"And so will the Chinese."
Sitting at a universal console, Craine studied his remote control cockpit. It was equipped with a control stick, rudder pedals, wheel brakes, throttle control, and instruments to fly and navigate without reference to any outside stimulus. The integrated target control system employed a nose-mounted television camera on the QF-4S Phantom that allowed the operator to make remote takeoffs and landings.
The drone's capability was the same as that of a regular McDonnell Douglas F-4. The powerful fighter was capable of Mach 2.2 and had a service ceiling of sixty thousand feet. Other specifics of the QF-4S were classified, but the 82d Aerial Targets Squadron (ATRS) from Tyndall Air Force Base, Florida, and Craine's unit had developed proven techniques for safely flying and maneuvering four airplanes in close formation.
Craine keyed his radio. "Spooky Four-Fourteen, say your posit."
"We're seventeen southeast at base plus four." Scott checked his instrument panel. "Ah, lookin' for a turkey."
"You have a bird on the way."
"Copy, Rocky Nineteen."
With Hartwell Prost sitting close to him, Craine taxied the QF-4S onto the runway and carefully aligned the aircraft for takeoff. He held the brakes and turned on the normal exterior lights, then checked his wristwatch for the umpteenth time and keyed his mike. "Prime Time Six-Oh-Two, do you copy Rocky One-Nine?"
"Rocky," the systems operator in the E-2C Hawkeye radioed, "Prime Time Six-Oh-Two has you and Spooky five-by."
"Copy." Craine mentally prepared himself to fly the drone. "Rocky Nineteen is launching a bird."
"We're standing by," the Hawkeye systems operator said, as he watched the Harrier on his radar screen.
Prost adjusted his radio headset and closely watched the former fighter pilot. Craine continued to hold the Phantom's brakes and eased the throttles forward. With the powerful engines winding up to full song, he released the brakes.
The drone rapidly accelerated. Craine waited, correcting for a slight left drift, then eased back on the control stick. Once the console instruments indicated that the. F-4 had a positive rate of climb, Craine raised the landing gear and flaps.
The fighter plane thundered across the water and began a steep climb in the Whiskey-289 Warning Area. Out of ten thousand feet, Craine eased the power back and leveled the Phantom at twelve thousand feet and three hundred knots. He gently banked the aircraft to head toward the appointed rendezvous holding pattern and then began a wide circle to the left.
With only a thin trace of daylight left Scott turned the Harrier's external lights off and began searching for the Phantom. Seen from ten thousand feet, the brightest stars were twinkling like faceted diamonds. Dalton's eyes rapidly adjusted to the dark. The moonscape had slowly changed from pale yellow to diaphanous silver.
Scott keyed his intercom. "It should be at about our one to two o'clock in a wide left orbit."
"I'm looking," Jackie said, rigging her camera and camcorder fog instant use. "I don't see anything."
"Spooky Four-One-Four, Prime Time."
"Spooky Four-Fourteen," Scott replied.
The Hawkeye systems operator studied his radar screen. "Come starboard about fifteen degrees."
"Fifteen right."
"Your playmate is level at base plus six, two o'clock high."
"Copy." Scott had a request for Craine. "Rocky, how about the fireworks? We need some light."
"Stand by."
Three seconds later the F-4 came alive with flashing white strobe lights on each wingtip and the tail. Like the midday sun a bright, reddish-orange glow emanated from the empty cockpit.
"That would get anyone's attention," Jackie said in awe.
"Yeah, it certainly is different."
She snapped a couple of quick photos and reached for the camcorder.
Scott keyed his radio. "Rocky, your boys have certainly outdone themselves."
"Pretty impressive, huh?"
"Oh, by all means."
"Rocky Nineteen," the E-2C operator said, "our pilots want to know how much of California you could power with that system — help them out with their energy problem."
Craine ignored the remark and clicked his transmit button. Spooky, do you think you'll be able to fly form on it?"
"Can you regulate the intensity or turn off part of the package — tone it down some?"
"I'm afraid not. They fabricated the system in record time, and it's all or nothing — sorry about that."
"Okay, no problem. If you'll just turn it off until we rendezvous and position ourselves."
"Lights out. Tell me when you want 'em on."
"We'll do it," Scott said, watching the Phantom momentarily disappear in the sea of flickering stars. "What's the drone's speed?"
"Three hundred even at twelve thousand. I'll keep it in a shallow left bank until you get aboard."
"Thanks." Scott reversed to the left and began climbing and turning inside the Phantom to follow a constant bearing line to the F-4. The radios remained quiet while Scott searched for the drone.
"Do you have it?" Jackie anxiously asked.
"Yeah, barely."
"Well, I'm not in the mood for a midair."
"Don't worry, I can't afford the payments on a new Harrier."
"Yeah, the general would have your ass… ets."
Scott adjusted the Harrier's speed to 315 knots and closed on the left side of the F-4. As Dalton got closer, he eased the power back until he was stabilized in a loose parade position. He smoothly added a touch of power and crossed under the Phantom, then drifted out to a relaxed location at the drone's four o'clock position.
"Lights."
"Comin' on."
Scott studied the glowing empty cockpit of the F-4 and keyed the intercom. "Look, Ma, no pilot."
"That doesn't give me any warm fuzzies. It just isn't natural to see a plane flying around with no one at the controls."
"I feel the same way."
Scott radioed Craine. "Rocky Nineteen, we're finally aboard and ready to head for the carrier."
"Prime Time," Craine said, "what's a good heading for Lincoln?' "One-eight-zero."
"Copy."
Dalton and Craine remained silent while the formation turned south toward the carrier and the cargo ships.
Scott called the Hawkeye. "Okay, Prime Time, Spooky Four-Fourteen is ready for our first look-see."
"We have one ship, the Kapitan Zhirnovsky, at Mother's seven o'clock for fifty-five miles. The other ship is at Mother's three for thirty-seven. Your choice, Spooky."
"We're closer to the Chen Ziyang,"Jackie suggested.
"Let's take the target at Mom's three for thirty-seven." Scott mentally figured a heading of 205 degrees to the cargo ship.
"Steer two-zero-zero," the systems operator said.
"Two hundred on the heading. We'd like to pick up the speed and descend to eight thousand."
"Spooky is cleared as requested," the Hawkeye operator radioed, then added, "the area is clear of traffic, maneuver at your own discretion."
"Copy, Spooky Four-Fourteen." Scott keyed the ICS. "Okay, Jackie, are you ready to make the first pass?"
"As ready as I'll ever get. Let's take it down and see what we find."
"Rocky, we're ready to descend to eight thousand and pick it up to five hundred knots."
Wearing his own headset and microphone, Hartwell Prost nervously chewed on an unlit cigar while he listened to the action.
Craine keyed his radio. "Starting down and coming up on the power."
Hartwell's assistant, Juanita Trujillo, was monitoring a secure link to President Macklin and Secretary of Defense Pete Adair at the White House.
"Prime Time, Spooky."
"Go."
"Do we have all the recon players on line?"
"That's affirm, Spooky. We're good to go — you're the star of the show."
Scott checked again to make sure his exterior lights were turned off. "Jackie, I have an idea."