Jake’s hair was mussed by someone from the crowd as the cheers around him sounded on the deck of the USS John Stennis. He smiled from ear to ear as the deck crew celebrated around he and Lieutenant Tom “Fritz” Lang, the back seat “RIO” in his big F/A-18F Hornet. Other pilots approached, and Jake was wrapped in a big bear hug as Lieutenant Commander John “Duff” Robertson lifted him off the ground. When Jake’s boots hit the deck again, he and Duff shared a laugh.
“Didn’t know you cared, Duffer,” Jake kidded, landing a light punch on Duff’s chest.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t like it,” Duff shot back.
“Captain’s on his way up!” a deck crewman reported.
“Woo…” Duff said with raised eyebrows. “You missile rape enough Chinks, you become royalty, huh?”
Jake had a laugh, and rolled his eyes.
“You missed your calling, Duff,” Jake said, patting Duff hard on the shoulder. “You should have been a poet.”
“Sorry, just mesmerized by being in the presence of the ship’s first Ace in this turd flingin’ monkey fight,” Duff ribbed.
“Nice description, sir,” Fritz said with a shake of his head.
“I think he hit it right on the head,” Jake acknowledged.
“Six of ‘em,” Duff remarked. “God damn! I am impressed.”
“Yeah, well,” Jake said. “There’s so many of ‘em in the skies, you can fire a missile anywhere and you’re going to hit one of them.”
The group around them laughed.
“Admiral on deck!” came a bark, and everyone snapped to attention. In the background, another of the enormous Hornets came to a screeching halt on the carrier deck, its arresting hook catching one of the wires to stop it. The beaming Admiral Walsh approached quickly with other officers, and was quick to shake Jake’s hand.
“My first ace!” Walsh boomed. “First in the theater, Lieutenant Commander…”
“Scott, sir,” Jake acknowledged. “Lieutenant Commander Jake Scott.”
“Excellent work!” Walsh called out as more jets in the background roared off the carrier and out over the sea.
“Thank you, sir,” Jake said.
“There’s a rumor that last one you got was Colonel Zhang,” Walsh reported, which created a bit of a murmur in the crew. Zhang was one of China’s most noted fighter pilots, and had a reputation of being almost invulnerable. “We’re still waiting to confirm that.”
“I thought that last one seemed to be the toughest,” Jake said, nudging Duff.
“Well let’s not crowd the deck too long, there’s still a war going on,” Walsh said. “Congratulations again, Commander Scott.”
He issued a salute, and Jake returned it, and then the Admiral headed off with the other officers, and the deck crew started to return to their stations. Duff heaved a sigh, and looked out over the sea.
“So what now?” he asked.
“Now, I want to get the hell below, get something to eat, call my brother, and then… we’re drinking,” Jake said. Duff turned back with bright eyes.
“Now there’s a master plan,” he said, and they headed below.
Thousands of miles away, squinting into the terrain below him, Jon Hicks was unaware of his labored breathing into the oxygen mask. He was peering into the dense tree cover as he angled his F-35C downward toward them. Behind and above him, another of the jets was following, and Jon had already thumbed through the weapon selections, noting them on his heads-up display as he regarded the ground again.
“Rider six, I’m telling you, he’s there!” came a voice through the radio. It was a group of soldiers below, giving chase in an armored vehicle along what barely passed as a road. From the jet, Jon could see no road, no convoy of trucks supposedly transporting a dangerous warlord, and no group of soldiers following them.
It was Kenya, near the coast, and this warlord was known as Shetani, a Swahili word for ‘devil’, as he seemed able to appear and disappear at will, causing destruction and death that had frustrated the United States and its allies in the region. His real name, Joseph Mugo, inspired much less fear, but now he seemed to have been flushed out by a major offensive on the ground, and strike aircraft from the USS Ronald Reagan were called in to take out the convoy of vehicles before Shetani could vanish again.
“Rider six, come to zero-five-zero,” came a voice through the com. “The road spills out for about a mile along that coast, where you should see them.”
“Then we’ll hope they don’t decide to go off road before then,” Jon answered whoever it was, but pulled the stick to the right to get the proper heading. His wing man followed suit, and Jon peered again into the distance.
“Rider six,” came the voice again. “Confirm your target before firing. Shetani is in a white Land Rover, copy?”
“Acknowledged,” Jon answered, and spied the location in the distance where the road emerged from the trees. The land was rocky and steep, and Jon lifted the dark visor on his flight helm to focus on the exposed road.
“Come on, you fucker…” came the voice of the wing man.
“Rider six! You should be seeing them any time now!” came the voice from the chasing group.
It was a longer moment than Jon anticipated, but sure enough, two dark green trucks raced from the trees onto the road. They were followed by a motorcycle, then another dark truck, and then, just as Jon had slightly shaken his head, a white truck, followed by a rusty pickup came into view. From the pickup, men fired rifles at their pursuers. Jon grinned.
His targeting pip swayed and moved as he angled the jet closer and closer to the escaping convoy. An alarm went off in the cockpit, followed by the terrified voice of the wingman, and Jon’s attention changed from the convoy.
“SAM! SAM! SAM!” came the high pitched cry, and Jon’s eyes widened as he realized someone in the back of the pickup had fired a shoulder-launched surface-to-air missile.
“SHIT!” he barked, and rolled the jet to the right, launching a series of flares, while his wingman had split to the left and launched his own flares. Jon strained to look back toward the missile, spying only the white trail it had left behind. He shifted his gaze back to the road, noting that the vehicles were getting closer to the trees again.
“Can you get back on target?” the wing man asked.
“I’m tired of this guy,” Jon said, half joking. He had focused the targeting pip on the white pickup, and clicked his weapons select.
A moment later, his plane’s 25mm gun pod under the belly buzzed as a burst of rounds fired off. The pickup was not destroyed, but the rounds scattered enough, and the men in back dove for cover. Jon’s attention turned back to the White Land Rover, and he fought to get the targeting pip back on it. His thumb clicked again, returning to select the Laser-guided Maverick missile. Sweat trickled down his face.
The first trucks had disappeared back into the trees when the sounds in his ears had changed to indicate he had a missile lock. His thumb jammed down on the fire button.
“FOX! FOX!” he called, and the plane shuddered as the missile’s rocket motor fired, and it roared away from the aircraft. He watched the smoke trail as the Maverick hurtled forward, curving slightly as the laser tracked the truck along the road. In another instant, there was a flash, and the White Land Rover, now losing a flying array of parts and pieces, began to tumble end over end.
“You got him!” the wing man blurted.
“Throw some hard stuff at them and make sure!” Jon called, and moved his selector back to the gun on the plane. Several more bursts from the guns of both planes riddled the rear of the convoy as the other trucks began to slam into the wreckage of the Land Rover.
“Rider Six! Great shot!” came the ground troops’ call. “Thanks a ton!”
“You want to thank me? Send a case of Scotch to the Reagan, boys!” Jon joked.
“You wish,” the call came back.
“All right, clean it up,” Jon said. “Rider Six, Rider five, let’s get back aboard.
I’m just about Joker Fuel, here.”
“Come on, killer, let’s go,” the wingman acknowledged, and both planes angled away, heading back out to sea where they would find the carrier.
The return flight to the carrier was somewhat silent, given the fact that the planes had taken out a villain that the allies in the area had been trying to rid themselves of for a long time. Still, as they flew back in sight of the aircraft carrier, Jon did feel some excitement, and the radio chatter transitioned to the usual to get them back on deck. One at a time, the pair of jets made its way into the pattern, and ultimately slammed down onto the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan, screeching to a halt as the plane’s tail hook caught the arresting wire.
As Jon jerked forward with the impact and sudden stop, he put his hands up, and then fell backward, and released his oxygen mask. He looked to the side of his jet at the crew scurrying about the deck, and saw one directing his jet away from the landing. It was only a short while later that he had been directed to the side, where the jet was finally parked, and the crew had helped him from it.
Striking the deck with his boots, he and his wingman hurried below for debriefing, and some much needed dinner and rest before the war would resume again for them. All the while, other jets continued to roar to and from the deck of the ship, while men and women in the colored jerseys of the deck crew scurried about in their duties.
CHAPTER THREE- WAR (ON THE GROUND) IS HELL
So far from there, a man quietly waited in the darkness, his eyes set very hard upon an area some fifty yards from where he crouched. His hands remained still, and they rested upon the M249 he had across his legs. Behind him, eleven more sets of eyes scanned the area outside the trees, and one of them refocused his night vision goggles to get a better look. The tin building they were fixed on was silent, and from his position in the lead, Captain Martin Pascom looked back over his squad for a moment, growing more impatient.
They had been there in the dark, settling outside the building for hours after the base had gotten a tip that they could score a major victory if they went there and took out the occupants. Intelligence had reported that enemy commanders were meeting there to discuss an offensive they were massing forces for, and that severing the head of the snake might diffuse any attack. As his Ranger unit was close, they had been given the task to cut the head off the snake.
They knew to keep silent, and they were more than ready as the night wore on. Pascom would have checked his watch, but time was irrelevant. He was waiting for a voice in his radio headset, which seemed like it would never come. Behind him, the other Rangers waited, because they trusted him, and he had always seen them through. He glanced up through the trees, trying to spy the moon, before a sound caught his attention.
It was shouting, from inside the building, and he gritted his teeth, wondering why they had not gotten back to the Rangers. There was a slam, and more shouting- though muffled- from within the structure, and Pascom actually took up his weapon. It was then that there was a click, and another one, and a hiss of static in his headset- as with all their headsets. Pascom could hear the sounds of the helicopters behind the voice in his headset.
“You are clear to engage, Lima One,” came the voice. “You have CAS in the area, and Charlie six is closing on your position, engage.”
In response, Pascom simply said ‘acknowledged’, which both his squad and the other on the far side of the structure would heed. From there, he motioned to the squad and moved from the trees. From a distant place far away that they could not even see, a shot came, and an instant later, a sentry doubled over, his head ruined by the large round from the sniper rifle. This happened again, and again as the Rangers closed in.
Nearing a rear door to the structure, Pascom took a grenade from his gear, holding it up, and signaling the squad to take up their positions. He took the pin from it, before flipping open the door and tossing in the grenade- a flash-bang- and rolling away from the entrance. Seconds later, there came a loud, thudding sound from inside the structure, followed by excited shouting. Pascom motioned for his squad.
“GO!”
They moved into action, ripping open the back door to engage the enemy; a conglomerate of South American generals and commanders engaged in the war’s conflict in the western hemisphere. The first sounds of chattering assault rifles and machine guns filled the air, and Pascom raced inside the structure, bringing up his weapon as he went. The sounds of the first squad entering from the front could also be heard.
They swept quickly through the structure, opening fire on any they came into contact with, remembering that the other Ranger squad would be halting before the central meeting room, to cover the front of the place while the second squad cleared out the enemy. It took minutes, but Pascom called to the other squad’s commander that the place was secured, and that they should take up defensive positions to prepare for possible counter-attack.
“Lima one, shouldn’t we call for extraction?” the other squad leader asked.
“We’ll get there,” Pascom said, motioning to two of his men, who had been taking pictures and gathering dog tags to confirm the enemy commanders that had been killed. He motioned to two others, who began to place explosives around the structure, while he had yet more men gathering papers into backpacks for the intelligence men. Pascom could hear further radio chatter, and he let his men keep working, while he went to the front of the structure to meet up with Lieutenant Dunning. He stepped out into the night.
“Things okay in there?” Dunning asked.
“Tip top,” Pascom answered. “What was that on the radio?”
“Whirlybirds just gave us some bad news,” Dunning answered. “Sounds like we got a bunch of armor moving up here when we started making all that noise.”
“Well, that’s… not optimal,” Pascom complained. “Tell those lazy sons of bitches to get the Apaches over here, and give us some cover for extraction.”
“Right,” Dunning said, keying his mic.
Pascom hurried back into the building, to his squad.
Hours later, while men and women were sifting through the papers and the names and photos of the enemy commanders, the enemy armored column had been burning from the rain of Hellfire missiles and chain gun fire from the Apaches. The offensive may have been thwarted, but Pascom knew it would hardly end the conflict. In any event, as he enjoyed his third drink at the makeshift bar in the base, he wondered if his friends were fairing as well.
His friends; Mick, Jake, Jon, and a marine named Andy who was fighting his part of the war in Afghanistan, were deep in it, and they stayed in touch as much as they could. They had grown up together, and were as close as any five friends could have ever been. Pascom, or “Marty” as his friends called him, was regarding the notion of washing away more faces of the dead with another flood of alcohol. He would call the others when he could, as he dreaded even the idea that any call to them would reveal that one or more of them had been eaten by the demon of combat.
But half the world away, automatic fire rang out, drowning out nearly every other sound as the morning became warmer. Andrew Brogan slammed himself against the stone wall at the base of the stairs as he cursed. His mind was racing, trying to quickly level itself off after the initial shock of the ambush, and he motioned to another pair of marines near him, to get down. He ducked slightly around the corner, squeezing the trigger hard on the M4. A seemingly endless rattle of fire came from the weapon, but it gave pause to the enemy.
Seizing that opportunity, Brogan- or, Andy, as everyone called him- ducked further around the corner, his hands sliding forward to the grenade launcher under his rifle’s barrel. His wide eyes were quickly surveying, and he spied a hint of motion in another hut, some thirty or forty yards away. He did not think long, and his trigger finger squeezed, producing a metallic thud as the grenade launched. Andy fell back around the corner, shortly afterward hearing the grenade go off.
The marines, a twelve man group, flooded around the corner, unlea
shing their weapons as they went. Andy moved with them, keeping his eyes all over the village they were passing through. As he paused to open the grenade launcher, the group’s leader stopped near him. Andy quickly replaced the grenade in the launcher and closed it. The leader, Lieutenant Forsythe, urged Andy on, and keyed a mic.
“We are still taking fire, heading for the rendezvous, over!” Forsythe called into the radio.
The marines advanced through the village, hearing the sounds of machine gun fire that had plagued them since they had entered the area. It was coming from a two story building at the end of the village, and Andy wondered about the possibility of getting close enough to launch a grenade at it. Reaching another of the war-torn buildings in the village, the marines, two of them now wounded, quickly entered.
Inside, Andy was directed to a window to keep watch and cut off the advance of enemies trying to close in. Forsythe then keyed the mic again as he looked out a window.
“It’s a larger structure,” he said. “End of the village, kind of a T-shaped thing!”
There was silence from him as he listened to a response, and Andy had to duck back from the window as bullets struck near it. He leaned slightly out, firing off a trio of shots toward the larger structure. That was when he saw it, and his eyes went wide; flash and a puff of smoked from the building. He dove from the window.
“RPG!” Andy howled, diving for cover.
The rest of the marines were quick to move away from the windows and seek cover. A moment later, there was a hard impact on the building where they had held up, and the explosion sent plaster and stone every direction. Andy lifted his head, checking himself and his weapon, then looked over to see Forsythe, face down.
“BILL!” Andy screamed, sliding across the floor to the lieutenant, as others from the squad were joining him. Finding that the Lieutenant was only unconscious, Andy took the headset off the commander, and put it on. Instructions were already in progress.
Escape from the Dead Page 2