“Two zero four, Tiger, single group, BRAA, one nine zero, sixty, thirty-eight thousand, flank southeast, hostile. Targeted by two zero one.”
There was a slight pause on the radio, then Lieutenant Luke “Rucas” Mixon spoke again in a clipped, excited tone. “Tiger, declare contact one nine zero, ten, forty thousand.”
Colt saw his radar warning receiver flicker with an indication that the other Super Hornet’s radar had detected him. He didn’t wait for the E-2D Hawkeye controller to reply and keyed the microphone switch. “Skip it! That’s two zero one!”
“Two zero four,” came the somber reply.
It was understandable that Rucas wanted to get in on the action, but he didn’t want to end up getting shot down by an overly eager Naval Aviator. As it was, there would probably be some grumbling among the other squadrons in the air wing that Colt had taken all the glory for himself.
Assuming I don’t fuck it up.
The thought brought him back to the fly-out cues on his radar attack display as they reached the targets. He looked through his NVCDs and saw a brief flash of light, followed by a dim glow as the first Flanker crashed into the water.
“Splash one!” he shouted.
Colt switched back to the second target and glanced at his radar attack display to see the second J-11B pitching in toward him. Obviously, his missile had caught them by surprise, but the surprise was gone.
“Tiger, two zero one, single group maneuver.”
“Two zero one, Tiger, single group hot, hostile. One contact.”
Almost immediately, his radar warning receiver lit up as the J-11B’s radar locked onto his aircraft. It was obvious his second AMRAAM either didn’t detonate or had gone astray somewhere en route to the Chinese fighter. Without giving it a second thought, he rolled his Super Hornet one hundred and twenty degrees to the left and executed a nose-low slicing turn away from the threat.
“Two zero one, out left.”
Rucas’s voice was giddy again. “Two zero four targeting single group.”
Colt pushed his throttles forward into afterburner and felt the jet accelerating as his nose sliced through the horizon and he placed the threat at his six o’clock. Instinctively, he performed an anti-G straining maneuver, squeezing his thighs and glutes while taking short and punctuated breaths and flexing his core muscles. Combined with the inflating bladders of the anti-G suit, the straining maneuver helped keep his blood from pooling in his lower extremities and kept him awake.
“Two zero four, Tiger, single group hostile.”
“Two zero four, Fox Three, single group.”
As Colt rolled out with the J-11B at his six o’clock and his nose pointed forty-five degrees nose low, he glanced up and saw Rucas’s missile racing toward the Chinese fighter over his head and breathed a sigh of relief.
38
Colt cracked the throttles back and eased the nose of his fighter up toward the horizon. A quick glance down at the datalink display showed the icon representing Rucas turning away from the advancing Chinese fighter.
“Two zero four, out right, cheap shot, single group.”
Colt took the cue that Rucas was turning away after his missile went active, and he slapped his control stick into his left leg, then pulled it back into his lap and traded airspeed for angles as he pitched back into the engagement. “Two zero one, in left.”
He had already designated the datalink track file representing the Chinese fighter, but with his nose pointed back to the northwest, his radar again swept the sky until it returned a hit. He selected his third and final AMRAAM and prepared to squeeze the trigger when the icon began flashing.
Colt relaxed his trigger finger and took a calming breath.
“Two zero one, Tiger, single group faded.”
At last, the missile detonated and caused the icon to disappear from his screen. Colt was again left with nothing but darkness in front of him. For the first time since the alert had been called away, he had a moment of calm to process what had just happened.
“Did we just do what I think we just did?” Rucas asked over their tactical frequency.
Colt shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah, I think we did.”
“Two zero one, Tiger, picture clean,” the Hawkeye controller said. “Stand by for tasking.”
Stand by for tasking?
“There’s nobody left to shoot,” Rucas said.
“There’s always somebody left to shoot,” Colt said, though he silently agreed with him. They were flying over the contested Paracel Islands and were certain to draw the attention of the People’s Republic of China, but at that moment, they were alone. He switched back to the air intercept control frequency. “Tiger, say status of friendlies.”
“Stand by.”
Colt knew the Chinese fighters had launched to intercept a friendly helicopter and that he had been ordered to stop that from happening. But that didn’t mean whomever the SEALs had with them on the helicopter was out of the woods yet. They still needed to get back to the ship.
“Two zero one, Tiger, stand by for coordinates.”
Colt slipped the four-colored pen from the elastic loop on the side of his kneeboard and prepared to write down the latitude and longitude. But for what, he wasn’t sure. “Ready to copy.”
“Proceed directly to sixteen degrees, three minutes north, one eleven degrees, forty-six minutes east and establish CAP.”
Colt scribbled the coordinates on his kneeboard card, then glanced down at his fuel quantity and furrowed his brow at the instructions. “Tiger, state intentions.”
There was a pause before the controller’s voice returned. “We’re still trying to get all the details, but apparently a friendly helicopter is at that location. You are to escort them to Clark Air Base.”
His confusion only intensified after he entered the coordinates into his flight computer and saw that the location was in the middle of the South China Sea. Manning a Combat Air Patrol for an indefinite period would strain his endurance with the fuel he had remaining, but then to follow that up with escorting them six hundred miles away? “I’m not going to have the gas to escort them there and make it back to the ship.”
“You’re to land there and await further instructions.”
“Say again?”
“Colt, it’s Cutty,” the brusque voice of his DCAG said. “There’s been an outbreak of some kind, and the skipper is putting the entire ship in quarantine.”
Quarantine?
“Roger that, sir.”
The watch commander slammed the phone down in frustration, then brought his hands up to knead the tension from his temples. Connor leaned against the wall in the back of the room, watching the organized chaos of a dozen men and women working tirelessly to get the helicopter back to safety. He couldn’t understand the stress they were under, and he admired them even more for it.
“Listen up!” the watch commander bellowed.
Heads whipped in his direction, and Connor shoved off the cold steel. He was on pins and needles waiting to learn the fate of the aging Russian helicopter. But something about the watch commander’s demeanor told him it wasn’t good news.
“The Ronald Reagan is no longer a suitable option for recovering Dusty One.”
Connor took two quick steps forward as the room erupted in a chorus of nervous whispers.
“Quiet down!” the watch commander yelled, then paused and waited for the cavernous room to slip once more into silence. “We don’t have time to lose our minds. We need to bring them back here.”