“We’re seeing a tremendous increase in signal and electronic intelligence coming in from various sources all centered on Hainan Island. That’s why I’m looking at these photos. I’m trying to figure out what’s got everybody so worked up.”
“But we’re not planning some big operation?” Colt asked, looking for confirmation.
“Not that I know of,” Bubba replied. “But look, there is definitely something brewing. We’ve been operating with the America for several weeks, and they just departed station for the Philippines. Big Navy ships don’t do that without reason.”
“Port call?”
Bubba shook his head.
Colt looked at the imagery Bubba was studying and figured if he had to stand an Alert 5, he might as well prepare himself with as much intel as he could get. “Listen, can you get me a breakdown of any surface-to-air threats and an air order of battle for this area?”
Bubba nodded. “Sure thing. Give me about ten or fifteen minutes. Want me to bring it to the ready room?”
Colt had a bad feeling about this. “I’ll wait.”
A few hours later, Colt stepped onto the flight deck forward of the island and turned to look west at the sun setting over the bow. It was oddly quiet without the air wing’s jets and airplanes preparing for a launch or finishing a recovery. He spotted a few yellow shirts milling about in the landing area, but otherwise the flat top was devoid of human life with most air wing personnel having been ordered below.
He turned his collar up at the wind howling across the deck, then turned and looked aft at a handful of LSOs in white float coats standing on the platform on the port side of the ship. He frowned and wondered who they were there to recover when the 5MC loudspeaker above his head erupted with the Air Boss’s voice.
“Greyhound at five miles, clear the landing area.”
Colt walked toward the landing area and ducked underneath an E-2D Hawkeye chained to the deck when his ears picked up the faint sound of an approaching turboprop. He craned his neck and spotted a dark speck just above the horizon in the distance.
Remaining well clear of the painted line that would foul the deck and prevent the COD from landing if he crossed it, Colt watched the turboprop cargo plane lumbering closer on a long, straight-in approach. No matter how long he had been in the business or how many times he had seen carrier operations up close, he still found beauty in the insanity of landing an airplane on a boat in the middle of the ocean. He, and those like him, were a rare breed.
Rare and crazy, he thought.
After the C-2 Greyhound landed and caught the third wire with its stubby tailhook, Colt wondered why Cutty had sent him to the flight deck to watch what he had seen countless times before. He watched the cargo plane fold its wings and turn right to clear the landing area, and he was about to turn back for the catwalk when the 5MC squawked to life again.
“On the flight deck, clear the landing area for helicopter recovery, spot six.”
Colt stopped walking and looked up at Primary Flight Control, known as Pri-Fly, where the Air Boss sat in his perch overlooking the flight deck. Through the thick glass, he saw the commander with a set of binoculars pressed to his face, looking at a spot behind the ship.
Slowly, Colt turned and moved out from underneath the Hawkeye, careful to remain well clear of the landing area and avoid drawing attention to himself. Over the turbine whine of the COD’s engines, he heard the rhythmic thumping of a helicopter’s rotors growing louder. He squinted at a speck on the horizon and watched it materialize into a shape he recognized as a helicopter. But not an American one.
What the heck is this?
As it drew closer, Colt stood in rapt fascination as he noticed the large helicopter was painted in a unique camouflage pattern and devoid of markings. It was clearly not a US military helicopter. The yellow shirt LSE, or Landing Signal Enlisted, stood in the landing area just forward of the island with two wands held overhead, giving the pilot the signal to “prepare for guidance.”
As the helicopter descended over the flight deck, the LSE gestured for it to move forward, then held the wands out to his side as it hovered over the desired landing spot. Within seconds, the pilot had deftly maneuvered the helicopter to the non-skid surface, and flight deck personnel swarmed it with chocks and chains to tie it down to the ship. A door just aft of the cockpit on the starboard side slid open, and several gruff-looking men dressed in nondescript black fatigues hopped out and made their way toward the island.
Colt stood dumbfounded as the men approached and wondered who they were and what they were doing on his ship.
26
The pilot dressed as a United Airlines first officer picked up his handheld microphone on the starboard bulkhead and selected the cabin public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are over the South China Sea and two hours from Bangkok.” He reached up to the overhead panel and flipped a switch to turn the seat belt sign off. “Right now, the computer is showing us right on schedule, and we should have you at the gate three minutes after eleven o’clock. Please sit back, relax, and enjoy the rest of your flight.”
The captain looked at his watch and grinned, proud of himself for putting them over the exact fix right on schedule. For a flight that was almost seven hours long, nailing the timing was a monumental feat — especially with the headwinds they had encountered near Taiwan.
With his PA announcement complete, the first officer returned the microphone to its cradle and turned to look at the captain. “Should be anytime now.”
Almost on cue, the annunciator panel lit up, and both pilots instinctively glanced at the cabin pressurization system.
“Looks stable,” the captain said.
The first officer extinguished the light and nodded, then he reached down for the Flight Management Computer near his left knee and began tapping on the miniature keyboard. They were too far away for a safe insertion, so he entered a lateral offset from their planned route on the airway, executed the change, and leaned back in the faux sheepskin — covered seat as the autopilot adjusted course to the west and brought them closer to Hainan Island.
The captain locked eyes with the first officer, hesitant to voice his apprehension. Both knew there were over three hundred passengers blissfully unaware of the clandestine ballet that was about to take place beneath their feet.
Godspeed, gents.
In the Boeing 777’s bulk hold, four men bent at the waist and stepped from the heated pod, before shuffling to the now open cargo door at the aft end of the massive jet’s lower deck. They moved carefully, burdened by heavy layers of dark clothing to combat the extreme cold they were just beginning to feel.
Each man wore a rig with both a main and reserve chute on his back and a navigation system strapped to his chest. Clipped to their harnesses, just below their waists and hanging almost to the floor, were kits containing everything they might need to complete their tasks once on the ground.
“Jesus, it’s cold!”
They had trained for exactly this scenario and had experienced the extreme cold temperatures before, but they never got used to it. Their memories of the frigid Coronado surf were distant, but the lessons had been ingrained in them, and they huddled closer together as they waited.
“Thirty seconds,” the jumpmaster said.
Their communication system was state-of-the-art and allowed them to speak to each other through line of sight. But once they exited the airplane, they would be connected to the entire team — including the QRF aboard the USS America—via satellite.