Free Interrupt by Jeff Carlson Page B

“Watch that turbulence!”
    “I got it.”
    “Their fuel line’s jumping like a snake!”
    “I got it.” Drew wrestled his jet into position against the rough predawn air, his engines howling. Overhead, the larger bulk of a KC-45 tanker bobbed in the same pockets of chop. On this side of the world, it was 4:38 a.m. Predawn was typically a quiet hour, but today the atmosphere was in turmoil. Trailing from the tanker’s port wing, fifty feet of semi-rigid hose snapped in the wind.
    Drew failed to connect. “Damn it,” he said, peeling back.
    “You’re losing your touch,” Bugle marveled. He was speaking on their ICS, the internal communications system. Bugle sat behind Drew in their EA-18G, a constant voice in his ear like a guardian angel—or a devil.
    The sun formed a yellow spark on the ocean’s blue horizon. Far below, to the north, the contours of Vietnam and China were a green-and-brownhorseshoe of coastlines against the multi-hued sea. White sand. Green surf. The darker expanses of deep water were spotted with the wake lines of tiny ships.
    Drew might have scrubbed his refueling effort or delayed until they could climb to higher elevation, but they were already at 30,000 feet, an altitude that was normally above the weather, and both aircraft were moving at 300 miles per hour, a speed that let them slice through normal turbulence. Strike control hadn’t wanted to call off the KC-45 that flew out of Cam Rhan Bay with two fighter escorts. The
America
had fewer planes in the sky than it needed, so everyone was running double cycles. Drew needed to return to his sector.
    Equally pressing were the orange bulbs on his warning and caution lights panel. His heading indicator and his artificial horizon were out, systems failures that had popped up since he’d launched three hours ago. Drew could fly his EA-18G without either system, but the malfunctions could be lethal if there were more.
    How much abuse can she take?
he thought.
    An aircraft was always a
she,
a lover, not a tool. Their ladies were suffering. Three F/A-18s and another 18G had been downgraded from flight-ready on the
America
. Twice that many were undergoing emergency repairs. Various small burnouts were disabling their jets.
    Steady,
he thought, rising to a trail position off the tanker’s port wing. Unfortunately, the big tanker was doing everything except holding still.
    In flight, an 18’s fuel tanks were accessed by a probe extending forward from the starboard side of the aircraft. It was all very sexual. The pilot was supposed to slip the probe’s nozzle into a basket at the end of the tanker’s refueling hose. This morning Drew felt like a rhino lumbering after a butterfly. He brought his jet up, then banked left and up again to chase the whipping hose—
    The probe fit into the basket with a
clunk
that he felt throughout the aircraft. The amber light on the fuel pod turned green. His fuelgauge began to rise as JP5 rushed through the line into his jet and the tanks in his wings.
    “Nice work,” Bugle said.
    Another E/A-18G held position on Drew’s left, his wingman, 501, crewed by Giles and Wade. Set above and behind the tanker were its escorts, two USAF F-35s. Both types of aircraft were narrow, clean-edged darts, each one racked with more firepower and computers than many Third World cities.
    Drew felt a twinge of pride at the sight. Comparing their jets to Chinese MiGs was like putting a Ferrari alongside a Subaru.
But that’s if our aircraft are in one piece,
he thought.
We’ve got to find China’s EMP and shut it down. They’re beating us without even trying…
    The green light on the fuel pod went amber. Drew detached and slid to the right wing of the tanker, buffeted by the wind.
    Meanwhile, the guys in 501 rose for their own refueling effort.
    Drew thumbed the ICS. “Your turn to work again,” he told Bugle. “We need to find something for Julie.”
    “Christensen,” Bugle said.
    “Say again?”
    “Yesterday you