Lions of the Sky

by Paco Chierici

  Right now it was time to focus on the alligator closest to the canoe. He dropped his feet to the floor and heaved himself upright. The flow from the nuclear-powered air conditioner blasted into his room, giving him a chill after the comfort of his cocoon. He felt pretty damn good, considering, he thought as he stretched his hands to the overhead and flexed his neck, hearing the satisfying crack. He bent at the waist, reaching down to touch his toes buried in the crappy shag carpet JT had brought aboard. Enough of that. He grabbed his toiletries and headed out the door. Shit, shower, shave, and a hot meal. Then it was time get back to the business of launching fighters off the pointy end.

  His pep rally with the Lions notwithstanding, he sure as shit hoped they didn’t see any Sukhois in the near future. Once they were on station, the Bush would belong to the aviators. They would each fly a couple of times a day. Real training sorties, not just carrier landing refresher hops. A week or two and they’d be ready for whatever clown show came their way. “Fuuuuck!” he cursed as the hot water turned to ice while he banged around the tiny metal shower stall with shampoo stinging his eyes. Any second it would flip to skin-peeling hot.

  It was damn good to be home.

  Type 032 Qing Class Submarine

  The crew of the special diesel-electric submarine crept about their day so quietly that if one sneezed the rest would glare. The sailors wore rubber-soled shoes and wrapped their tools in foam in case they dropped onto the steel floor. They had left their home port a few days before the USS Bush departed Norfolk. Though their journey was much shorter in terms of distance, the Qing arrived at the Paracels, or the island chain they referred to as the Xisha Islands, just two days before the mighty aircraft carrier. To preserve the secrecy of their mission they had been submerged for three straight weeks. Perhaps not such a great strain for the nuclear subs, but the Qing was a diesel-electric boat and she was capable of another week, at best, under water. She was, however, quiet, and equally important, she was much less glamorous than the nuke subs, which allowed her to slip away from the constant net of surveillance the United States maintained on the Chinese submarine fleet. But she must stay silent.

  Her mission was a bold gamble. With luck, they would prevail.

  USS Bush (CVN-77)

  Admiral’s Spaces

  Rear Admiral Ghost Kasperbauer sat at the head of the large conference table in the briefing room of his flagship. He arranged the various reports and maps in front of him as the last of the squadron COs and XOs filled their coffee cups and were seated. Then he picked up a paper detailing the latest air order-of-battle of the Vietnamese and Chinese forces and looked at the men arrayed around the table. They represented the leadership of all eight squadrons aboard Bush. Together with the three frigates, a cruiser, and a fast attack submarine, they comprised his command—Carrier Strike Group Two.

  “Gentleman, welcome to Papa Station. You might as well get comfortable. We’re going to be here a while. I’ve been in the Navy thirty years and I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Ghost watched the men scan the large display monitors situated about the perimeter of the windowless room. Red airplane symbols buzzed around Hainan Island and near Guangzhou in China. Similar symbols, but orange, circled Hanoi and Da Nang in Vietnam. There were smatterings of red and orange ship symbols hugging the respective coasts. Just to the northeast was a black symbol vaguely resembling a gushing oil well, representing the big rig under tow from China. They had managed to beat it after all, for what that was worth.

  The Admiral looked down at the coffee cup resting on the table in front of him. The Bush had throttled back to normal speed, and the surface of the black liquid was still and smooth, missing the concentric rings of ripples that had been the norm for the last three weeks.

  “You can reference the charts on the screens. We’re in our new sandlot. We’ve got a hundred and thirty islands to avoid, most of them protected by submerged shoals. Papa Station sits roughly in the middle of the island chain, in this clear space here.” He thumbed a laser pointer, dancing the red dot about the relatively small rectangular box demarking where Bush would live for the foreseeable future.

  “We anticipate the Chinese super-rig to park about one hundred miles south of our Op Area. Papa Station will place this strike group directly in the center of what will be a global hot spot within ninety-six hours, once the Vietnamese realize the rig will not be transiting but is, in fact, drilling within disputed territory. We will conduct our operations from the eye of the storm.”

  Ghost stood and walked to a monitor. “The Chinese naval forces are massing out of sight in the north. There are about a dozen ships of the line coming together near Beijing in Leizhou Bay. We expect they’ll pick up a few more as they transit closer, maybe even their aircraft carrier Liaoning.” He pointed to a large island jutting into the middle of the South China Sea, hanging from the Leizhou peninsula like a huge wasp’s nest. “They’ve recently moved a squadron of fighters to Hainan, just two hundred nautical miles north of our position. New J-11B indigenous Flanker variants. The best they’ve got.”

  He moved to the adjacent monitor with a detail of the Vietnamese coast. “The Vietnamese fleet is concentrated in the south just off Vinh Loi. Once the shit hits the fan we anticipate them repositioning fighters to Da Nang. Most probably all thirty-six of their brand new Su-30 MK2s. That means we’re looking at a mix of fifty to a hundred unhappy Flankers within striking distance of each other, with Bush roughly in the middle.”

  “From the fighters,” he said, turning to address Clam and the three other fighter COs, “we’ll need a solid twelve to fourteen hours of combat air patrol daily. One hundred miles north and west. Anytime a Flanker of either flavor ventures into the region, we want F-18s on his wing. If they poke their noses toward Bush, I want one of ours on their six, and one blocking their view of the ship. Tell your kids to get sleep now because we’ll have round the clock Alert-Sevens as well. From the E-2s, I need the Bangers up for control anytime we’ve got fighters airborne.”

  He turned his attention to the CO of the helicopter squadron, responsible for the detection and prosecution of undersea threats. “Skipper, the Spartans are going to get worked like a bar of soap. Intel has a tally of all the Chinese fast-attack nukes. None are currently in the region but I expect they will be within a week or so. Our own sub is chasing us down after the dash from Singapore and should be lurking around soon. You’re welcome to try and find her.” He tapped his pen on the desk, contemplating before proceeding. “One of the reasons we’ve confined Bush to such a tight box is that the seas are relatively shallow here in the middle of this minefield of islands. It should offer some sanctuary from the submarine threat. But we will be counting on your crews to keep these waters clean.”

  Ghost surveyed the leaders of his squadrons knowing that he, and they, had their work cut out for them. “We’ll have order-of-battle updates before every mission brief. Any questions?”

  “Sir, what are the rules of engagement?” Clam called from his seat.

  “Leave it to the fighter guys to ask about pulling triggers,” he answered. “Make sure your Ready Room knows we’re not here to make heroes, Clam. Our intention is not to escalate. But we will be armed. Our weapons status will be ‘Yellow and Tight’. Shoot only in self defense.”

  No one else ventured a question so Ghost broke up the meeting, poured himself another cup of coffee, and returned to studying the situation monitors. No matter how long he scrutinized them, the picture they painted did not improve.

  Type 032 Qing Class Submarine

  The commando dropped from the pull-up bar to the thick mats protecting the floor of the tiny fitness center. Just the slaps of his feet hitting the rubber drew sideways glances from the other skittish occupants, though no one would dare speak to him. He was clearly not one of them. His compact, muscular frame latticed with scars screamed of a competence other than twisting knobs or plotting courses. He prowled the room feeling like a caged tiger, i
gnoring the other men as if they were invisible, or perhaps more accurately, simply irrelevant.

  The door to the gym opened and an officer stuck his head in, addressing the commando deferentially. “Biédòngduì, the Captain would like to see you.”

  The commando nodded his head once and left immediately to take a quick shower and prepare his bag. Finally, he would be released from this underwater prison.

  USS Bush (CVN-77)

  Slammer hurried aft through the crowded main passageway from his stateroom. He arrived at the door to the Ready Room at the same time as Lips and HOB, then stopped short, his hand frozen on the knob. Quick Silvers shrugged at him as she ambled up just behind HOB.

  “Hey,” he said to the trio, unable to come up with anything more. Lips waited in front of the door as Slammer stood immobile.

  Lips motioned to the knob. “You waiting for a tip?”

  Slammer reanimated, swinging the door open and letting Lips and HOB pass first. Quick stood before him, smiling a little smile. “You miss your flight?” he asked quietly.

  She shrugged. “Nope. Just trying to do the right thing. You coming?” She entered the Ready Room, abandoning him in the passageway.

  The girl was a neverending basket of surprises, he mused as he followed her in. Part of him was pleased to see her and he tried to convince himself it was mostly just because she wasn’t a quitter. As he made his way to his seat he was doubly grateful there were a few days to spin up gradually. He was sure she would need some confidence boosting. If she got thrown into the fire too soon, chances were she would end up worse than before. Would the NKR never end?

  He took his seat in his Ready Room chair surrounded by the rest of the Lions slouched in their assigned spots, and for the next ten minutes listened to Skipper Clam at the front of the room passing along the salient points from the Admiral’s brief.

  “So that’s the big picture,” Clam said, finishing up. “Train hard for the next four days, and after that, we’re basically game wardens. Clear as mud?”

  Clam was interrupted by the violent hum of propellers at full power radiating through the flight deck just over their heads. They all looked up to the large TV monitor in the corner of the room. On the screen, the E-2 was yanked down the catapult trailing a cloud of steam. A nanosecond after the image left the deck on the TV, they felt the seismic thud shake Bush as the catapult hit the end of its stroke.

  His focus returned to the front of the room as the Skipper picked up again. “The Banger just launched, obviously. The helos launch next. Fixed wing launches start in two hours.”

  Clam paused, feigning surprise as he turned a page in his notes. “Oh, almost forgot. We’re also starting Alert-Sevens today.” The comment sparked lusty boos and curses from the aircrews.

  “Hey! Shut your pie holes,” Clam shouted over the din. “No one asked you to be fighter guys. You should have joined the Peace Corps.”

  The Alert-Seven was a painful exercise designed to ready aircraft and crew for emergency takeoff if an enemy threat was detected. A crew would prepare a jet and park it just shy of the catapult. After completing all the preflight systems checks, the aviators would shut the engines down and sit in the cockpit, poaching in the equatorial sun and humidity for two to four hours. In the rare—extremely rare—event that such a threat was detected, the crew was required to close the canopy, start engines, arm the missiles and guns, and taxi forward the last six inches into the catapult. In less than seven minutes they would be slung from the deck, launching blindly into the teeth of the inbound threat.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Quick. The mood in the room was light-hearted; they were all relieved to get back to work and champing at the bit to get in the air. Quick looked relatively at ease between HOB and Lips in the last row, who were seated on either side of her like a protective escort, cracking each other up like middle-schoolers.

  “On the first go today we have Slammer and HOB taking Skids and Tiny up for a back-in-the-saddle.” Another low cheer.

  Irreverent quips floated from the back, “Don’t fuck it up!” and “See if you can bring all the pieces back this time!”

  Slammer grinned. The bullshit chatter was a sign of health, like the color coming back to a sick baby’s cheeks. Clam ignored the banter and plowed on. “Alert-Sevens start from the bottom up. Juniority hath its privileges. Quick and Tumor on Cat Three, Lips and Chigga on Cat Four. Just a practice today to get the new aircrews and maintenance folks familiar with the routine.”

  At the mention of her name, Quick felt a jolt of electricity race up her spine. “Full Ace-in-a-day loadouts. Six, oh, two, and guns. Plan, brief, and preflight accordingly,” Skipper Clam continued.

  She leaned over toward Lips. “Ace-in-a-day?”

  Lips shook his head sadly. “Seriously? It’s the missile load we’re flying with. Six fucking AMRAAM, two Winders and guns. Big boy—sorry—big person package.”

  She looked sideways at HOB, who shrugged in sympathy. It sucked being the new guy, and the occasional dark glances that came her way sucked, too. But she found herself surprisingly able to shrug them off. The fact that HOB and Lips had stepped up to watch her flank helped, but the real change was internal. She could feel it. She might be a nugget, but fuck it if she wouldn’t be the best nugget ever. The rush that came from learning about the real world, about flying when the stakes were at their highest, well, that rush could keep her going through a lot of crap. But more important, she was born to live in the air and she wasn’t about to let anyone take that away from her. So despite the once and future bullshit, she was warming up to this fighter pilot thing.

  Type 032 Qing Class Submarine

  The commando and the captain hunched over a chart unfurled across the plotting table on the cramped bridge. The captain spoke in a low voice, forcing the commando to lean in. “Their use of GPS may work against them. We have traced their last few laps in this sector. The ship covers precisely the same track each time.” The captain pointed to the red line representing the southward leg. “On this segment the ship is with the wind. They move slowly while the aircraft are airborne. Once it is time to launch and land the aircraft, they turn back into the wind to the north. I assume you want to engage during the slower south leg?”

  “How sure are you of this pattern?”

  “It is how they operate,” the captain asserted confidently. “We have observed it many times.”

  “How much slower is it?”

  “Significantly so. You would not be able to complete the maneuver during the fast north leg. The force of the water would overwhelm you.”

  The commando nodded. “Then I shall do as you suggest. How long before we are in position?”

  The captain studied the chart for a few moments before answering. “The American submarine may be in the area already,” he said, not directly answering the question. “It is unlikely. We know it left Singapore the day before the carrier. It will be noisy transiting at the upper reaches of its speed. We have heard nothing as of yet.”

  “And the carrier cannot detect our presence?”

  “Not directly, and not unless we are careless. It does have helicopters specializing in tracking submarines.” The captain paused as the sound of churning propellers resonated throughout the space. They lifted their gaze to the overhead as the American carrier cruised over top. “We are positioned just below them. As you hear. I believe they will search beyond this immediate location, farther from the ship,” he continued. “They must believe they are alone in these waters to send the carrier ahead of its escorts.”

  “They are careless.”

  “Oh no. They are most careful. But General Yongsheng anticipated their plans perfectly. We have a brief window to execute his plan. Give me an hour to get you into position.”

  The commando checked his watch and nodded once. “Thank you, Captain. I will be ready.” The captain’s head swiveled left at the sound of a pen dropping. When he faced front again, the commando had vanished.

>   USS Bush (CVN-77)

  Quick followed a grumbling Tumor up the last few stairs to the aft portion of the flight deck, a delicious ball of nervous anticipation tumbling around in her stomach even though she wasn’t due to fly till later that afternoon. The heat and humidity were oppressive and she could feel the rivers of sweat running down the back of her neck. There was an electricity and sense of mission added to the normal chaos of the flight deck, and she soaked it in with pleasure.

  She held her helmet in one hand and her nav bag in the other, trying to suppress a laugh as she listened to Tumor’s ceaseless bitching under his breath. “Practice Alert-Seven is like practice bleeding. What fucking use is that?”

  He turned around on her suddenly. His round red face dripped with sweat despite the desert camo hat perched on the very top of his big head like Charlie Chaplain’s derby. “Keep laughing, Nugget. You bring a hat?”

  She shook her head, unable to wipe the grin off her face. She was sure someday she’d be pissed about roasting for two hours on an uncomfortable ejection seat in hundred-degree heat with no shade. But not today.

  “You’re going to fry like an egg on a hot sidewalk, kid. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

  She closed her eyes and enjoyed the strong breeze generated by the helicopter lifting off. It brought a moment’s relief before it banked to port and floated away in the heat haze suspended over the ocean.