The aircrewman didn’t hesitate, and the deafening blast of the heavy-caliber machine gun stunned her as she stared at the flaming tongue lapping at the man shooting up at them. The rounds impacted the earth and sent debris skyward as Rose delivered short, controlled bursts and inched his fire closer to the threat.
“Nose right!” Rose shouted.
The pilot responded by yawing right and shifting their position closer to the shooter as the heavy machine gun continued spitting fire down on the enemy gunner. She ignored the returning fire, barely noticing the dull hammering against the helicopter as she focused on Rose’s rounds slicing through the air. She still couldn’t see the target, but after what seemed like an impossibly long time, the tracers cut through a solid mass, and she again recognized the man’s shadowed figure.
Why does he look so strange?
“Hit!” he shouted, ceasing fire and plunging them into relative silence. “Got him!”
That wasn’t TANDY.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” the pilot said. “There are probably more.”
There are, Punky thought. And I’m going to find her.
Beth sat in her chair in the middle of the Combat Information Center and watched her sailors collect information from every source they had available to them. Aside from the AN/SPY-1 radar system, they had other onboard and off-board sensors they could use to build a complete picture of vessels and aircraft operating near them.
“Surface picture is electronically and visually clear, ma’am,” Lieutenant Martin Schaeffer said.
Beth lifted the ceramic mug embossed with the ship’s logo on one side and the command-at-sea badge on the other. She took a sip of the steaming coffee the TAO had brewed in anticipation of her arrival, thankful for the French-roasted organic Peru Cajamarca. It was a favorite among the officers in her wardroom, owing to the roast’s unique name that linked it to the ship’s heritage.
Damn the torpedoes, she thought, and took another sip of the Trident Coffee.
“Air picture too,” he added. “Aside from Raptor Two Four.”
“Very well.”
Master Chief Ivy walked to the back of the room and sat down in the chair next to her. “Ma’am, you don’t have to stay here for the duration of the test. I can come get you if anything comes up that needs your attention.”
She turned and appraised him, thankful for the gesture. “I know you have things well under control,” she said. “But I’d prefer to be here.”
“Aye, ma’am,” he said, then lifted the Styrofoam cup to his lips and sipped from the same blend.
Beth watched the steam rising from her cup and thought about the old saying that the Navy didn’t float on water alone. She was sure the original quote had referred to the traditional ration of rum or grog for sailors at sea, but she couldn’t help but think how much she had grown to rely on coffee to get her through her watch.
She hadn’t even tasted coffee until reporting to the Naval Academy, and she even made it through her Plebe year without becoming hooked on it. But during her Youngster summer, a small flotilla of Yard Patrol craft sailed from the Annapolis seawall and through the Chesapeake Bay, making its way up the coast for port calls in New York City and Boston. The midshipmen on board manned the watch twenty-four hours a day, and she could still remember being roused from a deep sleep for her midnight shift and craving something to sustain her until sunrise.
Enter, coffee.
Beth had hated the taste. She hated the thick sludge the enlisted sailors on board the YP craft brewed for the midshipmen, and she hated how it scalded her tongue every time she tried taking a sip. But she needed the caffeine, so she learned to fill the Styrofoam cup half full and then top it off with water from the scuttlebutt. From that moment on, coffee became a religion to her, and she slowly learned how to enjoy finer roasts without having to water them down.
“Ma’am, it looks like the Bonhomme Richard—”
“Former Bonhomme Richard,” she corrected.
Martin bobbed his head in acknowledgment of the gaffe. “Sorry, the former Bonhomme Richard is exactly where it’s supposed to be. The sea picture around the target vessel is still clear and should remain that way for the duration of the test.”
“Very well,” she replied, then drained the rest of her coffee. “The Master Chief and I will be on the bridge to watch the fireworks. Please let me know as soon as you spot the test aircraft entering the airspace.”
It was really a matter of “if” and not “when” they spotted the F-35C, but she ran a tight ship and expected her crew to deliver sometimes miraculous results. The newer versions of the AN/SPY-1 radar had increased capability against targets with smaller radar cross sections, like cruise missiles, but her ship was fitted with the first generation, albeit with several modifications that reduced weight and increased power output. It still performed well against steep-diving missiles and was more than capable against most air threats, but the Joint Strike Fighter was another animal altogether.
“Aye, ma’am,” Martin replied with a slight grimace.
Beth stood and strode for the door, hanging her empty coffee mug on a hook above the coffeepot. She was one of the few on the ship who had her own mug in almost every space aboard the ship, and she relished the opportunity to practice her religion with the crew. Master Chief Ivy followed in her wake as she led him to the bridge.
“It’s going to be hit or miss if they can spot the test aircraft,” he said, hoping to temper her expectations.
“Oh, I know that,” she replied over her shoulder. “But it never hurts to motivate the crew a little. Honestly, I’ll be a little disappointed if we spot the stealth fighter, especially since he’s supposed to be jamming against threat radars for the duration of the test.”
“Do they know that?” he asked.
She stopped mid-stride and turned to look up into his placid face. As always, he challenged her when he thought she needed a subtle course-correction. It was a fine line between demanding excellence from her crew and safeguarding their morale. Beth had always believed that the crews with the highest morale were the ones who performed at the highest levels. But she appreciated Ben’s counterpoint.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Let’s make a bet. Just between you and me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What’s the wager?”
“I’ll bet they can spot the inbound aircraft and alert me before he launches his missiles at the target ship. If they can’t, I will personally praise the crew for their efforts to do so.”
“And if they can?”
She grinned. “Then you can tell them you didn’t think they could do it.”
Ben opened his mouth to answer but stopped short when the radio clipped to her belt squawked with, “Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge.”
42
Chen leaned back against the sloping terrain to ground herself in the reality surrounding her. The view through her virtual reality goggles was breathtaking, and it would be easy to get lost in the virtual environment. Feeling the warm dirt at her back, she pivoted and tilted her head in every direction while marveling at the interface the professor had constructed.
“This thing is incredible,” she whispered to herself, though nobody was around to hear.
Initiating the hack had been surprisingly easy, but she wasn’t ready to declare victory yet. After all, Xi Jian had achieved as much before the jet’s electronic defenses repelled his attack. Manipulating the odd-looking controllers in her hands, she swiped at the air while searching for the display showing what ordnance had been loaded on the fighter. When she saw two radar-guided AIM-120D air-to-air missiles and two Joint Strike Missiles, she grinned.