"What's the speed and range?"
Susan consulted the JetRanger performance section that her staff had compiled in the wee hours of the morning. "Depending on the altitude and conditions, the speed is approximately one hundred fifteen knots, with a range of around three hundred fifty nautical miles at low altitude."
After some mental calculations, Steve finally spoke. "The pilot could have flown nonstop to any of the islands, even down to the sparsely settled areas on the big island, and still had plenty of fuel to spare."
"You're right, Steve, but I feel that fuel wasn't the critical element in the escape. It was the exposure of being seen in a brightly painted helicopter."
"That makes sense." He was impressed with her reasoning and with the amount of information she had assimilated in such a short period of time.
"The longer the pilot placed himself in a position to be seen," she continued with a slight shrug, "the worse the odds became of a successful evasion."
"You're right," he admitted and placed himself in the pilot's position after the assault. "The pilot, who was going a little over two miles a minute, probably didn't stay in the air for more than ten to twelve minutes after the attack."
"That's basically what I've been thinking," she responded a moment before Callaway approached them. "It would have been easy to land in a remote place, camouflage the helo, repaint it, then fly it out later."
Marcus waited until she was finished. "Speaking of helicopters, I just saw the TV station pilot — the Sky Nine pilot — being interviewed."
Wickham had an intuitive feeling that they needed to interview her. "She might be able to give us some valuable information plus some background profiles of the helo jockeys on the island."
"I've already sent a request," Susan informed him with a level gaze, "to meet with Ms. Garney tomorrow morning." She observed the surprise in Wickham's eyes. "It would be good for all of us to talk with her, then compare notes."
Before Steve could respond, Marcus changed the subject. He knew that Susan's penchant for being organized could be intimidating at times, especially if you hadn't had time to do your homework.
"We've got people crawling all over the Hawaiian Islands," Callaway informed them with a dour look, "and we haven't found a damn thing."
Susan observed Steve for a moment, then softened her approach. "We don't have much to go on now, but I'm confident we'll make progress once we arrive in the islands."
"I know we will," he replied and pointed to the front page of the morning Chronicle.
Bold headlines described the Japanese/American civil unrest in the streets of San Francisco and other major cities. Related stories prophesied problems with workers and management in Japanese-owned, American-based industries in the aftermath of the senseless killings at Pearl Harbor. Some of the articles about the attack were biased against the practices of the United States, while other stories lashed out at the terrorist reprisal on the American tourists in Osaka.
Steve started to say something, then abruptly stopped himself. Susan was Japanese-American, and criticism from both the Japanese and the American sides was probably difficult for her to deal with. The thought made him uncomfortable.
Susan caught the subtle change in his disposition. "It's a shame, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," he agreed. "I'm convinced that humans are the most vicious, predatory animals on this planet."
The stories under the headlines explained about the anti-Japanese protests in Japan Town, known as Nihonmachi, a few blocks east of Fillmore Street. San Francisco police had been forced to arrest protesters and break up skirmishes at the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park and at the Japanese Cultural and Trade Center.
One of the saddest stories recounted how Japanese students at the University of San Francisco had been pelted with raw eggs and water balloons filled with paint. Some had even been hit with rocks and bottles during the clash.
Steve motioned for their check, but Marcus and Susan insisted on splitting the bill three ways.
As they walked to their gate, Steve gave Susan a friendly smile. "Since you know all about me, warts and all, I'm anxious to find out more about you."
She returned the friendly gesture. "That's fair enough, but I don't want to bore you to death."
"You're in trouble now," Marcus laughed quietly and slowly shook his head.
"Trust me," Steve said while Susan rolled her eyes at Callaway. "I can handle it."
The low, ragged overcast seemed to hang suspended in a dark-gray hue a half hour after the sun had risen. The warm air was oppressively sultry and there was a total absence of wind on the crowded flightline. The humidity was peaked at 100 percent and a fine drizzle continued to bathe the home of the 432nd Fighter Wing of the United States Air Force.
East of base operations and the control tower, a multitude of McDonnell Douglas/Mitsubishi F-15 J air-superiority fighters from Japan's Air Self-Defense Force were being prepared for a practice mission. The Japanese Air Force controlled the airfield and adjacent air traffic, but coordinated all military activities with the U. S.
The air base was beginning to stir, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the muggy air. The quiet solitude of the sleepy morning was abruptly shattered when two afterburning turbofans belched hot air and roared to life. The high-pitched whine of the powerful engines cut through the air while the pilots went through their checklists.
After a radio check with the 432nd command post, known as Falcon Ops, the two men switched to clearance delivery and copied their Chuhi Two Departure with a Miyako Transition. Shortly thereafter, the two General Dynamics F-16 Fighting Falcons began taxiing toward the active runway.
Major Tony Lavancia, a combat veteran of Operation Desert Storm, was the leader for the scheduled training flight. The highly skilled pilot was well liked by everyone, especially the younger pilots, who were the recipients of his wisdom and years of aviation experience.
Behind and off to the side of Lavancia's wing, Captain Jeff McIntire watched his flight leader taxi over a large puddle of water. The spray kicked up by the fighter's exhaust blew past his wingtip and disappeared.
Although new to the squadron, "Gentleman Jeff" McIntire was an experienced fighter pilot who had recently been a top scorer at "Gunsmoke," the USAF air-to-ground weapons competition held at Nellis Air Force Base, near Las Vegas.
Many of his peers were convinced that Jeff McIntire, with his chiseled good looks and engaging personality, would be selected to fly with the Thunderbirds when he completed his present assignment.
When the two F-16s approached the end of the rain-soaked taxiway, the pilots switched to the control tower frequency. Seconds later they were cleared for takeoff on runway 28. Lavancia glanced at the fighter alert hangar, then taxied into position and waited for his wingman to align himself in trail and off to the side.
After a final check of their cockpits, the fighter pilots advanced their throttles and checked their engine instruments. When McIntire signaled that he was ready to roll, Lavancia released his brakes, then lighted the afterburner.
McIntire watched the tailpipe of his leader's plane spew a tongue of red-hot flames as his own afterburner ignited. The rapid acceleration pressed him into his seat while he jockeyed the controls to stay welded to his flight leader. Moments later, McIntire rotated his fighter when Lavancia raised his nose-wheel off the runway.
After the two jets were safely airborne, Jeff McIntire snapped his landing gear up at the moment he saw his leader's wheels start to move. Jeff would fly tight formation while his leader would concentrate on flying by instruments until the fighters broke out of the thick overcast.