One of the Delta Force operators said, “And why do we need to do this again?”
“Well, this was the best way to covertly insert you into a modern military’s denied area of operations.”
The Delta operator replied, “This might be the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard of. I’m impressed. You want us to ride inside this little metal pod — the size and shape of a bomb—which is being carried in the bomb bay of a B-2 stealth bomber — and fly… how many hours?”
“Six hours’ flight time,” said one of the men wearing a black flight suit from the back of the room. Chase presumed he was the pilot who would actually be flying the stealthy aircraft.
“Six hours in this little metal canister, just waiting for you to open it up and drop us into China. Am I getting that right?”
Another one of the Deltas tapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, but dude, the monkeys didn’t have comms. We’ll have comms. It’ll be great. Maybe they can play us music.”
The Delta operator shook his head and shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever. I’ll be sleeping. Just yell really loud when we get there so that I wake up in time to open my chute.”
The Air Force officer who was helping with the briefing suddenly looked worried. “Well, you really shouldn’t sleep — it’ll be a HALO drop. So actually, you’ll need to put on your oxygen mask about thirty minutes before drop as well. And you probably need—”
Chase held up his hand. “I’m pretty sure he was just kidding.”
One of the Delta Force men smiled and nodded, his eyes closed as if the conversation pained him. “We’ll be awake, sir.”
“Monkeys,” said one of the others.
The B-2 Spirit took off from Anderson Air Force Base on Guam. It flew up the Yellow Sea and entered Chinese airspace over the Liuhe River delta.
The pilot said to his combat systems officer, “You know, I was just reading an article that says all this stealth technology is bullshit. The Chinese have radars that can pick us up no problem now.”
The combat systems officer, who was also the mission commander, said, “That’s fake news.”
“No, seriously. Apparently, we shouldn’t even call it stealth anymore.”
“Feet dry,” came the call from the combat systems officer as he monitored their progress on the navigational readout.
“Guess we’ll find out,” said the pilot, smiling. A single bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Thirty minutes to drop zone. Hope those guys aren’t suffocated or ice cubes when I press the button.”
Both of the B-2 crewmembers knew that the NSA and US Air Force electronic and cyberattacks were now flooding Chinese air search radars with false contacts. Even if the B-2 Spirit was picked up, it would be one of dozens in its vicinity.
The B-2 barreled to the north at four hundred knots, its black wing-shaped body hidden inside a twenty-thousand-foot overcast cloud layer. Any fighters that were launched to explore the dozens of false tracks in the area would have a very hard time visually identifying them.
When they reached the drop zone, a mountainous rural region fifty miles to the northeast of a large city that the navigator couldn’t begin to pronounce, he followed his checklist, and the outer bomb bay doors opened up. He triple-checked that all of his readouts were displaying the correct numbers and pressed DARPA’s precious green button.
Chase and the three US Army tier one operators, having been cooped up in a torpedo-sized compartment for hours, each immediately pressed their own green buttons, which read “Release Consent.”
Chase then quickly scrunched his arms close to his body and prepared himself for free fall.
But nothing happened.
Chase quickly depressed the button again, trying to control his anger. He could hear the voices of the other operators, yelling into their own pods’ internal speakers. Chase was about to press his own call button to see if the Air Force crew had any idea what was going on when the floor opened up beneath him, the harness above him unlocked, and he fell into the black night sky, somewhere over China.
24
Admiral Manning stood on vulture’s row — the perch outside his towering bridge that overlooked the aircraft carrier’s flight deck. They were headed into the wind, and their speed through the water added another fifteen knots. White caps dotted the dark blue ocean as far as the eye could see. A gray cloud layer blocked out the sun. He leaned forward, hands on the rail, squinting as he watched the scene below.
At the one o’clock position was the supply ship, the USNS Matthew Perry, inching closer by the second. Her flight deck was clear, but there were dozens of personnel scurrying about on her port deck. A female petty officer shot the line from the carrier to the supply ship. One of her companions patted her on the back when the line hit its mark.
Deckhands on both ships, on opposite sides of the deep blue river of water, were busy staging their work materials for the evolution, moving pushcarts, and forklifts, and stacking elevators with empty netting for pallets. The initial shot lines were replaced with thicker ones that were used to connect the two ships. Large black refueling hoses, looking like sea snakes, were carefully pulled from the supply ship across the water and attached to the aircraft carrier’s fuel intake ports. Thousands of gallons of jet fuel began flowing from the supply ship to the aircraft carrier. Pallets of food and supplies began riding zip lines across to the carrier. The replenishment at sea had begun.
On the other side of the USNS Matthew Perry, the destroyer USS Nitze steamed into position. Soon it would be lined up in the exact opposite spot as the carrier, ready for her own replenishment at sea. The supply ship’s personnel were incredibly skilled. Decades of experience had turned America’s Navy into masters of underway logistics, able to move tons of material and countless gallons of fuel during transit.
The whole evolution took about two hours. MH-60 Sierra helicopters from the USS Ford flew back and forth among the three ships, ferrying pallets and munitions underneath them from one flight deck to another. In between the ships, the salt water sprayed up into the air as the close proximity of the ships caused the sea to swell into large waves.
“Admiral, you have a call from the SAG commander, sir.”
He turned to see his aide standing in the bridge.
“Can I take it up here?”
“Yes, sir.”
He followed the junior officer over to a section of the admiral’s bridge that contained several communications devices.
“Captain Hoblet on HF secure, sir.” He handed Admiral Manning the black plastic radio endpiece. It looked similar to an old landline phone, but without the rounded ends.
“This is Ford Strike Group actual, over.”
“Ford CSG Actual, this is SAG 131 actual. Good morning, Admiral. We are on station in Box Bravo. We have all six of our ships in a line abreast, fifteen hundred miles long. Our helicopters and drones are running search patterns around the clock. And we have an Australian P-8 as well as a US Air Force B-52 set up for maritime search that should be providing us assistance beginning tomorrow morning. Over.”
“SAG 131, this is Ford CSG. That is excellent news. Have you seen any sign of the Chinese merchant ships, over?”
“Ford CGS, this is SAG 131. Negative, over.”
The admiral frowned.
“SAG 131, this is Ford CSG. Understood. Be safe, over.”
“Ford CSG, SAG 131. Roger out.”
He placed the receiver back in its holder. His personal aide, a lieutenant, walked in from the far end of the bridge.