“How do they do this?”
“Not sure myself, but only two ways I can think of. I suspect multiple data links and multiple sensors all integrated into one all-source display is one way. We can’t do it, but I understand on the ships and the ground, you can hook on each contact and it will not only tell you what the contact is, but course, speed, altitude, and who really has the initial reflection.”
“What’s the second way?” Franklin asked after several seconds of silence.
“Magic.”
This was going to be a long flight. Johnson was sounding almost human. He must keep alert, he told himself, or he might forget the monster she becomes when the curtain opens on the leadership stage.
“Raptor Leader; this is the Weasel Electronics Warfare Officer. I want to draw your attention to the six contacts orbiting two hundred miles bearing two-four-zero degrees true from our position.” The RC-135 EWO proceeded to read the track numbers to the two fighter pilots.
Franklin shook his head. Did the man think the two of them had the flexibility while flying the world’s most sophisticated fighter aircraft to write down the data he was rattling off?
As if knowing Franklin’s thoughts, on the heads-up display a red line emerged from the center of the display and grew slowly in a straight line toward several contacts orbiting over Mainland China. Then, the end of the line grew into a circle encompassing the bogies. Franklin took his cursor and shifted it to one of the contacts. Even as the data emerged on his display, Weasel was broadcasting. The contacts were definitely aircraft because of their speed.
“They are Chinese fighters. We think they are the J-12 stealth fighter. We have known since 2000 the Chinese were developing them, but other than some overhead photographs, this will be the first time we have them flying. These J-12 fighters have exported or stolen Raptor technology applied to them. That will convolute your actions, if you have to engage them. Most likely, they are the sixth or seventh generation of the Chinese stealth program designed to catch up with you Raptors.”
“Do they know we have them on radar?”
“They probably have the same indications you do. They know radar is pinging them, but like you fighter jocks…”
Franklin envisioned the man shaking his head and looking down at his flight boots.
“Sorry. Like you fighter pilots, they probably believe they’re invincible and laughing about not showing up on radar.”
“If they have Raptor technology on their hulls, then how can you show them?”
“Raptor Leader; if we told you, we’d have to kill you.” The EWO laughed.
Franklin gave a wry laugh too. That expression had to be as old as his grandfather. He jerked his finger away from the talk button. It was too tempting to press it and say, Just tell us a little bit; then you’d only have to beat the crap out of us.
Seconds passed without Johnson acknowledging Weasel’s comment, convincing Franklin she was one pissed-off bitch right now. He felt like singing.
Minutes later, Weasel broadcast a course change as the formation entered the track running down the center of the Taiwan Strait. Franklin looked to the right. Sparse cloud cover marked the line between the Chinese coast and the ocean waters. He looked at the heads-up display. The six contacts were still orbiting. An orbit was as good as… What? What was an orbit as good as? Well, he thought, it was good they were orbiting and not trying to disappear in the Raptors’ direction. Six Chinese stealth fighters against their two might be an unfair advantage. He smiled. Yeah, they’d be outnumbered.
Franklin marked the relative bearing of the contacts and looked in that direction. Out of the corner of his eye, flying about a quarter mile away, was Major Johnson’s Raptor.
No contrails marking the bogies broke the blue sky. None marked Johnson’s Raptor, ergo none marked his, but he turned his head and looked behind him.
If any threat came after the RJ, it would be these sophisticated fighters. The Chinese would use this opportunity to demonstrate their air superiority. He turned his head to the left. The coastline of Taiwan was crystal clear. No clouds over it. He could easily make out where the waters crashed against the land of the breakaway province that was drawing America into a confrontation no one wanted. His earlier thoughts of Saturday nights at the Langley Officers Club drew his mind from the boredom of escort duty ahead. Moments later, Franklin was humming.
“Skipper, Admiral Holman called and asked you red-phone him back,” Stapler said to Garcia.
Garcia pulled himself up into his chair.
The nearby Petty Officer of the Watch handed Garcia the red handset. “Sir, the POOW of the Boxer is on the other end.” The Petty Officer of the Watch; must not be too important. When it was important, you could bet money Holman would be on the other end. Garcia mumbled thanks and pushed the talk button. The synchronization of the bagpipe keying of the secure comms echoed in his ear. When it cleared, he told the petty officer on the other end who he was. Within two minutes, Admiral Holman was on the line.
“Hank, how is everything going over there? Sea Base making good time?”
“Still ambling along at eight knots, Admiral. We should be in our Op Area in the next twelve hours. We’ll do a nighttime stabilization of Sea Base and when you wake tomorrow morning, Sea Base will be anchored — figuratively.”
“Good. I think locating Sea Base a few hundred miles northeast of Taiwan should keep you out of range of Chinese aircraft.”
“And North Korean.”
Holman guffawed. “You never know about that country of bipolar leaders.”
For several minutes, Holman and Garcia discussed the actions in the Sea of Japan a month ago. A couple of sentences about the large burnt spot on the Sea Base deck and the smaller one where Walters’s aircraft had burned. For the first ten minutes, they talked about the previous action, the damage inflicted, and the condition of those medically evacuated. As Holman spoke, Garcia thought of how lucky he had been to have this leader with him in the Sea of Japan.
Holman was an old-timer. He had earned his four stars the old-fashioned way: combat. Weren’t many “Holmans” in the modern Navy. Most earned their stars through a rote set of tours designed to show upward mobility and political astuteness. Political astuteness was a trait hard to find in the admiral’s character. Garcia smiled at the image of the short “battling the bulge” admiral standing with him along the aft safety lines of Sea Base smoking his Cuban cigar. In today’s politically correct society where even words were suspect, here was a person whose only safety was probably the sea. Holman was chubby. He was brusque. And he smoked. He had something for everyone to hate.
But this cigar-smoking admiral had fought a carrier battle group through the Strait of Gibraltar against submarines and mines to project American and allied power back into the Mediterranean. He had led a covert set of engagements with a French ally off West Africa, and done it in such a way that the quasi-war never left the area. For all of that, there were those in Washington who would dance and party for weeks if Holman failed. They’d probably name a toilet after him when he retired.
“Hank, did you just laugh?”
Garcia’s eyes widened. Did he laugh? “I don’t think so, sir.” “This isn’t a laughing matter. Let me tell you what I think is going to come down in the next twenty-four hours. But you can’t hold me to it, okay?”
“Aye, sir.”
Holman started in about the talks in Beijing involving the Americans, Russians, Indians, and British. The Chinese, the old crimes of World War II never far from their eternal minds, had unilaterally barred the Japanese. Holman expressed his tongue-in-cheek belief that the Great Wall of China was maintained not for tourism and historical significance, but because the Chinese still suspected the Mongolians of preparing to invade them. Only the North Koreans, who believed everyone hated them, surpassed the xenophobia of China. Most likely, the North Koreans weren’t wrong.