pack onto his backk.
“Hold off on that, Powder,” Danny told him. “Don’t go starting fires until we have firebreaks and everything else in place.”
“Just making sure it works, Cap,” said Powder, flicking the trigger. The device didn’t light at first, and Danny half-worried that the sergeant would set himself on fire before he got it going. “Woo — what I’m talking about,” said Powder as a long red flame jetted from the nozzle.
“Sometimes I swear to God I’m a goddamn kindergarten teacher,” said Danny, shaking his head.
“Powder never made it to Kindergarten, Captain,” said Bison, taking out the chain saws. “Got left back in preschool.”
Powder put the flamethrowers back down. He took one of the large chain saws Bison had laid out and fueled. “Wait till I get this little humdinger goin’, Cap. Gonna call me Mr. Jungle.”
“Mr. Jungle Rot, more like it,” said Bison.
“Just get going,” Danny told them. “I want enough space for the MH-17 to land before nightfall so we can get the trailer in.”
The trailer was an RV adapted for use as Whiplash’s mobile command post.
“This is what I’m talkin’ about,” said Powder, revving his saw.
Zen could see the two Sukhois on his long-range scan as he approached. They were flying a figure-eight pattern over the aircraft carrier task force, their patrol circle never more than twenty miles from the surface ships. Unlike an American battle group, there was no radar plane aloft, and the carrier would be vulnerable to an attack by any aircraft equipped with American Harpoon missiles or even Exocets, which, at least in theory, could strike from about twenty-five miles away. Of course, the Chinese were probably counting on the radars in the Su-33’s to pick up approaching aircraft before they were in range to attack, a not unreasonable expectation — unless the aircraft attacking were American.
The Flighthawks were not equipped for surface attack, and the Megafortress was not carrying AGMs; nor were they authorized to attack the Chinese, or any ship for that matter. If they were, the Chinese would be out one pocket carrier. The stealthy Flighthawks began turning at five miles from the carrier, still undetected by any of the screening radars. Zen split the Flighthawks, riding Two ahead of Quicksilver and trailing with One, just in case the Sukhois finally got curious. But they didn’t.
“Two helicopters operating with the carrier,” reported Collins, who as analyzing some of the signal intelligence and magnified visual information they’d gathered.
“Probably looking for subs,” said Ferris.
“Torbin, do you have a plane near eight-four-zero, mark, three-two? Over that atoll” asked Ferris.
“Uh, something way down south there, beyond our range — probably just a bleep or an echo,” said the radar-intercept specialist. Zen could hear him punching the keys at his station. “Nothing. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“No ships there,” said Collins.
“Probably just a weird flake out,” said Ferris.
They continued south, tracking over the mostly empty ocean. Zen tried to stay sharp by having the Flighthawks change positions, but this was a long and boring patrol, especially after the long flight to get out here.
“Okay, we have two ships traveling together, cargo containers. Tankers beyond that,” said Collins finally, feeding Zen the coordinates. He put Hawk Two in trail behind Quicksilver, then took One into a shallow dive toward the two freighters. Traveling roughly a mile apart, the ships were stacked with cargo containers, trailers that could be ferried by truck of train once ashore. The containers could carry just about anything, and it was impossible to tell from the air what they held.
Hawk One nosed through some thin clouds, continuing downward through three thousand feet. He could see an Australian flag flapping at the rear of the tanker about three fourths of a mile away. He slid his right wing up slightly, gliding over the starboard side of the vessel, the belly video cam freezing on the ship. Collins, meanwhile, checked all of the ships against their listing, keeping track of what was down there.
“Not a known bad guy in the bunch,” he said.
“Lots of little boats ahead,” said Zen, nudging back on the throttle so he was making just under three hundred knots. “Let’s take a look.”
The small boats were clustered around several atolls at the western side of their patrol run. Two or three were fishing boats, flat-bottomed boats similar to Chinese junks. The others looked like open whaleboats with large motors, odd vessels to be this far from land, Zen thought.
“Brief says there’s pirates and smugglers all through there,” said Collins. “Sometimes they off-load at sea.”
Contraband cargo often found its way to any of the various shores via boats; though the dangers were
Many, the rewards were high. Drugs, arms, and ammunition were perennial favorites, but the real moneymakers here were mundane items, like cigarettes, booze, and, of all things, women’s tampons. There was also the occasional cargo of humans and, for the big operators, automobiles.
“I’ll run over low and slow again,” said Zen. “See if we see any weapons.”
Most of the boats had two or three people in them; in a few cases they seemed to be tending nets. No weapons were visible.
The Chinese aircraft carrier had made good progress in the hour or so since they’d last seen him. Zen pushed the two Flighthawks into a one-mile separation, running seven miles in front of the EB-52 at 28,000 and 31,000 feet as they approached the group. The Sukhois were noodling along at about four hundred knots a good five thousand feet below the lowest U/MF.
“Turn at two miles,” said Bree. “Let’s get a full read on their radars, their electronics, everything.”
“Still not tracking us,” said Torbin.
The Su-33’s passed over the carriers as Zen started to make his turn. All of a sudden they hit their afterburners.
“Got their attention,” said Chris. “We’re on their radar. “Two bandits, bearing—”
“Yeah, I got ’em,” said Zen, who simply held his flight pattern as the Megafortress continued in its southern bank. The Chinese fighters apparently didn’t picked up the smaller planes with their passive gear or their eyeballs, because as they passed, Zen tucked down over their wings. Had he lit his cannons, the carrier would have had to scramble all available SAR assets posthaste.
The Sukhoi pilots jinked downward sharply, kicking out flares and tinsel, undoubtedly mistaking the small fighters for missiles.
“More aircraft coming off the carrier,” warned Torbin.
“They think the Flighthawks are missiles,” said Zen “Better ID ourselves as three planes.”
“Roger that, Hawk Leader,” said Breanna. “Chris—”
Before the copilot could respond, the RWR lit up.
“We’re spiked,” said Chris.
“Break it,” said Breanna coldly. “Evasive maneuvers. Tell them we’re not hostile.”
“Yup.”
The plane shifted left and right as Zen brought the Flighthawks around. The Sukhois had fired their missiles, then broken off — good, safe tactics, and in any events, Zen wasn’t in a position to pursue, since he had to stay close to the mother ship and wasn’t authorized to fire anyway.
“Broke it. We’re clean,” reported Chris. “Second set of fighters.”
“No radar missiles,” reported Torbin. “At least not active.”
“Tell ’em we’re peaceful,” said Bree.
“I am,” said Chris. “They’re not answering.”
Zen felt the big plane jerk hard to the right. The forward viewscreen from Hawk Two showed the pair of radar missiles ducking downward, decked by either ECMs or chaff or both.
“Bandits Three and Four are coming at us,” said Chris. “Twenty miles, accelerating. Looks like they want heater shots.”
