and face beginning to tighten.

"Our orders are unambiguous. We have been directed to request permission to board the ship. That, Mr. Pomeroy, is not a violation of international law. If we are denied permission, that will be the end of our responsibility. No shots across the bow, no further action required, no broken laws."

"Yes, sir," Pomeroy said, and stepped back.

Lavancia felt a twinge of guilt. Ill suited for a career in the military, Erik Bretton Pomeroy was the only son of a highly respected retired navy captain. A graduate of the U. S. Naval Academy, albeit near the bottom of his class, Pomeroy was expected to continue the family tradition. Alas, due primarily to Pomeroy's lack of ad rem reasoning power, the tradition was destined to become a memory at the conclusion of his current sea-duty obligation.

After many attempts to contact the Chiang Hai-ch'eng, the ship's master finally responded to the request to stop for consensual boarding. The Chinese captain was pleasant but made it very clear that he could not stop his vessel without permission from his parent company.

When asked about the name and address of the company, the master replied, "Wang Zhaoxing Limited, based in Hong Kong."

Commander Lavancia immediately transmitted the information to Washington, D. C. While McCain and Vandegrift continued to follow the Chinese ship, U. S. State Department officials attempted to contact its parent company. After twelve hours of delays, and with reluctant assistance from Chinese government officials, the facts finally emerged. Wang Zhaoxing Limited did not exist, not in Hong Kong or any other Chinese city or province.

Camp David

Nestled in Maryland's Catoctin Mountain Park, the presidential retreat was established in 1942 by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who named it Shangri-La. President Dwight David "Ike" Eisenhower renamed the mountain hideaway Camp David after his grandson.

The retreat, a half-hour helicopter ride from the White House, included ten comfortable cabins, a dining lodge, a movie auditorium, two bowling lanes, clay tennis courts, horse stables, a trout stream, two swimming pools, and a one-hole golf course.

The hideaway afforded a solitary atmosphere where no reporters were allowed. Only the first family, cabinet members, and a select group of invited guests and foreign dignitaries had ever been allowed at the retreat. Camp David's attraction was casual attire, simple cuisine, and straight talk. President Cord Macklin preferred the solitude when dealing with difficult situations.

Wearing a golf shirt with the logo of his alma mater, a navy-blue sweater, pleated khaki slacks, and shined cordovan loafers, the commander in chief walked into the dining lodge and entered the president's private office. Inside, Macklin's attractive wife, Maria Eden-Macklin, was having coffee while she waited for him.

"Good morning," she said with a warm smile.

"And good morning to you." He gave her a light kiss on the cheek while she checked his busy schedule to make sure there were no obvious glitches.

He reached for a glass of tomato juice and glanced at the set of clocks on the wall. "Well, they should be here in a few minutes." "They're on time."

Tall and trim, the chief executive looked the part of the consummate, highly confident Washington politician. Boisterous and stubborn-natured at times, Cord Macklin had an infectious smile, silver-gray hair, and deeply set blue eyes.

An air force F-105 Thunderchief pilot during the Vietnam War, he was a no-nonsense straight talker who did not tolerate laziness or indecisiveness. A graduate of the Air Force Academy, Macklin had played football there with his lifelong friend, air force general Les Chalmers, the current chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Hearing the familiar sound of a Marine VH-60 VIP helicopter, Macklin placed his copy of the President's Daily Brief on his desk. Considered to be the most expensive and least distributed newspaper in the world, the PDB had been personally delivered to Macklin at 0610 hours by a senior analyst from the CIA.

The brief was a thorough, up-to-the-minute summary of world events and the latest analysis of problematic areas and thorny global situations. The analyst and Macklin had discussed a number of plausible what-if scenarios, plotting what courses of action the White House might pursue if the events developed.

After finishing his juice the president and Maria rose and walked outside to greet their guests.

A retired foreign correspondent, the gracious first lady was an intelligent, shapely brunette a decade younger than her husband. At the tender age of eleven, Maria had traveled with her father to live in British East Africa. She had been schooled by a private tutor until returning to the United States to attend college.

Stately and friendly, self-disciplined to project the proper image of a first lady, Maria almost always displayed a sense of serenity. She and her husband worked well as a team. His aides and advisers notwithstanding, Cord Macklin relied heavily on Maria's instincts and common sense--traits missing in many beltway circles.

After a pleasant greeting, Macklin and the first lady escorted Hartwell Prost, Secretary of Defense Pete Adair, and Gen. Les Chalmers inside.

Although Chalmers and the president had gone their separate ways after Vietnam, they had remained close friends and often fished or hunted together when their busy schedules would allow. Still muscular and athletic, Chalmers was the embodiment of a four-star officer. He was an even-tempered man who had a reputation for being a mentor to less senior officers. The general had a wide forehead and thin lines etched down his cheeks. A slow smile added to his handsome features, not to mention the twinkling hazel eyes that squinted through narrow slits.

Surrounded by Secret Service agents, the group entered the dining lodge and then settled in Macklin's private office, which doubled as a conference room. Fresh coffee, orange juice, tomato juice, and warm pastries awaited the men and Maria while they made themselves comfortable for the early morning meeting.

A former Green Beret captain, Pete Adair had been born on a small farm in the Oklahoma Panhandle. Adair's boundless enthusiasm was contagious at the White House and at the Pentagon. His folksy personality was appealing to military personnel, but that wasn't all they liked about him; they considered him a man of integrity and honesty. He was extremely knowledgeable about military affairs, and they knew he fought hard to provide the very best in pay and equipment for the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines. He even pounded home the need to keep the U. S. Coast Guard on par with the other services, even though they were officially outside his area of responsibility.

"Well, gentlemen, what can you tell me about this Chinese cargo ship, the . ." Macklin paused.

"Chiang Hai-ch'eng,"Hartwell Prost offered, then continued as he opened his briefcase and methodically spread papers before him on the table. "Mr. President, we've had some very interesting developments in the last few hours."