Lions of the Sky

by Paco Chierici

  Tumor barked a laugh. “Kiss my ass, Nugget.”

  “Seriously? After all that, you’re still going to call me Nugget?” she asked in disbelief.

  Tumor looked down his nose at her, pinching off a smile. “I don’t care if you gunned a Flanker on your first Alert-Seven, on your first day on-station of your first ever fucking cruise, you are still a goddamn nugget until the end of this deployment, Nugget.”

  As relief leached out the fear and adrenaline, Slammer and the seven other Blacklions shook with manic laughter, as if that was the funniest statement ever uttered by man. When the laughter finally subsided they stared at each other, in mutual disbelief they were all here, all whole.

  The deck was quiet now, no more engines turning. The flight deck crews rushed over, crowding around them as green-clad aviators streamed up to the flight deck like ants abandoning a nest. Everyone knew something big had happened, though they didn’t know the details. The other squadron’s Hornets had returned hearing juicy, incomplete tidbits of aerial combat over the radio just prior to landing. The deck crews who parked the three remaining Lion jets noticed missiles missing and the gun ports black with powder burns. They all clamored for information.

  He pulled his crew into a huddle, encased by the growing throng. “Listen, Lions.” They were in a tight scrum, arms linked over shoulders, heads mere inches away as their backs were slapped and questions rang out from outside the knot. “What just happened will never happen again. Sure, Tiny and Skids took another one for the team, but we each bagged a Flanker.”

  “Wait, my missile hit?” Tiny interrupted incredulously. The group erupted again in a dizzy, punch-drunk laugh. The stress and tension bleeding out of their systems left them wobbly kneed and giddy.

  “Sure did, buddy,” answered Slammer. “Nice shot.” He continued, making eye contact with them all, one at a time. “All of them.”

  He paused when his gaze landed on the brightest blue eyes in the huddle. “And Quick, the most amazing guns kill I have ever heard of, much less witnessed. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we break this huddle and walk into the rest of our lives, but I do know they’ll be singing songs about this shit for a hundred years. You all kicked ass.”

  They came together with a roar, arms held together in a peak, turning then to accept the frenzied queries, slowly dissolving into the horde as they eased toward the steps leading below.

  The CIC officer strode to Admiral Kasperbauer’s command chair holding a folder. “Sir, we have seven sailors named Lee on Bush. Five are Asian, none are familiar with martial arts, all have been accounted for.”

  Ghost nodded, knowing there was more. “The damage was definitely caused by military grade explosive, not a ruptured steam pipe. Probably Israeli Semtex, or good old American C-4. It was a shaped charge, but we got lucky. Lee, or whatever his name is, didn’t have a chance to remove the device from the sea bag and position it properly. It was a huge blast, but it was pointed down when it detonated. The slug of molten metal penetrated almost to the hull. If it had been properly positioned, it might have reached reactor two. It wouldn’t have pierced the casing, but it sure as shit would have knocked the reactor permanently off line.”

  “Did they find the man’s body?”

  “No sir.”

  Ghost then asked the question whose answer he dreaded most. “What are our casualties?”

  The commander answered without the need to reference the report. “Sir, we lost four sailors. As I mentioned, it was a focused charge meant to penetrate hardened steel, so the blast didn’t radiate much. We were fortunate it missed any bodies in the decks below. Three of the fatalities were the security personnel in the compartment when the detonation occurred. We also lost one sailor who was assaulted by the…” The commander was at a loss for words as to how to describe the man who had invaded their ship. “…the intruder,” he finally said.

  Ghost felt each of the four losses as arrows hitting his body. Those men had been his responsibility, and he had failed them. “Thank you, commander. Your initial assessment was correct, of course. We were attacked. But we were lucky we had good pilots airborne to take care of matters. This could have turned out much, much worse.”

  Slammer sat on a stool in the paraloft, exhausted. He and Quick were the last two in the room, positioned at opposite ends of it as they slowly removed the bits and pieces of dripping gear like knights doffing their armor. First the helmet, then the pistol, then the harness and so on until eventually they were mere humans once again. Despite the rush of cooling air, the room reeked of fresh and dried perspiration. The other six had quickly stripped, joining the raucous celebration across the passageway in the Ready Room.

  He could hear whoops and cheers as each aircrew told their part of the story. He could imagine the jockeying for position around the video machines as Heads-Up-Display tapes were inserted, replaying the sights and sounds of what they had just experienced.

  He knew it would be chaos as soon as he walked in. This was a story he would tell as long as he lived. He was already imagining the hand motions needed to describe the engagements using the universal fighter pilot sign language. A graceful, almost Tai Chi, full body recounting, the head bobbing along following in trail of the hands as they flipped and intertwined in front, chasing each other. Characters in the drama accompanied by calm, almost clinical narration as the open-mouthed audience followed along, reimagining the hands into planes and the words into action.

  He leaned over, suddenly spent, placing both hands on knees, gathering energy before removing his G-suit. He had never felt more drained in his life. Sucks getting old, he thought. Twenty-nine was just a few months away.

  “You okay?” Quick asked, walking over.

  He stood, shaking his head like a burly bear drying off. “I’m good, thanks. I’m just tired as shit all the sudden. You?” He looked at her, standing in front of him in the stinky confines of the paraloft, hands on her hips like Wonder Woman, a cocksure smile gracing her face.

  “Never felt better,” she beamed. She held out her hand with a ball cap in it, “Here’s your hat. Thanks for looking out for me.” He felt there was something more behind her smile. Maybe something not appropriate to explore right here, right now.

  He tried to match her meaning in his smile, reveling in the uncertainty, respecting the limitations of the environment. “You shitting me? Keep it, it’s yours. You earned it and more saving my bacon. I’ll have you in hats the rest of your life for shooting that guy off my ass.”

  She nodded, still all teeth and twinkly blue eyes, putting the hat in her leg pocket. “Okay then. I’ll take it.” She turned, stepping toward the door.

  “Wait, Quick.”

  She stopped, turning slowly. “You know, every time you’ve ever said that to me, I’ve regretted listening to what came next.”

  He laughed tiredly, working up the energy to actually put thoughts to words. “Remember what I said at the boat party, about feeling sorry for naturals?”

  She nodded slowly. He could see she was waiting to feel the sting, poised to bolt. “That move of yours, the pirouette. That was incredible. All natural, all instinct. We don’t teach it. Not many can do it at all, much less to a perfect guns solution. It’s even more remarkable under the stress of combat.”

  She nodded, the joy gone from her face. “But…?” He knew she was still waiting for the hammer to drop.

  He shook his head. “But nothing. You know it, and I know it. You’re a kick ass fighter pilot. If there was any doubt in your mind, there better not be anymore. There sure as hell isn’t any in mine, or any of those swinging dicks across the hall in the Ready Room.”

  She took a deep breath and he imagined the words washing over her, cutting the poison strands of hesitation and uncertainty that had constrained her like Gulliver. She nodded, then turned to leave, to join her brothers and tell her story.

  “One more thing,” he called. She turned guardedly, as if expecting the worst from him. �
��When Dusty told us everything after the crash, in the infirmary, she told us about what you heard outside Mission Planning, in the RAG. She told us how alone and targeted it made you feel.” She glared at him and he swallowed hard before proceeding. “Saying it was a stupid joke doesn’t fix it. I never, never meant to put you there.”

  Her face was a mask. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation now of all times. You were an asshole. Even after that day.”

  “I know. I was. It’s just, you reminded me of someone. And maybe I was trying to fix old mistakes the wrong way.” He took a breath. Why was this so hard? “I just wanted you to know, I was wrong. I was going to say something to you in Singapore, but you were dancing with that dude all night.”

  “You mean Vic Bongiorno, the hot Aussie bush pilot?”

  He managed a smile. “That’s the one.”

  “Huh.” She fixed her impassive gaze on him and he thought he saw the blue of her eyes shine a little brighter. “You still owe me for winning the bet.” With that, she spun on her heels and burst into the Ready Room.

  He heard the thunder of cheers as the door closed behind her. It was her turn to tell her part. The most amazing part.

  What he didn’t tell her, and what he didn’t want to consider right now, was that as he had listened to Dusty recount the effect of his words, he had wondered what his mother would think of him. And he certainly didn’t want to delve into the sick realization that had gashed his stomach as Dusty wove her tale of deceit and manipulation, feeling as if she had no better recourse than to bridle his best friend and ride him to the finish line. Dusty was not a good fighter pilot and never would have been. But she didn’t trust anyone enough to believe them. That stupid joke the girls heard that day may have started a chain reaction that led to JT’s death.

  He unzipped his G-suit and flung it on the hook. Robin and now JT. People he loved who were no longer on this earth because he…. He knew it wasn’t all because of him, but he was a link in the chain. He was complicit somehow. He would deal with it all someday, maybe. The compartment he used to store thoughts deferred for a more appropriate time was getting crowded indeed.

  He sat, not yet prepared to immerse himself in the exuberance of the Ready Room. He would give Quick plenty of time for undivided attention in the limelight. She deserved it. Fuck, she deserved it. And then, when he’d gathered himself together again, he’d go in and celebrate. With her. With all the Lions.

  Epilogue

  10 August

  USS Bush (CVN-77)

  Ghost sat in CIC watching the monitors. Earlier that morning the oilrig transited past the Paracels without pause. When queried, the tug captain informed them he was towing the super-rig to Malaysia, near Brunei.

  Ghost sifted through the ream of intelligence reports he’d requested immediately after his fighter pilots had made it home the previous day. It was the raw data that led to the Bush Strike Group being deployed in these waters. The incidents were like a funnel, actions that led to reactions. A carrot on a logical string that happily led to Bush arriving at this spot in the South China Sea, at this time. He felt he was connecting the dots when the CIC officer interrupted him.

  “Admiral, a Chinese helo just picked up one of their downed Flanker pilots from the ocean. The helo is heading for an island close to yesterday’s operating area, about fifty miles away from our current location.”

  Ghost sat straight, concerned. “Are there Flankers airborne?”

  “No, sir. No activity at all in Hainan.”

  Ghost stood. “Get me a helo. I want to get out there.” When the commander balked, the admiral said, “Now, Commander. I’ve got something I’d like to confirm.”

  An hour later, Ghost stepped onto the sandy strip of beach bordering the surf and low scrub filling the center of the marshy atoll. He set off at a brisk pace, followed by a small detachment of security personnel, striding toward the Chinese Z-18 helicopter three hundred meters away.

  As he neared, he observed paramedics tending to an unconscious figure at the edge of the waves. The medics were ringed by a half dozen armed men. At the center of the action, a tall man in full uniform hovered over the medics. He turned his head, taking measure of Ghost and his approaching retinue.

  Ghost motioned his men to stop, and then proceeded alone, stopping midway between his security team and the circle about thirty meters away. The general strode to meet him, leaving his guards behind as well.

  Ghost extended his hand. “General Yongsheng, I presume. We spoke yesterday. Thank you for calling off your pilots. This could have ended much worse.”

  The general’s hand was cool and dry despite the heat. “Admiral. So excellent to meet you in person. Now I have a face for the man who acted so aggressively toward my forces. I do not believe this will end well for you.”

  Ghost leaned around the general, motioning to the commando being tended by the medics. “Is that the man who snuck aboard my ship? He’s been awful busy lately.”

  The general shook his head. “No, Admiral. This man fell from a fishing vessel.”

  Even from thirty meters Ghost could make out the medics treating a gunshot wound in the back. “That was quite the operation, General. I didn’t suspect a thing until the oilrig steamed right past the Paracels. We did a little digging and it turns out they were headed for Malaysia all along. Intelligence reports to the contrary.”

  The general returned a blank stare. “Admiral, I do not concern myself with the movements of oilrigs. I am a military man.”

  Ghost nodded. “I did some digging on you as well, General. Youngest regional commander in Chinese history. You have quite a list of accomplishments. I appreciate the effort you put into getting us here. Quite an ambitious operation.”

  The general ignored the accusation. “Perhaps we should schedule a lunch on this atoll for next month, Admiral? I’m sure we have much to speak of. Unless you are in need of repairs? It would be a pity to leave so soon.”

  “Oh don’t you worry, General. The Bush will be cruising these international waters for a few months. We’ll be here.”

  The general turned, walking back to his men. “Next month, then.”

  “Not on your life,” Ghost muttered.

  Back in his command center, Ghost called for his aide to get Admiral Ronka, the military attaché, on his cell phone. Five minutes later, the aide had arranged it.

  “James, this is Admiral Kasperbauer. How are you?”

  “I’m well, thanks. I hear you had a close call yesterday? We don’t have the details yet, but it sounds like disaster averted.”

  “That’s right, James. I can’t thank you enough for your timely assistance. It was as close as it gets.” Ghost cleared his throat. “Listen, I wanted to share some information with you about your contact, General Yongsheng. Keep an eye out for that one. There’s some compelling evidence he spent the last year laying a trail of breadcrumbs to lead a US carrier to this spot. He’s a shrewd one, that Yongsheng. As cunning and ambitious as they get.”

  “Admiral, I’m assuming you’re aware this is an unsecured line.”

  “Is it, James? I’ll be damned. Well, thanks for the assistance. Enjoy Beijing. If you feel like some beach time, come on down. We’re going to be here for a while.”

  Ghost hung up the phone and returned to the business of the day.

  Virginia Beach, Virginia

  19 March

  Slammer paced himself with the thinning Friday evening traffic, resisting the urge to gun the Cobra into every seam between cars. He felt like he’d been looking forward to this drive for more than a year.

  Finally the last commuter turned into the last driveway and the road was his. He let his foot drop, feeling the curves and the throaty growl of the engine. Oh, how he loved this car. Soon he was at the familiar bend, flanked by cornfields and trees on one side, and the slow flowing river wending its way into the Currituck Sound on the other.

  With the road to himself, he had time to let his thought
s intrude on the driving. The last few months had been a whirlwind. The Bush and the Blacklions remained on Papa Station after the incident, despite the damage to the ship. But they hadn’t seen another foreign fighter. Rumors filtered down from the admiral’s spaces of a big purge in leadership in the Southern Command. He guessed the sudden change in leadership, and the fact that the super-rig hadn’t parked in Vietnamese waters after all, removed the cause of the tension everyone had expected.

  In a way, it had been a letdown. But it had given him the opportunity to help Clam and the other senior aviators in the squadron train up the nuggets till they were honed razor sharp. The Blacklions developed into the pride of the air wing.

  Two months after their encounter with the Flankers, he was flown to Topgun for a face-to-face debrief. He carried their video and their stories to be broken down and dissected. And when they had wrung all they could from him, they sent him back to Oceana, to instruct. This time at the Strike Fighter Weapons School, where he could share their experiences with all the squadrons. He missed the Fleet, but it was a short assignment and he would return soon enough.

  He pulled up to the lonely stop sign surrounded by cornfields. To the right, farmland and small towns leading west to the Smokey Mountains. To the left, winding roads and beach motels. Choices, choices. A car facing him across the intersection flashed its lights three times. She was right on time. He smiled and turned toward the beach. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw the canary yellow Z06 make the turn and fall in trail. He caught a flash of white teeth and a smile, and a golden storm of hair billowing in the open cockpit. He stomped on the gas, his spirits surging as the Cobra leapt forward.

  Dedicated to those friends who left too soon:

  LT Tom TC Costen