Читать книгу Damage Control - Gordon Kent, Gordon Kent - Страница 33

“Sri Lanka,” Soleck said quietly. Every airfield he could find and plot, he had entered into a chart on his computer, complete with range rings.

“203 is inbound for gas, figures he has eight minutes of fuel remaining.” Gup still spoke in a monotone, but tracking the fuel for eleven other planes was keeping his mind occupied.

Soleck had walled off the emergency, taken a bite out of his own responsibilities and was chewing hard. He cycled frequencies on the radio until he had AW. “AW, this is 703, over.”

“Go ahead, 703.” Different voice.

“Any luck on a bingo?”

“Negative, 703.” The speaker’s voice went up an octave. “We’re trying to raise anyone in southern India and we’re—”

Soleck cut him off. “Can you raise Trincomalee in Sri Lanka? They’re a little over five hundred nautical miles from us. Different country. Maybe whatever’s going down in India isn’t there. We’re going to splash a Hornet if we don’t start tanking.”

“Wait one.”

Soleck watched his instruments for a few seconds, thinking of the decision process that would have to happen on the bridge of the Fort Klock—the country clearance, the levels of military bureaucracy. He made his decision and turned the plane east, pointing the nose toward the distant island of Sri Lanka. Then he dialed up strike common, which was being used by all the pilots airborne. “203, this is 703, over.”

“703, this is 203, go ahead.” Donitz sounded professional, unhurried, despite the fact that his plane was running on fumes.

“203, am I correct that you are strike lead?”

“703, no one has told me that, but yeah, I think I’m the only el kadar in the air.”

“Sir, I’d like to get the stack moving towards Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. I’m assuming that their field is open and they’ll let us in. The distance is five seven five nautical miles from my position and my best guess is that we can get all of you there with enough gas to land.”

“Soleck, I don’t even have Trincomalee on my bingo card.”

“Me, either, sir. But Alpha Whiskey says southern India is down and it’s the best I can come up with. Every minute we stay here wastes gas. Worst case, we’ll be feet-dry in an hour and someone will give us a vector to an Indian field.”

“Do it. I don’t have the comms or computers to figure this out. You sure?”

“Sure as I can be. It’ll be close. Break, break. All planes, this is 703. 706 will rendezvous on 703 at angels one-one course 110, speed two hundred knots. Planes will tank as called by 703 in fuel priority. Sound off.”

Soleck was pleased to watch Gup making check marks next to the planes he had listed on his kneeboard as they called in.

The thing was doable.