While they waited, she’d been methodically working her way through a spread of tacos: grilled shrimp, skirt steak, lobster, and carnitas. Even after twenty years working together, he’d never understood how she could eat more than a six-three airman after a thirty-k run.
His empanada brought back memories, as such things always did, of his mother’s cooking. Even after they’d found a steady place—as permanent farm hands, not just seasonal pickers—east of Stockton on the baking flats of the north San Joaquin Valley, she’d let him crank the molino. Grinding corn into masa for tortillas—another thing lost. Nothing had ever matched her carne asada tamales or… Yet another memory he didn’t have time for.
“Are they in position?”
Taz looked just like any other tourist fooling with her phone while she ate. Except her phone included full encryption capability, and had a special app to pick up broadcasts on US Air Force frequencies. Her headphones appeared to be wired, but that was actually the receiving antenna.
“Yes, they’ve just entered the Point Mugu Sea Range.”
He’d been watching to the north. The area between Santa Catalina Island and Santa Rosa Island to the north was a no man’s land that belonged to the US Navy. Despite the nearby Los Angeles population, marine and flight charts forbade all civilian entry. The US Coast Guard caught a surprising number of narco-submarines transporting cocaine out of Colombia because they wandered into the forbidden zone and became easy to detect with no other shipping about.
Edwards Air Force Base and Naval Base Ventura County were only two of the airfields that did testing there. The Navy out of San Diego were common participants as well. Even Maverick had gone down there in Top Gun. Though the movie had failed to explain how he’d gotten in trouble in the dry Sierra Nevadas, but crashed in the Pacific.
Today they were doing acceptance testing on the Block 30 upgrade to the AC-130J Ghostrider. It was the newest gunship in the fleet. He’d made sure to be on the development team. He’d also made sure that, today, it flew with his pilots aboard.
Taz handed him a Bluetooth earpiece. He pulled out his own phone so that they would look like some bored father-daughter duo doing side-by-side play on their separate phones.
“This is Shadow Three-five commencing the first run of Test Suite Alpha-Bravo-Two-Seven-Five.” Major Mark “Tango” Torres reported to the observer team that would be flying in a nearby plane to monitor the Ghostrider’s performance. His voice sounded clearly over the earpiece.
“Roger.”
There was no other cross chatter.
How many missions—hundreds, thousands—had he sat and listened while others risked their lives? Too many.
After today he was done with that as well.
He’d selected his entire team for one very specific mission. It wasn’t a mission of mere duty. It was one that included a deep personal stake for every individual.
For now, all he could do was listen to his men do their jobs.
17
Tango Torres kept an eye out as his copilot, “Gutz” Gutierrez, set up on the first run.
The Block 30 upgrade to the Ghostrider had included some nice tactical and weapons control enhancements. It also included an advanced active denial system that could suppress all of a hostile’s communications for a range of over five kilometers—including both cell phone and radio.
But the centerpiece of Block 30 was the HEL-A.
The High-Energy Laser-Airborne could deliver a hundred-and-fifty-kilowatt beam against a tracked target. Ground testing had shown it effective against anti-aircraft missiles and other aircraft. It was also powerful enough to destroy cars and disable boats and other ground targets.
Tango wanted to see it burn.
The twin-prop C-12 observer plane that hung just off their rear quarter was crowding close to see as well.
Perfect.
The first two passes occurred without incident. They fried the electronics of a small drone, which proceeded to splash down into the ocean near a recovery boat. Then they cooked a target on a small floating dinghy.
Rosa Cruz was on laser control and clearly enjoyed her new toy.
Tango’s camera feed in the cockpit showed that the six-foot dinghy didn’t just get a hole, its plastic hull melted and shriveled like an ant under a magnifying glass aimed at the sun. Or maybe the jump from the hundred kilowatt to the one-fifty was just that big a change.
Nah, it had to be Rosa.
He liked that about her. She was always a bright fire in any darkness. Her laugh could light up a room, and her body was a gift from Sweet Mother Mary.
They often raced their Kawasakis out into the deserts that surrounded so many US military bases, then fucked each other until even the rabbits were envious. He had to readjust his flightsuit at his body’s reaction to even thinking about her bent forward over his Ninja 1000 sport bike. She’d peek at him over her shoulder through that lush fall of brown-black hair, and wiggle that fine ass like a marshaller waving two bright batons and guiding him straight to the gate.
Gutz lined the Ghostrider up on the third run and Tango reported the start to the observers. He knew that the general would be monitoring their status. Everything was scheduled to fly off-plan in just moments.
Rosa flashed “Ready” from her midship control station.
If their maneuver didn’t work, it would be her job to finish it.
The AC-130J had just the pilot and copilot on the flight deck. Down the left side behind them were the weapons. First, the five tons of HEL-A laser where the 30 mm GAU-23 autocannon usually sat. Back under the wing lurked the monster 105 mm howitzer.
Integrated into the rear cargo ramp were ten drop tubes. Most were filled with guided sixteen-kilo glide bombs in ten-round magazines, but several also had small surveillance drones that could be launched in flight, provide over-the-horizon data, and then be discarded.
On the right side, across from the laser, were the weapons control stations. The loaders in the bay kept the guns fed, but the weapons control team aimed and fired them using all of the visible light, infrared, and radar information fed to them by the sensor technician.
Tango had always been a flier and there were few machines more complex than a big military plane. From the first time he climbed into one, it had just been a part of him; every upgrade made perfect sense. Weather and threat radars, status on the four big engines, and every other one of the hundred thousand pieces that made an AC-130J Ghostrider fly.
Too bad there was no way to go down on Rosa while she was firing the big guns or for her to do him extra hard while they were flying. Rosa was wild and had a laugh that burst out at the most amazing times. Out in the desert, she’d let loose a wolf-howl as she slammed into her peaks.
Or maybe there was a way to tap that in flight.
After all, they were permanently exiting the United States Air Force at the end of this run. Who knew what could happen after they joined General JJ’s Air Force. No one called it that to the old man’s face, of course.
Or to Taz’s.
Damn but she was one hard-bodied bitch. The general had to be tapping that himself, even if the rumor mill said not.
He imagined Taz would be hard, fast, and deathly silent. Yeah, idiot. Then she’d snap off your head and drink your blood like a praying mantis bitch.
He counted down the seconds, did the last five aloud for Gutz because it was always a shock when they blasted the first round out of the big 105.