smell was the dusty rock stink of the concrete.
Jia couldn’t think of anywhere else he wanted to be, not even his parents’ apartment in Changsha—not even if some magic could have resurrected them.
“There,” he said, pointing at Gui’s third screen. VANCOUVER. The tangled coastline of British Columbia was still lightly populated, which left few breeding grounds for the nanotech, and Jia had been reluctant to send his fighters inland from the Pacific. The Chinese and the Russians both regularly patrolled the coast, and they had every reason to send their jets into eastern Oregon, contesting their borders with the Americans, but until the initial strike they’d tried not to act out of character. The aircraft Jia sent from L.A. were no different than their usual patrols except that these fighters dropped tiny, explosive-free bomblets into enemy lines.
The wind was unfavorable in Vancouver, blowing south, not east. “Begin our next wave now,” Jia said. “All of you. Secondary targets.”
His team murmured to faraway pilots, their fingers clacking through several keystrokes and preset commands. Jia was struck again by Dongmei’s elegance, not her physical perfection but the fine clarity of her voice. In their own way, the men were even more graceful, like dancers. Jia was cautious to watch Dongmei instead, pretending the same habit as everyone else. For once, he didn’t resent her. The first-wave fighter she’d preserved went dark on her screens, then realigned itself—a red triangle now moving east instead of homeward. Other fighters rocketed inland from the coast. Jia hoped to see strikes deep within British Columbia, Montana, and Wyoming within minutes.
“Sir, we have contact over Arizona,” Yi reported.
“There are also American fighters scrambling out of Cheyenne,” Huojin said.
“Advise your crews,” Jia said calmly.
The enemy knew something was very wrong. More aircraft would get off the ground, but their options were limited. When the American planes ran low on fuel or ammunition, or if they were hit, where could they go to? They might touch down in no-man‘s-land west of the plague zone, where they would be useless, unable to rearm—or they could take their chances in the deepest stretches east of the Rockies.
Either way, a few aircraft made no difference. Jia had every advantage of surprise and position. He was up-weather.
He allowed himself another measure of satisfaction as he studied his team again, taking in their display screens, their voices, and their rapt young faces. The American West lay before them like the pieces of a puzzle. Dongmei’s three screens each held slightly more than half of Idaho or northern Utah, with the state borders digitally superimposed along with major landmarks such as GREAT SALT LAKE and BOISE.
Most of the terrain was captured in low-res satellite video. Even more resolution was lost because the displays were nearly colorless. Still, these maps were sufficient. Freeways and old cities marred the land like dark veins and clusters, and, in many places, those features were closely tied to the data that most interested Jia.
The People’s Republic of China did not possess the same presence in space as the United States, not even after the Americans’ losses during their civil war. In fact, the Zi Yaun series were also known as CBERS, the jointly developed China—Brazil Earth Research Satellites. The Brazilian Space Agency had provided a significant percentage of the technology and also funded much of the launch costs, sharing in the satellites’ operating time until China took full control during the plague year.
Nominally, the Zi Yuan satellites were for weather and geological studies. Of course they also contained military grade optics and communications systems. First launched in 1999, the satellites were the result of a not-unlikely alliance between two developing nations who hoped to close the gap with the
Jia couldn’t think of anywhere else he wanted to be, not even his parents’ apartment in Changsha—not even if some magic could have resurrected them.
“There,” he said, pointing at Gui’s third screen. VANCOUVER. The tangled coastline of British Columbia was still lightly populated, which left few breeding grounds for the nanotech, and Jia had been reluctant to send his fighters inland from the Pacific. The Chinese and the Russians both regularly patrolled the coast, and they had every reason to send their jets into eastern Oregon, contesting their borders with the Americans, but until the initial strike they’d tried not to act out of character. The aircraft Jia sent from L.A. were no different than their usual patrols except that these fighters dropped tiny, explosive-free bomblets into enemy lines.
The wind was unfavorable in Vancouver, blowing south, not east. “Begin our next wave now,” Jia said. “All of you. Secondary targets.”
His team murmured to faraway pilots, their fingers clacking through several keystrokes and preset commands. Jia was struck again by Dongmei’s elegance, not her physical perfection but the fine clarity of her voice. In their own way, the men were even more graceful, like dancers. Jia was cautious to watch Dongmei instead, pretending the same habit as everyone else. For once, he didn’t resent her. The first-wave fighter she’d preserved went dark on her screens, then realigned itself—a red triangle now moving east instead of homeward. Other fighters rocketed inland from the coast. Jia hoped to see strikes deep within British Columbia, Montana, and Wyoming within minutes.
“Sir, we have contact over Arizona,” Yi reported.
“There are also American fighters scrambling out of Cheyenne,” Huojin said.
“Advise your crews,” Jia said calmly.
The enemy knew something was very wrong. More aircraft would get off the ground, but their options were limited. When the American planes ran low on fuel or ammunition, or if they were hit, where could they go to? They might touch down in no-man‘s-land west of the plague zone, where they would be useless, unable to rearm—or they could take their chances in the deepest stretches east of the Rockies.
Either way, a few aircraft made no difference. Jia had every advantage of surprise and position. He was up-weather.
He allowed himself another measure of satisfaction as he studied his team again, taking in their display screens, their voices, and their rapt young faces. The American West lay before them like the pieces of a puzzle. Dongmei’s three screens each held slightly more than half of Idaho or northern Utah, with the state borders digitally superimposed along with major landmarks such as GREAT SALT LAKE and BOISE.
Most of the terrain was captured in low-res satellite video. Even more resolution was lost because the displays were nearly colorless. Still, these maps were sufficient. Freeways and old cities marred the land like dark veins and clusters, and, in many places, those features were closely tied to the data that most interested Jia.
The People’s Republic of China did not possess the same presence in space as the United States, not even after the Americans’ losses during their civil war. In fact, the Zi Yaun series were also known as CBERS, the jointly developed China—Brazil Earth Research Satellites. The Brazilian Space Agency had provided a significant percentage of the technology and also funded much of the launch costs, sharing in the satellites’ operating time until China took full control during the plague year.
Nominally, the Zi Yuan satellites were for weather and geological studies. Of course they also contained military grade optics and communications systems. First launched in 1999, the satellites were the result of a not-unlikely alliance between two developing nations who hoped to close the gap with the
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