decision to use Israeli airports as refueling stops.
Four C-130 Hercules, two painted black and two in dark green jungle camouflage schemes, were lined up near the Megafortress. Beyond them were a parcel of Blackhawk and Huey helicopters, along with a pair of large Pave Lows. Three F-117’s and five F-16 were also lined up at the edge of the strip, parked dangerously close together.
The runway had been expanded, but Cheshire had still had to dump fuel before landing. Taking off was going to be a bitch; Jeff wondered how the F-117’s managed it, since the bat planes typically needed a good long run to get off the ground.
“God, Zen, is that you?”
Zen spun his chair around and saw Hal Briggs, hands on hips, frown on face, standing behind him.
“Hey, Major.”
“You brought the Flighthawks?” said Briggs. “You’re here to fly them?”
“Who’d you think would fly them?” Rubeo?”
Briggs frowned, but at least he didn’t offer the usual ‘sorry about your legs’ routine. Zen waited while Briggs greeted Sergeant Parsons and the others. Major Cheshire came down onto the runway; Hal began filling her in on the situation, walking with her toward his Humvee. Zen followed, listening to Briggs explain why he believed the captured Americans were in the Sudan. They were mounting a comprehensive search mission, he told her; Raven would be an invaluable part. Briggs and Cheshire got into the vehicle. Zen pushed to follow.
“Whoa! Whoa!” he yelled as Briggs started without him. “Yo! I’m not in yet.”
“Uh, sorry, Major,” said Briggs. “There’s food and a lounge inside this building here. We’re going over to our command center.”
“Yeah, no shit. that’s where I’m going.” Jeff pulled open the rear door, working the wheelchair as close as possible. It was too long a stretch, but at this point he didn’t care.
“Well,” started Briggs. “No offense, but –”
“I’m in charge of the Flighthawks,” Zen told him. “Since I’m going to be working the major part of the mission, I sure as shit ought to be in on the planning, don’t you think?”
“First of all, the drones aren’t in the game plan.”
“They’re not drones,” said Zen. “They’re scouts and escorts.”
“I agree that Major Stockard ought to be involved,” said Cheshire.
Briggs, obviously pissed, said nothing. Zen pulled himself up into the Hummer, pushing and yanking his body along. Major Cheshire got out of the Humvee and folded his wheelchair for him, handling it inside. Zen answered her weak, apologetic smile with a curt nod, pulling the chair nearly on top of himself. He wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he would be goddamned if he was going to admit it.
This is better than pity, he thought to himself. I can deal with this.
When they stopped, Jeff managed to slam the chair out and then slide into it without any help. Not that it was a pretty.
Nor was it easy getting into the building. Fortunately, there was only one step and it was barely two inches high. Zen managed to get up by coming sideways, building a little momentum, and practically jumping upward. For a moment he thought he was going to land on his head.
He took the fact that he didn’t as a good sign. He wheeled through the door, teeth grinding but determined to get past the frowns and stares. Moving quickly , Jeff followed Cheshire toward the large map tables where the commander of the operation were clustered. Briggs introduced them, then turned over the briefing to a Navy commander, who was coordinating the search components.
“The Antonov was tracked approximately to this point,” he said, dispensing with preliminaries as he poked his thumb on a topo map of northeastern Africa. “We estimate the plane’s range before refueling at one thousand miles, which gives us this semicircle here. You’ll note that’s a wide area. A lot of Sudan is involved. We have relatively high confidence that the aircraft did not take off after landing. We believe they’re waiting for nightfall. F/A-18’s and a Hawkeye from the Kennedy will be responsible for this area here,” he added, his pinkie circling a crosshatched swatch of northern Sudan near Egypt. “Another flight will patrol Libya. That leaves southern Sudan, below the Libyan Desert. It’s low-probability area, but it has to be covered.”
“What about Egypt?” said Zen.
The commander made a face. “We don’t have permission for overflights.”
“All the more reason to watch it.”
“Zen, please,” said Briggs.
“We’re aware of the possibility,” said the Navy commander. “We’re compensating to some degree, but obviously there are limits. We have some under-the-table help from the Israelis.”
“Where’s the Kennedy?” Cheshire asked.
“That’s one of our problems,” admitted the commander. “All of these planes are operating at the far end of their range. It’s dicey, I don’t deny that.”
“Major Cheshire, you have this swatch here,” said Briggs, pointing to the southernmost area of the Sudan. He then turned to the F-16 commander. “Havoc Flight’s F-16’s will patrol here and here. We’re waiting for a KC-135 inbound to refuel you.”
“Excuse me,” said Cheshire, “but with our range, it would make a hell of a lot more sense for us to take that area. Then Havoc won’t need to tank.” She grinned at the F-16 flight leader. “Unless you want to try refueling off a C-130.”
“We’ve done it,” he said.
“I’ve pissed in my pants, but I wouldn’t want to repeat it,” said Zen. The C-130 in question was rigged for helicopter refueling. The type’s extreme versatility and the pilots’ attitudes couldn’t make up for the fact that the Herky Bird was considerably slower than the F-16.
“We may have the KC-145 on board by then,” said Briggs. “In any event, I don’t want to risk the Megafortress anywhere near Libya.”
“That’s a good six hundred miles south of Libya,” said Zen. “With all due respect to the F-16’s, they’d be ten times as vulnerable as Raven and Flighthawks.”
“We’re not sending the Flighthawks,” said Briggs.
“What are Flighthawks?” asked the Navy commander.
U/MF-3’s,” said Zen. “They’re unmanned fighters that can be used as reconnaissance craft. They’ll widen the search cone exponentially.”
“They’re experimental drones,” said Briggs. “unpiloted craft.”
“They are piloted. They fly by remote control. They’re as capable as F-22’s,” Stockard told the naval officer, aware that was he violating the protocol about the program’s classified status. “The Flighthawks can beam real- time video and electronic back to Raven. They’re armed with cannons and can shoot down anything Qaddafi can throw at them. The only difference between sending them and the F/A-18’s is that no one’s risking their life.”
“If we have unmanned aircraft that we can use, I’m all for it,” said the naval officer. “That is serious Indian country out there.”
“Those are experimental aircraft,” said Briggs.
“No, they’re developmental aircraft,” said Jeff. “There’s a big difference.”
“I think they can do the job,” said Cheshire.
“What do we do if one goes down?” Brigg’s voice made it seem more a certainty than a question.
“It’s not going down,” Zen said.
“I can’t afford to be optimistic.”
“If there is a problem, I blow it up. Look, the classified stuff is all aboard Raven anyway. That’s plane we have to worry about. The fact that it’s here – shit, don’t you think we have to use the best stuff we have? Why let anyone – anything, I mean – go to waste?”
“I don’t think there’s much of an argument,” said the Navy commander. “If you’re confident these craft can do the job, I say go for it. I’ve seen what Pioneers –”
“These are nothing like Pioneers,” snorted Zen.
“I’m on your side, Major,” the commander snapped. “I say we slot them north, Hal.”
“Agreed,” said Briggs finally. He looked up at Cheshire. “Major, we’d like you off the runway as soon as possible. We want you in the area before dark.”
