correct that you are strike lead?”
“703, no one has told me that, but yeah, I think I’m the only el kadar in the air.”
“Sir, I’d like to get the stack moving towards Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. I’m assuming that their field is open and they’ll let us in. The distance is five seven five nautical miles frommy position and my best guess is that we can get all of you there with enough gas to land.”
“Soleck, I don’t even have Trincomalee on my bingo card.”
“Me, either, sir. But Alpha Whiskey says southern India is down and it’s the best I can come up with. Every minute we stay here wastes gas. Worst case, we’ll be feet-dry in an hour and someone will give us a vector to an Indian field.”
“Do it. I don’t have the comms or computers to figure this out. You sure?”
“Sure as I can be. It’ll be close. Break, break. All planes, this is 703. 706 will rendezvous on 703 at angels one-one course 110, speed two hundred knots. Planes will tank as called by 703 in fuel priority. Sound off.”
Soleck was pleased to watch Gup making check marks next to the planes he had listed on his kneeboard as they called in.
The thing was doable.
Mahe Naval Base, India
They parted company with the Marines and the Indian sailors outside the headquarters building and then huddled in a window embrasure while shooting sounded in the street. A car had been blown up down the block, maybe by a rocket-propelled grenade, and the Marine sergeant said that a lot of the firing was coming from a security building down there.
“We’ll have to go the back way,” Alan said. He pointed. Down behind the buildings was a chain-link fence and then weeds—grass, scrub bushes, a few trees. “There’s a creek down there somewhere. Wasteland.” He knew what the base looked like on a map, knew that the creek divided it so completely that a bridge had been built over it. The wasteland might give them cover. He looked at Fidel. “Unless you want to hole up inside again.”
Fidel held up the CZ. “With one handgun? Any kid witha weapon could waste the lot of us.” He shook his head. “Lead us to the wasteland, Commander.”
AG 703
A voice in Soleck’s headset said, “This is AG 101, two hundred miles north of your position, will rendezvous en route; I’m good for fuel and can probably make Trincomalee from here, over.” 101 was a Tomcat up north, which rang a bell in Soleck’s head. Two bells, in fact.
“Where’s Stevens?” he said aloud. And he remembered the ESM cut on the rescue frequency. He pressed buttons on his armrest, minimizing the display of the Indian airfields and going back to his ESM screen, where the computer had taken enough cuts on the transmission to locate the original transmission to a point. He overlaid 101’s position and grunted.
“101, this is 703, I have you in the link. Can you turn east to my mark in the link and investigate a transmission on search and rescue, over? We’ve got a plane missing.”
“Roger, 703, I see your mark. I’ll be there in two. Stand by.”
Soleck switched freqs to Alpha Whiskey. “AW, this is 703, over.”
“Go ahead.”
“AW, I’ve conferred with Strike Lead in 203 and we’re taking the stack east toward India with hopes of making Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. Hope you’ll get us permission to land there or another field in the area.”
“703, this is Captain Lash. Make it so, 703.” Lash was decisive, which helped. It was going to be close. Worse than close, if Soleck’s fears for his squadron commander were proven correct.
“Roger. Out.”
“203’s six minutes to empty, two minutes out from us.” Guppy was trying to do three things at once and having some success.
“Get the drogue out, deploy the FLIR camera. We’ll watch them come in, save time and gas.”
“Roger.” The sound of the fuel line deploying was audible even through his helmet.
“203, you’re first at the basket. Drogue should be out and deployed.”
“Copy. I see it. On
“703, no one has told me that, but yeah, I think I’m the only el kadar in the air.”
“Sir, I’d like to get the stack moving towards Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. I’m assuming that their field is open and they’ll let us in. The distance is five seven five nautical miles frommy position and my best guess is that we can get all of you there with enough gas to land.”
“Soleck, I don’t even have Trincomalee on my bingo card.”
“Me, either, sir. But Alpha Whiskey says southern India is down and it’s the best I can come up with. Every minute we stay here wastes gas. Worst case, we’ll be feet-dry in an hour and someone will give us a vector to an Indian field.”
“Do it. I don’t have the comms or computers to figure this out. You sure?”
“Sure as I can be. It’ll be close. Break, break. All planes, this is 703. 706 will rendezvous on 703 at angels one-one course 110, speed two hundred knots. Planes will tank as called by 703 in fuel priority. Sound off.”
Soleck was pleased to watch Gup making check marks next to the planes he had listed on his kneeboard as they called in.
The thing was doable.
Mahe Naval Base, India
They parted company with the Marines and the Indian sailors outside the headquarters building and then huddled in a window embrasure while shooting sounded in the street. A car had been blown up down the block, maybe by a rocket-propelled grenade, and the Marine sergeant said that a lot of the firing was coming from a security building down there.
“We’ll have to go the back way,” Alan said. He pointed. Down behind the buildings was a chain-link fence and then weeds—grass, scrub bushes, a few trees. “There’s a creek down there somewhere. Wasteland.” He knew what the base looked like on a map, knew that the creek divided it so completely that a bridge had been built over it. The wasteland might give them cover. He looked at Fidel. “Unless you want to hole up inside again.”
Fidel held up the CZ. “With one handgun? Any kid witha weapon could waste the lot of us.” He shook his head. “Lead us to the wasteland, Commander.”
AG 703
A voice in Soleck’s headset said, “This is AG 101, two hundred miles north of your position, will rendezvous en route; I’m good for fuel and can probably make Trincomalee from here, over.” 101 was a Tomcat up north, which rang a bell in Soleck’s head. Two bells, in fact.
“Where’s Stevens?” he said aloud. And he remembered the ESM cut on the rescue frequency. He pressed buttons on his armrest, minimizing the display of the Indian airfields and going back to his ESM screen, where the computer had taken enough cuts on the transmission to locate the original transmission to a point. He overlaid 101’s position and grunted.
“101, this is 703, I have you in the link. Can you turn east to my mark in the link and investigate a transmission on search and rescue, over? We’ve got a plane missing.”
“Roger, 703, I see your mark. I’ll be there in two. Stand by.”
Soleck switched freqs to Alpha Whiskey. “AW, this is 703, over.”
“Go ahead.”
“AW, I’ve conferred with Strike Lead in 203 and we’re taking the stack east toward India with hopes of making Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. Hope you’ll get us permission to land there or another field in the area.”
“703, this is Captain Lash. Make it so, 703.” Lash was decisive, which helped. It was going to be close. Worse than close, if Soleck’s fears for his squadron commander were proven correct.
“Roger. Out.”
“203’s six minutes to empty, two minutes out from us.” Guppy was trying to do three things at once and having some success.
“Get the drogue out, deploy the FLIR camera. We’ll watch them come in, save time and gas.”
“Roger.” The sound of the fuel line deploying was audible even through his helmet.
“203, you’re first at the basket. Drogue should be out and deployed.”
“Copy. I see it. On
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