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Colt watched his wingman prosecuting the intercept on his datalink display and tried ignoring the growing number of icons cluttering the already cramped battle space. Other than him and Rucas, the friendly air order of battle consisted of two MV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft from the USS America racing to meet up with the defenseless helicopter, a P-8A Poseidon surveillance aircraft and MQ-4C Triton drone from Guam, and an E-2D Hawkeye from the Reagan.

“Two zero one, Tiger, pop-up group, zero nine zero, one hundred miles, cherubs five, hostile.”

Colt had been about to call in, but the pop-up group was dangerously close to the friendly helicopter they had been ordered to protect. He couldn’t afford to ignore it. “Two zero one, target pop-up group,” he said, then added, “Two zero four, press.”

“Two zero four,” Rucas replied, letting him know he understood that he owned the single group of J-15 Flankers from Hainan Island. He would be on his own, but it came with the job. “Fox Three, two-ship, single group.”

Colt was tempted to look over his shoulder to try to spot the two AIM-120D AMRAAM missiles racing from his wingman’s Super Hornet toward the inbound fighters. But he knew it was pointless. His focus was on the pop-up group threatening the helicopter.

“Two zero one, Tiger,” the Hawkeye controller said with a shade of panic in his voice. “Pop-up group is engaging the friendly helicopter! Recommend buster!”

Resisting the temptation to look at his fuel gauge and lament at the situation he found himself in, Colt pressed his left hand forward and pushed the throttles into afterburner. The intercept would likely take every drop of fuel he had on board, but there was nothing he could do about that. If he let the pop-up group take down the friendly helicopter, everything he had done that night would have been for nothing.

“Two zero one,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Tiger,” his wingman said. “Single group maneuver.”

“Single group, beam west,” the Hawkeye controller replied.

Even without moving his cursor over the icon representing his wingman’s Super Hornet, Colt knew he had already fired his last two remaining radar-guided missiles and was left with only two AIM-9X Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles to finish off the Chinese fighters. He just hoped Rucas had waited to fire the AMRAAMs until he had closed the distance enough to prevent a simple ninety-degree beaming maneuver from defeating them.

“Shots trashed,” his wingman said.

Colt cursed inside his mask but shook it off and focused on the pop-up group. Its icon appeared superimposed over the one representing the friendly helicopter, and he knew it would be more luck than skill if he managed to make it in time. And, even then, he would have to rely on the friendly helicopter pilot being skilled enough to separate and give him a clean shot on the hostile aircraft.

Using the pressure pad underneath his left index finger, Colt manipulated the cursor on his screen until it hovered over the pop-up group. He pressed down on the pad and designated the icon as the target, giving him range and bearing information and a dynamic Launch Acceptability Region for his last remaining radar-guided missile. Not that he would be able to employ it with as close as the target was to the friendly helicopter.

“Two zero one, say state,” the controller said, probably prompted by some well-meaning senior officer aboard the carrier who knew Colt and the other alert pilot were dangerously low on fuel.

“Below bingo,” Colt said, letting him know he was flying on fumes and had committed to burning it all to try to save the helicopter.

“Copy. Pedro is en route.”

Colt glanced at the icons representing the Osprey Search and Rescue package and took note of their general location. Unlike the helicopter or tilt-rotor aircraft that could land on Scarborough Shoal, Colt knew there was no place for him to set down. Too far from the Reagan. Too far from Clark Air Base. Too far from any runway at all. He had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to punch out and ride the silk into the dark waters beneath him and wait for Pedro to come pluck him from the sea.

“Roger,” he replied. “Declare pop-up group.”

Dusty One

Air Branch Mi-17 Hip

Dave heard the left minigun open up and pivoted his gun to the right as he strained to peer into the darkness, looking for a target. Charlie’s erratic flying had tossed him into the air, but his safety tether and firm grip on the GAU-17/A kept him from floating away.

There!

A dark shadow appeared above their tail, twisting and angling to follow the slower-moving transport helicopter as Charlie continued maneuvering aggressively to prevent the enemy from getting a clean shot. They suddenly banked right, and Dave was flung to the side before the safety line snapped taut. With a groan, he pulled himself back to the gun and angled it to follow the shadow that had rolled in behind them.