“Colt Bancroft,” a gravelly voice said from behind him. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
He turned and saw the imposing figure of Captain Noah “Cutty” Sark, the Deputy Air Wing Commander, standing in the doorway. “Am I in trouble, sir?”
“Not unless you’ve been avoiding me.”
Colt studied the older fighter pilot’s face but saw nothing to indicate Cutty was in a playful mood. “Not at all, sir. What can I do for you?”
Cutty gestured for Colt to join him in the passageway. “Let’s go to my office.”
Colt slapped Doc on the shoulder, then turned to follow DCAG from the room, quickening his pace to keep up with the former Division I linebacker. Whether it was his broad shoulders or the silver eagles sewn onto his flight suit, sailors simultaneously stepped aside for Cutty and flashed Colt uneasy smiles.
When they reached DCAG’s office, Cutty opened the door and propped it open before gesturing for Colt to take a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Colt sat and waited for Cutty to do the same before the two locked eyes in silence.
“Well?” the old man asked.
Colt narrowed his eyes, unsure how to respond. “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”
“You know you’re going to have to tell me something.”
“About…”
“The Lincoln?”
As if someone had flipped a switch and turned a lightbulb on over his head, Colt understood immediately what Cutty was alluding to. “Oh.”
“Well?” he asked again.
Colt dropped his eyes to the floor for a moment, then looked back up to the senior pilot who had been the TOPGUN commanding officer when Colt had gone through as a student. He remembered Cutty demanding nothing short of excellence from his staff, and he knew a half-assed answer wouldn’t cut it.
“You know I’m not supposed to talk about this.”
Cutty nodded.
“And you’ve heard the rumors?”
Again, Cutty nodded.
Colt hesitated for a second, then got up and closed the door to give them some semblance of privacy. “What do you think, sir? Do you think I was flat-hatting?”
Cutty narrowed his eyes. “No. I don’t.”
“Good. Because the truth is, the Chinese developed a weapon to hack into the JSF and control it remotely.” He paused to assess Cutty’s reaction. “They hacked into mine that night off the Lincoln and attempted to crash it into the Mobile Bay.”
Cutty bit his lip and narrowed his gaze on Colt as if evaluating whether the younger pilot was telling the truth or bullshitting him. After a few seconds, he asked, “Why would they do that?”
Colt felt an easing of the knotted tension in his shoulders. “The popular opinion was that they were hoping to eliminate the Lincoln’s air defenses before they commenced the attack on their real target.”
“Which was?”
Colt hesitated.
“The Lincoln?” Cutty asked, having already drawn his own conclusion.
He nodded. “But the hack failed, I regained control, and the Mobile Bay survived.”
Cutty leaned back in his chair. “How do you know their real target was the Lincoln?”
Colt’s vision clouded as he remembered piloting a VX-31 F-35C over the darkened Pacific Ocean to chase down his friend. Then he shook himself back to the present. “Because they continued with their plan and launched an attack the next night.”
The captain narrowed his gaze on Colt. “What happened?”
“The Dust Devils were in Point Mugu for a test of the Joint Strike Missile. Their test plan called for them to launch two anti-ship missiles against the former Bonhomme Richard in the Pacific Missile Test Complex.”
“I remember the test,” Cutty said, reminding Colt that the captain’s last assignment had been at the Pentagon under the vice admiral for warfighting development.
“At least two Chinese operatives set up the experimental weapon on Santa Cruz Island and waited for the test platform to launch from Mugu. When it did, they took control of his jet and turned it on the Lincoln.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Colt shook his head. “Wish I was.”
“So, what happened? How do you know all this?”
Colt swallowed. He wasn’t sure how much he should tell Cutty, but after several uncomfortable minutes, he said, “I went to Mugu with an NCIS special agent and tried convincing Jug to delay the test.”
“McFarland?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know him. Smart kid. He didn’t listen?”
Colt shook his head, ignoring that Cutty obviously also considered him just a kid. “He understood the risks but was under a lot of pressure from leadership to keep the test on timeline.”
“So, what happened?” Cutty asked again.
“The special agent flew to Santa Cruz Island to find the operatives and shut them down before they could launch the missiles at the Lincoln.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
“Her,” Colt said. “And no.”
“You went after Jug, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“In what?”
“The spare test aircraft.”
Cutty furrowed his brow and looked as if he was about to read Colt the riot act for going after the hijacked fighter on his own. But then he burst into laughter and slammed his palm flat on the table. “Holy fucking shit, Colt! You stole an F-35?”
“I borrowed it,” he said, though he knew it was a matter of semantics.
“No wonder Big Navy wants to keep this quiet! Not only is there a weakness in the F-35’s system architecture, but one of their most accomplished aviators stole one!”
“Borrowed,” Colt repeated, still feeling as if the senior pilot was scolding him.
But Cutty didn’t seem angry. “Well, I know the Lincoln is still floating, so you might as well tell me how you stopped the Chinese from sinking her.”
When Colt looked up, he saw an amused expression on the captain’s face and realized he’d misread the older man’s reaction. “I wish I could say it was something heroic—”
The older pilot cut him off. “Stealing a Joint Strike Fighter is pretty fucking heroic, Colt.”
He ignored the praise. “By the time I reached Jug, the Chinese had already taken control of his jet and were preparing to launch the missiles. But they spotted me first and pitched in.”
“What did you do?”
“I had no choice but to dogfight.” He replayed the fight in his mind.
“Did you shoot him?”
He nodded, and Cutty gasped. “But I didn’t hit him.”
“Holy shit. You actually fired on him?”
“I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t let them sink the carrier. As it turns out, it didn’t even matter.” When Cutty remained silent, Colt continued. “They ended up launching both missiles against the carrier. The Mobile Bay shot one down, and the Lincoln’s CIWS took out the other. When it was all said and done, Jug and I diverted into San Clemente on fumes.”
Cutty reached under his desk and removed two tumblers and a small bottle of whiskey. He uncorked the bottle and filled each glass with one finger of the bronze medicinal liquid, then pushed one across the desk to Colt. As Colt stared at the contraband liquor, Cutty lifted his glass into the air. “Here’s to you, Colt, for having the balls to do what needed to be done.”
Colt picked up his glass and clinked it against the captain’s, then brought it to his lips.