Franklin was glad Johnson confirmed Mother meant feet and not meters, though meters would have meant them ascending. Fighting in the four-dimensional battle space of air meant that course, speed, altitude, and time were everything. They were the four guiding principles of knowing where everyone was at, where everyone was going, where everyone was leaving, and what the hell was going on at what time.
“Mother, Black Leader; leveling at two thousand meters. Steady on course two-two-zero.”
“Roger. Raptor-10 Formation; request you slow your speed to allow separation to increase to fifty miles between you and Raptor Leader Formation.”
“Roger, Mother,” came Crawford’s deep bass voice over the airways.
Separation! Franklin’s eyes narrowed. Separation, hell; he wanted the two additional Raptors right up here alongside him — not sitting on some aerial grandstand watching the fight.
“Raptor 10; you are the reserve force. Shortly, I will be fully engaged with Raptor Leader and Black formations. You are to take whatever actions necessary to maintain this constant separation, but prepared to engage when I so order. Copy?”
“Roger, Mother. I copy.”
On Franklin’s heads-up display in the cockpit, the distance between the two Raptor formations began to increase. He hoped the British knew what the hell they were doing, because he sure as hell didn’t. The more F-22A fighters around him right now, the better he’d feel. A vision of a pregnant Connie standing alongside Fast Pace’s hospital bed, holding his hand while she held their daughter’s hand in her other hand, intruded for a few seconds into his thoughts.
“All fighters this circuit,” the Air Intercept Controller on board the British aircraft carrier broadcast. “Situation report. We have multiple bogies — estimate sixteen, emerging from land splatter along the China coast, heading toward the engagement area. The six J-12 fighters continue to approach Black and Raptor Leader Formations. Raptor-10 formation is in reserve. Sea Base is shifting control of additional F-22A fighters under call sign Raptor 20 to Mother control. Raptor 20 is two-fighter formation that will not arrive in engagement area prior to the approaching aircraft from the mainland. Elizabeth has launched four fighters for overhead combat air patrol and to protect the fleet. They are to your north. Elizabeth battle group is turning to course zero-two-zero at this time.” Franklin looked at the heads-up display on his cockpit windshield and saw the friendly icons about two hundred miles from his location orbiting to the north. The British had their battle group protected, while it increased distance between the ships and the approaching aircraft. He glanced to where Sea Base should be on the display, and saw a lone fighter orbiting overhead. With six of the seven operational Raptors on board Sea Base heading toward this center of gravity, it meant only one remained to protect the vulnerable Navy experiment from air attack.
“Mother, this is Raptor Leader; what are your intentions?” Franklin was slightly startled by the question, but not surprised Johnson was asking. Patience was a virtue little enjoyed by Johnson and few who believed it existed. But at this time and in this place, information was something he wanted also. Being a mushroom and kept in the dark was unlike what he or other Air Force pilots were accustomed to. Usually, everyone knew everything. You kept to a pattern until you were fully engaged. Then, combat became a personal thing between you, your enemy, and whatever God you worshipped, though God was the wingman few thought about until after the engagement.
“Raptor Leader, my intentions are to control the sky. At this time, we do.”
“Roger, but shouldn’t we make arrangements for engaging the approaching bogies?” Johnson asked. “Sixteen would vastly outnumber us.”
“Yeah,” Franklin said aloud. “Ought to send Tight End and his wingman up to join us.” That would be a sight to behold when those conventional fighters were splashed by the F-22As.
Seconds passed before the AIC answered. “Raptor Leader, understand your concern, but real danger to control of the sky are the J-12s approaching you. Coastline bogies will not arrive in engagement area for twenty-five minutes. We are in process of launching additional fighters to assist with that engagement.”
“Our data links are not showing those J-12s, Mother. We show no bandits approaching,” Johnson replied. “We do have Black Formation on display.”
“Bandits are approaching. On this you have to trust me. At this time, the bandits are less than sixty miles away on course zero-four-zero at an estimated altitude of 6500 meters. For certain reasons, we are unable to enter them in the data system.”
“Roger,” Johnson replied.
“How do they know that?” Franklin asked on the formation circuit. He knew Crawford and his wingman heard his question.
“Must be something with their data systems.”
“Or they have something we don’t,” Franklin added.
“Sixty miles is about five minutes at this speed,” Johnson said.
“Black Leader, this is Mother; prepare for rapid ascent at my command.”
Two clicks came across the frequency.
“Raptor Leader Formation; worst case approaching you is a quick missile release. Engagement in less than four minutes.”
“Worst case? What’s best case?” Johnson broadcast.
“Best case is they pass by you before their controller tells them to launch.”
Two clicks on the microphone acknowledged the AIC’s comment.
“Black Leader, stand by.”
Two clicks on the microphone acknowledged the AIC’s order.
“What the hell is going on?” Franklin asked himself. Here they were fighting the first stealth air-to-air combat in history and he had no idea where the enemy was, but the British controller apparently did. And all they were getting was a bunch of verbal warnings without any data stream to show them the battle space. Black Formation was below and headed up toward the approaching bandits. Crawford and his two F-22As were northwest and above Black Formation about fifty miles away — five minutes of fast flying time. Five minutes was forever in air combat where an engagement was measured in seconds.
A glint of reflected sunlight to his right caught Franklin’s attention. He squinted through the sun visor of his helmet. The glint happened again. Then, two bright reflections occurred simultaneously.
“Major, two o’clock. I have a flight of two aircraft.” He touched his throat. Was that his voice with the slight tremor in it? Franklin cleared his throat. “Me, me, me, me,” he said aloud. Better not be me.
A moment later, Johnson hit her transmit button. “Mother, Raptor Leader; we have visual. Bandits are less than thirty miles from us off to our southwest.”
“Roger, Raptor Leader; you are clear to conduct a left-angle approach to intercept on your visual. Keep them on your forward right as you approach.”
“They’ll see us.” “That’s the plan.”
“That’s the plan!” Franklin transmitted to Johnson and the other Raptors. “What the hell kind of plan is that?”
“Stay off the circuit, Blackman,” Johnson replied.
“Hostiles are believed to be at seven thousand meters altitude,” the AIC broadcast across the tactical action frequency to both Raptors and Joint Strike Fighters under his control.
23,100 feet, Franklin mentally calculated. On Franklin’s heads-up display, two hostile icons appeared near their position. He wondered who put it into the system, whether it was Mother or Johnson. Or even Tight End could have done it, but somewhere someone was thinking. Mother said she couldn’t. “Energize weapons systems, everyone,” the AIC broadcast. This was a load of bullshit as far as he was concerned. Without some sort of valid data profile, they were flying blind.