Overhead she could hear — and sometimes see — the multiplane furball that was still going on. At least one more fighter — she couldn’t tell whose — had been shot down. A spiraling trail of black smoke marked its death dive.
Crouching beneath a shrub, she tried the transmit button on the transceiver. Nothing happened.
She turned the power button off, then on again. Still nothing.
The radio didn’t work.
She stared at it. No little red power light, no static, nothing. She wanted to scream. The goddamned emergency radio didn’t work! Had it been damaged in the ejection? It looked okay, no dings or dents. Maybe the battery was kaput. For a long moment she stared at the black piece of inert hardware, suddenly hating it. All this goddamn useless technology. How could this happen? The most essential piece of survival gear in her kit didn’t work. B. J. Johnson felt herself overwhelmed with a sense of hopelessness. She sank to the ground and wept.
After a minute, she began talking to herself. “Move it, girl. You’re going to get out of here even if you have to walk. Go on, move your butt.”
She moved.
Maxwell couldn’t believe it.
He put both hands on the conference table and leaned forward. “Excuse me, Admiral, did I hear correctly? We’renot sending in a search-and-rescue team?”
CAG Boyce, Admiral Fletcher, Whitney Babcock, and Spook Morse sat facing him at the long table. Half an hour ago Maxwell had landed back aboard the Reagan. He was still wearing his flight suit and torso harness, sweat-stained from the three-hour combat sortie.
“You heard the intel debrief,” said Admiral Fletcher. “The RESCAP jets lost communications with the F-14 crew on the ground just before the SAR helos showed up. They came under fire and had to withdraw. Since then, nothing has been heard from any of the downed pilots. We have reasonable evidence that the F-14 pilot and RIO were captured.”
“What about my downed pilot?” Maxwell said. “Are we giving up on her too?”
Fletcher gave him a baleful glare. “I’ll overlook your choice of words, Commander. I know you’ve been under strain. For your information, we’re not giving up on anybody. All the evidence we have indicates that the Hornet pilot was killed in action. As the Battle Group Commander, it’s my responsibility not to sacrifice any more pilots and airplanes trying to rescue people who are already dead or captured.”
Maxwell felt his temper flaring out of control. Before he could speak, Boyce cut him off. “Admiral, what Commander Maxwell and I don’t understand is why we’re letting this ragtag bunch of terrorists get away with this. Why don’t we just go in there with an assault force — marines and plenty of air power — and take out the whole mess? Get our people back and exterminate those murderers.”
Fletcher blinked, then looked to the end of the table. Whitney Babcock spoke up. “We can understand your sentiments, Captain Boyce, but you have to understand that more is at stake here than you probably understand. This is a national security consideration, not a simple tactical exercise.”
It was Boyce’s turn to seethe. He glared at Babcock. “If you mean decisions like that are above my pay grade, fine, I understand. But damn it, this is Yemen we’re talking about, not North Korea or China. We could occupy that joint in half a day if we had the balls to do it.”
Babcock gave him a patronizing smile. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. As the world’s only superpower, we have a responsibility to demonstrate our restraint.”
“So we’re not going to do anything more? Just let them keep their MiGs and missiles and our captured pilots and wait for them to hit us again?”
“You can rest assured that it’s being negotiated at the very highest levels. If any of our pilots are alive, they’ll be returned. As for letting them keep their weapons, we’ve already made our point. Their complex, as you saw in the intel photos, has been destroyed.”
Boyce had a retort, but he caught himself. He clamped his cigar in his jaw and turned to Spook Morse, sitting across the table. “Okay, intel officer. Where the hell did those MiGs come from? Why didn’t you guys bother giving us that little morsel in our briefing?”
Morse shrugged. “Take it up with the CIA. Or the National Security Agency. They provide our intel data, and I just give you what they give us. Al-Fasr’s group apparently managed to sneak the MiGs in between the flyover envelopes of our recon satellites. Nobody knew they were there. They have them concealed underground somewhere in the northwest quarter. They seem to be equipped with low-observable paint schemes and electronic countermeasures gear.”
“Beautiful. Where’d they get them and who’s flying them?”
“The MiGs came from Libya, according to our sources. The pilots were recruited from Russia’s clients, probably Libya or the former East Germany. Al-Fasr himself may be one of the pilots.”
“We nailed two of them, and one hightailed it. How many more are there?”
Morse shrugged again. “Very few, maybe none. If they have satellite tracking technology, which we suspect they do, then they know when we’re not looking. It’s going to be difficult to spot them.”
Boyce looked disgusted. “Until they show up to bite us in the ass again.” He fumed for a moment, then said, “Hard to believe, with all our advanced technology, those guys can catch us in the open like that. Almost like they knew we were coming.”
“They did know,” said Morse.
A heavy silence fell over the room. Boyce stared at Morse, not sure that he heard correctly. He removed his cigar. “Would you mind explaining that?”
“It’s very obvious,” Morse said, studying his fingernail. He looked up at all the expectant faces around the table. He let several seconds pass, the silence hanging heavy in the room. “They have an informer aboard the Reagan.”
Brown.
The color du jour. It was exactly what she had told all those bored pilots in her prestrike briefing. Earth, trees, rocks, buildings — everything in Yemen bore the same monochromatic shade of brown.
And so would she.
At the base of a hill she found a stand of six-feet-tall scrub trees. She crawled into the shelter of the trees and unzipped her rucksack. Among her survival items was one she had added on her own: a tin of brown greasepaint. She smeared the stuff over her face, around her neck, on the backs of her hands. No white skin was left exposed.
Then, another extra item — the camo-colored bandanna. She pulled her hair into a bun and tied the bandanna tightly around her head.
When she was finished she checked herself in the signal mirror. She almost laughed out loud. You look like a snake eater. She resembled one of those action-movie heroes crawling on his belly behind enemy lines. Actually, she thought, it looked pretty cool.
She was still regarding herself in the mirror when she heard the vehicle.
She clambered to the top of a rock-strewn promontory that overlooked a valley. She peered in all directions, looking for the source of the engine noise.
Then she saw them.
They were coming down the valley, in full view from either side, two men in flight gear. One, the shorter of the two, was supporting the other. He seemed to be injured. He was walking with difficulty, dragging one foot.
The idiots were still wearing their helmets and torso harnesses! B.J. wanted to yell at them, Get in the trees and hide, you meatheads!
She knew what they were thinking. They would just call in the SAR, get in the open somewhere, get picked up. No sweat, bubba.