Page 127 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
Equally important, a squadron of Los Angeles–class nuclear-powered fast-attack submarines were based out of Guam, as were dozens of Navy support units, along with thousands of expeditionary force Marines. Over ten thousand American military and civilian personnel, along with one hundred seventy thousand American citizens, resided on the island, the nation’s westernmost territory. Situated fourteen hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time, Guam’s motto was “Where America’s Day Begins.”
In short, Guam played a key role in conventional and nuclear deterrence in the Pacific and Asian theaters against the growing threat of Chinese aggression.
If Guam had any weakness, it was in air defense. Huge gaps in radar and missile coverage plagued the island, and strategic planners hadn’t kept up with the steepening technology curve. China’s advancing long-range missile and aircraft capabilities along with its rapidly expanding carrier fleet made the island more vulnerable to aerial attack than ever before.
In response, the Department of Defense was engaged in the construction of an Enhanced Integrated Air and Missile Defense systemthat would provide Guam with three-hundred-sixty-degree surveillance and defense. This would make it the most defended patch of ground on planet earth and nearly invulnerable to Chinese air and missile assets.
The EIAMD was scheduled to come fully online in just a few days. What both Stallabrass and his base commanders feared was that China’s best hope of eliminating Guam as a strategic deterrent lay in that narrowing window of vulnerability. The spate of increasing Chinese aggression over the last few weeks was either merely a test of wills or a series of probing reconnaissance missions in a prelude to a preemptive Chinese attack.
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Today’s weather was problematic, as was the E-3 Sentry’s bumpy ride. Stallabrass enlisted in the Air Force because he wanted to be a fighter pilot, but he washed out of the program because of a disorienting inner ear imbalance he experienced during flight training. The Air Force brass frowned on its young pilots puking in their multimillion-dollar cockpits, but in its collective wisdom the Big Blue Machine had put him in the back of the Sentry. He had served with distinction, but often at the cost of a queasy stomach like he was currently experiencing. The cool cabin air that kept the computers from overheating was small comfort to his growing headache, exacerbated by the constant whine of the 707’s noisy turbines.
“Captain, take a look at this,” one of his techs said. Stallabrass stepped over to his monitor.
“Where the heck did those come from?”
“No idea. They just popped up. One hundred nineteen miles and closing. Fast movers. Not ours.”
Stallabrass studied the six radar images. Two were much stronger than the other four, but none of them were solid hits, and all were moving at Mach 1 or close to it in the storm.
Weather conditions might explain the weakness of the radar images. More likely, it was a combination of reduced radar cross section,radar absorbent materials, and possibly even radar jamming or deception.
In short, stealth aircraft.
That was bad. The Chinese were the only country in the world besides the United States and Russia producing fifth-generation stealth aircraft. Air Force intelligence reported several Chinese variants were already operational and new systems would soon come online. There was no way to tell at this point which ones were on his display. But what was certain was that all Chinese stealth planes carried anti-ship and anti-aircraft weapons that were now in striking range of Guam.
What didn’t make sense to him was the different sizes of the images.
“Who’s on patrol?”
“Major Joslin is the flight lead. McGhee is his wingman. They just acknowledged the radar hits.” The two F-35s were networked with the Sentry’s radar returns.
Stallabrass nodded. Joslin and McGhee were flying F-35s, America’s best fighter. More importantly, Joslin was a highly decorated and experienced combat pilot. He couldn’t think of another pair of zoomies he’d rather have in the air.
“Vector them to that location. High priority.”
“Yes, sir.”
?
Major Joslin—call sign “Hawkeye” for his twenty-ten vision—studied his display, fed with Stallabrass’s E-3 radar data. The tangos were moving at Mach 9 at fifty feet above the deck. Gutsy. He’d seen rogue waves reach higher than that.
He was irritated his own radar hadn’t picked them up first. He needed to buy Stallabrass a beer for the heads-up when they got back to the O club.
Joslin’s F-35 was capable of targeting and destroying all six aircraft at this distance and they were still closing at over twelve hundred feet per second.
Chances were, the Chinese were having a hard time getting radarreturns in this weather as well. They might not even know he and McGhee were getting up in their grill.
By his calculation, in just under five minutes he wouldn’t have to fire any missiles. He could reach out with his foot and trip the Chicoms as they zoomed past.
He keyed his mic and told his wingman that he was dropping down. He’d meet them head-on at fifty feet.
Suddenly, his alarms sounded. The Chinese had radar lock on him.
“Hawkeye, I’ve been lit up,” McGhee said. “Permission to lock.”
“Permission granted, War Lord.”
