By the time she reached Smuggler’s Road, she had convinced herself she was invisible. She slung the H&K MP7 over her shoulder and ran like her life depended on it. The helicopter continued flying in a zigzag pattern behind her, and she allowed herself to revel in the taste of the salty ocean spray on her lips. She was close, and there was nothing the Americans could do to stop her.

53

USS Mobile Bay (CG-53)

“They’re turning back!” the sailor monitoring the track files shouted.

Beth felt the knot in her stomach rising as her heart rate soared. She stared at the symbols representing the two air contacts she believed were Joint Strike Fighters. Though she had established firing solutions on both, she thought she had avoided making the tough decision. But the new cry put her firmly in the hot seat again.

“Altitude?” she asked.

“Descending through fifteen thousand feet rapidly,” the sailor said.

Lieutenant Schaeffer added, “Could be trying to break our lock by hiding behind San Clemente.”

She might have thought the exact same thing if they were operating off the coast of a hostile nation and were tracking a legitimate threat aircraft. But she was one hundred miles off the coast of California, and she knew they were tracking two Navy F-35C Joint Strike Fighters in a descending turn back to the south. They were both squawking the emergency beacon code of 7700 and had identified themselves to her.

But they had also fired on the Lincoln, and that tipped them toward hostile in her mind.

“They’re jamming us!”

The shout carried across the cramped space and chilled her. Even getting a lock on the stealth fighters had been a challenge, but with the added electronic jamming against her radar, she knew time was running out. Beth turned to look at her Command Master Chief, who was with the Weapons Officer, still waiting to hear from somebody in China Lake. “Ben! I need answers!”

“They’re descending through ten thousand feet,” the sailor said over the din.

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to make a call before we lose them,” Lieutenant Schaeffer said.

Another sailor pumped his fist in the air. “Splash one! Track Number Seven One Eight Seven faded.”

In the excitement of the two stealth fighters turning back toward the carrier, she had almost forgotten she had launched two surface-to-air missiles to intercept the cruise missiles racing for the Lincoln. She looked up and saw the first track file time out, leaving only the one labeled TN6582 racing across the ocean at the carrier.

“What about the other?”

The sailor turned back to the console, and his shoulder sagged. “Miss.”

“Do we still have a weapon solution?”

“We’re out of range,” the sailor replied.

Her blood turned cold. She was the strike group’s Air Warfare Commander, Alpha Whiskey. It was her job to prevent something like this from happening, and she had failed. “Radio the Abe!” she shouted. “They have a missile inbound!”

“And the others?” Martin asked.

She had failed once and wouldn’t fail again. She opened her mouth to give the one order she never thought she’d give when Ben Ivy slammed the phone down and shouted, “Stand down! Devils One and Two are bingo fuel and making emergency landings on San Clemente. They are not a threat.”

She felt relief flood her, and as the icons representing the two Joint Strike Fighters faded from her screen, she was left staring at just one. For all the power the Navy had entrusted in her, there was nothing she could do to stop TN6582 from reaching the Abraham Lincoln.

God help us.

Devil 2

Navy F-35C

San Clemente Island, California

Colt decided their saving grace had been their altitude when they decided to turn back for San Clemente. At less than thirty miles from the nine-thousand-foot-long airstrip on the north end of the island, they were able to keep their throttles pulled back to idle as they managed their altitude and airspeed in preparation for the emergency landing.

“Going dirty,” Jug said, letting Colt know he was lowering his landing gear and flaps and preparing for his straight-in approach to the runway.

“Roger,” Colt replied. He was two hundred feet above the other Joint Strike Fighter and had drifted half a mile aft, giving Jug room to maneuver and land his plane without distraction. But he would need to slow his speed to match the lead jet if he wanted to preserve that separation.

“One mile,” Jug said.

Colt lowered his landing gear and flaps and felt the sudden deceleration of his jet as he slowed to his approach speed. The island runway was not illuminated, but the night vision and infrared images fed to his Helmet Mounted Display allowed him to establish a three-degree glide path to the approach end, where he saw Jug’s jet touch down and roll out to the far end of the runway.