“Begging your pardon, sir. But the Jefferson has one of the most sophisticated communication systems known to man. If one line of communication has failed then they would have countless other methods to get a message through to us,” he said.
The Colonel absorbed the information, “You’re right, Major. Send a jet to do a fly by, see if there’s a problem.”
“All the jets in the vicinity are on board the aircraft carrier, sir.”
“Find one, Major,” the colonel snapped unfairly. “There has to be a goddamned jet somewhere,” he said exasperated.
23:15 PM
The F-18 Tomcat scrambled from Fort Branson, based in Alabama, had lieutenant Carrington sat at the controls. He pushed forward on his stick, checked his height and heading, and puzzled over the peculiar instructions he’d received — to fly into the exclusion zone down in Florida.
He felt a slight pang of anxiety. Flying into the zone would be dangerous, especially now he had read the bulletin concerning the district. The main one being that any aircraft, friend or foe, within the zone would be shot down immediately. In fact, in all likelihood he would be blown out of the sky by the very aircraft carrier he had been sent to contact. He hoped that they had gotten the message to not target him.
It was a problem, because their communications were down. He gulped and swallowed down his fear. He felt sweat trickle down his spine. What a predicament, he was to establish contact with a vessel whose last instructions were to shoot him down. How unlucky could he get, he grumbled. The Thomas Jefferson had the capability to shoot him out of the sky from a distance of over two hundred miles away easily. He would already show on their long-distance radar, his course heading would ring alarm bells, and their weapons would automatically lock onto him. He shuddered at the thought. Killed by his own side. No heroic dying in combat for him. No aerial battle of wills, or dogfights like his heroes of WW1. No, he’d be blasted to smithereens by his countrymen.
He crossed over into the exclusion zone and held his breath. So far so good. He scanned the horizon, the blackness of the night adding to his feeling of dread. He checked his monitors; nothing had fired at him, and in fact nothing showed on his monitors at all. Not a thing. He was the only mechanical object in the sky. He glanced over and with an eerie sensation, he saw the lights of the towns, cities and the freeway networks of northern Florida, suddenly turn an inky black as he crossed into the exclusion zone. He could not begin to contemplate what life would be like down there for the survivors.
He brought his thoughts back to the present. Even though his monitors were clear, he still felt better using his own eyes, knowing that even electronic components could malfunction. Ninety-nine percent of his job entailed minding the computers that flew the craft for him, the one percent was for when there was a glitch with the equipment, or a snafu as he and his pals liked to call it.
He hoped that the aircraft carrier was not suffering a snafu now and was at least receiving incoming communications. He looked forward, wondering if he would be able to see the approaching missile. Would it be so fast that it would glow red in the dark sky, or would the brand new aircraft carrier have some new technology that jammed his systems, so he would not know of his impending doom.
He slowed the F-18 and descended to make his approach, surprised that he had no visual contact with the ship. On a cloudless night such as tonight, the aircraft carrier should be lit up like a beacon on the black vastness of the ocean. He pulled on his stick and descended further, and slowed his speed. He would be over the co-ordinates within a minute. However, he still could not see the aircraft carrier. He checked his monitor, still nothing else flying. He thought that at least one of the aircraft carriers seventy plus aircraft would have been flying a reconnaissance mission. Night-time operations were standard on an aircraft carrier, but he couldn’t see anything.
He flew lower still, checked his monitors and flew over where the ship should be. It made no sense? He thought. How could it disappear? He had seen nothing on approach, he could see seventy miles in all directions at least, and they could not be more that seventy miles off course.
He banked tightly feeling the g-force pushing him back in his seat, as he went for a visual from the other direction, not that it made any difference. Nope. Nothing.
He pressed his communication button, paused and gathered his thoughts, thinking how crazy he would sound. At best, they would think him incompetent and his flying career would be over. At worst… nope, he shook his head. No, he didn’t want to think what the worst-case scenario would be.
He released the transmit button, and said; “This is flight two-zero-seven, come in?”
Instantly he received a response, and a cool detached voice replied. “Flight two-zero –seven, please stand by, you are being patched through to the Pentagon.”
The Pentagon? His brain froze, what the hell? “Roger,” he replied aware that his voice had croaked.
“Flight two-zero-seven?” boomed a deep voice through his speaker, “this is Colonel Simpson, can you relay your findings please, over?”
The words stuck in his throat but finally he said. “I, erm, I can’t find the USS Thomas Jefferson, sir. It is not here. Over.” He trembled and wondered how incompetent they would think him.
“Stand by, two-zero-seven.”
The colonel looked around the vast mahogany conference table in stunned disbelief as the implication sunk in. Gathered in the war room were the best of the best. Each an expert in their field. Yet during the course of the evening none of them had noticed the lack of communication from their prized aircraft carrier, the jewel in the crown of the US navy fleet, and now in all likelihood it was floating aimlessly with a dead crew, or worse still, had been over-run by terrorists, or the unthinkable, it had somehow sunk.
Some of the military men were ashen faced and silent. He resigned himself to the undeniable truth. He spoke to the pilot once more, “Flight two-zero-seven. Do a fly-past using infrared. Over.”
“Roger,” lieutenant Carrington confirmed, switched the monitor on, and swooped low, he flew slowly over the co-ordinates. His jaw dropped. He stared at the screen stupefied and tried to register the enormity of what he saw. He glanced through the cockpit side window for a visual confirmation, and his heart sank.
He could see something glowing below the waves, the size of which could only be the gigantic aircraft carrier. It corresponded with the enormous object showing upon his screen. He took a deep breath, unable to believe what he was about to say. He flicked on the transmit button, “this is flight two-zero-seven, over.”
Almost immediately, he received a reply. “This is Colonel Simpson, two-zero-seven, what have you discovered, over?”
“It’s — it’s down there, Colonel. Over.”
“Be more precise, son.”
Lieutenant Carrington’s heart palpitated and he said; “The USS Thomas Jefferson, it’s sunk, sir, it’s lying on the bottom of the ocean.”
23:25 PM
On an unlit Miami back street, a patrol had got lucky and had stopped a Toys R Us truck, which had been crawling along without lights. It had been a fluke that a soldier was playing around with infrared goggles and had seen the heat register of the engine.
“This way, sir,” said a young soldier, and led the hazmat suited General Malloy towards the truck. “You’re going to love this. A truck-full of wet-backs.” He handed him a flashlight, as Malloy struggled up the tailboard into the truck.
The general sucked in his breath in surprise. He shone the flashlight beam around the truck, and saw the thirty or so dark-skinned illegal immigrants cowering in the dark, held captured and under the gunpoint of several soldiers.