With one more deep breath, Colt keyed the microphone switch one last time. “Two zero one is punching out.” Then, he released the stick and useless throttle and wrapped his fingers around the ejection handle between his legs.
Ten thousand feet… Here goes nothing.
He pulled the handle.
Like every Navy fighter pilot, Colt had been through aviation survival training more than once, and he knew what to expect during ejection. He knew to keep his heels on the floor, toes on the rudder pedals, and properly align his spine to prevent injury. He knew what the books and instructors at the aviation survival training centers had told him to expect.
But that didn’t mean he was prepared.
Immediately after pulling the handle, he felt the inertial reels pull his shoulders back into the seat before his familiar and comforting surroundings erupted in chaos. The canopy over his head disappeared in a flash, and the wind slammed into him like a freight train. He half expected to black out from the G-forces as the catapult fired and propelled his seat up the rail, but he watched with detached wonder as the cockpit seemed to drop away beneath him. A split second later, his vision narrowed when the ejection seat’s rockets fired and shot him clear of the stricken jet.
In rapid succession, a drogue chute deployed to stabilize and slow him, then the main parachute filled with air, and the opening shock yanked him clear of the seat. When his vision returned, he scrambled to recall his training and prepare himself for the landing using the oft-recited memory aid of IROK.
Inspect.
Colt looked up into the inky darkness above and saw the faint outline of his parachute canopy. It was a complete circle and not in an odd shape that might indicate a malfunction he would have to work his way through — like a partial line-over or streamer.
Inflate.
Colt felt down the front of his chest for the beaded handles attached to his life preserver unit and yanked on them to activate the CO2 cartridges. The horse collar flotation device inflated with a violent hiss.
Raft.
He reached back for the seat pan still attached to his harness by the lower Koch fittings and felt around for the handle that would drop the raft beneath him. If he had estimated correctly, he might not even need it, but he couldn’t count on Kentucky windage to keep him dry. He’d much rather wait for the Osprey inside a raft than bobbing like a cork in the water.
He found the handle and pulled it to the side, but he couldn’t see if it did what it was supposed to do. A sudden snap a few seconds later let him know that the raft had fallen beneath him before the tether jerked it to a stop and activated the CO2 cartridge to inflate it.
Options.
Colt had come to the step in the procedure he had the most control over. His options depended on numerous environmental considerations — whether it was day or night, over land or water, in friendly or hostile territory — and it was the only step entirely up to him. He reached up to release both bayonet fittings on his oxygen mask and let it fall away. It dangled by the hose attached to the regulator on his survival vest. Then, he lifted his bulky visor and took in his surroundings.
Colt had no idea how high he was above the water. It was his first time under a parachute, but he knew his descent rate was faster than he expected. His instructors had cautioned him to keep his eyes on the horizon and to not look down at the ground racing up to meet him. But with as dark as it was, that wouldn’t be an issue.
Koch fittings.
He reached up to the buckles that connected the parachute to his harness and prepared to release them once his feet entered the water. Too early and he would fall to his death. Too late and he risked getting tangled in the parachute lines and drowning.
Suddenly, the line connecting him to the raft and survival kit beneath him went slack, and he knew he was close.
Here we go.
43
Punky bolted upright and gripped the edge of her desk to orient herself to the real world. She knew she had been burning the candle at both ends and that it had probably been a bad idea to stay late in the office to pore over the intercepted communications from SUBLIME. If she hadn’t been sure, waking up at her desk was all the evidence she needed.
“I said I wanted you in the office. But that didn’t mean I wanted you to sleep here.”
Punky turned and saw Camron standing at the edge of her cubicle holding two steaming cups of coffee. He reached over and set one on the desk in front of her, then took a sip from the other.
“Camron, listen—”
Before she could launch into her explanation, he held up a hand. “Save your breath. I think you might be onto something.”
The comment caught her off guard, and she spun in her chair to face him. “Why? What’s happened?”
“I guess you haven’t heard.”
She bit off a snide remark. “Heard what?”
“The captain of the USS Ronald Reagan has put the entire ship in quarantine.”
Punky jumped up from her chair. “What? Why?”
Camron seemed a little too calm for what she thought was a significant development. He took another sip of his coffee before answering. “There has been an outbreak of some kind, and people just have diarrhea or something. But that’s pretty much my assumption for any cruise.”
But Punky knew better. If what Tan Lily had told her was true, then what the crew of the Reagan was experiencing was part of a synthetic bioweapon attack. What she didn’t know was whether the illness spreading across the ship was only half the weapon’s potency. She felt dizzy as she tried puzzling through the myriad of scenarios.
“There’s more to it than that,” she said.
Camron gave her a queer look but waited for her to explain.
“There is no question Dr. Tan Lily is being targeted by the Chinese Ministry of State Security.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious, Camron. Listen to me. She is at a CIA safe house right now.”
His demeanor changed, and he lowered the coffee cup. “Why?”
“Because one of their officers went missing in Shanghai after meeting with her husband. Both are biochemists with the specific skill set needed to engineer a synthetic bioweapon.” She paused for a breath to let that sink in. “Hell, she was giving a lecture on the topic when I met her.”
Camron was silent for a moment. “What do you know about SUBLIME?”
Punky shook her head. “Not much. That’s why I’m here. I believe the Ministry is targeting her either because she knows how to activate the bioweapon or nullify it.”
“But if the ship is already infected…”
She waved him off. “It’s over my head, but she said they likely engineered a pathogen with a switch.” She didn’t bother explaining the difference between a binary weapon and a tripartite weapon. “If we can get her a blood sample from someone infected on the ship, she can tell us how it was engineered and how to mitigate its impact.”
He nodded. “We might be in luck. The flight surgeon who treated the first patient sent the results of the blood test to BUMED.”
“Get me a copy of those results, Camron.”
He hesitated. “I’ll run the request up the flagpole. Your only task right now is to find SUBLIME and stop him.”
As if she needed Camron to tell her that. “On it.”