for livestock. We’ll come in from the north, scope it out, and if we see the signal, one team will go in while the gunship chopper circles.” Wolf opened the flap of his jacket pocket. “I’ll save you some time. My updated security info.”
“Not very confident, are you?”
“Defectors have a habit of changing their minds.”
The information used to identify a man behind enemy lines as a friendly—unique number, unique facts—had been written for convenience on the back of a pocket-size photo. Bruce glanced at the photo. This one of Gracie was new. Wolf had snapped her picture while she was playing volleyball, and that gleam in her eye as she got ready to spike the ball made Bruce smile. He missed her enormously. “Thanks for the picture.”
“My pleasure.”
Bruce slipped it into his pocket, not missing the fact Wolf had sacrificed a picture of Grace rather than Jill when he needed something small and lasting on which to write down the information. “Grace is going to be mad if you get hurt tonight.” Not to mention Jill’s reaction. That was one call Bruce did not ever want to have to make.
“Tell me about it.” Wolf ran his finger along the map. “New tasking orders were issued to extend the air cover on the border.”
Bruce noted the transit times and mentally shifted his own watch schedule for the night out to 0300. “You’ll have all the air cover you need.” The planes covering the Syrian border were launching as part of the strike package. “ GW has already launched the first planes.”
Seven
* * *
USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (CVN 73)
M EDITERRANEAN S EA OFF THE C OAST OF T URKEY
The flight deck of the USS George Washington was deafening, and the thirty-one knot wind over the deck drove the dissipating steam and engine exhaust in eddies. Planes were wedged together with their wings folded up to squeeze the maximum out of every inch of precious space. Catapult 1 hurled a Prowler into the air. It was not a place for pilots to linger.
“Have a good flight, Gracie.”
“Thanks, Henry.” The plane boss had the jet ready to fly, and her preflight had found nothing amiss. Grace slid on the fire retardant flight gloves and tightened the flight suit wristbands, then grasped the handholds and swung her legs over and slid down to the seat of the F/A-18 Hornet .
Leaning down, she removed the safety pins on the ejection seat and stored them away, then fastened the multiple-point safety harness. She secured the ankle restraints and tested them by pulling hard against the seat. If she had to eject, firing the explosive bolts would propel the seat from the plane. The last thing she wanted was two broken legs in the process.
The ties between her and the plane increased as she plugged in communication and the oxygen necessary for high altitude flights. She secured her kneeboard. Even as she did the routine she was aware of the need for speed. Twenty-three planes had to launch in eighteen minutes. Making that happen without killing someone took a miracle of coordination.
Men and women in different colored shirts to make very clear their assignments ran the flight deck, and there wasn’t a pilot aboard who didn’t know at the moment they were at the bottom of the totem pole. The purple shirt “grapes” were handling fuel, tons of it, and the red shirts were handling live ordnance. They were sweating every detail. Grace tried not to think about the dangers she could do nothing about as she sat in her plane and finished the internal preflight checklist. The sooner she got off this flight deck the better.
She signaled the yellow shirt plane director she was ready to start the engines. After a check around the plane he cleared her to do so. She started first the left and then the right. They came alive with a muted roar. She ran them up to check fuel and power flow and found all systems were nominal.
The plane director motioned her to taxi. Grace kept a sharp eye on him as she eased the
“Not very confident, are you?”
“Defectors have a habit of changing their minds.”
The information used to identify a man behind enemy lines as a friendly—unique number, unique facts—had been written for convenience on the back of a pocket-size photo. Bruce glanced at the photo. This one of Gracie was new. Wolf had snapped her picture while she was playing volleyball, and that gleam in her eye as she got ready to spike the ball made Bruce smile. He missed her enormously. “Thanks for the picture.”
“My pleasure.”
Bruce slipped it into his pocket, not missing the fact Wolf had sacrificed a picture of Grace rather than Jill when he needed something small and lasting on which to write down the information. “Grace is going to be mad if you get hurt tonight.” Not to mention Jill’s reaction. That was one call Bruce did not ever want to have to make.
“Tell me about it.” Wolf ran his finger along the map. “New tasking orders were issued to extend the air cover on the border.”
Bruce noted the transit times and mentally shifted his own watch schedule for the night out to 0300. “You’ll have all the air cover you need.” The planes covering the Syrian border were launching as part of the strike package. “ GW has already launched the first planes.”
Seven
* * *
USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (CVN 73)
M EDITERRANEAN S EA OFF THE C OAST OF T URKEY
The flight deck of the USS George Washington was deafening, and the thirty-one knot wind over the deck drove the dissipating steam and engine exhaust in eddies. Planes were wedged together with their wings folded up to squeeze the maximum out of every inch of precious space. Catapult 1 hurled a Prowler into the air. It was not a place for pilots to linger.
“Have a good flight, Gracie.”
“Thanks, Henry.” The plane boss had the jet ready to fly, and her preflight had found nothing amiss. Grace slid on the fire retardant flight gloves and tightened the flight suit wristbands, then grasped the handholds and swung her legs over and slid down to the seat of the F/A-18 Hornet .
Leaning down, she removed the safety pins on the ejection seat and stored them away, then fastened the multiple-point safety harness. She secured the ankle restraints and tested them by pulling hard against the seat. If she had to eject, firing the explosive bolts would propel the seat from the plane. The last thing she wanted was two broken legs in the process.
The ties between her and the plane increased as she plugged in communication and the oxygen necessary for high altitude flights. She secured her kneeboard. Even as she did the routine she was aware of the need for speed. Twenty-three planes had to launch in eighteen minutes. Making that happen without killing someone took a miracle of coordination.
Men and women in different colored shirts to make very clear their assignments ran the flight deck, and there wasn’t a pilot aboard who didn’t know at the moment they were at the bottom of the totem pole. The purple shirt “grapes” were handling fuel, tons of it, and the red shirts were handling live ordnance. They were sweating every detail. Grace tried not to think about the dangers she could do nothing about as she sat in her plane and finished the internal preflight checklist. The sooner she got off this flight deck the better.
She signaled the yellow shirt plane director she was ready to start the engines. After a check around the plane he cleared her to do so. She started first the left and then the right. They came alive with a muted roar. She ran them up to check fuel and power flow and found all systems were nominal.
The plane director motioned her to taxi. Grace kept a sharp eye on him as she eased the
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