“Kinda thought so.”
“What’s more,” Arkady continued, his enthusiasm growing, “I can manually override the flight management system and make this beast do
things you just won’t believe …”
“No! Uh, no, that’s okay, sir. Maybe we just ought to be gettin’ on to wherever it is we’re supposed to be goin’?”
“I guess you’re right.” Arkady urged the SPEED Cobra forward, resuming his course and accelerating back
through its flight modes. “The bottom line is an aircraft with a performance envelope about the equivalent
of a World War II fighter-bomber, something like an F4U Corsair or an F6F
Hellcat – only you’re stealthy, you’re night and all-weather capable, and you’re a VTOL that can operate off a small surface platform.”
Beyond being nauseated, Stone was also impressed. “Boy, the Corps has got to get some of these!”
“Probably they will,” Arkady agreed. “Piasecki can make a compound conversion kit for just about any kind helicopter.
The Air Commando boys in my air wing fly a SPEED conversion MH-60 Nighthawk.
But for a while I suspect this tech is going to remain the personal property of
the Lady and Phantom Force.”
“What’s Phantom Force?”
“Us.” The aviator rummaged in a map pocket for a moment and then tossed a manila
envelope over his shoulder into the rear cockpit. “Here’s your piece of the action. You might want to start studying up. The skipper’ll expect you to hit the ground running.”
Frowning, Quillain broke the seal of the envelope and examined the heading on the thick hardcopy file it contained:
Composite Operations Development Group Alpha
“Granted you sign aboard that is,” Arkady added. “Phantom is all volunteer. ”
Quillain didn’t reply; he was already deep in the table of organization. He’d thought these compound helicopters were weird – but this was even more interesting. With the sea and sky beyond the canopy forgotten, Stone took a pen from the cargo pocket of his utilities and started jotting notes on the page margins.
Some time later, Arkady said, “Coming up on Point Item.”
Stone looked up. Point Item was the naval term for a point of interception between a ship and aircraft.
On the horizon, the dark line of a ship’s hull spearheaded a white streak of wake. As the range closed, Stone could make out that it was a merchantman, a big one with a stern-mounted deckhouse, steaming north at a fair turn of knots.
As the SPEED Cobra began its transition into helo mode, Stone noticed that the merchantman was starting a turn across the wind, the familiar maneuver of a vessel recovering a helicopter.
“We settin’ down on that ship, Commander?”
“Something like.”
As they came around the merchantman’s stern, Stone made out a name and registry port.
GALAXY SHENANDOAH
PANAMA
Then he noted a slender, white-clad figure on the port bridge wing, watching them on approach, and he caught the flash of familiar ruddy hair. The Lady was indeed in residence and in command.
The landing gear thumped down and, suddenly, the centermost of the freighter’s seven big cargo hatches opened, not buckling upward slowly in the conventional manner of a MacGregor hatch but slicing apart flatly. A helipad was revealed, strobe lights blinking sequentially in each corner.
The helo sidled in over the pad, flaring out and touching down with each maneuver flowing smoothly into the next. The instant the undercarriage made contact, Arkady throttled back and hit the kill switches and rotor brakes.
Quillain’s stomach lurched as the deck sank away beneath them. The helipad was also a fast elevator. The Marine caught a momentary glimpse of stenciled printing along the deck lip.
THRU THESE HATCHES PASS THE BEST … PERIOD!
Then the MacGregor was slammed shut overhead, cutting out the hot daylight and
Stone Quillain murmured, “I will be forever damned!”
Arkady only chuckled, “Alice, welcome to Wonderland.”
The United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia
1010 Hours; Zone Time, October 19, 2008
Ambassador Randolph Goodyard looked out across the compound from the armored glass windows of his office and empathized with the Captain of the Titanic.
Watching one’s “ship” sink with nothing to be done to save it is an agonizing experience.
Given the realities of the post 9-11 world, America’s overseas embassies had been systematically rebuilt with enhanced security in mind, evolving into art deco fortresses designed to survive both terrorist attack and mob violence. This “Fort Apache” air had been enhanced at the Jakarta facility in recent days by the arrival of a FAST (Fleet Anti-Terror Security Team) platoon to reinforce the embassy’s usual Marine security detachment.
From his vantage point, the Ambassador could see a Stinger Surface-to-Air Missile crew deployed on the roof of the parking garage. Armor-clad Marine sentries also paced the aluminum frame firing step that ran along inside of the blast wall circling the compound. They were a comforting presence, given what was happening beyond that white concrete barrier.
Smoke lay low over the city – not the usual pollution of deforestation and slash and burn agriculture that is the environmental bane of Indonesia, but a harsher, metallic contamination of blazing buildings and vehicles tainted with burning flesh, the stench of a city besieged and dying.
Through the partially open ventilation louvers of the window, the cry of sirens and the occasional crack of gunfire could be heard, sounds with an ominous, growing familiarity. The rioters were winning. The Indonesian government was slowly but steadily losing control of its own capital, as well as of the nation itself.
“It’s not your fault, Randy.”
The Ambassador turned to face his wife. Sharon Goodyard stood by his desk clad in a tropic weight pantsuit, a small suitcase at her feet. A slender middle-aged blonde of medium height, she still carried much of the fresh attractiveness she’d had as a freshman economics major back at St Paul University. Over the duration of their marriage. she had shared Goodyard’s life and his political and economic career. Now, though, had come a time for separation.
“I wish you’d let me stay,” she whispered.