Code of Honor полностью

Goodrich nodded to himself. As a rule, he was a little on the stodgy side for a man in his early thirties, preferring technology that was tried and true. He had to admit, though, that this new Sonitus Molar Mic they were testing was turning out to be awfully useful tech. Instead of an earpiece, the Molar Mic clipped over the wearer’s back teeth. Using the same near-field neck-loop utilized by a covert earpiece, the Sonitus device acted as a microphone, sending voice communication from inside the mouth, protected from external noise like gunfire or rotor wash. Instead of being transmitted through the eardrum, incoming signals were felt via vibration in the jawbone. Where earpieces became itchy and uncomfortable the longer they were worn, the body quickly adjusted to what was essentially a mouth retainer with a small mic. To Goodrich’s surprise, it was easy to forget the damned thing was there. So far, battery life was good, most of the day. The ability to hear and speak clearly to a helicopter or V-22 crew chief while you were hanging in the wind on a SPIE rig below it was nothing short of incredible. Staff Sergeant Ski had voiced the platoon’s greatest concern when he asked if they could chew with one of the mics in their mouths. They could, so the tech would get their seal of approval when their portion of the test and eval process was complete.

Goodrich’s two squads of eight Marines each were checking gear and weapons, taking on the last drink of fluid before they would load onto the Alert 5 Osprey, where there was no restroom other than an empty Gatorade bottle. Goodrich was a stickler for readiness and he wanted his squads on board both Ready 5 birds in full battle rattle a half-hour before missile launch. Goodrich laughed and shook his head as he thought about every other time they’d worked with SEALs on one of these missions. He and his men would sit in the stifling tropical heat inside the Osprey, waiting for something to go wrong, stewing in their own juices like good Marines. Outside the bird, also on Ready 5 status, the SEALs would be flopping around doing SEAL shit.

The F-35B Lightning II flown by Major Goodloe “Oh” Schmidt was stationary now, having utilized its thrust-vectoring nozzle and lift fan to land vertically on a ship identified as the USS Makin Island. The aircraft had been refueled after landing, with the onboard management system indicating just over nine thousand pounds in the internal tanks — three thousand pounds less than full capacity. Calliope had made the jump hours before, riding the data-link between the Stratotanker and the strike fighter high over the Pacific. Other copies of Calliope made similar jumps to similar planes, deleting themselves after every move, searching. This Calliope had ended up in the right part of the world, and was now homing in on the target they’d all been sent to find.

To maintain its stealthy profile, the F-35 had to carry all armament inside its reflective skin. Weapon stores indicated this aircraft’s internal bays were already loaded with four AIM-120 AMRAAM air-to-air missiles, leaving no room for the target. The plane’s computers had communicated with a second F-35B while in flight. That plane was not active now, but Calliope surmised that it would be the one to carry her target, while Major Schmidt’s aircraft would provide cover.

They would take off together, at which point Calliope would make her penultimate jump — to Major Skeet Black’s plane — and then, if it was on board, as she surmised it would be, the LRASM missile.

Rear Admiral Kevin Peck, deputy commander of the U.S. Pacific Fleet, stood on the bridge of LHD 8, looking out across the deep indigo water. Completely bald, he was slender but well muscled for a man who spent so much time behind a desk these days. His love for basketball and overall competitive nature kept off most of the pudge that could easily accompany each new star added to the uniform.

Twenty minutes earlier, radar had picked up a contact one hundred nautical miles east of the derelict Navy frigate with seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth of plywood and sheet metal screwed and welded to the superstructure. This vessel, mocked up to have the profile of a Chinese destroyer, was the intended target to test the next-generation technology on the LRASM missile. Admiral Peck didn’t particularly want some Chinese ship to stumble onto the thing. He’d sent two Cobras to investigate.

The Makin Island’s captain stepped to the window beside Peck. “Super Cobras report the radar contact is a fishing trawler. Estimated one hundred thirty feet in length, moving east at a steady six knots. Looks like she’s actively fishing, sir.”

Peck took a deep breath. “But it’s moving away?”

“Yes, sir,” the skipper said.

Peck rubbed a hand across his face. He’d been up for more than twenty-four hours now, and his day wouldn’t be over anytime soon.

“Remember that line from Big Jake?” he said.