Chapter 20 – Wednesday, November 9th
Sidearm Leader – 08: 50 Local Time; 00:50 UTC
The Combat Air Patrols were shared equally between the Liaoning’s 24 fighters, with at least two aircraft ready to respond instantly to any threat. Two more aircraft waited ready on deck, and others could begin launching within twenty minutes. Sidearm Flight flew through a cloudless sky, the two J-15 fighters relying upon a land-based Kongjing AWACS to be their long-range eyes and ears.
Liu Jie was finding it hard to stop smiling, pleased to be finally able to test his skills against the Americans. His Head-Up Display – the HUD – was in Cruise Mode, relevant data such as speed, height and heading, easily visible to Liu without him needing to look down or change focus. Away to the south-east, a pair of U.S. Navy F/A-18 Super Hornets angled their way towards the Chinese Task Force, and the two J-15s readied themselves to intercept. On the HUD, a warning light flashed briefly as the J-15’s sensors detected a radar signal – the Hornets were also being shy, only using their radar as a back-up for more passive systems.
The Air-Controller aboard the AWACS gave new instructions. “Sidearm, Diamond One; target intercept now one-one-zero, range twenty-eight kilometres, level five-six.”
As one, the F-15s banked to the left and accelerated through Mach 1. Liu switched the HUD to Air Combat Mode, thumbing the missile select to arm one of the fighter’s four air-to-air missiles. Idly he wondered whether the Americans realised that the Chinese aircraft were coming up fast and trying to get behind them: this cat and mouse game was familiar to everyone, each side learning from the other’s mistakes.
At thirteen kilometres from intercept, Liu Jie visually picked out the two Hornets ahead and slightly above him. He climbed steadily, closing up on the tail of the first Hornet, knowing that his wingman would be matching his every move.
A double click on his radio to warn his wingman and Liu activated his narrow-beam radar; instantly, a high-pitched tone sounded in his ear and the cross-hairs on the HUD flashed red as he achieved missile lock. Liu automatically pushed up the protective toggle on the control stick and pressed the launch-enable switch; ever so gently his thumb began to caress the missile trigger, the temptation almost too great to resist.
Abruptly the two Hornets split apart as they belatedly tried to shake off the Chinese fighters, one driving high, the other low. Without warning a second tone sounded in Liu’s ear and a red light glowed on the control panel: the threat was behind him!
“Sidearm, two F-35s,” warned the AWACS. “Range ten kilometres, level one-eight and climbing, intercept course two-nine-six.”
The F-35 stealth fighters had crept in past the AWACS’s guard, catching the J15s at their most vulnerable. Liu banked sharply to the right, losing height rapidly. Data on each of the four targets was thrown up on to the HUD, the various threats analysed and arranged in order of priority.
Less than kilometre from Liu, now cruising slightly below him, was his original target. The J-15 swept down, Liu momentarily kicking in the after-burner so that he could catch up with the Hornet. He was now only some forty metres from the U.S. plane and paralleling its course. The Hornet’s pilot turned to look at Liu, then the American touched his oxygen mask and threw his hand away – almost as though in a parting kiss – before banking the Hornet sharply to the left.
Three hours later and two hundred kilometres to the south-east, the macabre dance was repeated as two Chinese fighters flounced around the perimeter of the U.S. exclusion zone. The AWACS watched closely to see how the Hornets would react as the J-15s deliberately tried to test the American pilots’ patience and discipline, almost – but not quite – provoking them to attack.
After all it was only a game; one where consequences of breaking the ‘rules’ occupied the players’ thoughts both awake, and asleep.
Russia – 14:52 Local Time; 04:52 UTC
The journey south from Khabarovsk was turning into a nightmare, the narrow highway ice-covered and packed with vehicles, it taking seven hours to cover just two hundred kilometres. Yashkin had been as good as his word, Markova and Nikolai re-supplied with an off-road vehicle and essential supplies. Their new names had also been added to the FSB’s list of accredited journalists and the relevant paper documents in their jacket pockets were supposedly genuine; now at least they had a tentative excuse to be traveling to Vladivostok, although snooping around the naval base and asking impertinent questions, might just be taking their journalistic credentials a little too far.
Markova herself was still dosed up with pain-killers, the intensity of the headaches slowly decreasing, her ribs still sore and badly bruised. Three cracked ribs was the sum total of her brush with death, and her anger was more directed at those who had ordered the attack than those who had almost killed her. Sitting in the grounds of the clinic, she had clearly heard the sounds of the second assault on Khabarovsk, certain in her mind that it was just another part of Golubeva’s grand strategy. China’s claims that Russia had shelled its own city had been met with public contempt, even Yashkin expressing scorn; now Khabarovsk was busy girding itself in case of more attacks, the highway to the north-west out of the city similarly clogged with traffic.
Nikolai drove, hoping that it would take his mind off his back pain. Not that they could get to Vladivostok any other way, not unless he opted for an equally frustrating bus ride: since early Tuesday morning, all flights to Vladivostok had been diverted, train and ferry services cancelled.
Nikolai was definitely not happy, growing increasingly irritated as for the third time that morning military police waved them off the road and onto the verge to allow various military vehicles to pass, all of them heading south. There were also regular checkpoints, some manned by the military, the rest by the police. Despite a few nervous moments, their IDs had stood up to the test, frowned at, thumbed and duly scanned without incident. Their vehicle had been thoroughly searched twice, with Markova’s satellite phone being viewed with deep suspicion – although, in her role as a journalist it would have seemed odd not to have had one. Markova had tried asking relevant questions, but was met with the standby of ‘military exercise’ or more usually just a blank look; if this was part of Russia’s response to the shelling then it was far more than just a simple redeployment.
Eventually, some three hundred kilometres from Khabarovsk, roughly midway to Vladivostok, they pulled over for the night. The line of civilian vehicles parked beside the highway seemed to stretch for several kilometres and with nothing better to do, the vodka started to flow, people sitting on their vehicles and freely discussing what was happening, most assuming it was a ploy to bring China to heel.
Markova stood and watched as another military convoy was waved past; she only started counting vehicles after the first minute, giving up when she reached a hundred. The line of trucks continued past for several more minutes, Nikolai moving to stand beside her with vodka in one hand, pickled cucumbers in the other.
“35th Army,” he said with authority.
Markova nodded her agreement. If this were some impromptu military exercise, then the unit was a long way from home, their base of Belogorsk almost seven hundred kilometres to the north-west. China would in turn be watching their deployment with a certain nervousness, no doubt wondering like Markova exactly where they were bound.
Washington, D.C. – 06:49 Local Time; 11:49 UTC
Although it was not yet 7 a.m., Cavanagh sat in the Oval Office staring into space, wondering whether he would still be President come Christmas. The election results were as bad as everyone had feared, with the turnout of 26% a serious embarrassment for both political parties. The Republicans could at least take some comfort from the fact that – as from January – they would have a sizeable majority in both the Senate and House of Representatives. History, though, merely showed that this was little more than a recipe for chaos and division, the wishes of a Republican Congress invariably at odds with the needs of a Democratic President.
&nbs
p; Such concerns were most likely for others to worry about, Cavanagh having to deal with a different and more pressing set of problems. In the South China Sea, the U.S. Carrier Strike Group had arrived north of the Spratly Islands, the warships waiting impotently while America fought its own internal battles. Vietnam was the first to claim some minor revenge, the downing of a Chinese reconnaissance aircraft vehemently denied by Beijing. To the north-east, Russia and North Korea maintained the invective against their respective neighbours, and although there had been no reports of further artillery attacks, Golubeva’s decision to hold a military exercise was at best unhelpful. Such snap drills, supposedly to test combat readiness, had been a favourite ploy of Vladimir Putin’s, but now China had announced that it too would hold a series of war games close to the Russian border.
Cavanagh had spent a good part of the previous evening working with the Secretary of Defence and the CJCS to concoct a suitable U.S. military response to the attack on the USS Milius. Not that anything was said at the time, but all of them clearly understood that whatever orders Cavanagh gave might well be countermanded within days by his successor.
It was a fear which clouded Cavanagh’s every waking thought. Could he in all conscience merely create a problem for someone else to solve? China was certainly aware of the Administration’s fragility, and any warning or ultimatum given by Cavanagh would be seen as nothing more than diplomatic bluster. The normal riposte of economic and financial sanctions would take months to be effective, the ramifications to America’s own economy likely to be significant.
The stress of the past weeks was affecting not just Cavanagh but also the First Lady. Their marriage was strong enough to survive many things but this was a test neither of them had expected. Needing an honest opinion as to his actions, Cavanagh had sought out his wife’s views, only to argue with her, unfairly sensing that she too thought he had been ineffective.
Cavanagh now put his remaining tenure of the presidency at no more than a month; time enough to bed the new Vice-President in. Cavanagh knew he’d then be encouraged to resign; either that or face the humiliation of having lawyers argue over whether the 25th Amendment could be applied. And did he really have the heart to make a fight of it? The Cabinet was already divided, with perhaps just Deangelo and Jensen still loyal.
Cavanagh’s choice for Vice-President was still not yet a formal nomination, the papers resting on his desk, just awaiting a date and signature: he had followed protocol by requesting recommendations from the Cabinet and Congress, and had discussed various options with Amy, before finally sticking with his gut instincts.
Cavanagh and prospective Vice-President had sat and talked long into the night, discussing policy, worrying as to how Congress would react, yet keen to bring back a sense of stability. Cavanagh was becoming a Kingmaker in his own right, and he desperately wanted to make the right choice for his country; a bad decision and he would merely be hammering down the nails on the coffin of American democracy.
The Senate’s Joint Session was due to convene at 10 a.m., the House and Senate leaders again promising to push through the confirmation process as fast as they could, days rather than months. Whoever Cavanagh picked, many in Congress would still feel the need to question and probe, working hard to tease out a secret or some shortcoming.
Would Thorn really be prepared to wait a month or even a week? Cavanagh could afford to dally no longer. He just had to hope that for once in his presidential career, he had actually made the right decision.