Page 129 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

“Permission to fire?” McGhee asked.

The Chinese planes’ aggression was bold—and beyond the pale. But they were still on the other side of the Red Line—the twelve-mile limit surrounding the island. It was illegal for Joslin to fire at them until they crossed it.

But the Chicoms didn’t respect international law. They might fire first and accuse the Americans of starting it. And the closer they got, the more likely they were to doing just that.

“Don’t fire unless fired upon,” Joslin finally said. Those were the rules of engagement his commanders had imposed upon the flight.

“Roger that.”

Joslin checked his HUD display.

One minute and closing.

Joslin now had a visual of the two Chinese jets. He angled his fighter directly into the path of the Chicom flight lead.

“Boss?”

“Let’s see how much sand he’s got in his sack,” Joslin said. He settled into his seat.

“Hawkeye, you’re on a collision course,” Stallabrass said in his ear.

“That’s the general idea.”

“You’ve got a pair, Hawkeye. Large-caliber ones, and brass.”

“Thirty seconds to collision,” Stallabrass said.

The Chinese wingman entered a steep climb.

“I’m on him,” McGhee said as his plane clawed into the storming sky, giving chase.

Now it was just Joslin and the Chicom lead, head-to-head, in an old-fashioned showdown—at over thirteen hundred miles per hour.

Joslin switched on his short-range Sidewinders and locked them onto the Chinese fighter. The Chengdu J-20’s distinctive twin tail and angled fuselage were clearly displayed in the gloom. Its twin-seater frameless canopy made it one of the aircraft carrier variants. It was a cross between an F-35 and an F-22, America’s two best fighters. Rumor was the Chinese government had stolen the plans for both.

Joslin stole a glance at McGhee and his tango on the display. Theyrolled and spun like Olympic ice-skaters seven thousand feet above—and climbing.

Joslin slipped his finger over the trigger that would loose two missiles at his opponent.

Ten seconds.

Joslin began a mental countdown. He wasn’t going to flinch.

“I’m your huckleberry,” Joslin whispered to the Chinese jet.

Five, four, three, two…

Suddenly, his missile warning alarms snapped off. The Chinese jet had disengaged.

The Chengdu pilot rotated his bird ninety degrees on its axis, canopy inward.

Joslin matched him with a jerk of his joystick.

Their heads sped past each other just feet apart at a collective thirteen hundred miles per hour. He saw the blur of masked helmets glancing up in his direction.

Joslin rolled his plane back to horizontal, the airframe rocked by the Mighty Dragon’s waking air turbulence.

Suddenly, the four missing tangos appeared on his radar. They were heading away from Guam, their mission complete.