Jacobs headed toward the tower. What the hell was going on now? He reached over with his good hand and eased the right back into the sleeve. He hated this. Not having control over his hand bugged the crap out of him. Maybe the doctor could give him a pill or shot to hurry up this healing shit.
SEVEN
Franklin broke away from the refueling drogue, thanking the pilot, who verbally blasted both of them for taking him nearly a hundred miles from his anchor orbit.
“Reform, Blackman,” Johnson broadcast, ignoring the complaints.
To their left, the KC-10 aircraft banked left away from the Raptor formation. There was no wish for luck from the tanker as it quickly disappeared behind them. Franklin smiled. Got to hand it to Johnson; if pissing off people is a core skill, then she graduated top of her class.
Franklin had been in focused communications for the past fifteen minutes with the tanker. Refueling operations were fun, or so he thought, but all you needed was a fraction of a second of inattention and that drogue would pop out like a missile ripping through your cockpit or slamming into one of the jet intakes.
“Roger, Commander.”
“Reform left side, one hundred feet. I’m on course one-nine-zero degrees at angels twenty-six.”
He clicked his transmitter twice.
A few minutes later, the two F-22A Raptors were formation-flying.
“While you’ve been having your drink, Raptor 10, the Rivet Joint reached the southern leg of its track and is now heading north. We are to relieve the British in forty-five minutes so they can refuel. You synchronized with your data links?” Sometimes during refueling operations, the closeness of so much metal treated the data links as if they were in the middle of an antenna jungle. Franklin flipped the switches, synchronizing the secure communications, hearing the telltale bagpipe approval as the data links established connections. Seconds later, his heads-up display looked like a Disney cartoon with different colors, shapes, and outlined landmasses. “I’ve resynch’d, Raptor Leader.”
“They don’t know what happened to the Chinese J-12s that were flying the racetrack. Rivet Joint figures the stealth fighters have returned to base.”
“One moment they have them on radar and the next they’re gone. Doesn’t sound to me as if they’ve gone home. Sounds more to me as if they have some sort of stealth technology to help the antiradar skin of the aircraft.”
“You could be right, Blackman.”
He keyed his mike twice. What the hell was he doing? This was Major “Call me Commander” Johnson he was gabbing with. She might be friendly with the two of them out here, but once they touched down, she’d be the hard-nosed bitch everyone expected.
“Raptor Leader, Raptor Haven; how do you read?”
“Raptor Haven; I have you fivers,” Johnson replied.
“Be advised, we are at General Quarters with multiple torpedoes inbound. Your nearest bingo field is Taipei.”
“Roger, Raptor Haven; say again why GQ?”
“Inbound torpedoes.”
Shit! thought Franklin. That can’t be good.
Johnson keyed her mike twice.
“Maybe those stealth fighters didn’t return to base,” Franklin transmitted on their private circuit.
“Coordinate into the computer directions for Taipei, in the event we have to bingo without much warning.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Franklin keyed in the coordinates and saved the data.
For the next minute, they double-checked the coordinates and data, knowing if they became separated or damaged, they could flip on the autopilot that could grab the data and take them to the bingo field.
Afterward, they flew in silence, listening to Black Leader and Weasel passing status reports. Franklin thought of Walters and his wingman’s young family. Ideas for what he wanted to do with his Air Force career careened through his thoughts, and in the background he listened to the communications chatter filling the air, watching the heads-up display much like a driver in Washington beltway traffic glances at his dashboard. Every few seconds he checked his distance to Johnson, and all of this was going on almost as a second thought, unconsciously, as they flew toward the rendezvous spot. He had lost count of time until Johnson broke his reverie. He glanced at the clock and saw five minutes had passed. It seemed longer.
“Weasel, this is Raptor Leader; did you copy Raptor Haven’s transmission?”
“That’s a negative,” the communications officer on board the RC-135 replied. “Was it to us?”
“Negative; Sea Base has gone to General Quarters due to… They are under attack.”
That’s not what Raptor Haven said, Franklin thought, his eyebrows rising at Johnson’s transmission. Slight difference between “Torpedoes inbound” and “We’re under attack.” Though he couldn’t really see the difference other than semantics.
“Roger, Raptor Leader; we copy.”
“Who or what is attacking them?” interrupted Commander Lester Tyler-Cole. “Air or sea?”
“They report torpedoes heading toward them, so am presuming submarine attack.”
“I would say,” Tyler-Cole added, “this puts a different picture on the disappearance of those six contacts, Weasel. I think it might be time for you to disappear.”
“Roger, Black Leader; hold one.”
Franklin knew that on board the RC-135, the officers would be racing up and down the long fuselage toward the mission commander’s spot, wherever that was inside the aircraft. Must be nice to stretch your legs, drink a cup of coffee, and stand up to take a leak. It takes practice to learn how to pee sitting down while fully dressed.
“Weasel, this is Raptor Leader; we are increasing speed and expect to rendezvous with you and Black Formation within three-zero minutes.”
The bagpipes of encryption erupted in Franklin’s ears for a second, followed by the British accent of Tyler-Cole. “Roger, Raptor Leader; we are four F-35 fighters coming toward you. Two are overhead Weasel with other pair taking station between big boy and the Chinese coast.”
Franklin wished Walters were here now. They’d be bantering snide comments and humorous shit back and forth, excited over the possibility of air combat. The banter would be to convince each other they weren’t scared to death also. He listened with his finger off the transmit button as Johnson, Tyler-Cole, and the RJ exchanged courses, headings, and positions, though everything they passed was easily discernible on the heads-up display. Why in the world do we have this information technology if we still trust our hearing better? Well, he had no intention of trying to change it. Nothing wrong with someone confirming the data. Look at those five Navy aircraft the Bermuda Triangle ate.
Kiang was gasping for breath by the time he reached the top of Sea Base. His binoculars and camera swung from leather straps rubbing around his neck. He bent over, putting his hands on his knees, catching his breath, ignoring the tramping of metal-toed shoes slamming down on the metal deck as hordes of sailors ran around him, racing toward their battle stations.
A half minute later, he raised his head. He glanced up at the mast above the tower. A maze of antennas decorated the arms like Christmas tree icicles. Several radars turned like ornaments twirling among the limbs. Those antennas and radars were the only official reason he was on board Sea Base. The Layer Institute of Research in downtown San Antonio had been awarded the noncompetitive contract. They had been the only technical organization with the professional depth and expertise to meet the requirements.
He stood staring at the mast as his thoughts turned to Jack Sward. He had run into Mrs. Sward during his short trip back to San Antonio at a ceremony honoring her husband. She had been kind saying how much Jack thought of him. If Jack had not been chosen over Kiang for this trip, he’d still be alive.