synthetic-aperture radar for finding surfaced submarines at long range. When feeling aggressive, the S-3s could pack everything from antisub torpedoes to Harpoons and even Rockeye cluster bombs. They could also carry nuclear depth charges, though as a general rule these were not deployed.
Like all Vikings in the Navy, this one was scheduled to lose its ASW role in the next few months. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the conflict with China, it probably already would have changed roles. Orions and helicopters were set to take on the task, though as this plane’s presence showed, neither aircraft could quite completely take the versatile little Lockheed’s place.
This particular S-3B happened to be a member of a storied squadron, the oldest dedicated carrier ASW group in operation, the Fighting Redtails. While their planes and detection gear had changed dramatically since the squadron was first organized in 1945 (it didn’t gain its nickname until 1950), the pilots and crew members still showed the determination born in a period of worldwide strife.
They also liked to rag on the Air Force whenever possible.
“What the hell you doing out over water, Air Force?” mocked the Redtail pilot. His plane was roughly fifty miles to the southeast, approaching at about 320 knots. “You lost?”
“We hear you Navy boys needed your hands held,” replied Breanna.
“Hey, Air Force, either you’re a woman or real popular with the choir.”
“Want to hear me sing?”
“Only if it’s ‘Anchors Away.’ ”
“Sorry, my plane is programmed to self-destruct if I sing that. You want a fix on our contacts or what?”
“Roger that, good-lookin’.”
“My, what a charmer,” Bree said to Chris. “Give the joker what he’s looking for.”
“A punch in the mouth.”
“Just the coordinates for now,” she said. “You can protect my honor later.”
As Chris filled Redtail in on the submarine contacts, Torbin told Breanna the Chinese were scrambling a pair or fighters after the S-3.
“Redtail, be advised you have some tagalongs,” Bree told the Navy flight.
“We always dig a little faster and a little harder when people are watching,” answered the pilot.
“Come again?”
“Line from ‘Mike Mulligan,’ ” explained the Navy aviator. “You know, Maryanne and the Steam Shovel. Kids book.”
“You got me.”
“You don’t have kids?”
“Negative.”
“I’ll give you one of mine.”
Two Sukhois from one of the Chinese carriers rode out to shake hands with the S-3. Chris tracked them for the Viking, then helped Breanna get ready for the buoy drop, now less than five minutes away. After they opened the bay doors and started to nose downward, the radar picked up a new flight taking off from the
“Sikorsky SH-3,” said Chris, his voice jumping an octave. “Wow. Where’d that come from?”
“Range?”
“One hundred miles. That’s a Sikorsky. The Chinese don’t have it,” added Chris. The venerable SH-3 had served with many countries, but wasn’t listed in the inventory of Chinese aircraft. “Those are ours.”
“Want me to tell them to give is back?”
“Captain, I have an active search radar off a Sea King AEW Mark 2 British helicopter,” reported Torbin. “Hey, this is pretty interesting stuff — the Chinese have a Sea King bag on that Sikorsky. Searchwater. Getting parameters.”
Torbin was using the slang term for the special airborne early warning system installed in Royal Navy Sea Kings. The British had pioneered the use of AEW systems on helicopters, installing what they called Searchwater radar with a data link to their Harrier aircraft. Mounted in what looked like a large spaghetti pot off the starboard side of the aircraft, the radar gave roughly a hundred-mile coverage when the helicopter reached ten thousand feet.
“Chinese don’t have this sucker,” added Torbin.
“Yeah, so you think the Queen defected?” asked Breanna.
“More like someone from Spain. They use this configuration. Wait, though. You know, it’s not exactly a Searchwater.”
“Does he have us?”
“Uh, negative on that. Our profile’s too small for him.”
“Okay, everybody take a breath,” said Breanna. “Let’s drop the buoy, then recheck your gear and make sure our Ids are right. Major Stockard, Ms. Gleason, we’re about thirty seconds away from the drop.”
Danny Freah’s legs wobbled as he stepped out of the Quick Bird; he had to grab on to Stoner to keep his balance. The rest of the team was waiting near the edge of the runway. For some reason, he had expected Powder’s remains to be waiting there as well, though, as protocol demanded, the dead man had already been removed to a proper area to await disposition.
“Colonel’s inbound,” reported Bison. His eyes looked red, but his face was set in its usual frown.
“Okay.”
“Marines found a place for the villagers,” added the Whiplash trooper.
“The Marines?”
“Peterson worked it out with some Navy people. The word came down. No government, just do it. They’re about to take off now.”
“Where?”
Bison thumbed toward a “Frog”—a general-purpose transport helo that looked like a Chinook shrunk to half size. “Blow’s with ’em,” said Bison, referring to Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez. “They thought you might like to go, so they waited a little. Been two or three minutes.”
“Yeah, maybe I will. All right. Stoner?”
“I gotta make a report.”
“How’s Liu?” Danny asked Bison.
“Claim’s he’d rather fix himself than let a corpsman near him.”
“Good,” said Danny. “I’ll be back.”
He began trotting toward the waiting Navy helicopter. The crewman at the door waved and helped him in; a moment later the helicopter lifted off.
The villagers didn’t have much, but the rear of the chopper wasn’t all that big, and in order to fit, Danny had to stand next to the door. The Filipino girl he’d captured stood against the opposite wall, staring at him. Danny tried smiling at her, but she didn’t respond.
The spot they’d found for the village was on another island about fifteen minutes to the south. Blow, squeezing over to Freah, told him some Navy SeaBees were at the new village site already; they’d cleared it with a dozer, erected some temporary canvas tent, and were digging so they could pour foundations — three small prefab housing units had been located by the ever-resourceful engineers and were en route.
“Build a skyscraper if you let ’em,” said the sergeant. “Peterson really kicked some butt. Gotta give it to the Marines. Except that they’re Marines, they’d be okay.”
“Yeah,” said Danny. “Locals give you any trouble?”
“Not really. Just the silent treatment. I’m sorry about Powder,” added Blow. “That sucks horseshit.”
““Yeah,” said Danny. “Locals give you any trouble?”
“Not really. Just the silent treatment. I’m sorry about Powder,” added Blow. “That sucks horseshit.”
“Yeah.”
“You see it happen, Cap?”
Was he asking because he was accusing him of screwing up?
Danny looked down at Hernandez, who was six or seven inches shorter than him. There wasn’t any anger in
