Joint Task Force #2: America by David E. Meadows Page A

copilot.
    “Ah, Senior Chief, why in the hell did you do that?”
    “Because, Mr. Kelly, at one hundred feet altitude, we need to keep both hands on the wheel. One of the first lessons my ol’ pappy from Alabama taught me.”
    “Tell me, Senior Chief, if a man and woman get married in Alabama and move to Washington, D.C., are they still brother and sister?”
    “Scott,” Maureen said, “leave the Senior Chief alone before he reaches forward with one of those massive black arms and snaps your neck like a twig.”
    “Senior Chief, you wouldn’t do that, would you?
    “Sir, I have never disobeyed a direct order. Especially from someone who most likely can beat a Chief Petty Officer in a rousing game of jacks.”
    Lieutenant Junior Grade Forrester’s head appearedbetween the curtains. “Condition five is set, ma’am.”
    “Win, have we notified home plate?”
    “Yes, ma’am. Communications were rough since we are about fifteen hundred miles east of Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico. I also went ahead and relayed the contact through the USS Spruance, who is patrolling along the eastern end of the Caribbean Sea near the Lesser Antilles islands. Told her we were descending for a pass against a probable merchant contact that was a true course of zero-two-zero, speed twelve knots. They roger’ed up. We are to contact them once we regain altitude.”
    “We still have satellite contact?” Maureen Early asked.
    “Yes, ma’am. The Cryptologic Technician Operator, or CTO, has contact, but once we descend to nearer sea level, the shaking and jerking of the aircraft will cause the antenna connection to be sporadic.”
    “You mean we’ll lose contact until we ascend again.”
    Forrester shook his head. “Depends on the turbulence.”
    “I’ve heard that communicator mumbo jumbo before,” Kelly interjected.
    “ Spruance says they’ve issued a weather alert. That storm west of us is turning toward our area. Home plate is weak, but I did get that they want us to turn toward home after this pass.”
    “That’s great news. Only a ten-hour mission instead of a twelve-hour one where we drift back on fumes. Might actually have fuel in the tanks when we land this time,” Kelly said.
    “You got the contact report ready to go?” Lieutenant Early asked.
    “Sure do. It’s sitting on my screen. All I have to do is fill in the blanks, hit the transmit button, and the CTO will shoot the information to the satellite, where it will ricochet back to Navy Intelligence, where—”
    “—it will be lost forever,” Kelly said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
    “Thanks, Win,” Maureen said.
    “Ain’t technology wonderful?” the Senior Chief asked with a hint of sarcasm.
    “Have we told Commander Joint Task Force America our intentions?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Forrester replied. “I talked with their Operations after talking with home plate. The Task Force is off the coast of Norfolk, but we have better communications with them four thousand miles away than we do with Roosevelt Roads. They’ve given us contact number zero-five-six for this pass.”
    “We haven’t identified fifty-six contacts this mission,” Kelly interjected.
    “No, sir. We haven’t, but there were four other P-3Cs out here on this spread-fan search.”
    “And which, pray tell, part of the fan are we?”
    “I would say we are the bottom part of it, Lieutenant. We’re due east of the American Virgin Islands. The four P-3Cs north of us have already started their return to Roosevelt Roads.”
    “Lucky devils,” the Senior Chief added.
    The aircraft hit an air pocket, dropped several feet before its wings caught the air again. The Senior Chief reached out and caught Kelly’s sack as it popped into the air in front of him. Forrester put his hand up, pushing down from the overhead.
    “Wow, rough one,” Kelly said.
    “Okay, fellows,” Early said. She glanced over her shoulders at Winfield Forrester. “Win, bring me a copy of the message you relayed to