Code of Honor

62

The F-35B Lightning II flown by Major Goodloe “Oh” Schmidt was stationary now, having utilized its thrust-vectoring nozzle and lift fan to land vertically on a ship identified as the USS Makin Island. The aircraft had been refueled after landing, with the onboard management system indicating just over nine thousand pounds in the internal tanks — three thousand pounds less than full capacity. Calliope had made the jump hours before, riding the data-link between the Stratotanker and the strike fighter high over the Pacific. Other copies of Calliope made similar jumps to similar planes, deleting themselves after every move, searching. This Calliope had ended up in the right part of the world, and was now homing in on the target they’d all been sent to find.

To maintain its stealthy profile, the F-35 had to carry all armament inside its reflective skin. Weapon stores indicated this aircraft’s internal bays were already loaded with four AIM-120 AMRAAM air-to-air missiles, leaving no room for the target. The plane’s computers had communicated with a second F-35B while in flight. That plane was not active now, but Calliope surmised that it would be the one to carry her target, while Major Schmidt’s aircraft would provide cover.

They would take off together, at which point Calliope would make her penultimate jump — to Major Skeet Black’s plane — and then, if it was on board, as she surmised it would be, the LRASM missile.

Rear Admiral Kevin Peck, deputy commander of the U.S. Pacific Fleet, stood on the bridge of LHD 8, looking out across the deep indigo water. Completely bald, he was slender but well muscled for a man who spent so much time behind a desk these days. His love for basketball and overall competitive nature kept off most of the pudge that could easily accompany each new star added to the uniform.

Twenty minutes earlier, radar had picked up a contact one hundred nautical miles east of the derelict Navy frigate with seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth of plywood and sheet metal screwed and welded to the superstructure. This vessel, mocked up to have the profile of a Chinese destroyer, was the intended target to test the next-generation technology on the LRASM missile. Admiral Peck didn’t particularly want some Chinese ship to stumble onto the thing. He’d sent two Cobras to investigate.

The Makin Island’s captain stepped to the window beside Peck. “Super Cobras report the radar contact is a fishing trawler. Estimated one hundred thirty feet in length, moving east at a steady six knots. Looks like she’s actively fishing, sir.”

Peck took a deep breath. “But it’s moving away?”

“Yes, sir,” the skipper said.

Peck rubbed a hand across his face. He’d been up for more than twenty-four hours now, and his day wouldn’t be over anytime soon.

“Remember that line from Big Jake?” he said.

The captain chuckled. “Which one?”

“When he’s got the gun on Richard Boone — you know, ‘No matter what happens, your fault, my fault, nobody’s fault…’”

“Of course,” the captain said.

Peck nodded. “That line carries a good deal of weight when you have command in the Navy.”

“Indeed, sir,” the captain said.

Peck looked back out over the waves. “Because no matter what happens… your fault, my fault, nobody’s fault… the mistakes are always our fault.”

“You’ve planned this to the nth degree, Admiral,” the captain said. “And it will go as planned.”

“I know,” Peck said.

But he didn’t, not at all.