Luck was on their side when they burst into the clear in time to see a massive lightning burst shoot from one cloud to another with muffled flashes from inside a purple wall of churning convection. Above was a late afternoon light that showed the storm that towered above them, well into the forties. As a stunned Smith watched in amazement, Olive removed her mask, lifted her visor, and maneuvered with wing overlap as she mouthed, Get in the basket. She was so close he saw the white oak leaf on her flight suit shoulder.
“Jerry, we got a female commander screaming at me here. She wants us to plug, and she’s practically doing jumping jacks in the cockpit!”
Every aviator knew stories of pilots on a course of action who changed their minds only to have the situation get worse. The storm, however, made it easier for Zavitz to change his mind.
“Shit! Give her a thumbs up and extend the probe. Danny, there’s big-time weather in front of us, and a tanker next to us. We’re gonna plug.”
“Hope this tanker is sweet, but you’ve got the airplane,” Danny answered from the tube. All knew they were taking yet another risk.
Zavitz extended the refueling probe which pushed straight into the airstream from a housing above the cockpit. At the same time, Olive signaled for the lead and Zavitz acknowledged. She then tapped her helmet and used her fingers to communicate four numbers to Smith, Hancock’s Departure control frequency. In an easy right-hand turn, they skirted the storm, with Zavitz looking at the probe over his nose, realizing it was a potential lightning rod.
“You ever done this before?” Smith asked him.
“Once,” Zavitz answered. The aircraft was quiet; their pilot had accomplished this procedure only once before during a scripted test in sunny Chesapeake skies, not over the desolate North Pacific amid turbulent clouds and with the pressure on.
Zavitz pulled a handful of power to slide down Olive’s left side and stabilize behind the basket. Olive rolled out east to keep them in a clear air “canyon” between the storm and the weather they had flown through. The E-2 crew realized they were in extremis; if they couldn’t refuel, and if the line of weather continued to block them, Adak was no longer an option. With their remaining fuel, they could take a stab or two at Hancock’s deck before a controlled bailout. As the sky darkened, they each felt gnawing tension in their chests.
Olive adjusted her left rear-view mirror and could see the Hawkeye’s left wing behind her. Holding her jet steady, she now waited for the fuel totalizer to count down.
Breathing through his mouth, Zavitz stabilized behind the wobbling basket, then, with a combination of flying formation while performing a delicate task, flew the probe into it. The hose buckled from the measured impact, and he was rewarded with a green light from the buddy store housing.
“Green light!” Smith crowed, and all in the tube breathed a sigh of relief. “Nice job, sir. I’ve never seen that done before.”
“You may get your turn on this cruise,” Zavitz said in reply, his eyes locked on Olive’s Rhino as he maintained his position in the basket.
Olive saw the fuel transferring—Yes! — and called to the ship.
“Departure, the Hummer is plugged and receiving. We’ll RTB once complete.” She then conducted a pseudo radio check. “You guys up behind me?”
“Yeah, and we are Steeljaw six-zero-three. State five-point-oh and increasing,” Smith answered.
“Steeljaw?” Zavitz asked him over the intercom, still maintaining concentration.
“Yeah, it’s from an old E-2 unit. Always thought it was a cool call sign. We didn’t launch with a radio call sign, so… we’re Steeljaw. And look, our fuel is increasing. Ha-haaa, another first!”
“Enjoy your little moment. We’ve still gotta trap in this shit.”
Olive gave the E-2 a generous 4,000 pounds of fuel, which would allow both aircraft to come back for multiple tries at the deck. She secured the buddy store, and when the Hawkeye appeared on her right wing, she turned left to avoid a cloud before she stowed the basket.
Using hand signals, she got them to come up on the proper frequency, and now with good comms, she detached them so approach control could vector them in order behind the carrier. Zavitz made his approach and trapped, thankful that Hancock had found a clear area. With Mullet’s voice calls, and a little cooperation from the deck, Olive also trapped without incident. The helicopters followed, and Hancock resumed her EMCON posture as she slowed to wait for her escorts who would catch up by morning.
The damage, however, had been done. The electromagnetic and UHF radio emissions from the past hour had been picked up by a Chinese RORSAT in low earth orbit 500 miles above them, and also by a Chinese trawler outfitted with ESM receivers far down the southwest horizon. Within the hour, Beijing knew that Hancock was near the International Date Line along the 45th parallel. Working backward from her last known position off California’s Channel Islands, they figured an impressive speed-of-advance of almost 30 knots, and could now predict when and where she would cross the second island chain — if she maintained her great-circle track. They surmised that the carrier was some sixty hours from where it could be attacked by PLA(N) submarines and Rocket Force DF-21 ship-killers, designed from the start to disable, if not sink, American aircraft carriers.
Despite the American news media and partisan political hysteria about fighting the PRC and the death toll it would cause, Admiral Qin knew that a first-shot sinking of an American nuclear-powered aircraft carrier would galvanize efforts by the United States to destroy the PLA(N) and possibly the PRC. He, therefore, had to avoid a too-hard poke at the Tiger that would further enrage it. He needed to hurt the Americans and their prized warship but not destroy it, to prove to them and the world that the United States was not superior everywhere and at all times. A blow that would force Americans to make one more calculation before joining a fierce battle to the death that would turn the Western Pacific red with blood.
He placed a call to Marshal Dong. Dong agreed with his plan.
CHAPTER 23
With midnight approaching, Wilson walked through a hangar bay bathed in yellowish sodium-vapor light as dozens of sailors and Marines worked on his aircraft. Many of the aircraft were “opened up” for maintenance. One Rhino was on jacks as the landing gear was cycled to check hydraulic components. In Hangar Bay 2, a Hornet had its nose cone open as technicians worked on the radar antenna. None of the sailors paid any attention to him, focused as they were on their work in the middle of the night shift. Most didn’t know what was in store for them despite Blower’s daily 1MC updates to the crew on the situation and Hancock’s expected role.
The carrier’s large elevator doors were closed, as much to keep out the cold North Pacific air as to protect from chem/bio attack. Every unidentified vessel encountered by Hancock and the other ships in the Pacific Fleet had to be considered a chemical weapons threat. As the carrier hugged the Aleutian chain, chances of such an attack were low, but Wilson and the others in Hancock’s brain trust had to consider the possibility. He noted gas masks on the hips of his sailors, as both he and Blower had directed. The bulky and cumbersome masks would hinder the speed and efficiency of even the most routine task. No one, not even Wilson, knew how hard this was going to be; the gas masks were a subtle reminder.