“We’re going to lose speed as soon as we open the bay door,” said Chris Ferris. The copilot had a habit of worrying out loud. In Dog’s opinion, not a particularly endearing trait.
“I’m counting on it,” replied the colonel, flashing left as one of the Tomcats began firing again. The Navy planes couldn’t position themselves effectively because of the air mines spitting out from the back of the plane, but that advantage would soon be lost—the computer warned they were below a hundred rounds.
Worse, another quarter of fighters were coming from the north.
“Okay,” said Delaford.
“Chris, turn off the Stinger as if we’ve run out of shells,” Dog told his copilot. “Then open the bay doors and launch. Everybody hang tough,” added Dog. “This will feel like we’ve hit a brick wall.”
The Tomcats, seeing the Stinger had stopped firing midburst, closed in tentatively, expecting a trick. Meanwhile, Ferris gave Dog a five count. When he reached one, the colonel did everything but throw the plane into reverse—and he might have tried that had he thought of it. The Megafortress dropped literally straight down in the sky, an elevator whose control cables had suddenly snapped.
The Tomcats shot overhead.
“Piranha Buoy Two launched,” reported Ferris, immediately closing up the doors to clear the Megafortress’s sleek belly. Dog banked so close to the water, its right wingtip might have grazed a dolphin.
“They’re coming back, and they’re mad,” said Ferris. “Whipping around—rear-quarter shot.” He started laughing. “Suckers—Stinger on and firing.”
Their anger and fatigue took its toll. One of the Navy fliers was mauled; the other backed off—then declared a fuel-emergency and broke off.
“Four bandits still coming at us. In AMRAAM range,” warned Ferris.
“How we doing down there, Delaford?” asked Dog, cutting back north to stay near the buoy, though this meant closing the gap on the approaching F-14’s.
“Got it! Ten seconds to surface!”
Dog jinked back, hit chaff as one of the Tomcats launched from long range.
“Were did they get the Scorpion missiles codes?” asked Ferris. “They’re only supposed to use operational missiles.”
“Take them over,” said Dog.
“Huh?”
“Overrise their guidance. Use our circuits.”
“I don’t know if I can, Colonel. And even if I could, that would be cheating.”
“Weren’t you just complaining about them using missiles that aren’t in their armament lockers?” inquired Dog. “Issue the universal self-destruct. See what happens.”
The Scorpions—still some months from production—had been designed at Dreamland. The test missiles contained what the programmers called off-line paragraphs—telemetry code useful for testing but not intended for the final product. Among them were instructions allowing the testbed aircraft to override onboard guidance and detonate the missiles—useful in case one veered off course. Dog wasn’t sure the code had been included in the simulated version, but it was worth a try.
Ferris dutifully hit the commands, and got an extra bonus—not only did the two dummies “explode,” but so did the four simulated ones that hadn’t been launched yet.
Fortunately for the Naval aviators carrying them, the self-destruct merely killed the programming.
Ferris laughed so hard and loud he drowned out Delaford’s report that they were spitting at the carrier’s bridge.
“Almost,” said Delaford. “We’re twelve feet off their starboard side, bobbing up and down. I hope some of those sailors have cameras.”
“Gentlemen, and Miss English, job well done,” said Dog, who, despite his best effort to sound professional, was chuckling a bit as well. “Let’s go home.”
South China Sea
August 17, 1997, 1900 local (August 17, 0100 Hawaii)
Stoner steadied himself against the rail of his boat as he drifted toward the piece of torn gray fabric bulky piece of flotsam bobbed a few yards beyond it; Stoner suspected it was the tip of something large enough to damage his boat. But he wanted the fabric, and decided the approach was worth the risk. There were words on the cloth, or at least something that looked like words.
He reached out with his long pole, sticking it in the middle of the material. Like a jellyfish prodded from above, it slipped downward and drifted away. Stoner reached again, nearly losing his balance grabbing the cloth.
He pulled the stick up quickly. The characters were definitely chinese, though he couldn’t make them out. He’d have to use his digital camera to take a picture, then transmit the image back.
Enough to go on.
Stoner looked back at the water. The flotsam was only a few feet away. It was smaller than he though, and not connected to anything. Even so, he put his pole out, trying to fend it off.
It rolled upward, revealing a face and torso. There were no legs, and only half-stumps where the arms had been.
In his career, Stoner had seen many unpretty things. He went back over the rail and reached down to a fabric-covered pocket at the top of the hull. Opening the compartment, he took out his camera, examining it quickly to make sure the settings were correct before slipping the thick strap over his neck. He went back and photographed the dead man’s face, recording it in case it might prove useful in the future. Then he out the long stick in the body’s chest and pushed it away, leaving it for the sharks.