“We should reach the anchor area shortly,” Johnson said on their private circuit, referring to the geographical area where the tanker would be orbiting. “Keep a good lookout.”
Franklin keyed his mike twice in acknowledgment. If his radar failed to pick up the KC-10 before he saw it, then he had problems with the radar.The Air Force fleet of modified Boeing C-10s had entered the fleet in 1981. The Air National Guard had inherited the venerable KC-135 tankers. He shook his head. Of course, we’re still flying B-52s, only not as often, Franklin thought.
With the catastrophic economic collapse of 2015, funds to purchase new ships and new aircraft were hard to come by. The Navy had the same problem as the Air Force. With the exception of this Sea Base experiment, both services were using out-of-date aircraft and ships. Even the F-22A needed upgrading to more modern technology, but each year Congress voted down the funds.
The tone of the voice on the secure tactical frequency grabbed his attention. It was Weasel transmitting.
“… disappeared. One moment they were there, and now the radar video is gone!”
“Roger, Weasel. Maybe they’ve returned to base for refueling or maybe they’ve called it a day,” came the calm voice of Tyler-Cole. “After all it is getting late.…”
“Not likely! Not all six at once. One moment they’re in a nice racetrack pattern edging closer to the coast, and the next they’re gone. Something’s not right.”
“It is four o’clock, mate. I think they’ve gone home for a bit of tea.”
“You serious?”
There was a chuckle on the circuit. “My fine American friend, we British have been trying to figure out the Oriental mind for centuries with as much luck as trying to figure out a woman’s.”
“I heard that,” Johnson broadcast.
“With you as an exception, Commander.”
Johnson heard two clicks on the circuit.
Does that mean he’s figured Johnson out? Franklin thought.
“Contacts don’t just up and disappear. They’re up to something.”
“Roger, Weasel. What would you like us to do?” Tyler-Cole asked.
Several seconds passed with no answer from the RC-135.
“Weasel, Black Leader here. Unless you object, I am going to dispatch two of my flight to take a position twenty-five miles west of us at angels twenty-eight.”
“Roger, Black Leader.”
“That will bracket you with me and my wingman above you, while the other pair will fly the right flank as early warning at two thousand feet lower than you.”
“Looks like those Chinese stealth fighters have disappeared,” Johnson said on their private circuit.
“Maybe they went low. Maybe ground clutter is obscuring them from the Rivet Joint.”
“I doubt it. The RJ has so many sensors, and access to so many other sensors we don’t even know about, that if the aircraft went low or high, they’d pick them up. They have a better reach-back capability than we do.”
Franklin imagined Johnson shaking her head as if lecturing a student pilot. “Think we ought to go back?” he asked.
“No,” Johnson answered. “If they need us, then it’d be nice to have a full fuel pack.”
A blip appeared on Franklin’s radar, almost immediately covered by a half circle. The automated Electronic Warfare suite on the F-22A identified the radar return as the KC-10.
“I got the tanker,” they both broadcast almost simultaneously.
“Change to secondary tactical frequency,” Johnson ordered.
Franklin reached over and changed the settings of his secure communications, listening to the Key Material Infrastructure within the radios synchronize. KMI was the key to secure communications throughout the military.
He pressed the button beneath the Communications-Navigation-Integration system — fondly called CNI. Pressing the button, he froze the frequency onto a specific channel. If he needed to switch between tactical-one and tactical-two, all he had to do was press the button. CNI was the key to the net-centric capability of the F-22A. The data link they had been using for the past two hours was part of CNI.
While he keyed the radio, Franklin flipped the range of the radar so the data link from the Rivet Joint blended into the heads-up display. He glanced at the location of the tanker, then to the Rivet Joint heading south away from them. Two of the F-35 British fighters were diverting westward separating from the RC-135. He wondered what they were doing, then decided they were just doing some due diligence in positioning some protection between the high-value target — the RC-135—and the Chinese threat to the west.
Trailing the Air Force reconnaissance aircraft were the other two F-35 aircraft. An upside-down half circle covered each of the friendly aircraft with a slight line leading from the icon, pointing in the direction of travel with the length of line indicating the speed of each of them.
“Jolly Roger, this is Raptor Leader; we hold you five-zero miles. We bear one-eight-zero true from your orbit position. Estimate five minutes your location.”
Five minutes later, Franklin and Johnson were maneuvering toward the wings of the tanker.
“Raptor 10, I’ll drink first,” Johnson said.
He clicked his transmit button twice. Of course she’d drink first. She’s the DETCO — oh, no! Not DETCO. “I’m the Commander and don’t forget it — so get the hell out of my way and let me refuel first. After all, you’re just a lowly captain while I am a senior major.” Franklin let out a deep sigh. “Fast Pace, I hope you recover soon and get the hell back out here.”
“Raptor Leader, course will be zero-one-zero at angels twenty-seven,” the tanker broadcast.
Air-to-air refueling was dangerous, but it was the critical node in the Air Force’s capability to reach globally anywhere, anytime. Air Force pilots could do it in their sleep. Hence, their explanation for the bumper sticker that read: “Fighter Pilots can do it in their sleep.” The same bumper sticker the Air Force Chief of Staff banned from his bases.
“Jolly Roger, Raptor Leader; can we do the refueling on a southerly course?”
Several seconds passed before a deep Southern voice answered Johnson’s request. “Ma’am, we’d like to, but our orders are to steer clear of the strait. Not to enter it. We have to go northeast. Would you secure your radar during refueling? Thanks.”
Franklin shook his head and smiled. Dumb shit tanker jock, he thought. Saying ‘ma’am’ told her you’re junior to her. Now, you have to live with what’s coming.
“Roger, Jolly Roger,” came Johnson’s voice, a little stiffer in tone than the previous transmission. “As the senior officer here, we need to head south. We may have a situation where we have to break off. If so, we’d like to be nearer the area.”
“But Raptor Leader…”
“That’s an order, Jolly Roger. You may enter it in your log and explain to your superiors when you return.”
Franklin laughed. Give it up, tanker lad. You’re outmatched and outgunned.
Several seconds later: “Jolly Roger, I am ready for new course,” Johnson said.
As the tanker and F-22A fighters maneuvered to the new course, Franklin put his radar in idle as Johnson eventually ordered.
Five minutes later, the three aircraft were heading 190. Franklin watched from a thousand feet higher as the drogue emerged from the KC-10.