The person in the middle of their grand entrance was wearing a complete Hawaiian brown-grass skirt, green-leaf headband, and red chest paint. The theatrical parade stopped walking so the pilot in the grass skirt could wave his hand, twisting it from side to side, moving it like he was the queen of England. The crowd loved it, and the pilots were as rowdy as New Year’s Eve at midnight in Times Square. It was a male pilot wearing a girl’s Hawaiian grass skirt.
The room started chanting slowly his name, “Big Kah-Huna.”
“BIG… KAHUNA. BIG… KAHUNA. BIG… KAHUNA.” The chanting increased in tempo. Two ceiling tiles slammed down from above after visiting pilots Sonny, Delta, and Chachi threw pool cues at each other, ending up hitting the ceiling instead.
The Big Kahuna and escorts made their way to the makeshift stage slowly, to the delight of the room, and stood in front of a white-tableclothed table. The spotlight was steady on all of them now. The volume of noise was off the charts.
The pilot wearing the skirt, the Big Kahuna, picked up his wooden mallet and banged it on the table, attempting to settle the crowd. This guy has a wooden mallet? Lefty thought. It was the kind of mallet used by a judge on a legal bench.
“Settle down! Settle down!” yelled the Big Kahuna, taking a swig of some Colorado-brand whiskey.
More empty cans and cups were thrown around, and laughing echoes through every inch of the room. Bar owner Dave Duma poured another round of beer from Gideon’s Brewery, while the guys were having the time of their lives.
Padre leaned over to one of the pilots from the 28th Wing. “Hey, who is your Great Kahuna? Rather, Big Kahuna? Who is this guy?”
The squadron pilot narrowed his eyes, then realized Padre was a guest visiting from outside the unit.
Laughing and throwing another empty beer can up at the stage, “Hey man, that’s Captain Ford Stevens.”
Mark let out a long breath, looking down at the iron balcony on the cruise ship. He listened quietly to the cover band play his favorite music artist, Jimmy Buffet, up top on the deck, and continued to glance out at the clear water over at Coco Cay. He counted to five, then redialed to Jason back at DIA Headquarters and was immediately connected to Calvin Burns. Mark let out the longest sigh known to man. “Huff. Well, what is it? What is the problem?”
Silence filled the air between the two, Calvin having let it go for drama purposes, knowing Mark would call back. “It’s from our last mission together. Something… something has turned up,” replied the deputy.
“What do you mean something has turned up?”
“Something has turned up. I need you. Highest priority.”
Mark looked up at the rust on the white balcony above his, then out at the new pier onto Coco Cay. “Well, I’m not coming back. This is my vacation. Upstairs there is a… a… a pool deck. And a live band. There’s a goddamn magician tonight in the theater. And gambling. And lobsters. And in that hot tub is a half-naked, hundred-pound hottie waiting for me. Call Robert or someone else on the…”
“Mark. Mark!” Calvin yelled. “Listen up. We have more indications, OK? More satellite stuff like Devil Dragon. Just like last time.”
Mark didn’t say a word, squinted his eyes, and let the deputy’s words sink in. No kidding. More satellite indications? Mark said to himself. This was heavy. Mark didn’t have a clue what it really meant as an aircraft analyst and wasn’t anywhere close to an expert on satellites. Actually, he sometimes laughed at what he referred to as “space junk” because he didn’t understand it. What he did know, though, was that it was important to his boss. Not long ago, similar circumstances led to Air Force Reserve pilot Captain Ford Stevens and Chinese Air Force pilot Captain Wu Lee stealing Devil Dragon right out of China and onto the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln. “Wow. More warnings?” he said quietly to Calvin.
“Yup,” came the reply as Calvin slowly nodded his head up and down.
Another five seconds of silence.
“I’m on my way,” replied Mark as he ended the call on his smartphone.
“Hook, line, and sinker! Get the band back together!” Deputy Burns said loudly after hanging up the phone. Then he yelled from his office, “Hey, Jason, get me the chief of Air Force Reserve on the phone!”
A few seconds later, Jason came into the office. “Right away, sir. Topic?”
“Just tell her aide one name: Captain Ford Stevens. But I need to talk to her, too.”
Mark looked out at the beautiful clear water, then out at the golden sand beach a few hundred yards from the ship, then out to the large yellow balloon. He looked down at his phone to ensure the call was disconnected, then back out at the billion-dollar view. Mark sat for a moment staring quietly, biting his cheek, then shook his head slowly from side to side slowly.
“Motherfucker. They had two jets.”
The excess display of antennas on top of the US consulate were in a variety of sizes and colors, and even rusty, and extended in all sorts of directions. To the casual observer, it looked like a porcupine. Some were for standard cell tower connections, while others were for the US Marine security guard detail, but one set of them was special. This set of acoustical signature antennas was, well, unusual.
Based upon recent history, this antenna system had recorded some very unique sounds. Not too long ago, the exclusive acoustical mark of the H-18 Devil Dragon were her four very dynamic engines, and was, in fact, previously recorded by these very same antennas. The signatures were retained and recorded in a database, and at the time the Devil Dragon was flying, DIA had no idea what the cavernous grumble was far off in the countryside. So DIA kept the sound on file, just in case. Furthermore, if another signature was detected, DIA analysts could then take a look for comparison. Through analysis when required, perhaps the analysts could determine what they had if a strange recording was detected.
This antenna system, also found on top of many US government buildings domestically and internationally, could detect and record everything from rocket launches to aircraft to gunshots. The system detection worked with several supportive acoustic sensors throughout a city or multiple cities to create a widespread coverage area. The range could be quite large, stretching to many, many miles across a country. Analysts could look and listen to audio software that identified the unique signatures in real time. If an analyst compared a sample to other collection evidence, like radar, radio emissions, and video, one could build quite a picture of an event, similar to a journalist at a newspaper.
Chris Sans, the lead DIA officer at the US consulate in Chengdu, saw the raw reports of the recordings, but did not know what they were. He was used to seeing news of random gunfire in the neighborhood, and then the computer software program would determine what the sound was, from airplanes to gunfire to a trash truck. This recent sound, though, was different, and he ensured that he would enter it into the database for Washington analysts to take a look. It sounded eerily familiar, but since Chris was not an analyst, he figured he’d let the experts do the thinking on this one.
Chris generated an email along with the sound file and sent it to the Asia section of DIA, knowing the China Aircraft team would see it. Manned by Mark Savona, Robert Dooley, and Emily Livingston, they were the experts that could help troubleshoot what it was. It also was convenient that they helped poach the Devil Dragon, too. He included the location of the sound, length of the sound, direction traveling, incident history, and pattern analysis from the software program.