Aboard Brunei Badger 01,
over the South China Sea
1230
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THEY WERE WITHINvisual range of the Asean task force—cleared to fly above courtesy of the prince’s rank and their theoretical status as members of the Brunei air force—before Mack got a chance to take the helm, but as soon as he did he started making up for lost time. After a bit of straight and level to get the feel of the plane—sucker flew like a big ol’ Caddy, fins and all—Mack decided to see how good a job the riveters had done lashing the Soviet metal together.
“Hang on,” he said, and he tipped his right wing and slid the big Russian bomber downward. It didn’t quite knife through the air—the action was a bit more like an ax head hurtling down a slope—but after the relatively placid flight north it felt like a roller coaster. Mack rode the plane down through fifteen thousand feet before rocking level.
His nose started to float up as he tried to put her into a hard turn—it was a big plane, and the hydraulic controls felt very different from the fly-by-wire gear he spent most of his time with. But a sigh from Miss Kelly over the interphone circuit chased off any hint of doubt; Mack tensed his biceps and the big plane moved smartly through the sky, right where he wanted her.
“That boat looks so small,” said Miss Kelly. “What a view.”
Mack’s view—both of the ocean and of Miss Kelly—was not nearly as expansive as he would have liked, but it would do. The Thai destroyer she admired was off his right wing, bow nudging away the swells.
“We are in an exercise area,” said the prince. “We must be careful.”
“Not a problem,” said Mack. “You think we can make it through a roll?”
And without waiting for an answer, he flicked the stick—well, more like leaned on the old-fashioned wheel yoke that served as a stick—and pushed the big old bomber through an invert.
Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea
1233
ZEN DOUBLE-CHECKEDtheir positions on the SITREP in his flight helmet, then flipped the main view back to the feed from the nose of Hawk Two, the Flighthawk still sitting under Raven’s wing. The computer had finished the prelaunch check and was holding.
“Hawk leader, we’re ready when you are,” radioed Dog from the Pennsylvania.
“Hawk leader copies,” said Zen. “ Hawk One? Status?”
“On course. Twenty minutes from alpha point,” said Starship. Alpha was an arbitrary spot sixty seconds from Chinese territorial water where Starship would start his dance.
“Hawk leader copies. Raven?”
“ Raven is ready. We’ll initiate launch maneuver at your command.”
“Hawk leader copies.”
A quick glance at the instrument panel. Green, green, green. You could write a tech manual using these readings.
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“Initiate launch maneuver.”
“ Raven,” said Major Alou, piloting the plane. The mother ship began a gentle dive, which increased the separation forces as the Flighthawk was launched. Zen turned over control to C3, authorizing the launch—standard practice—and waited as the EB-52 nosed downward, picking up momentum.
And then he was in the air, speeding away, going through a system check, nudging the Flighthawk out ahead of the EB-52. He climbed upward, the blue bulb of heaven spreading out around him. Major Stockard was sitting in a seat in the bay of the massive Megafortress, but his mind soared through thirty thousand feet, climbing up over the shimmering Pacific, looking down at the world as God looked down on His universe.
Upstairs on the flight deck, the Megafortress crew quickly ran through their own checks, making sure the electronics link between the two planes was at spec. The pod the Flighthawk carried was a shallow, rectangular box fitted under the fuselage area; it looked a bit like a sculpted pizza carrier. Most of what was in the pod were small but powerful amplifiers, tuned to work with a specific set of signals picked up by an antenna (actually a matrix of antennas generally spoken of as one) that would be cranked out of a second box that looked like a parachute pack at the rear of the small plane. The pack and antennas changed the flight characteristics of the aircraft, though C3had been programmed to compensate so well that Zen wouldn’t “feel” a difference unless he put the small plane through some very hard maneuvers.
The antenna and its filament mesh stretched nearly one hundred yards and could be jettisoned by verbal command.
A series of test tones shot back and forth as the techies upstairs took the measure of their gear. Satisfied that they had a good feed, Zen leveled his Flighthawk off at 39,573 feet and opened up the antenna.
Raven began tracking slightly east, anticipating the Flighthawk’s turn once it reached their target orbit.
“Hawk leader, we are zero-five from alpha,” said Dog. “Looking for a go-no go.”
“Roger that,” said Zen.
He clicked the interphone and queried Penn’s radio operators to make sure they were set. Alou and his copilot, meanwhile, completed a weapons check, making sure they were prepared for the worst.
“ Hawk One is at alpha,” said Starship.
“Roger that,” Zen acknowledged. “Colonel, we’re go.”
“Let’s do it, gentlemen,” said Dog. “ Raven, you’re silent com. Talk to you guys when we all get home.”
Aboard Brunei Badger 01,
over the South China Sea
1244
“WELL,MAJOR, YOU’REan excellent pilot,” said the prince as Mack finally relinquished the controls for the trek back. “I must say, you put this old plane through its paces.”
“Ah, you should see me in an F-22,” Mack told him. “But I like this old plane. Solid. Big. Solid.”
He saw Miss Kelly looking back at him and smiling. He gave her a big Mack Smith smile, then checked Page 84
his watch.
They’d be back just in time for cocktails at the club the prince had taken him to last night.
Delightful.
Mack took off his headset and loosened his restraints, thinking he’d stretch his legs a bit. But as he started to get up, the prince put his hand out.
“Wait, please,” said bin Awg. The indulgent smile he had worn constantly since Mack met him had drained from his face. Mack slid back into his seat and grabbed his headset in time to hear a position and a vector.
“Chinese planes,” explained the prince. “J-11 interceptors coming south toward the exercise area.” He reached to the side and pulled up a flight board, handing it to Mack. “Major, please, if you could check our fuel situation. I believe sheet two would be appropriate,” he added, referring to one of the matrixes that showed how much flying time the plane had left for different flight regimes. “I would like to show these Chinese pilots that the Brunei air force is not entirely without representation in the area.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Mack, snugging his seat belt.
Aboard Penn, over the South China Sea
1244
DOG GLANCED ATthe multiuse display on his left, which was set as a sitrep to show the position of the Megafortress and its Flighthawk, as well as any other aircraft nearby. The Flighthawk was about a quarter of a mile from Chinese airspace south of Yulin on Hainan, just completing a turn to the east after discharging a packet of electronic tinsel, or chaff, which could be easily detected on the Chinese radar.
They’d launch the Hellfire in sixty seconds.
“J-11s are running south toward the Australian frigate,” said the copilot, Captain McNamara, relaying word from the radar operator. “Another one of their mock attacks.”
“They’ll have to fend for themselves,” said Dog. “I’m more worried about that civilian,” he added, referring to a small private plane flying at about twelve thousand feet on almost the exact path the Flighthawk was taking. “I don’t want to hit him with the missile.”