He hadn’t heard from Smitty in ages before his totally random phone call earlier that morning, and his first inclination had been to decline his college roommate’s request for help. At least until after the missile test. But when he’d learned it was Colt Bancroft who needed the help, he relented. It had seemed odd that a TOPGUN instructor aboard the Abraham Lincoln had flown off that morning with technical data he needed help analyzing.

“Devil One, traffic at your ten o’clock for three zero miles. VFR at one thousand five hundred, maintain VFR at three thousand five hundred.”

“Devil One, I’ve got him on radar,” Jug replied, selecting the traffic on his AESA, or active electronically scanned array, radar. His jet calculated the closure at over two hundred and fifty knots, which meant that whatever he was gaining on was flying much, much slower. “What kind of aircraft is it?”

The controller paused for a moment, then said, “Experimental Carbon Cub.”

Jug grinned. “Devil One.”

He hadn’t seen Colt since Hook a few years back. After being kicked out of Las Vegas — a feat most naval aviators were proud of — the Tailhook Association’s annual convention had moved to Reno. It was part trade show and part reunion, but it was mostly just a big party. Colt had driven in from Fallon, where he was going through TOPGUN as a student, and Jug had flown in from Pax River after graduating Test Pilot School.

“Devil One, switch Mugu approach on twenty-eight, sixty-five.”

“Twenty-eight, sixty-five,” Jug replied. “See ya.”

As he dialed in the new frequency, he slaved his IRST to the slow-moving traffic and zoomed in on a small taildragger flying east for the coast. His memory from Hook that year was fuzzy, but he recalled catching up with Colt in the TOPGUN admin for most of that first night. And, by catching up, he really meant getting drunker than a skunk while talking about their respective airplane purchases. Jug had been proud of the Mooney he’d bought from a fellow test pilot, but he had been more than a little jealous when Colt told him that he had just taken ownership of a Carbon Cub to do some backcountry flying in Nevada. There were few places more ideal for that kind of flying than the area around Fallon.

He stopped his descent at three thousand five hundred feet but inched closer to the taildragger. If it was Colt in the smaller plane, he was about to receive a personalized welcome message. Jug owed him at least that much for the hangover he’d suffered after Colt plied him with rum and Cokes — light on the Coke — at the Bug Roach mixer.

36

1,500 feet over the Pacific Ocean

South of Santa Barbara, California

As the sun dipped below the western horizon, Colt crossed the Santa Ynez Mountains and descended to fifteen hundred feet to remain clear of Santa Barbara’s Class C airspace. He could have passed the airport to the north, but with fewer planes flying over the water, it was just easier. Maybe it had something to do with him being a carrier pilot, but he felt at home with nothing but the deep blue waters beneath them.

“What are you hoping Jug tells you?” Punky asked, breaking their silence.

Up until she came into his life and brought along a team of Chinese commandos intent on killing him, he had hoped that Jug would tell him it was nothing — just a fluke. But with all that had happened that morning, there was no way that was still a possibility. “I really don’t know,” he said.

“You want there to be a reason.”

He shook his head. “I don’t give two shits about the reason. I want some validation that I didn’t just make up what happened to me. That I’m not crazy.” He paused, then, “And I want to stop it from happening again.”

When she didn’t answer, he looked over his shoulder and saw her bright blue eyes reflecting the glow from his instrument panel back at him. “You’re not crazy, Colt.”

He wanted to say something trite, like I know. But the truth was, in the darkest recesses of his mind, part of him wondered if there was some truth to it. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe something had happened, but not the way he remembered it. But hearing her say those words, he believed her. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“I’m serious, Colt. I’ve been investigating KMART for some time, and whatever happened to you was planned. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but you’re the right person to stop something worse from happening.”

They were halfway between Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz Island when Colt banked the Carbon Cub to the east and aimed just north of Point Mugu’s rotating airport beacon. “What could be worse?” he asked. Again, the words aircraft carrier flashed like a neon sign in his mind.

“Won’t matter if we can stop it,” she said.

“Who did you…” He stopped when he heard somebody speaking to air traffic control through what sounded like an oxygen mask.

“Mugu approach, Devil One checking in VFR at one one thousand, RTB.”