Jake Grafton 09 - America by Stephen Coonts

Author:Stephen Coonts [Coonts, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-01-27T18:30:00+00:00

"Probably don't know yet."

"Didya see the White House on TV after the bastards whacked it? Smoking hole, man."

"Yeah. I saw it."

"I hope they don't hit the O-Club, anything like that."

The copilot was an idiot, no question. How in the hell did he get in the navy, anyway? And by what twist of evil fate, the pilot wondered, did he wind up in my right seat on what is probably the only day of my naval career that I will hunt a submarine for real? Why me, God?

Five minutes after the first missile was launched, a pair of F-16 fighters, which had been on alert status at the end of the Dover Air Force Base runway, with their pilots in the cockpits, lit their afterburners and rolled. They made a section takeoff, raised their gear

together, and punched into the overcast that blanketed the East Coast of the United States at about twenty-three hundred feet. Two minutes after takeoff they switched to the operational frequency of the E-3 Sentry aircraft, which was a Boeing 707 with a thirty-foot radar rotodome mounted atop the fuselage.

"We have three Tomahawks in the air," the mission commander aboard the Boeing told the F-16 section leader, whose name was Rebecca Allison. "Your vector to intercept is zero six zero. Estimated distance to intercept is four hundred twelve miles, recommend you use a max range profile."

"Roger that," Rebecca Allison said and noted the info on her knee board. She dialed the heading bug on her horizontal situation indicator (HSI) to the recommended heading and engaged the autopilot, which could keep the fighter in a smooth, steady climb while she punched the intercept data into her computer and checked the sym-bology on the heads-up display, or HUD. Each plane was carrying two six-hundred-gallon aux tanks, one under each wing, and each had a Sidewinder on each wingtip missile station.

The planes were climbing through cloud. Allison checked her wingman, Stanley Schottenheimer, who was tucked in nicely on her right wing.

They topped the clouds at ten thousand feet and continued their climb. Schottenheimer increased the distance between the planes so that he too could attend to cockpit chores.

"Anvil One, Eagle Four Two," Allison called on the secure UHF radio. "Do you have a projected destination for the bogies?"

"Looks like New York. Unfortunately, all three are on different flight paths. We'll put you down on the closest one."

"Do you have any other interceptors, over?"

"None that can intercept prior to the target area. You two are it."

"Why don't you split us up, give us each a target, over?"

"Okay. Wingman, state your call sign."

"Eagle Four Seven," Schottenheimer replied.

"Both of you stay together for now. We'll separate you in a bit, try to give you each a missile."

Three missiles, two planes. Uh-oh. And the missiles were Tomahawks, which flew right in the weeds. Allison tightened her harness straps and reached for her master armament switch. She would try

for a Sidewinder shot, if she could get a lock on the missile's exhaust. If not, she would have to use the gun.

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