To his immediate right, the F/A-18 of Major Scott "Cheese" Stilton, call sign "Magic Two-One," sprang forward toward the bow ahead of the steaming catapult track and flame-red engines. He was flying an instant later, banking to the right and climbing into a beautiful blue sky.

And then Trash was moving. Really moving. He went from zero to one hundred sixty-five miles an hour in two seconds along a three-hundred-foot-long cat-track toward the end of the boat. His helmet pressed into the headrest and his raised right arm pulled back to him, but he held on, waited to feel the thump of his nose wheel popping up at the end of the deck.

The thump came and he was over water, hurled screaming from the deck with no control over his aircraft. He quickly reached down for the stick, pulled his nose up slightly, and banked gently to the left for a clearing turn.

"Trash is airborne. Hoorah," he said coolly into his interflight-comm radio, letting Cheese know he was in the air and flying, and he climbed into the sky on his way to the strait one hundred miles to the northwest.

- The F/A-18s of the Ronald Reagan had been patrolling the Taiwan Strait for four days now, and Trash and Cheese had flown two sorties each of those days. Fortunately for Trash's blood pressure, all his flights so far had been during daylight hours, but he doubted his luck would hold in that regard.

His blood pressure had spiked a few times from close encounters with PLA pilots. Trash and Cheese had been flying combat air patrols on the Taiwanese side of the strait, manning a sector just offshore of Taipei, at the northern part of the island. Republic of China F-16s flew most of the sorties over the rest of the strait, and they, just like the aircraft from the Reagan, were careful not to pass over the centerline of the strait into Chinese territory.

But the Chinese were not playing by the same rules. Some sixteen times in the past four days flights of PLAAF Su-27, J-5, and J-10 jets took off from their air base in Fuzhou, directly across the hundred-mile-wide strait from Taiwan's capital, Taipei, and then raced directly toward the centerline. A dozen times so far the Chinese fighters actually locked on to American or Taiwanese aircraft with their radars. These "spikes" were considered aggressive, but even more aggressive were the three instances where Chinese Su-27 and J-5 fighters actually flew over the centerline before returning to the north.

It was a threatening flexing of Chinese muscle, and it kept Trash and the rest of the pilots working the strait on their toes and ready for action.

Trash and Cheese were sent to their patrol area by a naval flight officer in the Reagan's Combat Information Center, known as the CIVIC, and they also received updates on other aircraft in their area of operations from a combat air controller flying in the back of an E2-C Hawkeye airborne early-warning aircraft patrolling far to the east of the strait, with visualization of the area via their powerful radar and computers.

As the distant eyes and ears for the pilots in the strait, the Hawkeye could track aircraft, missiles, and even surface vessels for hundreds of miles in all directions.

Once on station, Trash and Cheese flew a racetrack pattern at twenty thousand feet over the water. Trash manipulated his throttle and stick instinctively to stay in a loose combat formation with his flight lead, and he monitored his radar and listened to the comms from the Hawkeye and the CIVIC.

There were broken clouds well below him, but nothing but brilliant blue sky all around. He could see bits of the Chinese mainland when his racetrack took him to the north, and he could easily make out Taipei and other large cities on Taiwan anytime the clouds broke up enough to the south.

Even though the tension in the strait was palpable, Trash felt good being right here, right now, comfortable in the fact he had the best training, the best support, the best flight lead, and the best aircraft in this entire conflict.

And it was a magnificent aircraft. The F/A-18C was fifty-six feet long, with a forty-foot wingspan. When "slick," or operating without weapons or extra fuel, it weighed only ten tons, because of its aluminum-steel composite construction. And its two beastly General Electric turbofan engines generated roughly the same amount of power as three hundred fifty Cessna 172 aircraft, giving it an excellent power-to-weight ratio that meant it could hit Mach 1.5-or thirteen hundred miles per hour-and stand on end and fly vertically like a rocket launching off a pad.

Trash's fly-by-wire aircraft did a lot of the work for him now while he scanned the sky and the screens in front of him-the left data display indicator and the right DDI, the up-front control display, and the moving map display low in front of him, almost between his knees.

There were five hundred thirty switches in his cockpit, but most every input Trash needed to fly and fight could be made from sixteen buttons on his stick and throttle without even taking his eyes off the HUD.

The thirty-million-dollar C was one of the best fighter airframes in the air, but it wasn't exactly the newest kid on the block. The Navy flew the newer, bigger, and more advanced Super Hornet, which cost a good twenty million dollars more.

Trash had just turned to follow Cheese back to the south, trailing his flight leader in an echelon formation, when his headset came alive with a transmission from the Hawkeye.

"Contact bull's-eye, zero-four-zero. Forty-five miles, heading southwest, single group, two bogeys, southeast of Putian. Heading, two-one-zero. They appear to be heading toward the strait."

Cheese's voice came into Trash's headset: "Coming our way, brother."

"Hoorah, aren't we popular?" Trash responded, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

The two Marines had heard similar notifications multiple times over the past four days of patrols out here. Each time Trash and Cheese found themselves in the sector where a potential incursion might occur, the Chinese fighters raced toward the centerline only to bank back around to the northwest, and then return to the coast.

The PLAAF was feinting up and down the length of the strait, for what purpose other than to incite some sort of response, no one knew.

Cheese acknowledged the Hawkeye's transmission, and then immediately listened to a report of a contact just south of the Marines' sector. Two more bogeys were headed into the strait. This area was patrolled by two ROC F-16s, who were getting their information from the U.S. Hawkeye as well.

Cheese radioed Trash: "Magic Two-Two, let's descend to angels fifteen, tighten up our pattern so we can be close to the centerline in case the bogeys make an incursion."

"Roger that," said Trash, and he followed Cheese's descent and turn. He did not think for a moment that the two Chinese pilots were going to do anything more than what he'd seen the past four days, and he knew Cheese felt the same, but Trash also knew Cheese was careful enough to not get caught with his pants down, finding himself and his wingman out of position if the Chinese fighters entered Taiwanese airspace.

The Hawkeye updated Cheese. "Magic Two-One. Bogeys zero-two-zero, four-zero miles, ten thousand . . . climbing."

"Magic Two-One, roger," responded Cheese.

A moment after this transmission, the Hawkeye air combat officer notified Cheese that the bogeys approaching the Taiwanese F-16s to the south were following a similar flight path.

Trash said, "Looks like this could be coordinated."

"Doesn't it, though?" replied Cheese. "That's a different tactic from what they've been doing. They've been sending up flights of two. I wonder if two flights of two at the same time in adjacent sectors means they are raising the stakes."

"We're about to find out."

Cheese and Trash widened their formation and pulled out of their descent at fifteen thousand feet. The Hawkeye divided its time between sending them updates on the two unknown bogeys heading toward them and passing on information to the ROC Air Force F-16s forty miles to the south of the Marines' sector over the strait.

Just after the Hawkeye announced that the two bogeys heading toward Magic Two-One and Magic Two-Two were twenty miles away, the ACO added, "They are still heading toward the centerline of the strait. At current speed and heading they will breach in two minutes."

"Roger," said Cheese. He squinted into the distance to try and pick them out in front of the white clouds and gray of the mainland in the distance.

"Magic Two-One, Hawkeye. New contact. Four bogeys taking off at Fuzhou and approaching the strait. Climbing rapidly and turning south, angels three and climbing."

Now things were getting complicated, Trash realized. He had two Chinese fighters of unknown type heading directly toward him and his flight leader, two more threatening the sector just south of him, and now four more bogeys heading in behind the first group.

The ACO announced he had a flight of four Navy F/A-18 Super Hornets finishing up air-refueling over the east of Taiwan Island, and he would expedite moving them to the Marines' sector in support just as soon as he could.

Cheese said, "Trash, I've got the bogeys on radar, they are just off my nose. Are you tally?"

Trash clicked a button and removed most of the digital data projected on his heads-up display and his helmet-mounted cueing system, then squinted as he peered ahead out past the HUD into the sky.

"No joy," he said, but he kept looking.

Cheese said, "Sixty seconds to intercept, let's fly heading zero-thirty, a twenty-degree offset so they can see we aren't threatening them."

"Roger that," replied Trash, and he tipped his wing to the right, following Cheese's turn so that the bogeys were no longer directly on their nose.

Within a few seconds Cheese said, "Bogeys are jinking left to come back on an intercept course. Descending, let's speed it up."

"Sons of bitches," said Trash, and he felt a new level of tension instantly. The Chinese pilots were screaming toward the centerline and overtly pointing their noses, which meant their radars and their weapons, directly at the two Marine aircraft.

With an intercept speed of more than twelve hundred miles an hour now, Trash knew things were about to start happening very, very quickly.

Cheese said, "Turn heading three-forty; let's pull away from them again."

Trash banked with Cheese back to the left, and within ten seconds he could see on his radar that the Chinese were mirroring the maneuver. He reported, "Bogeys are jinking back to us, bearing oh-one-five, two-eight miles. Fourteen thousand."

Trash heard the Hawkeye ACO acknowledge this and then immediately divert his attention back to the ROC F-16s, who were seeing similar moves from their bogeys.

"Spike," said Cheese now, indicating that one of the bogeys had locked on Cheese's plane with his radar.

Trash heard the spike warning for his own jet just a moment later.

"I'm spiked, too. These guys aren't fucking around, Cheese."

Cheese gave the next order with a tone of seriousness that Trash seldom heard from the major: "Magic Two-Two, Master Arm on."

"Roger," said Trash. He flipped his Master Arm into the armed position, ensuring all his weapons were hot and he had the launch of his air-to-air missiles at his fingertips. He still did not think he was about to get into a fight, but the level of threat had gone up precipitously with the enemy's radar lock, and he knew he and Cheese needed to be ready in case this devolved from an incident into a fight.

The ACO announced almost simultaneously that the Taiwanese had reported a spike.

Trash followed Cheese's turn yet again, away from the centerline and away from the approaching aircraft. He looked out the side of his canopy now, using his "Jay-Macks," his joint helmet-mounted cueing system, a smart visor on his helmet that gave him much of his heads-up information even when he looked left, right, and above his HUD. Through it he saw two black specks streaking in their direction over a backdrop of a puffy white cloud.

He spoke quickly and energetically, but he was a pro, there was no unnecessary excitement in his voice. "Magic Two-Two. Tally two bandits. Ten o'clock, just slightly low. Possible Super 10s." No American had ever come up against China's most advanced operational frontline fighter, the Chengdu J-10B Super 10, a newer version of the J-10 Annihilator. Trash knew the J-10 airframe used composite materials just like his own and its reduced radar signature was designed to make a radar missile lock difficult. The B model supposedly had an upgraded electronic warfare suite that helped in this regard as well.

It was a smaller aircraft than the F/A-18 and it possessed only a single engine to the Hornet's two, but the Russian-built turbofan gave the nimble fighter plenty of power for air-to-air engagements.

"Roger that," said Cheese. "Guess it's our lucky day."

The Chinese had more than two hundred sixty J-10s in service, but probably fewer than forty B variants. Trash did not respond; his game face was on.

Cheese said, "They are turning back hot! Thirty seconds from the centerline and displaying hostile intent."

Trash expected to hear the Hawkeye ACO acknowledge Cheese's transmission, but instead he spoke in a loud voice, "Magic flight, be advised. ROC flight south of you is under attack and defensive, missiles in the air."

Trash spoke with astonishment into his radio: "Holy fucking shit, Scott."

Cheese saw the J-10s in front of him now and reported that he had visual. "Tally two on my nose. Confirmed Super 10s. Hawkeye, are we cleared hot?"

Before the Hawkeye answered, Trash said, "Roger, two on your nose. Tell me which one to take."

"I've got the one on the left."

"Roger, I've got the guy on the right."

Cheese confirmed, "Roger, Two-Two, you have the trailing aircraft on the right."

Now Trash's HUD and his missile warning system announced that a missile launch had been detected. One of the J-10s had just fired at him. He saw in his HUD that the time-to-target of the inbound missile was thirteen seconds.

"Missile in the air! Missile in the air! Breaking right! Magic Two-Two defensive!" Motherfucker! Trash banked his aircraft away from Cheese and went inverted. He pulled back on his stick, and with his canopy showing nothing but blue water, he increased his speed and descent.

The legs of his g-suit filled with air, forcing the blood in the upper part of his body to stay there so his brain would continue to think and his pounding heart would continue to pound.

He grunted against the g-forces.

The Hawkeye announced belatedly, "Magic flight, you are cleared to engage."

At this stage of the game Trash didn't give a rat's ass if someone safe over the horizon line gave him the authorization to shoot back. This was life and death, and Trash had no intention of doing peaceful lazy-eights out here until he was blown out of the sky.

Hell, no, Trash wanted those other pilots dead, and he would shoot every missile he had if that's what it took, regardless of instructions from the Hawkeye ACO.

But for right now, he had to stay alive long enough to shoot back.

FORTY-FIVE.

Trash rocketed his Hornet toward the water, twelve thousand feet below him now but filling his windscreen quickly. Knowing the distance between himself and the J-10 when the other plane fired, the American was certain he was being chased down right now by a PL-12, a medium-range air-to-air radar-guided missile with a high-explosive warhead. Trash also knew that, with the missile's top speed of Mach 4, he would not be outrunning this threat. And he was also well aware that with the missile's ability to make a thirty-eight-g turn, he would not be outturning it, since his body could not pull more than nine g's before G-LOC, g-induced loss of consciousness, knocked him out and ended any chance he had to get himself out of this mess.

Instead Trash knew he'd have to use geometry as well as a few other tricks he had up his sleeve.

At five thousand feet he yanked back on the stick, pulling his nose directly toward the oncoming threat. He could not see the missile; it was propelled by a rocket using smokeless fuel, and it raced through the sky nearly as fast as a bullet. But he kept his head through his maneuver and retained the situational awareness to know the direction from which the missile had been fired.

Just coming out of the dive was a challenge for the twenty-eight-year-old captain. It was a seven-g turn, Trash knew this from his training, and to keep enough blood in his head for the high-g turn he used a hook maneuver. As he tightened every muscle in his core, he barked out a high-pitched "Hook!" that tightened his core even more.

In his intercom he heard his own voice. "Hook! Hook! Hook!"

Bitching Betty, the audio warning announcements delivered by a woman's voice, too calm considering the news she delivered, came through Trash's headset: "Altitude. Altitude."

Trash leveled out now, and he saw on his radar warning receiver that the threat was still locked on. He deployed chaff, a cloud of aluminum-coated glass fibers that dispersed via a pyrotechnic charge into a wide pattern around and behind the aircraft, hopefully decoying the radar of the incoming missile.

Simultaneous with his deployment of chaff, Trash banked right, pulled back on the stick, and rocketed sideways only twenty-three hundred feet above the water.

He deployed more chaff as he raced away, his right wing pointing to the water, his left wing pointing to the sun.

The PL-12 missile took the bait. It fired into the floating aluminum and glass fiber, losing its lock on the radar signature of the F-18, and it slammed into the water moments later.

Trash had beat the medium-range missile, but his maneuvers and his concentration on this threat had allowed the J-10 to get in behind him now. The Marine leveled his wings at eighteen hundred feet, looked around the sky on all sides of his cockpit, and he realized he'd lost sight of his enemy.

"Where's he at, Cheese?"

"Unknown, Magic Two-Two! I'm defending!"

So Cheese was in a fight for his life himself, Trash now realized. Neither man could help the other; they were both on their own until they either killed their enemy or were joined by the Navy Super Hornets, still several minutes away.

Trash looked at the DDI above his left knee. The small screen showed him the top-down view of all the aircraft in the area. He saw Cheese to his north, and far to the south he saw the two ROC F-16s.

He looked as far back over his left shoulder as he could, and now he saw the black silhouette of an aircraft bearing down on him at his seven-o'clock high, some two miles distant. The aircraft was far to the left of his HUD but he could still target it via his Jay-Macks visor.

The J-10 turned in on Trash's six o'clock, and Trash banked hard to the left, shoved his throttle forward, and dove toward the deck to pick up more speed, all to keep the enemy pilot from getting behind him.

But the J-10 anticipated Trash's move and worked his way to the Marine's six, and closed to within a mile and a half.

The Chinese pilot fired his twin-barreled 23-millimeter cannon. Glowing tracer rounds passed within a few feet of Trash's canopy as he reversed his turn to the right and dropped down even lower. The rounds looked like long laser beams, and Trash watched them turn the blue-green water into geysers of foam ahead of him.

Trash juked hard to the left and right, but he kept his nose flat now; he was only five hundred feet above the water, so he could not dive, and he did not want to lose airspeed by pulling up. In the cool jargon of combat aviation this was referred to as "guns-d" or "guns defensive," but Trash and his fellow pilots called it "the funky chicken." It was a desperate, ugly dance to stay out of the line of fire. Trash jacked his head up left and right as far as he could, straining his neck muscles to keep his enemy in sight behind him while he banked and yawed all over the sky. He caught a glimpse of the J-10 banking to follow his last evasive move, and Trash knew the Chinese pilot was almost in place for another shot.