Free Warriors by Ted Bell Page A

it. C, to put it mildly, would not be pleased.
    They would trot out his blackened corpse and the twisted remnants of the stolen fighter jet on global TV. Use his actions to justify an even more aggressive posture in the region. Take retaliatory measures against Taiwan, Japan, Vietnam.
    Next step, war.
    That’s how he saw it anyway. C might disagree. But C wasn’t sitting in the hot seat with his ass on the line.
    For the moment, he had little choice.
    He flew on, maintaining his slot in the formation, flying north toward the Pacific Ocean, desperately searching for a means of escape for the second time in twelve hours.
    HALF AN HOUR LATER, BATTLING pain and fatigue, it came to him. It was so simple. The only reason he had not thought of it sooner was the pain of his injuries and mental fatigue. But, he thought, it just might work.
    He thumbed the transmit button on his radio.
    “Flight Leader, Flight Leader, this is, uh, Passionflower, over.”
    “Roger, Passionflower, this is Red Flight Leader. Go ahead, over.”
    “Experiencing mechanical difficulties, Red Flight Leader. System malfunctions, over.”
    “State your situation.”
    “I’m flying hot, sir. Engine overheat. Power loss. Cause unknown. Running override systems checks now. Doesn’t look good.”
    “Are you declaring an emergency?”
    “Negative, negative. I think I can throttle back and make it home to mother. Request permission to mission abort and return to the carrier, sir. Over.”
    “Uh, roger that, Passionflower. Permission to abort. Get back safely. Over.”
    “Roger that, Red Flight Leader. Returning to the Varyag, over.”
    HAWKE PEELED AWAY FROM THE formation, banked hard right, and went into a steep diving turn away from his flight. The sun was up now, just a sliver above the far horizon, red light streaking across the sea far below. He looked up and saw Red Flight’s multiple contrails emblazoned across the dawn.
    When Red Flight was completely out of visual and radar range, he corrected course to NNE and throttled up. He leveled off at 40,000 feet and took stock of his situation. By his calculations, he could reach his destination in under two hours.
    He set a heading for South Korea and stepped on the gas.
    His plan was simple.
    Contact Kunsan Air Base in South Korea. Home of the American Eighth Fighter Wing, Thirty-Fifth Fighter Squadron, and the Eightieth Fighter Squadron. Tell them exactly who he was, identify his J-2 Chinese fighter, and beg them not to shoot him down. Land. Refuel. Contact C from a secure phone at the base commander’s office and tell him his lockbox containing a few million quid were gone to the bottom of the South China Sea. Admiral Tsang would just have to wait.
    But he was coming back to England’s Lakenheath RAF base with one or two little surprises that might just be worth more than the contents of the lost lockbox.
    Infinitely more.

C H A P T E R   1 2
    Washington, D.C.
    H appy birthday, darling!” the First Lady trilled.
    She swept into his darkened hospital room hidden behind an enormous arrangement of peonies in her favorite shade of pink. She went to the tall windows, threw open the curtains, and cleared a space for the flowers on a dresser top. Watery sunlight flooded the president’s room. She considered a moment, then placed the large cut crystal vase overflowing with pink peonies where it would look best.
    “What do you think? I arranged them myself.”
    “Beautiful, honey,” the president said, glancing up at her from his slew of binders and briefing papers. “Thanks.”
    She looked over at him and smiled. A real smile. Not like the old ones, he thought, the ones that could barely mask the fear and the pity in her eyes. The ones that confirmed his own darkest nightmares and worst imaginings.
    That he was dying.
    “How do you feel, birthday boy?”
    “Like a million bucks, baby.”
    “In Confederate bills?” she said, repeating an old joke between them.
    “Hell, no. Bona fide U.S.