Pease Air Force Base was home to the New Hampshire Air National Guard’s 157th Air Refueling Wing, flying KC-135 tankers. A quick glance at this base, and one might assume that the men and women were from the active component and on full-time status, but actually this was a base bursting with part-timers who had complete, separate full-time civilian careers. From airline pilots to truck drivers to accountants, these citizen airmen had two busy jobs going: a civilian one and a military one.
Robert stepped up to the map. “Mark, my recommendation would be to keep Black Scorpion in the hangar at Pease, and just take her apart there. Put her on trailers right in New Hampshire, and ferry the aircraft on unmarked DoE tractor-trailer trucks to Tonopah.”
The trucking system used previously for Devil Dragon ferrying was part of the Department of Energy, the DoE. Energy had an entire fleet of eighteen-wheeler trucks it used to transport nuclear material around the United States. Called the SGT or Safeguards Transporters, since 1975 the Office of Secure Transportation at National Nuclear Security Administration used unmarked tractors and trailers that were special designed to deter and delay adversaries. Trailers built to survive road accidents, fires, and attacks were escorted in convoys with unmarked escort vehicles, along with federal agents authorized to use deadly force. Even without ferrying stealth jets, these trucks logged 4.5 million miles a year.
Mark shook his head in agreement and wrote down plenty of notes for when Mr. Burns came in, especially if the secretary of defense wanted something in writing. Because the mission was so early on and so fluid, documenting the stages on paper was a good step.
“Good point, Robert. Thanks. Ford, a copilot? If you have someone trusted in mind, give me the name. Emily, what do you have?”
Emily had been considering the recent past with China, concerned about the DNA testing they heard from earlier. “The aide whipping up the DNA test is not good. If I were Chen and detected a foreign intelligence issue, I’d send up fighters every time. You know, to escort Black Scorpion like we saw with that Su-35. What are you going to do then?”
“Climb like a bat out of hell!” Ford said laughing. “If that Black Scorpion is anything like Devil Dragon, she can out climb and outrun anything the Chinese have. Those fighters will also run out of fuel, especially if they are running hot, er, fast. An hour, maybe an hour and fifteen of fuel at the most. Plus they are visual the entire time. Their radar will be black… empty. The two bombers won’t be detected. At night, that could be an issue if not wearing night vision goggles.”
Emily wanted to throw her other issue out there. “I’m also concerned about the ejection. Only a recommendation, but… remotely, can you reduce their oxygen so they are knocked out, or at least in and out of consciousness? Cause hypoxia?” Emily did a head nod so that the question was directed at Jeanie.
“Totally. Mark showed me the draft schematics for Devil Dragon earlier when we were planning and discussing this. I’m familiar with the new downlink now, and I’m sure the oxygen system is on the electrical bus. If it’s there, it won’t be a prob.”
Mark winked at Jeanie. “That’s right.”
“For heaven’s sake. Ugh. Well, again, just a point of reference, but we should fly the black jets due southwest,” Emily said, pointing at the paper wall map. “Let’s say the pilots are hallucinating, in and out of consciousness. Low on air. And you eject them over the Indian Ocean, where one of our Pacific Fleet ships pick them up for… for… humanitarian assistance.” Emily finished her idea with an ear-to-ear grin.
Robert clapped once, with the sound booming, giving one of his rare smiles. “Oh, Emily, that’s good. We can do some collection, and at the same time, blame the jet for a below-average oxygen system. Pilots won’t know what hit them and will think the jet flew out to sea. Then Chen will think the jet went out to sea. Pilots will return to their leadership with a full story.”
Mark looked at the timeline again, with all the hash marks and timing. Ford was busy writing down all the to-do list items on the board. At the top was the China Military Brief, followed by flight simulator time for himself. Ford would need some solid familiarization with flying an aircraft with a joystick from afar, and had only one place in mind to learn the skill.
“Where are you going for some unmanned aerial vehicle flight time?” Jeanie asked, laughing, with her hands on her hips and her low-cut white blouse displaying her fully tanned body even further.
“Where else? Las Vegas! Veeggaassss!” Ford answered, loudly, with a cat-ate-the-canary grin.
Emily raised her eyebrows again. “Oh, shite.”
PART 9
VEGAS
The maintenance crews working on Black Scorpion were mostly young men, trained on other People’s Liberation Army Air Force aircraft. Many of them came from the Xian H-6K long-range strategic bomber airframe and were trusted to work in this program, endorsed by superiors to keep quiet about things they did, saw, and heard. Their 120 H-6 bombers were upgraded versions of the 1960s Soviet Tupolev Tu-16 Badger and would survive fine without this small group of technicians. With young, aggressive men, some still boys, came horseplay, trouble, attitudes, and always being on the hunt for girls and booze.
For some of the general’s actions witnessed by the young men in the hangar, turning wrenches and repairing an airframe, keeping quiet was tough. They would rarely talk verbally because of the oversight of the chief. So, rather than chat about it in person, they took to what the young millennial generation knew best: texting.
All sorts of topics were texted about, easily into the hundreds of thousands, between the maintenance teams of Airframes, Flight Equipment, Avionics, Power Plants, and Ordinance. They were just young men, excited to be able to travel, and drink, and have some camaraderie. The Special Ordinance guys who handled nuclear never got involved because they were too stuck-up to be part of the regular gang. They were, even in their own minds, special.
Unknown to most Americans, the world’s largest social networking site, at 806 million users and growing, was Qzone. The young military maintainers were definitely texting and chatting about everything they saw: Chen, his drunkenness, his girlfriends that Chen thought no one talked about or even saw, the bird strike, nearby clubs and bars, and, of course, strip clubs.
What the young millennials did not know was that their phones were leaving specific, detailed digital signatures on a variety of items. Technical audience info, compiled by all telecommunications companies, provided insights into characteristics of their audiences. It usually consisted of behavior, specific technology, active users, lifetime value, cohort analysis, demographics like age and gender, their interests, geography to include language and location, and the brand of their mobile device. Websites visited, length of time, and even their variety of apps, were also stored on the telecommunications company computers.
There was also no way Chen, the definition of a micromanager, would allow phones for any of his aircrew, staff, or mechanics. He even wrote policy about it, explaining how careful they should all be, and flat out denied any of them permission to be on social media or to use a phone while on his team. Which was exactly why everyone had two phones, deceiving Chen: one for work, and one for personal use.
When Chen arrived earlier, knocked over the toolbox, and threw his bloody paper towel, the Qzone texting numbers shot up and off the page. Like a news channel, their phones were full of humor and bitterness, surprise and anger, and certainly nervousness. And tonight, although the pilots were not present in the hangar, they were copied on the texting by the young maintenance team using personal phones because they were well liked. The pilots could read along on their personal phones like a teleprompter without even being physically present.