Outlaw

After the APU came online, he flipped the engine crank switch over to the right side and began spooling the right motor. It helped that he was already pointed into the wind and the engine’s core was rotating with the airflow through his intakes. Seconds later, he advanced the throttle and introduced fuel and ignition to the combustion sequence. The engine lit off with a low growl, and he watched the RPM rise and stabilize at idle.

His hands flew across the cockpit in well-rehearsed motions that were second nature. Because his inertial navigation system already had a stable alignment, and he had already powered on his radar and weapons systems, his sole focus became starting his engines. He cranked the left motor.

Two minutes.

“Tower, three zero seven for a rep,” Ducky said.

Colt advanced the left throttle and waited for his left engine to light off before glancing at the Super Hornet next to him. A squadron white jersey troubleshooter had plugged into the communications panel on the starboard side of his nose and was talking to the pilot to address whatever issue he was having.

“Three oh seven, are you having problems?” the Air Boss asked.

“Yes, sir,” came the dejected voice. “I need to be spun off the cat.”

Colt’s second engine stabilized, and he shut down the APU and gave Martinez the signal to disconnect external power from his jet. The plane captain removed ground power, then turned and shouted something to the yellow shirt, who immediately gave the signal to break him down. As sailors scrambled underneath Colt’s jet to remove the chocks and chains keeping him bound to the flight deck, the yellow shirt gave him the signal to lower his launch bar. Colt felt it drop into place.

“Hey, Colt, I’ll try to catch up with you,” Ducky said over their tactical frequency. “Try to save some for me.”

Colt double-clicked the radio transmit switch on his throttle in reply but kept his focus on the yellow shirt straddling the catapult track. He was focused on one thing and one thing only.

Three minutes.

Colt took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and bent at the waist to double-check his upper and lower leg restraints were still buckled and connected to his seat. Sitting up, he swept his hands across his lower Koch fittings that kept his butt attached to his seat, then the upper that anchored him to the parachute in the head box. He knew the clock was ticking, but he was never so rushed that he skipped steps in the checklist.

Mask on. Seat armed.

I’m ready.

Four minutes.

He looked at the sailor holding the weight board and made a circular gesture with the green finger light strapped on his left hand to indicate they had his correct weight. After another deep breath, the yellow shirt gave him the signal to take tension and advance power. He felt his nose squat under the strain, and he pushed his throttles smoothly to military-rated thrust while watching his engine instruments. Satisfied the engines were stable, he wiped out his flight controls as the final step required for launch, then reached his pinky for the light switch on his throttle and turned on his external lights.

The shooter saluted him and lowered the lighted wand to the flight deck and pointed it at the dark nothingness beyond the bow. Colt braced his head against the headrest when the holdback fitting broke, and the steam shuttle hurtled his seventy-million-dollar jet down the catapult track. The dim flight deck edge lighting raced underneath him, and he felt the jerky transition from being pulled off the boat to being pushed by twenty-six thousand pounds of thrust.

Five minutes.

Clark Air Base, Philippines

“Scar Nine Nine, Dusty One, the package is secure, proceeding to mom.”

Connor felt like a fish out of water and stood at the back of the ad hoc Tactical Operations Center they had set up in a hangar on the air base. Every other person in the room had a role to play in the ongoing rescue operation, but all he could do was run his fingers through his thick, luxurious hair and wait for information to filter down to him.

“Two Flankers launching from Lingshui,” a sailor announced.

He knew enough to know that a Flanker was a fighter, but beyond that, his knowledge of the Chinese air order of battle was limited. In any event, it wasn’t good news and meant the SEALs had kicked the hornet’s nest.

“Copy all, Dusty One,” the watch commander said. “Chatter indicates the Chinese have launched fighters to intercept.”

He tried biting his tongue but couldn’t help himself. “What about air cover?”

The watch commander turned and looked at him. “We have Super Hornets on alert aboard the Reagan and Joint Strike Fighters on the America.”

He spun away and paced along the back wall, doing everything he could to avoid snapping at the men and women who were busy collating information with one solitary purpose — to get the Mi-17 back to the Reagan unharmed.