Joint Operations

this different distance, their volcanic origins were evident. You could see the islands’ ancestry in the rugged jagged peaks climbing up in the sky, the sheer black of hardened lava as the last of the sun hit it. From this angle, you could see the difference between the leeway and the windward sides of the island, with the former covered with lush green vegetation, and the latter less so.

So who was howling that enemy aircraft were inbound on the island? Boy, somebody was going to get their ass kicked when the admiral figured out who had screwed the pooch on this one.

The more Hot Rock thought about it, the more convinced he was that it was all a screwup. Maybe even part of the training. That had to be the explanation — some stupid-assed junior officer had seen something, maybe a weather balloon, maybe somebody burning trash, and had made the wild leap to assuming whatever it was that he saw was caused by an air attack.

Just then, he saw it, and immediately revised his opinion. Black smoke boiled up, stark and ugly against the verdant hills. He saw fire flashing up at the base of it, obscured higher up by the swirling smoke.

A civilian airliner crash, maybe. Maybe a chemical plant exploding. He was aware that he was grasping at straws now, trying desperately to find some other explanation for what his eyes told him. Anything, everything — it couldn’t be what the carrier was now saying.

“Ten miles.” Hot Rock heard the tension in his backseater’s voiced ratchet higher. So at least one of them inside this airframe believed what the carrier was saying. “Aw, shit! Look at the ships getting under way!”

He could see them now, the foamy wakes cutting swaths through the placid blue waters as the American fleet steamed toward the exit of the harbor. So many of them, crowded so impossibly close, at this distance looking more like light gray swatches against the water than actual Navy ships. But his link data confirmed it. Every combatant and every other Navy vessel capable of getting under way was steaming out from Hawaii.

But where were the other aircraft? He glanced down in his radar tactical display, and saw the picture beginning to build. The aircraft further ahead of him were picking them up on radar now, and as the ships lit off their combat systems and started feeding data to the battle group LINK, they were getting the advantage of the powerful SPY radar system.

Sure enough, there was something that looked awfully much like an enemy fighter pack clustered on the far side of the island. They were in the sort of minor disarray that normally follows a successful bombing run as aircraft break off on their assigned patterns and maneuver to avoid mutual interference. But they were starting to regroup now, probably transitioning from a land attack mode to getting ready for aerial combat.

How many of them were there? He tore his eyes away from the actual island, and tried to take a quick count. Thirty, maybe forty.

They were turning now, flying back toward the island of Hawaii. Another bombing run? Or was it simply a mad dash back to the safety of their waterborne airfield, getting within range so that their ship’s automatic weapons defense systems could help protect them.

Or were they after Jefferson? The thought made his blood run cold. No matter that they would be able to land on Hawaii if they had to, the audacity of anyone trying to take a shot at his carrier blinded him with rage in a way that the hard evidence of an attack against the ground had not.

Hot Rock pulled up and away from Lobo, throttles jammed full forward and he arrowed up toward the heavens. The enemy aircraft were just nearing the edge of the island now, and he was losing their silhouettes against the night-darkened land. Not that he had to have a visual, no, not with the array of sensors feeding data to him via the HUD and not with a RIO in the backseat making sure he didn’t miss a damned trick.

Below him, Lobo’s aircraft was boring in toward the island. There’d been a time when Hot Rock would have been silently howling his anguish and fear, a time when he’d thought — no, he’d known — that he just didn’t have what it took. Sure, he could fly the aircraft, and do it better than most. But when he compared his own courage with that of the other pilots, he’d found himself sorely lacking.

That is, until last cruise. Now he knew he could be part of the team, that he wouldn’t let his wingman down. MiG pilots had had to die to confirm that.

“Got a lock,” Lobo announced, indicating that her AMRAAMM had acquired one of the enemy fighters and was ready to launch. “Waiting for it, waiting for it — ”

“Weapons tight!” a familiar voice commanded over tactical. “Goddammit, weapons tight!”

“What the hell —?” Hot Rock’s RIO asked. “Admiral Wayne lost it?”

“Sir, I got him.” Lobo’s voice was angry and anguished. “I let him go now, I’ll just have to deal with him later.”

“No. Weapons tight, damn you!” Hot Rock heard Batman say. “Think, you idiot. Think. He’s right over downtown!”

Cold horror swept through Hot Rock as he realized the choice Batman had been forced to make. The fighters, still wing-heavy with weapons, were in transit over a densely populated civilian area. Tourist, natives, locals, all crowded together in the lush, teaming city. If they took the shot, nailed the bastards — and they would, Hot Rock had no doubt about that — they’d spatter flaming aircraft, fuel, and weapons all over the innocent bystanders. Collateral damage, the military had tried calling it, trying to de-emphasize the fact that it meant civilian deaths.

But the alternative — how much worse would it be for the countless military personnel and their families currently on the base? Was it fair that Batman was choosing to allow the fighters to proceed inbound on military targets in order to spare the civilians outside the gates?

But the military men and women knew the risks, didn’t they? And while an attack on Pearl Harbor might not have been the first one they’d be worried about, it was all part of what you signed on for.

And their families, too?

No, not the families. They were no different than the men and women outside the gates.

Yet given the two alternatives, Batman had chosen to engage the fighters on their way out, after they’d dropped the munitions.

They’d be harder targets, too, once they’d stripped off the extra weight of armament and some fuel. Lighter, more maneuverable — were they carrying air-to-air weapons? Or had they been wing-heavy with ground ordnance, certain that they wouldn’t encounter any air threats this close to American soil? If so, they’d pay for that overconfidence now, and pay heavily.

“Hot Rock, on me,” Lobo commanded. “We’re going to take the west side of the island, wait for them to start their egress. Let them get over water first.”

“Roger,” he answered, already pulling around smoothly to maintain his position. On his HUD, he could see the other fighting pairs breaking off to cover the rest of the sectors, with the majority of the fighters positioning themselves between the island and the carrier.

“Should be ninety seconds or less,” his RIO announced. If they’re headed to the base, was the unspoken qualification.

“I want weapons assigned to every little bastard,” Hot Rock growled. “This isn’t going to happen again — not on my watch.”

But yet, despite his bravado, it did. He watched, his stomach turning violently over and over as though he were caught in an uncontrolled spin, staring at the HUD then focusing past it on the actual land. The HUD and the radar showed the inching progress of the enemy shapes across the land, the moment when they passed over American coast. The blips suddenly veered off their track and increased speed. His nausea increased to the point that he thought he would puke. To stay up here, wings fully loaded, and watch it happen was the worst experience he’d ever had.

Then past the arcane symbols on the HUD, down on the actual land depicted in dotted green lines, the sudden blossoming of light. Almost pretty, in a way, unless you knew what it really was. Ground attack weapons, meeting dirt, gouting huge fireballs into the air, consuming flesh and metal and wood and brick. What didn’t burn was blasted apart into fragments and flung into the air.

Smoke billowed up in ugly black smears of dark against the darker land.

THREE