Lions of the Sky

by Paco Chierici

  Her jet was parked on the stern, with the burner cans jutting over the edge. As she ducked under the nose to reach the ladder she spotted Slammer seated in the plane parked next to hers.

  “You got any sunscreen, Quick?”

  She shook her head, starting to think maybe someone should have told her how friggin sweltering it was going to be. The top of her scalp was already hot to the touch.

  Slammer reached down to a leg pocket and pulled out a ball cap. He leaned over the side as far as he could, holding it out to Quick. She stretched up on her toes, just barely able to snag the cap from his fingers. “Thanks!” she said, pulling her pony tail through the opening in the back and snugging the hat low. She pantomimed an exaggerated sigh of relief, then flashed him a double thumbs up before turning back to her own plane. Seconds later she heard Slammer’s engines start and the flight deck was soon roiling with hot exhaust and the sound of purpose.

  Type 032 Qing Class Submarine

  The captain stood abruptly and snapped the handles on the periscope closed. “Down!” he barked, and the periscope tube was retracting before he turned full around to join the commando at the plotting table.

  “They have made the turn into the wind. Soon the aircraft will be launched.” He picked up a plotting tool and laid the sharp tip on the northwest corner of the rectangle delineating the Bush’s track. “We are here. They will pass over our head in twenty minutes.”

  “Assuming you are correct.”

  “Assuming I am correct, you should go now.”

  “How are the seas?

  “The sea is perfect. The visibility is marginal. A small amount of chop will help your concealment. The current is light. You should have no issues holding your position.”

  The commando studied the map, fixing the location of the closest islands to memory.

  “We will monitor your status as the ship passes,” the captain said. “Their helicopter has already flown away and there is no current in the water to mark the periscope. And it is a special periscope, the size of a tree branch. You will not be alone.”

  Three minutes later, the commando was at the bottom of the Qing. One of the things that made this sub so special was the access port at her lowest point. A compartment for people like him to leave the confines of the submarine without opening a hatch on top. He zipped the drysuit to his neck, concealing his digital blue camouflage, the standard uniform of the US Navy. It also concealed the nametag sewn to his chest that read “Lee,” the most common name of his people in the United States. He adjusted the dive goggles to his face, slipped into the water astride a submersible scooter, and quickly rechecked the security of his cargo before stuffing the rebreather regulator into his mouth. With barely a sound from the powerful electric motors, he steered the scooter from the bottom of the sub into the South China Sea.

  USS Bush (CVN-77)

  Quick watched as the last of the planes launched from Bush with a roar and a thud. The Super Hornet’s air conditioning sent most of the cold air to the computers while on the ground, so it was still hot as Hades for the humans in the cockpit despite the deafening rush of air.

  A Yellow Shirt marched up and flashed a questioning hand signal. She keyed the intercom, “Tumor, you all set to taxi?”

  “Good to go back here,” was all she got in reply. She returned an affirmative to the Yellow Shirt. In a few minutes of flurried activity the chains were removed and she taxied the big fighter thirty yards forward, just shy of the catapult. A moment later another Blacklion plane taxied into position behind Cat-4, just to her left—Lips and Chigga. Their canopies lifted synchronously as the four engines wound down, leaving the massive deck quiet once again.

  She removed her helmet, plopped Slammer’s ball cap back on, and wiggled her backside, trying to find a comfortable lounging position. Not for the first time she wished the sixty-million dollar jet sported reclining bucket seats like her Vette back home. The heat rolled back into the cockpit in less than three breaths. She turned her head as far back as she could, yelling to Tumor over her shoulder, “Now what?”

  “You gotta be shitting me, Nugget. You didn’t bring a book, either? I’ll talk to you in a couple hours.” She watched him jam in earphones then crack open a paperback. Damn, he was a grumpy bitch. She missed flying with Dingle. He always made her laugh. Well shit, she thought as she wriggled around, vainly seeking a less uncomfortable position, I guess this is just like practice bleeding after all. Not even a little fun.

  The Bush’s course took them due west, directly into the sun’s fireball. The great ship listed gently to starboard as it turned to the left and she twisted in her seat to watch the foamy wake come into view off her left shoulder. The turn south completed, Bush slowed, floating with the wind. The air was dead still, not a lick of breeze.

  The massive island superstructure to her right threw a big shadow across the deck. She had eyed it hungrily as it arced in her direction while the ship maneuvered. It came to rest tantalizingly close, twenty yards from her plane, and her ground crew scurried away and sank to the deck just inside the comfort. She mopped her brow, thinking it must be at least fifty degrees cooler in the shade. Maybe a hundred. A glance at her watch only made things worse. An hour and forty-five left to go.

  She passed the time counting the different types of birds wheeling about in the sky. There were huge ones with red bellies and forked tails that looked pretty cool. And a bunch of pelicans cruising effortlessly just over the waves headed to the low islands dotting the horizon. And the ever present seagulls loitering off the fantail waiting for the garbage dump. After she’d had as much as she could of birds she checked her watch again, tapping the face in disbelief. Five fucking minutes. She began to hate birds.

  Her thoughts turned to Dusty, broken to pieces in the infirmary, drugged up and vulnerable enough to be approachable for the first time ever. It turned out that she hadn’t grown up a child of privilege in New York, as she’d led everyone to believe, but in a dismal trailer outside Manhattan, Kansas; she had hated her call sign more than anyone could ever know. Growing up the only child on a dirt farm, her horse had been her only companion. Her father rocked on the porch, drinking beer day and night, defeated by life. Her mother worked two jobs to provide food—the day job for her family, and the night one to feed Snowball, her daughter’s best friend.

  Dusty described herself as a loner who had excelled in school and who’d jumped at the chance to escape when the Navy recruiter offered her an ROTC scholarship. She had knocked aside anyone who stood in her way from that moment on. She would never go back.

  Quick’s thoughts were prodded back to the present as her crew returned to the meager shadow of her plane, shooed out of the shade as another helicopter was towed to the center of the deck. She distracted herself by watching the helo crew for a few minutes as they fanned the blades, licking her lips in anticipation of the marvelous wind the rotors would make.

  Twenty minutes later, she gripped Slammer’s ball cap in her hand to keep it from blowing overboard as the helicopter lifted noisily from the deck. She clapped her hands over her ears while it hovered for a moment, blowing fantastic, exhaust-infused, gale force winds over her. Then it tilted away and flew to port, paralleling the ship in a hover just far enough away to take its breeze with it. As the heat settled onto her again she crammed the ball cap back in place.

  Dusty’s parting words in the infirmary had struck a chord. She had reminded Quick about the warrior chick who’d challenged the instructors to Crud that day at the Club in Oceana. That girl was a badass. That girl didn’t back down from anybody. That girl didn’t give a flying fuck about what any of the dudes thought.

  Okay, she thought, here I am, cooking to death in the sun. She didn’t feel very badass, but she didn’t feel like running anymore, except maybe back into the air-conditioning. Every inch of her body was swimming in sweat. She felt as if she were getting sunburned through her clothes. Checking her watch only made things worse. An hour fifteen to go.
Back to bird watching.

  Five minutes later she spied one of the seagulls alight onto a branch jutting from the sea a half mile abeam Bush. She was tempted to whip out the 9mm strapped under her armpit and start taking potshots. It would be a long shot with the 9mm, but it would be a piece of cake with the 20mm gun mounted in her plane. She wondered if she could get the guys to spin the jet around in time.

  An hour ten to go.

  The commando tensed in anticipation. Hanging just two meters below the surface, he clearly heard the faint noises of the carrier as it glided closer. As best he could tell, his preparation was perfect. 800 meters of line floated just beneath the slightly choppy waters, strung across the path the mighty ship had scribed many times already. At the far end was a sea anchor that would counter his drag while he sat at this end with the line attached to the front of his machine, gripping the submersible with all his might. He sensed the tug as the slowly moving behemoth caught the line with its bow. He twisted the throttle of the submersible wide open. For a moment he felt like a fisherman who had snagged a great whale. Even accelerating at full power, the immense force of the ship drawing his line nearly wrenched him from the scooter. But after the initial shock of the acceleration he stabilized, gliding a few meters below the surface, easing himself closer to the hull of the warship in a controlled sweep.

  He took a moment to gain control of his excitement. There was much work left to do.

  As he steered himself toward the ship he began to pick up the noise of the screws spinning slowly in the murky water. He eased the scooter toward the surface, breaching the water ten meters from the hull between two gentle cycles of the wake. The scooter skimmed across the surface of the ocean at 10 knots, pulled along by the force of the USS Bush like a jet-ski. He steered within five meters, keeping himself a safe distance from the sucking waterline where the ocean hissed under the hull to be run through the massive propellers. Above him, the flanks of the enormous ship flared out to meet the large flat flight deck, shading him from unwanted eyes peering over. About ten meters above his head was a door in the side of the ship with a balcony and railings, a sponson. He took a moment to ensure the sponson was clear, gazing up through the metal mesh floor. Satisfied, he clipped the line attaching his cargo to his belt and reached for the device that would launch his grappling tool.

  The helicopter lifting from the deck was a new MH-60R Seahawk. The cockpit of the helicopter was almost exactly the same as the previous type the crew had flown, so the pilot and the co-pilot were extremely comfortable and itching to go. As far as the systems in the back were concerned, however, it was a big improvement over the former variant, and the two sensor operators were still playing catch-up with their new gadgets. It was one thing to read the manual, and another to become familiar with the functionality in the simulator. But it was another altogether to actually employ the equipment in the field. The Tactical Sensor Operator wiped the sweat from his eyes as he punched buttons on his newest toys. “You ready back there yet?” the pilot chirped over the intercom, impatience lacing his voice.

  “Almost there sir,” the TSO replied as he clicked a few more switches. “Just making sure everything works before we leave the maintenance guys. Two minutes.” The last system to warm up and come online was the newest toy at his disposal, the Automatic Radar Periscope Detection and Discrimination Radar. The screen came alive and all indications were perfect. “Ready back here, sir.”

  “Got it,” the pilot replied. The TSO leaned back to observe Bush through the open side door as the helo added power, banking away gently.

  Before they turned ninety degrees, the Periscope Detector sounded an alert. The TSO cleared the contact, resetting the system. “What’chu got back there?” asked the pilot, spotting an unfamiliar message on his instrument panel.

  “Nothing sir. It thinks it’s got a periscope. I just reset the system. Should be good now.”

  “Rog, let’s head out to deeper waters and get some training in. Then maybe we can swing by some of those islands and check out the beaches.”

  About eight seconds later, the Periscope Detector alerted again. The TSO keyed the intercom. “This thing keeps telling me it’s got a scope.”

  The pilot stopped the helo, hovering. “Where?”

  “About two thousand meters behind the ship, just outside the wake on the west side.”

  “You shitting me?”

  “No sir. I already reset the system once. Want me to do it again?”

  “Let’s check it out. Might be ours is here already. May as well get some work in.” He looked at the co-pilot. “Radio it in, will you.”

  “Captain, the helicopter is returning.”

  “Scope down,” shouted the captain. In a flash, the tube receded. The Qing’s new periscope was extremely thin and used electro-optics for magnification which reduced the size of the head. Painted the same blue-gray as the sea the Qing floated just beneath, it was impossible to spot visually at more than a kilometer’s distance unless the sub’s movement threw a wake. The captain was confident they were undetectable in this still water, but why take further chances?

  “It may have a maintenance issue. We will park here. Rig for silent running. Engineering, suspend all auxiliary activities.” In an instant, the low background hum of cooling pumps and air fans ceased. The sub was so quiet all aboard could hear the pops and crackles of the undersea world just beyond her hull. In the heavy silence, the slow-moving screws of the Bush could be heard faintly churning away from the submarine.

  Only fifteen minutes into Admiral Kasperbauer’s treadmill session an aide had rushed into Ghost’s quarters unannounced. Now, two minutes later, the Admiral strode into the Combat Information Center—bathed in dim red light to prevent glare on the dozens of massive situation displays and computer monitors—in his workout clothes.

  “What’s up?” Ghost barked, scanning the screens for threats, and seeing none.

  The CIC Officer approached him. “Sir, the Seahawk reported a periscope contact just after liftoff in the vicinity of Bush.”

  Ghost nodded brusquely. “Is it ours?”

  “Definitely not sir. She’s still more than a day away.”

  A crewman who had been hunched over a monitor lifted the headphone from one ear. “They’ve lost the periscope sir. The pilot is asking whether they should proceed with their training mission.”

  “Tell them I would like the area scrubbed before they depart,” Ghost commanded.

  The Qing’s captain checked his watch. Three minutes passed. He glanced at his sonarman and the technician shook his head. Nothing had changed since they noticed the helicopter returning. It was probably just landing on the ship for repairs, but he dared not raise the periscope to confirm. Throughout the submarine the crew were frozen in position, waiting like blind mice, barely daring to breathe. One more minute, the captain thought, then I will chance a peek.

  The sonarman stiffened, then turned in a panicked stage whisper. “Splash one-thousand meters off starboard bow!”

  The captain felt a hot sunburst of adrenaline and fear spike through his system. “Torpedo?” he managed to inquire almost calmly.

  The sonarman shook his head. A moment later he spun around again. “Two…” he touched his fingers to his earphone, “three, four…five splashes!”

  “Sonobuoys,” the captain whispered. His periscope had been spotted, he was certain of it now. He turned to the chart on his plotting table. The relative safety of deeper water was very close, but for the moment, they would hide like mice. The sonobuoys were three-foot long tubes ejected from sub-hunters, in this case the helicopter, that detected sound and relayed acoustic information back to the operator. If the Qing made no sound, the sub, and all those aboard her were safe.

  “Anything?” the pilot queried as he circled the helicopter back.

  The Acoustic Sensor Operator was squeezing the sides of his helmet, jamming his earcups tight trying to cut out as much noise as possible. He shook his head. “Noth
ing sir. I just hear Bush. She’s loud as shit even at ten knots.”

  “Let’s dip the sonar,” the pilot replied. “Throw some light in the room, see if any cockroaches scurry. Give me a good spot from the periscope track file.”

  “Captain, there is a noise I cannot identify.”

  “The helicopter is hovering just above us,” the captain replied through clenched teeth. “That is what you are hearing.” Everyone on the sub’s bridge waited, craning their necks to the overhead as if they could see through metal. The seconds ticked by.

  Suddenly the Qing rung like the inside of a bell as the sonar wave hit them. The captain dug his fingers into the helmsman’s shoulder. “Go!” he yelled. “Go!”

  Admiral Kasperbauer perched on the edge of his command chair, eyes glued to a situation monitor. He was watching the blue helicopter symbol on the screen, barely blinking. A red submarine symbol suddenly appeared in the same location. “I’ll be damned,” Ghost said under his breath as he grabbed a phone connecting him directly to the bridge. “Captain, you have a Chinese submarine a mile off your stern,” he reported tersely.

  Immediately throughout the ship the 1MC public address system emitted a blaring klaxon followed by the command for all hands to man their battle stations. The great ship surged forward like it was shot from a cannon, kicking up a rooster tail of wake behind it nearly as tall as the flight deck. All personnel on board sprang into action, rushing for their battle stations—except for the four aviators in the two Rhinos, and their deck crew, poised inches away from the catapults, sharing looks of bewilderment.

  The commando was taking aim with his grappling gun at the sponson when the klaxon sounded on the carrier above him. Before he could react to the alarm, the ship accelerated at an impossible rate, nearly wrenching him from the scooter. He dropped the grappling tool, desperately grabbing for the scooter’s hand grips with both hands. Within seconds he was skipping across the water like a stone. He briefly considered cutting the rope yanking him forward but a quick glance at the waterline eliminated that option. The water was being sucked beneath the great ship by the four massive screws now thrashing at full RPM. He would surely be diced before he could get away. The speed was now too great to maneuver his scooter beneath the water. It was impossible to get the dive planes to bite as he bounced on the surface, clinging desperately to the grips. The scooter hit a wave and he was flung a few meters into the air, legs flailing behind. When he crashed back to the ocean his fingers slipped so that he was barely hanging on by the tips. On the next wave he would surely be gone.