“I’m afraid I was only able to get five jet boats down to the Greer access site,” she added.
“I don’t suppose we’d be able to squeeze a couple more inside your helicopter.”
“Ranger Glickman,” said Sam Reed, “we could probably fit a full dozen of ‘em inside that monster and still have room to stretch our legs.”
“Then we’ll pull a couple of boats off our lot and take them with us,” she offered.
“Per General Atwater, the river downstream from Greer remains closed to the public. And by the way, we still haven’t heard from the members of our team who were sent along to accompany the Vice President’s party.”
“Any luck getting your communications back. Ranger?”
asked Jay Christian.
Glickman somberly shook her head.
“The entire grid’s still down, and from the reports that are starting to come in, it looks like someone went and intentionally destroyed our network of repeater towers.”
Thomas looked at Ted Callahan. With this shocking revelation, their Search and Rescue mission suddenly took on an additional sense of urgency.
Chapter 21
Brittany anxiously listened to Lucky relay this all-important status update from the cockpit’s jump seat. She couldn’t believe how calmly it was delivered, considering there was a Boeing KC135R aircraft directly in front of them, speeds matched perfectly at nearly 450 mph, its underside so close that she could actually see the face of the tanker’s wing boom operator staring down at them. This individual was responsible for “flying” the refueling boom, which extended from the tanker’s aft belly, and whose tip just penetrated Nightwatch through the slipway doors, located directly above the cockpit.
“We’ve got fuel flow,” observed Jake Lasky.
“Commander Cooper,” said Coach, while tightly gripping the yoke and trying his best to keep them flying in tandem with the tanker.
“See that series of three lights on the 135’s belly? The blue one means ready, green indicates contact, and the orange light behind it will illuminate the moment we have a disconnect.”
“What’s the purpose of those red and blue lights farther up on the fuselage?” she asked.
“The row on the left is for elevation, and the one on the right is for telescoping,” Coach explained.
“They’re used during the initial approach, with red telling me where to position my nose, and blue directing our fore and aft movement.”
“It looks incredibly difficult,” she commented.
“How do you keep from colliding?”
Coach made a lightning-quick adjustment to the yoke before answering.
“It’s a game of patience, honed by hundreds of hours of practice. The secret to the approach is all in the glide path and a steady tanker platform. Then, once contact has been made, you learn how to gauge the amount of sky showing between the trailing edges of the tanker’s wings, and to force one’s eyes back and forth between engines to keep them lined up properly, using the tanker as your Altitude Direction Indicator, or ADI.”
Though Brittany had experienced other aerial refuelings, never before had she had such an incredible vantage point. The mere thought of these two immense aircraft a mere stone’s throw away from each other, mated in this manner to download thousands of gallons of volatile JP-8 fuel, was mind-boggling. Of course, she couldn’t fail to note the tenser-than-normal atmosphere that prevailed inside the cockpit during this entire sequence.
This was dangerous, complicated work, requiring every ounce of skill that both aircrews could muster.
“Commander Cooper, I have that chart of our tentative flight plan,” said the navigator from his station behind her.
Brittany swiveled around and glanced at the chart, while the navigator highlighted the way points.
“As you can see, our refueling is taking place here, twenty-three thousand feet above the northern Adriatic. We’ll continue on a westerly heading, crossing over Italy, the Swiss Alps, central France, and then begin our great circle route over the Atlantic to Andrews.”
“We’ve got us a flasher!” cried Lucky.
Brittany hurriedly turned around to see what the copilot was referring to, and her glance was immediately drawn to the underside of the tanker, and the window where the boom operator was positioned. His illuminated face had been replaced by a sign, drawn in Day-Glow paint. It read:
plz call wife! 810-558-8214.
927 ARW WILL BE HOME ON 41H!
“They don’t call us the flying telephone booth for nothing,” Lucky reflected.
“I doubt if Admiral Warner would appreciate any personal calls, especially with all that’s been coming down these last couple of hours,” said Brittany.
“Speaking of the devil,” said Coach, after making the barest of adjustments to the throttle with his gloved right hand.
“Scut-tie butt has it that the good Chairman traded a few choice words with the CG aboard TACAMO.”
Brittany shook her head.
“The gossip on this plane is worse than on a ship.”
“Then it’s true?” Coach persisted.
She chose the words of her response with the utmost care.
“From what I heard, it seems Admiral Warner and his counterpart on TACAMO had a little procedural disagreement. It supposedly involves a certain EAM that TACAMO transmitted during their run with the football.”
Before anyone could respond to this news, the cockpit vibrated and there was a sudden rolling motion.
“Nightwatch six-seven-six, breakaway! Breakaway!” the firm voice of the tanker’s boom operator screamed over the intercom.
With this warning, the floor seemed to drop out beneath them as the giant Boeing 747 plunged like a rock to the bottom of the air-refueling altitude block. Brittany found herself grabbing onto the edges of her jump seat while experiencing the first hint of airsickness.
“That’s flying for you,” Coach managed to remark, the steering yoke firm in his grasp.
“Hours of boredom, interrupted by moments of sheer terror!”
Chapter 22
After the longest ten seconds of his life passed and a rifle was yet to be fired, Vince knew that now was the time for him to intercede.
“In the name of God, please don’t do anything that you’ll be sorry for later on!” he pleaded.
“Mister, I’d rather you kept the Lord outta this,” replied the man who had answered to the name of Amos.
“Amos, you’re nothin’ but a pussy,” remarked the deep, resonant voice of his associate.
“Give me my thirty-thirty back, and I’ll do it for ya.”
The dog began barking once more, prompting Amos to yell, “Damn it, Satan, shut up!”
“At the very least, will you tell us what it is that you’re so angry about?” asked the Vice President.
“What possibly motivated you to attack my party like you did? You slaughtered many a brave individual this afternoon.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Amos retorted.
“It would take me the rest of the day to list all the reasons why I always dreamed of killing you. But who said anything about me goin’ and attackin’ your party this afternoon?”
Again Satan let loose a series of excited yelps, this time inspired by the approach of yet another person.
“Pa!” greeted a female with great enthusiasm.
“You’ll never believe what all that shootin’ was about. It was the black helicopter again, and it tore into a bunch of float trippers down near Mary Deckard with a vengeance.”