“Looks as if the British have arrived,” Johnson broadcast to Franklin.
Franklin nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced out his cockpit, but the glare of the sun hid Johnson’s outline so he couldn’t see if she was looking in his direction or not. He glanced ahead and down. The huge RC-135 aircraft flew straight and level a couple of thousand feet below them. Slowly, as they flew along the mission track, Johnson and he had ascended in altitude, wanting to put some distance between them and the huge Rivet Joint aircraft. When the equivalent of the commercial Boeing 707 decided to turn or make a rapid change in course or altitude, the rules that applied to surface ships around an aircraft carrier applied in the sky. When a large aircraft is maneuvering, all other aircraft stand clear. Large aircraft and aircraft carriers do not change courses as rapidly and easily as fighter aircraft or smaller surface ships.
The bagpipe sound of secure communications broke the circuit.
“Black Leader, Weasel; welcome to the club. We hold you dead ahead five-zero miles at two-eight thousand feet. We are changing our course to one-nine-zero true for rendezvous. Be advised we have two Foxtrot 22s as escort two thousand feet above us at angels three-two.”
“Roger, Weasel; we have been copying your comms. Break-break. Raptor Formation, this is Commander Tyler-Cole of His Majesty’s 801st Naval Squadron. From the chatter, I presume that’s you, Major Johnson.”
Franklin smiled. She must be having a conniption. No one broadcast real names while in flight, and here was the British commander as nonchalant as if they were out for a day in the park. Of course, they were on secure communications, so it mattered little other than Johnson was a stickler for protocol.
“Roger, Black Leader; good to hear your voice again,” Johnson broadcast.
The smile grew wider on Franklin’s face.
“Raptor Formation, unless you want to continue along with us, Black Formation will assume escort duty from you— should give you an additional few minutes for your refueling bingo.”
“Roger, Black Leader, but our orders are to hand off at ten miles. We have forty to go.”
Two clicks came across the circuit acknowledging the exchange.
“Weasel, Black Formation consists of four F-35 fighters. We are prepared to accept data link at this time.”
The F-35 fighter was also known as the Joint Strike Fighter. The F-35 was a stealth fighter developed by the Pentagon for the purpose of a single stealth fighter for the four services and selected allies. While the Navy and Marine Corps quickly backed the program, the Air Force argued convincingly within the hallowed halls of the Pentagon for the F-22A. The behind-the-scenes arguments with Congressional leaders ensured both aircraft entered the defense inventory.
Franklin looked at his display, wondering what would happen once the British joined the network-centric operations of the United States military. He watched his heads-up display waiting to see what the British data would bring online. He didn’t have long to wait. Within a minute, the exact location of the four Royal Navy fighters jumped onto the display. They had been there all along, but identified as unknowns. Now, the Tactical Data Display icon that had been a square box over a sporadic radar contact changed to a circle. Surface contacts had full circles for friendlies, boxes for unknowns, and the dreaded diamonds for known hostiles. Air had the top halves of the symbols, while the bottom halves identified submarines. The six Chinese J-12 stealth fighters orbiting along the coast were marked with the top half of the diamond icon.
Ten minutes later, the Royal Navy fighters had taken escort duty and the Raptors were heading north toward the KC-10. The KC-10 had the commercial DC-10 airframe. It had replaced the aging KC-135 tanker fleet as the Air Force’s primary air-to-air refueling aircraft. But unlike the KC-135, the KC-10 was also capable of carrying the ground crews for an Air Force deployment.
The Air Force enjoyed pointing out that with the KC-10 providing support, the Air Force could deploy anywhere in the world within forty-eight hours. On site, in the fight, by night. The Navy saw this capability more as an Air Force attack on their carrier fleet, so the counterargument had always been that the Air Force needed another nation’s airfield to operate, while the aircraft carrier was on American soil. The Air Force always argued they could orbit and flight until they had to land.
Sea Base was another affront to Navy aviation even if it was a Navy program. The unexpected Congressional mandate that Air Force fighters operate on board Sea Base had not been well received on the fourth deck of the Pentagon by the Navy flag officers. The Air Force always seemed to do better on the hill than the Navy.
But the Navy had cut its own throat in the early years of the twenty-first century. It had willingly given up its reconnaissance mission to the Air Force saying it wasn’t a Navy core competency needed for control of the seas. Then, it had given the Air Force the mission of air-to-air refueling, chuckling behind the scenes about how that freed up more carrier space for fighters.
Slowly, the Air Force had received the mission of providing aerial support to the joint services. It had willingly taken the reconnaissance missions. The Navy only wanted fighter aircraft— all else was superfluous, and besides that, was boring.
The KC-10 flown by the Air Force was now used by all the services for in-flight refueling.
“Blackman, let’s turn our radars back on. We’re heading away from the mainland.”
Franklin glanced at the clock on the heads-up display. He hit the switch, and almost immediately heard the beep announcing the radar back online. Flying northeast kept the radar beeps from being detected by sensors along the Chinese coast.
“Damn glad to have my radar back,” he said to himself. Data links were nice. Data links connected all the sensors together in what the Department of Defense termed net-centric warfare.
There was one element of net-centric operations that bothered Franklin. It was this concept of “reach-back.” Reach-back meant forces, resources, and assets that used to be on the front lines with the war-fighter were now located in the United States or elsewhere far, far away along the yellow brick road. He liked the idea of having what he needed with him. Most fellow fighter pilots felt the same way. If you were exposed to the dangers, the bullets, and the stress of combat, you had a better appreciation of what the war-fighter really needed.
Unfortunately, no one could pinpoint examples of when reach-back failed. It just failed to make sense to those putting their lives on the line why everyone was not at the front with them. Franklin shrugged. He and his fellow warriors had this paranoia that whoever was providing whatever reach-back capability might be more interested in getting his or her son or daughter to a Little League game than providing what the warriors needed in the middle of a fight.
The intelligence, the data links, the communications, logistics, and a myriad of other “just in time” efficiencies had never failed him. Maybe they had failed him and he just didn’t know. Bottom line for him was if he couldn’t touch the person providing the service, then how did he know that person really existed? Shit if he knew.
In his earphones, he listened to the chatter between the RC-135 and Commander Tyler-Cole. The British commander was quite the character, as Franklin had discovered when the man landed on Sea Base after the fight with the North Koreans.
Narrow of waist, broad of shoulder, and with a lower lip that seemed always tucked tightly against the upper. There was a touch of vanity in that the commander combed his hair forward, trying to cover a receding hairline.
The career Royal Navy fighter pilot had landed announcing he and his wingman would be aboard for a week. Two days later, only the wingman remained. Discovering Sea Base was like the rest of the United States Navy — dry — was sufficient for other duties to demand Tyler-Cole’s presence back on the Royal Navy aircraft carrier Elizabeth. There was only so much a man could take at sea. So Tyler-Cole had launched back to the Elizabeth, the wardroom pub, and the English soccer matches.