“First of all, the drones aren’t in the game plan.”
“They’re not drones,” said Zen. “They’re scouts and escorts.”
“I agree that Major Stockard ought to be involved,” said Cheshire.
Briggs, obviously pissed, said nothing. Zen pulled himself up into the Hummer, pushing and yanking his body along. Major Cheshire got out of the Humvee and folded his wheelchair for him, handling it inside. Zen answered her weak, apologetic smile with a curt nod, pulling the chair nearly on top of himself. He wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he would be goddamned if he was going to admit it.
This is better than pity, he thought to himself. I can deal with this.
When they stopped, Jeff managed to slam the chair out and then slide into it without any help. Not that it was a pretty.
Nor was it easy getting into the building. Fortunately, there was only one step and it was barely two inches high. Zen managed to get up by coming sideways, building a little momentum, and practically jumping upward. For a moment he thought he was going to land on his head.
He took the fact that he didn’t as a good sign. He wheeled through the door, teeth grinding but determined to get past the frowns and stares. Moving quickly , Jeff followed Cheshire toward the large map tables where the commander of the operation were clustered. Briggs introduced them, then turned over the briefing to a Navy commander, who was coordinating the search components.
“The Antonov was tracked approximately to this point,” he said, dispensing with preliminaries as he poked his thumb on a topo map of northeastern Africa. “We estimate the plane’s range before refueling at one thousand miles, which gives us this semicircle here. You’ll note that’s a wide area. A lot of Sudan is involved. We have relatively high confidence that the aircraft did not take off after landing. We believe they’re waiting for nightfall. F/A-18’s and a Hawkeye from the Kennedy will be responsible for this area here,” he added, his pinkie circling a crosshatched swatch of northern Sudan near Egypt. “Another flight will patrol Libya. That leaves southern Sudan, below the Libyan Desert. It’s low-probability area, but it has to be covered.”
“What about Egypt?” said Zen.
The commander made a face. “We don’t have permission for overflights.”
“All the more reason to watch it.”
“Zen, please,” said Briggs.
“We’re aware of the possibility,” said the Navy commander. “We’re compensating to some degree, but obviously there are limits. We have some under-the-table help from the Israelis.”
“Where’s the Kennedy?” Cheshire asked.
“That’s one of our problems,” admitted the commander. “All of these planes are operating at the far end of their range. It’s dicey, I don’t deny that.”
“Major Cheshire, you have this swatch here,” said Briggs, pointing to the southernmost area of the Sudan. He then turned to the F-16 commander. “Havoc Flight’s F-16’s will patrol here and here. We’re waiting for a KC-135 inbound to refuel you.”
“Excuse me,” said Cheshire, “but with our range, it would make a hell of a lot more sense for us to take that area. Then Havoc won’t need to tank.” She grinned at the F-16 flight leader. “Unless you want to try refueling off a C-130.”
“We’ve done it,” he said.
“I’ve pissed in my pants, but I wouldn’t want to repeat it,” said Zen. The C-130 in question was rigged for helicopter refueling. The type’s extreme versatility and the pilots’ attitudes couldn’t make up for the fact that the Herky Bird was considerably slower than the F-16.
“We may have the KC-145 on board by then,” said Briggs. “In any event, I don’t want to risk the Megafortress anywhere near Libya.”
“That’s a good six hundred miles south of Libya,” said Zen. “With all due respect to the F-16’s, they’d be ten times as vulnerable as Raven and Flighthawks.”
“We’re not sending the Flighthawks,” said Briggs.
“What are Flighthawks?” asked the Navy commander.
U/MF-3’s,” said Zen. “They’re unmanned fighters that can be used as reconnaissance craft. They’ll widen the search cone exponentially.”
“They’re experimental drones,” said Briggs. “unpiloted craft.”
“They are piloted. They fly by remote control. They’re as capable as F-22’s,” Stockard told the naval officer, aware that was he violating the protocol about the program’s classified status. “The Flighthawks can beam real-time video and electronic back to Raven. They’re armed with cannons and can shoot down anything Qaddafi can throw at them. The only difference between sending them and the F/A-18’s is that no one’s risking their life.”
“If we have unmanned aircraft that we can use, I’m all for it,” said the naval officer. “That is serious Indian country out there.”
“Those are experimental aircraft,” said Briggs.
“No, they’re developmental aircraft,” said Jeff. “There’s a big difference.”
“I think they can do the job,” said Cheshire.
“What do we do if one goes down?” Brigg’s voice made it seem more a certainty than a question.
“It’s not going down,” Zen said.
“I can’t afford to be optimistic.”
“If there is a problem, I blow it up. Look, the classified stuff is all aboard Raven anyway. That’s plane we have to worry about. The fact that it’s here – shit, don’t you think we have to use the best stuff we have? Why let anyone – anything, I mean – go to waste?”
“I don’t think there’s much of an argument,” said the Navy commander. “If you’re confident these craft can do the job, I say go for it. I’ve seen what Pioneers –”
“These are nothing like Pioneers,” snorted Zen.
“I’m on your side, Major,” the commander snapped. “I say we slot them north, Hal.”
“Agreed,” said Briggs finally. He looked up at Cheshire. “Major, we’d like you off the runway as soon as possible. We want you in the area before dark.”
“We’ll be there,” said Cheshire.
Zen followed her out of the conference area. “Hey, Nancy,” he said has she reached the door. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Jeff. I agree with you – it’s safer to risk the Flighthawks than a pilot.”
“I meant thanks for standing up for me.”
“Oh, you stand up for yourself just fine. Where do you figure the rest rooms are around this place?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to guess they won’t be handicapped-accessible.”
“And I won’t be surprised if there’s only a men’s room.”
“I’ll guard the door for you, if you do the same for me.”
“Deal.” Cheshire grinned.
Since she was a woman, the Spec Ops support team had offered Breanna a separate room to sleep in – a closet down the hall from the large, open warehouse room that had become an ad hoc dormitory. She’d turned them down. Not because she didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else, but because she was so damn tired she couldn’t contemplate taking one more footstep than necessary. She took off her boots and dropped onto the narrow cot fully dressed, hunkering under a blanket without a pillow. She fell right to sleep.
And woke less than two hours later. The place was quiet, except for Chris, snoring several cots away. A dull blue light filtered through the windows high on the wall, but it wasn’t the light or the snores that distracted her. the mission kept playing over and over in her head, buts and pieces of it swelling her mind with ideas of what she might have done differently. She felt the hard seat of the Megafortress pinching her butt as she took the g’s ducking from the MiGs. She saw the flames on the ground, felt the air rumbling with the cannon fire. she saw the small airplane they’d all missed until it was too late.