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

JTF America?”
    “Sure, skipper. I can tell you what it said, though. It said we were descending to do an identification pass of an unidentified vessel—a vessel traveling on a northeasterly course of zero-one-zero, speed twelve knots. Also gave them the geographical coordinates of the contact along with our own position, course, speed, and altitude.”
    “That’s good, Win, but I’d still like to see the report.” She lifted up the metal-covered notebook wedged into a bulkhead pocket beside her chair. “I’ve found if I keep copies of what we send off the plane, then when I write our after-action report, I’ll have all the data at myfingertips instead of having to chase down everyone on the flight to get the data together.”
    “Give him hell, Commander,” Kelly said, referring to Early’s title of mission commander. The copilot turned his head so the younger officer could see the exaggerated smile. He wiggled his eyebrows up and down several times. “No telling what he’s been putting in those reports.”
    Winfield Forrester held up his right hand, and with his left hand wrapped around his index finger, he said, “You read code, Lieutenant.”
    “You two stop that,” Early said. “Win, get me the message, okay?”
    “Back in a jiff,” he replied.
    “Okay, team, let’s go down for a look-see.” Lieutenant Maureen Early reached forward and pulled the throttles back. The sound of the four engines reducing power vibrated through the aircraft. She pushed forward on the yoke, and the nose of the huge propeller-driven aircraft dipped as she headed toward sea level. It would take about five minutes for them to reach the low approach altitude. Then they would have to locate the vessel unless they gained visual contact on the way down. The way the cloud cover was thickening, Maureen knew there was a good chance they’d have to do a few circles to find it. Radar worked good on surface targets while flying at altitude, but the closer you flew to the sea surface, the more ground scatter affected the returns. But it sure beat boring holes in the sky.
    Whiffs of dark clouds fluttered by the aircraft as they passed the ten- to twelve-thousand-foot ceiling where rain clouds formed and floated. Winfield Forrester’s head reappeared between the curtains. He stuck his head inside the cockpit and handed a sheet of paper to Lieutenant Maureen Early. She took it, glancing back and forth between it and the front window as she watched the approaching ocean that filled her field of view. Passing the message to her left hand, she folded it with her fingers and pushed the message under the metal flap of the notebook.
    “Passing nine thousand, skipper,” Senior Chief Leary said to the mission commander.
    “I’ve got a visual on the contact,” Kelly said a few minutes later as they passed four thousand feet. “It’s at our two o’clock.”
    Lieutenant Maureen Early eased the aircraft into a slight right turn, attempting to shift the target to their twelve o’clock position directly off their nose.
    “Right there,” Kelly said.
    She straightened the wheel, steadying the aircraft in its descent.
    “Still hazy, but looks like a one-two merchant,” he said, using the Navy lookout description for a vessel possessing a raised deck at the bow and amidships followed by a flush deck to the stern.
    “Look for some sort of huge black or gray van anchored to its stern deck,” Early said.
    Kelly lifted a set of binoculars from the small shelf to his right. He scanned the ship in the distance. After a minute, he lowered the binoculars and shook his head. “I can’t see anything topside that matches that description. Could be they put it belowdecks. Maybe in one of those cargo holds. May be the clouds that are rolling in.”
    “Passing one thousand.”
    “Thanks, Senior Chief. Tell me cherubs, now.” Most tactical aircraft reported their altitude in “angels” with each angel equaling one thousand feet. When an aircraft