Finchly could tell by the parachutes, small portable oxygen tanks and masks, wet suits, and assorted gear that Scott and Jackie were involved in some type of covert special-operations mission.
"Okay, we'll see you later."
After Jackie and Dave left, Scott inspected his custom-designed black parachute. The special rectangular ramair canopy allowed him to maintain a high degree of control and accuracy after a precision free fall.
When he had everything neatly organized, Scott placed the rest of his equipment and various other items in one of the nylon bags. He would leave it in the Learjet that was being guarded by the navy SEALs. Satisfied that he was prepared for the difficult operation, he went to the officers' club for dinner and a cold beer.
After a short delay for a mechanical problem to be corrected, the C-2A Greyhound lifted off the runway at 0226 and banked toward the Pacific Ocean. The VRC-30 Provider's logistics support COD contained a ferry fuel tank, miscellaneous aircraft parts, snail mail, and six passengers, including Jackie, Scott, David Finchly, two sailors, and a navy commander.
Wearing the uniform of a navy lieutenant commander, Jackie made herself as comfortable as possible and closed her eyes. Exhausted after flying most of the day and part of the night, she quickly fell into a deep sleep. The sailors opened a worn deck of cards and the commander relaxed with a paperback.
Scott turned to Dave Finchly. "How did you get involved in aviation?"
"I didn't have an option." He chuckled. "Our family has had avgas or jet fuel in our veins since my great-grandfather on my mother's side flew Pan Am flying boats — Clippers — around the Pacific back in the 1930s."
"No kidding?"
"It's true. He was a captain, but they didn't go by that rank. They were Masters of Ocean Flying Boats — the Skygods. Our family has run the gamut from barnstormers to navy carrier pilots to crop dusters to airline pilots."
Scott leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "The depth of our family's aviation history dates back only to Vietnam. My dad was a Marine fighter pilot who got shot down once, but he lived through two tours and retired a number of years ago."
"Jackie told me that you flew in the Marines."
"That's right — Harriers."
A few minutes later Dave and Scott joined Jackie in a peaceful sleep as the Greyhound leveled off for the long flight to the USS Stennis.
The sunlight awakened Scott when the COD began its gentle descent to rendezvous with the carrier battle group. Dave Finchly was already awake and Jackie was stretching her arms over her head. The rest of the passengers were still asleep.
"How'd you sleep?" Scott asked Jackie.
"Like I was comatose."
"Same here — it must be the stress."
"Stress — what stress?" She quietly chuckled.
The Greyhound pilots had been given a "Charlie" on arrival (permission to land) and were making a long straight-in approach to Stennis. Shortly after the wing flaps and landing gear were lowered, the aircraft commander called the ball — the Fresnel optical landing system that displays visual glide slope information to the pilot — and began the final descent to the flight deck. The C-2A landed with a resounding thud and came to a very sudden stop. The COD would remain on board the carrier for Scott's mission.
After Jackie, Scott, and Dave deplaned, two young officers helped the trio carry their bags to their private staterooms. They stowed their luggage and the threesome went to the wardroom to have breakfast. Later Scott met with the COD pilots to go over every aspect of the hazardous night drop.
When he was finished, Scott joined Dave and Jackie to brief the helicopter extraction. They went over every detail and every contingency, playing devil's advocate about timing, fuel limits, radio calls, and emergencies. Afterward they had a late lunch and retired to their quarters to get some much-needed sleep.
Scott turned off the lights and sprawled on his back. Staring into the darkness, he replayed every move and every second of the jump and the extraction, at least the way it was supposed to happen. The part that bothered him the most was the unknown factor between the jump and the helicopter pickup. He knew that period in time would be a crapshoot.
Surrounded by her escort ships, the supercarrier steamed smoothly on the pleasantly calm ocean. Overhead a pale moon cast a faint shadow of light over the flight deck of Stennis. The Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate USS Ford had been dispatched earlier to cruise closer to the Chinese cargo ship Chen Ziyang. One of the frigate's two SH-60B Seahawks had been flown to the carrier to make room for Lieutenant Finchly's rescue helicopter if it ran low on fuel or had other problems.
At precisely 0100 Finchly lifted the HH-60H Seahawk from the dark flight deck of the carrier and headed southwest toward the Chen Ziyang. The H version of the Seahawk is the navy's combatsearch-and-rescue (CSAR) helicopter assigned to carriers.
In the left seat of the HS-8 Eightballers helicopter, copilot Jackie Sullivan worked the radios and kept a running plot on the Chinese cargo ship. Information about the exact location of the Chen Ziyang was continuously updated from spacecraft and reconnaissance aircraft and passed to the Seahawk, call sign Black Shadow Six.
In the back of the helicopter the rescue swimmer and the other crewman looked at each other with blank stares. They had never met the mysterious pilots before. According to the aviators they were on a mission to pick up a man who had fallen off a cruise ship.
Both aircrewmen were handpicked senior petty officers. They were seasoned enough to know something strange was going on but smart enough not to ask any questions.
Ten minutes after the Seahawk took off, the C-2A Greyhound taxied to the port bow catapult. Strapped into his rear-facing seat, Scott Dalton braced himself when the twin turboprops came up to full power. The entire aircraft shook, rumbled, and vibrated for what seemed like an eternity, then kaab000m, the airplane blasted down the catapult track.
Hanging in his straps, Scott felt the familiar deceleration when the COD went off the bow and began climbing. The landing gear was raised and the flaps were retracted. The boxy Greyhound accelerated and began climbing on a southwesterly course to the jump altitude of twenty-eight thousand feet.
Scott slipped out of his Marine uniform and began getting dressed for his jump. He donned a black wet suit, extra-thick neoprene booties, an assault knife on his lower left leg, and tucked his 9mm Sig Sauer into a compact nylon holster strapped to his right thigh.
Next came two small waterproof cameras in a special pouch attached to his left thigh and two radios in a container on his lower right leg. Finally, Scott wriggled into his black custom-made parachute and black reserve chute. Last came the multigrip gloves, a black helmet, a wristwatch-sized altimeter, and a small oxygen tank and mask. Due to the buoyancy of the wet suit and the salt water, he wouldn't need a life preserver or life raft.
Scott waddled to the cockpit and conferred with the pilots. Both aviators were friendly, quiet, and nonchalant about the mission, knowing this was a hush-hush operation. The pilots were getting continuous updates on the target's position. The wind was light and they were going to try to be in a position two miles in front of the cargo ship when they gave Scott the signal to jump.
The cargo ship cruised slowly in smooth waters three hundred miles north of Honolulu, Hawaii. Two crewmen stood on the main deck amidships and lighted American-made cigarettes. The balmy sea breeze reminded them of port calls in Hawaii, especially the visits to Zhang Wen-cheng's house and her young, nubile Chinese girls.