Colt reached up and tuned his primary radio to the E-2D Hawkeye controller’s frequency and leveled off at thirty thousand feet before keying the microphone. “Tiger, two zero one.”
“Two zero one, Tiger, picture single group, BRAA, two six zero, one hundred and fifty, forty-two thousand, flank southeast, bogey, outlaw.”
Outlaw?
Colt felt a flutter of excitement deep in his stomach, and he ran the cursors on his radar attack display along that line of bearing. The addition of the brevity code outlaw meant that the bogey aircraft had met point of origin criteria. They knew where the unidentified plane had launched from, but it hadn’t yet satisfied criteria for declaring it hostile. He was surprised they had even called away the alert for that.
“Two zero one, commit,” he replied, indicating he was taking ownership of the intercept.
“Tiger copies commit. Single group, BRAA, two five eight, one hundred and thirty-five, forty-two thousand, flank southeast, bogey, outlaw.”
Colt pulled up the Situational Awareness display that showed both surface and air contacts the E-2D Hawkeye populated into the datalink network. Although still beyond his onboard radar range, the airborne threat’s surveillance track moved rapidly away from Hainan Island at forty-two thousand feet toward another track flying well below one hundred. He placed his cursors over the low and slow-flying surveillance track.
“Tiger, declare contact, BRAA two zero zero, seventy-five.”
The reply was immediate. “Contact BRAA two zero zero, seventy-five, friendly. I say again, friendly. Skip it, skip it.”
What the fuck is going on?
He thought back to the Russian helicopter he had watched take off while sitting on the catapult and wondered if that was the low-flying contact. Colt swallowed, then moved his cursors back to the hostile group and designated it to pull up additional information in his Night Vision Cueing and Display, a hybrid between the Joint Helmet Mounted Cueing System and the AN/AVS-9 dual tube night vision goggles. While not as powerful as the Helmet Mounted Display he had worn while flying the F-35C Joint Strike Fighter, the NVCD still provided him visual guidance to a computer-generated box in the sky where the invisible target was located. He selected his radar-guided AIM-120D AMRAAM, or Advanced Medium Range Air-to-Air Missile, and studied the depicted Launch Acceptability Region.
Still too far away.
The box centered around the lead J-11B Flanker in his NVCD abruptly rotated and became a diamond. Although he saw the correct symbology for a hostile contact on his Situational Awareness and radar attack displays, he still had a hard time accepting it and wanted the controller to declare it hostile and give him the authority to shoot. “Tiger, declare single group.”
“Single group hostile.”
Holy shit.
Charlie dropped his eyes to look under his NODs at the red light flashing just under the glare shield on his forward instrument panel. It took him less than a second to recognize its position on the Hip’s upgraded radar warning receiver.
Not good.
“Radar lock,” Roger confirmed. “Six o’clock and correlated.”
If there was a bright side to having a hostile enemy fighter locking you up on radar, it was that at least it wasn’t a surface-to-air missile site that had gone undetected by their surveillance. The fighters rapidly closing in on them were still their biggest threat.
“How far?” Charlie asked, lifting his gaze to look at the augmented darkness through the forward windscreen.
“They’re at sixty miles and closing.”
“How far to Passu Keah?”
Roger zoomed out on his display that had become cluttered with additional icons as the Reagan’s E-2D added additional surveillance tracks to the datalink network. “Also sixty miles. About thirty minutes of flying time.”
Charlie keyed the transmit switch for the SATCOM radio. “Scar Nine Nine, Dusty One is thirty minutes from FARP Alpha.” He omitted the fact that they were only thirty minutes from landing if the Chinese fighters didn’t shoot them down first.
“Scar Nine Nine copies.”
Charlie turned his attention back to the closest alligator to the canoe. “How far out is our savior?”
Roger didn’t have to ask who he meant, since there was only one contact on his screen that had any chance of saving them from becoming a burning fireball in the night sky. “Seventy miles. One additional Super Hornet is ten miles in trail.”
At least there are two now.
A second flashing red light drew Charlie’s attention once more back to the instrument panel. But this one was accompanied by an annoyingly loud beeping sound.
“Fire control radar,” Roger said.
The Chinese fighters who had their radars locked onto the helicopter were preparing to fire. In his previous life flying Blackhawks and Little Birds, he would have used the terrain to mask their position and avoid missiles fired at him. But over the open water, there was nowhere to hide. All he could do was run as far and as fast as possible.
He glanced down at the engine instruments and saw that he was already producing the maximum amount of torque and couldn’t push the engines any further.
Come on, baby, you can do this.
“Fifty miles,” Roger said.
Charlie clenched his jaw tighter and focused on inching even closer to the water, hoping the Chinese fighters’ radars would struggle to hold a lock through the choppy surface clutter. His hands and feet remained relaxed on the controls, and they descended below ten feet, flying closer than he really wanted to in those circumstances.
“Hey, what’s that alarm?” Dave asked, sticking his head into the cockpit.
Roger ignored the SEAL, who stared wide-eyed through the forward windscreen at the pitch-black nothingness in front of them. “Forty miles,” he said.
The second red light began flashing, and the beeping sound changed to a klaxon siren.
“Fuck!” Charlie cursed. “Missile launch.”
36
Doc Crowe stepped from the Sickbay and pulled the surgical mask down around her chin, leaning against the bulkhead to catch her breath. She had been going nonstop through the night. Ever since Goldy had called her to check on Andy, more and more people on the ship were coming down with the same symptoms.
What is going on?
The door opened over her shoulder, and Diona’s head emerged. “Ma’am, you have a phone call.”
Doc closed her eyes and willed herself to find the energy she needed to make it through the night. Then, she pushed off the bulkhead, lifted the mask to cover her mouth and nose once more, and spun back into the ship’s medical department. “Thanks, HM1.”
She walked across the ward and picked up the phone. “This is Doc Crowe.”
“Doc! It’s Goldy again.”
She sighed and felt her exhaustion boil over into frustration. “I told you to get Andy here for—”
“He hit his head, and I can’t wake him.”
Her exhaustion disappeared as if someone had flipped a switch. “Is he bleeding?”
“It’s bad.”
“Keep pressure on it. I’ll be right there.”
Doc slammed the phone down and motioned to Diona. “Get your kit and come with me.”
“What’s going on?”
Doc spun back for the door and raced for the ladder. She didn’t bother removing her mask and struggled to breathe through the polypropylene — a non-woven fabric designed to block dust and microbes. She didn’t know what was spreading across the ship, but if there was one thing the pandemic had taught her, it was that it was better to be safe than sorry. Within minutes after seeing their first patient in sick call and recognizing the symptoms were like Andy’s, she ordered the medical personnel under her charge to break out the masks.