Cintrinitas —— FULL.

Opening Action Sea Haven/Sovenian Conflict

29APR2014

Citrinitas

—–The First Cannonade

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy getting underway; it was that he didn’t enjoy the anxiety that came with the deployment of the entire battlegroup. Captain Tyler James Prescott, a weathered man at the age of 42, was what many in the armed forces called a lifer.

Joining the Navy during the civil war on the Redwall faction, Prescott was a man offered into the service to become an officer like his father before him, and his father before him. Starting his education at the Eastern Island Chain Naval Inspection Yard, he quickly shown through as a man capable and more importantly, able to perform when the chips were down.

He had entered the fleet at a time where many believed peace would finally be had. Things were starting to look up and there was even talk that Sea Haven was to be divided into two separate counties. Of course, greed and ambition got the better of some men, and military action resumed. He’d seen a lot for his years, surviving several small-scale engagements, transferring from frigate to destroyer, from destroyer to eventually the pride of the Redwall Fleet, the RDG Requiem.

He was there in 2001, serving as XO for the Requiem. That was the first real engagement he had ever been a part of. The staggering amount of aircraft, the fury of the cannonade, as if hell had risen up to finally wash away the stain that this conflict had wrought. The Sovenian action to “bring peacekeeping to the region” was both a blessing and a curse to the people of Sea Haven; it was the first time that they had unified since the colonial powers had left the chain back in the 80’s.

That call, that one call from that AWACS, a Redwallian AWACS no less, had finally achieved what war could not. It was a damn shame that the Requiem had been hit broadside in the initial assault, Prescott thought, but had the scar on his shoulder to remind him of the cost of war. He would never forget that he remained lucky compared to the 150 men he lost that day.

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While others might have finally called it a career, Prescott was intrigued by the new proposals for unification. That interest had landed him a spot on one of the newly acquired western designed Carriers that would help jumpstart Sea Haven’s power projections in the west under the newly signed North Ceresaen Treaty Organization that solidified Sea Haven as a world power with Bristol and New Haven.

By 2010, Prescott was a Rear Admiral in charge of Carrier Strike Group 1 presently at the helm of the SHS Gladiator, one of six of the most advanced nuclear powered carriers in the world. With him was an extended battlegroup ready to bring the fight back to Sovenia in the form of the largest battlegroup ever assembled on Sea Haven waters. While he normally commanded the Gladiator and her Carrier Air Wing, two Arleigh Burke-Class Destroyers and perhaps one or two Ticonderoga-Class cruisers, today he was to put much of the Southern Fleet into action, including a very lethal Marine Expeditionary Force.

“Sir, Report from CAG says that he and his squadrons are conducting patrols around the area and that there is nothing new to report,” came a call out from the senior watch officer on the deck. “CIC reports nothing out of the usual. Also, Sir, a cable from Admiral Green says that they have hit the rendezvous point ahead of schedule. Full read out can be accessed from your terminal.”

“Thanks Commander,” Prescott muttered as he skimmed over a report concerning armament logistics for the MEF. He quickly signed off on a transfer requisition and moved to the cable from Admiral Green.

TRANSCIPT: 1102-X4

LOGIN: VERIFIED

CAVEATS: None

///USER: GREEN, JAMES

CLASS: TS/TCI-II, PRIVATE COMMUNICATION

////ACCEPTED/START/

a. Carrier Strike Group 3 – (Spartan Strike Group) has arrived on station, conducting patrols and standing at ready/

b. Admiral, you are to continue to escort MEF and Battle Group through Silverbrush Strait/

c. Upon transiting through Silverbrush Strait, head bearing 254 degrees at best speed/

d. Bring Cigars/

///SIGNED/ras/29 Apr 12

///GREEN T. JAMES, Adm./Commander, SHPACFLTCOM

///NOTHING FOLLOWS//

He grimaced at the final comment made by the good Admiral. “Bring Cigars." Was he not taking the operation that seriously? He might not have had an entire MEF to handle, but he certainly had the entire Southern Fleet to think about. Then again, the man was responsible for the defense of Sea Haven from the Saints side of the game when Sovenia tried to reclaim the land for the vast oil reserves sitting inside the bay.

He might be an old crazy bastard, but he knows how to get the job done. Perhaps a Cigar would be what I need right now. Rear Admiral Prescott sat back in his chair, thinking of the days ahead.

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“CIC, I need an Alpha check on fleet heading,” Prescott stated though his console to the Captain heading up the Combat Information Center.

The response through the crackle of the mic was exactly what Prescott wanted to hear. “Check shows all green, Sir. We are about to enter the strait.”

This large force had not been conducted in an active engagement scenario in some time, and never with this large a force before. His crew wasn’t exactly green though, and they were certainly keeping on the up-and up.

His CO at the CIC, Captain Robert Jacobs, had extensive knowledge working with the carrier groups over in New Haven. He had been sent to New Haven for a training agreement to get Sea Haven carrier groups active and capable by 2008. He was dedicated, cool under pressure and had demonstrated multiple times that he was more than willing to get down and dirty when jobs needed to get done. His staff was exceptionally happy to be under him, wherever he ended up working. He’ll make a fine Captain of a ship one day, Prescott thought.

Of all the other officers on the deck, Lieutenant Commander Jessica Nusbaum was renowned for her ability to engage the crew during drill. Her position at communications had her in charge of the various communiqué between the carrier and the rest of the battlegroup; today though, she was in charge of a force almost triple what she was used to.

Despite the added pressure, she was a hard-hitting woman. Delicate when she needed to be, but able to outperform some of the most experienced Radio Intercept Officers in the fleet. Her attention to detail was unparalleled, and though she had some rather distasteful nicknames stemming from much of the enlisted ranks, the respect she commanded was unyielding.

Two ensigns took over the watch, Flanagan and Thompson. They were fresh out of Port Azure Naval Air Station’s Naval College. Both had done well, but they opted to try out for the carriers rather than try one of the smaller boats.

He took the time to get to know those with whom he worked with. Though the XO, Captain Arnold Travis, was off duty at this time, his bridge crew, along with the Carrier Air Wing downstairs, was ready to go at a moment’s notice. This was a major undertaking being pursued by Sea Haven, and though it had remained small scale over the past year or so, the boys at Southern Seas Command, under the directive of Parliament had finally mustered the force necessary to bring this conflict to an end.

They simply needed to get past the strait first.

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“No, I’m telling you, it doesn’t work like that. There is no possible way you are going to be able to even try to attempt something like that,” blared Capt. Ramsey over the radio.

“He’s right, you are running a fool’s errand if you even so much as attempt that sort of nonsense when we get back,” chimed in Lt. Commander Reeves.

Jonathan Ramsey, Callsign “Caesar,” Commander of the Air Wing and CO for CVW-2, was about as much of a pilot as a pilot could get. While he was starting to get old by wing standards, the burly 40-year old was still able to outperform most of the men under his wing, a point of pride he secretly kept to himself.

A graduate of New Haven’s Top Gun school and a veteran of the Civil War; Ramsey was a hero for actions performed against Sovenia back in 2001. Had it not been for the final couple of AIM-54 Phoenix’s strapped to his aging F-14A, the fight might have not ended with the sinking of the carrier Wilhelm allowing Sovenia to launch another volley to wipe away Sea Haven costal defenses from both Redwall and Whiterush.

Behind Ramsey was his best friend and best man, Lt. Commander Pat Reeves, Callsign “Aries.” Reeves had been with Ramsey since the start, when both men got their wings and began serving in the Saints National Forces, the armed wing for the Whiterush party during the Civil War. He had a gifted talent as the RIO. It was his job to monitor and evaluate information as it occurred during flight, and he was notorious during training for being able to assess even some of the Raptors when they worked against the Air Force.

The two were a respected pair of aviators, their performances made them highly respected and Ramsey’s laid back yet confident demeanor was a draw for many wishing to get assigned to CVW-2, specifically within VF-14, “The Black Hearts.”

“I’m telling you right now lieutenant, if you go back to the boat, sign onto your personal computer and propose to your girlfriend over the damn web, I will not only throw your ring off deck, I will tell her to go out and find a friend named Jody, do you understand me?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I really believe that this-,“ the young lieutenant Banks tried to defend his position, but others within the squadron began to offer their advice.

“Toppers,” as his wingmen bestowed upon him for his Callsign, “You really need to just learn to keep your mouth shut sometimes,” blasted Lt. Commander Harris, pilot of the number 2 on the flight. “We love you, you know this, but without our guidance you never would have had that woman to begin with.”

“Thanks, but I really think I know what-“ he tried yet again in futility to speak.

“Lead here, boats just informed us they are entering the straight and beginning their push to the rendezvous point,” Aries broadcast to the rest of the F-14D Super Tomcats that the squadron employed. While the squadron comprised of 8 aircraft total, the Captain had only decided to bring up one flight of 4, designated Callsign given to each in the squadron was “Black.”

“Roger, give our regards to the Admiral and get up with the flight deck, inform them that we are as fragged” answered Ramsey, indicating that the flight was receiving and complying with orders. “I want the rest of the Black Hearts up and ready to go. Black 2, you are on me. Blacks 3 and 4, you need to get saddled up on our tail.”

Three “Rogers” came back at him in rapid succession as the flight took to their prescribed route.

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“Authenticate last transmission.”

“GUIDING LIGHT.”

“Accepted. Commander, you are authenticated and are transmitting on a secure channel.”

“Sir, we’ve placed the two groups at Point Alpha. Target BULL is entering the strait now, target RAM has stopped moving and is anchored. We have them tracked through sat photos, but we’re about to lose that capability in about 20 minutes. We count two carriers along with support vessels akin to a double strength battle group. In all, we count 35 ships, with about 10 of them serving support roles. At this time, we have not been able to confirm the presence of their subs.”

“Anticipated numbers seem to be spot on. Commander, you have the authority by the crown to begin your assault in one hour, when BULL is halfway inside the straight. You know what to do.”

“Aye Sir, we’ll sink the carriers Commandant, I hardly think 5 Kirovs, let alone the rest of the fleet are needed for this, but the extra firepower is definitely not unappreciated.”

“Then by the divine Order of the Lion, may you succeed in your mission.”

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The F-22A was performing like she always did, a devoted and loving god of the air, and there was nothing Colonel Brad Harrison could not perform in this beast of a machine. He and his flight, the 204th Fighter Squadron based out of James Air Force Base, had been tasked with security runs along the western corridor of the island chains of Sea Haven to ward off unwanted problems coming from

Starting out in the F-15C and then moving to the F-15E as part of the famed “Sinners” Squadron back in 2006, he decided to take an offer to lead up a new squadron as part of the 18th Fighter Wing that had just stood up at Fort James on the western side of the island.

Though he couldn’t talk about his participation in the fabled squadron, he could confirm to his men that he had once served with SH-MoD/SSC/J-SAEW in some capacity. J-SAEW, or Joint Strike Air Expeditionary Wing, was the top performers in Sea Haven from both the Air Force and the Naval Air Forces. Some even argued that they were the best pilots in the world, and that their operations were still clouded in secret. What was known was that they participated in actions in conjunction with the Joint Special Operations Command, the tip of the spear for the Ministry of Defense.

Being 1st Tactical Fighter Squadron “Sinners,” he could still fly the F-22A, which was rapidly being deployed to most of the Fighter Squadrons in Sea Haven. New Haven had been adamant about a “no export” ban on the bird, but the special relationship it had developed with Sea Haven over the past 30 years had led to an initial shipment of around 16 Raptors, 8 of them were known to the public and were used as tech demonstrators for a while, but the other 8 had been painted black with a slight tinge or red for the pilots in the Sinners.

His new Raptor though was your standard paint job, the Compass Ghost scheme that was popular with western countries. He was invisible to just about everything in the air and on the ground, and that edge afforded Sea Haven an advantage that much of the world wouldn’t be able to meet for another 20 years.

As much as he loved to think about the intricacies of power projection and the politics of the world in the 21st century, the birds needed to drink and they were scheduled to hit up the local tanker in the area. “GUARD 1 to all flights, prepare for in-flight refuel. We’re to remain on station and anchor around the area. Hit up to Angels two-two and get on deck for boomer,” the colloquial term that pilots gave to the Boeing KC-10 refueling bird that helped extend mission time by an almost infinite amount, provided refueling could be provided when necessary.

“Raptors, this is Boomer Callsign “Baker-2”. We’re currently four-three nm northeast from bullseye on refueling tract CASPIAN. We are currently bearing zero-eight-zero degrees cruising at three-four-zero knots reaching angels 30. Snap to heading and we’ll see to it that you guys get your drink on.

“Guard 1 Actual to Baker 2, Raptor flight acknowledges,” Harrison was already on the stick making a hard right turn to get to the bullseye, a mission specific point on the map that was used to help guide aircraft towards where they needed to be for an operation. “We’re moving to your location.”

The Raptors behind Harrison turned in rapid succession to meet their lead flight.

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“Alright Guard 1 Actual, you’re coming in nice and tight. Keep that speed and heading, and we’ll get you filled up,” the voice behind the boom operator stated as he kept a hand on the stick that enabled mid-air refueling. While from the air the job looks rather easy, Harrison knew that this operation was something of a small miracle every time it was performed. Steady hands and steady eyes were a necessity to ensure that the aircraft joined together properly to enable the connection. What made it even more frustrating was that the Raptor’s inlet for fuel was located behind the cockpit, meaning he had to turn his head and rely on his wingmen to ensure that things were going smoothly.

The inlet connected and the fuel began to pump. Only a few moments and he’d be nice and full, ready to get back to patrol. “Boomer, appreciate the fill up.”

“No problem boss, we’re here to serve,” the pilot of the tanker replied. The tail indicated that he was from Camp View Air Force Base, about 160 miles east of their own James AFB. They were part of the 3rd Air Force, 49th Air Refueling Wing, a group completely comprised of KC-10s set on mid-air refueling with a motto befitting their role; “Dinner’s Up.”

“Thanks kindly, we’ll be getting out of your hair now,” Harrison said thanking the crew for what was a rather pleasant experience. He turned his attention to the rest of the flight. “Alright boys, check 045 left and let’s get back to where we need to be. We’re still on duty for another couple hours, keep watch and we’ll be home to catch the game by the time the battle group is out into open water.”

“Rogers” from the rest of the flight came back in, as did acknowledgements from the other flight, which was just entering the air right on schedule.

__________________________________

His job was an exciting one, to be slightly sarcastic. He had the joy of being a pilot in the Navy, and he got to travel with the most prestigious group of aviators in the Southern Seas Fleet, but he was still rather bored by it all with his posting to a turboprop airframe rather than a fighter aircraft. He continued to feel as though his abilities were being wasted. Commander Ryan Patrick and his co-pilot Lieutenant Ivan Stovonich were part of VQW-103 “The Gatekeepers,” one of two squadrons that operated the E-2 Hawkeye, an advanced Airborne Early Warning aircraft that served to detect and report any sort of problems or blips that might come up during patrolling.

This day, to the Commander and his co-pilot, looked like any other day, even with the sun swiftly rising out of the doldrums of the foggy morning. “Ensign, you got anything back there?” queried the Commander to his radar operator.

“I got nothing Sir, going to be another glorious day with Sea Haven’s finest I suppose.”

“Well, ensign, I’ve got nothing against the quiet of the morning. In fact, I prefer it if you ask me.”

“Yeah, I think everyone is just a little tense with all that’s going on, Sir. We’ve not had this big an operation in,” he sat there thinking for a moment, trying to remember the stories he had learned when he was younger. “Well, forever.”

The Commander looked back from his cockpit towards the younger ensign. Though he was only 29, he was respected by many under him, given that attaining O-5 at that age was incredibly rare. The perks to the job did seem to be plentiful on the ground though, despite the monotony. Perhaps the brass recognized exactly how bored he was all day, he thought. “Ensign, give send out our next update to the carrier, nothing to report.”

“Uh, Sir,” the ensign hesitated for a moment.

“What is it?” the Commander came back at him with a rather annoyed tone.

“Sir, I have possible contact on the scope. Can’t determine what it is yet, but it’s about one-five-zero nm out, just hit our detection range…” he stopped, stunned. “Sir, this looks to be moving towards the battle group. Not able to ascertain if contacts are squawking or not, far too early at this point.”

“Shit,” Patrick turned to his co-pilot, who was already working with the available electronic counter-measures on the bird. “Hit up the CIC on the Gladiator and inform them that we have possible gorilla formation on scope.”

He had been whining about it being boring, yet right now he wished it had been. A gorilla was one of the worst brevity codes available, “a large force of indeterminate numbers and formation.”

The ensign began his call back to the Gladiator, “Gate 1 Actual to Mother, we have possible…”

Voices trailed off as Commander Patrick began to let everything sink in. By his count, there looked to be over 50 contacts showing up on a bearing heading towards the battle group. 50 possible contacts, all loaded with the intent to destroy as many ships as they possibly could, and the fleet was caught right in the middle of the strait.

He wished he was in one of those Super Tomcats right now, the next twenty minutes were about to get hairy.

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“The Hell you mean ‘Gorilla’?” The Admiral was up and out of his chair at this point. They’d known that they would have been a target at some point, but from within their own waters?

“Sir, that’s what Gate 1 Actual just gave us down here,” retorted CIC’s Commanding Officer, “They are about one-five-zero nm out on our early warning net, but his closest air protection is elements of VF-14, CAG is up there right now with his flight.”

As if by command, Captain Ramsey’s voice filled in the bridge’s speakers, “Yeah, we just hit contact as well. Way too many contacts for us to handle right now, but we’re loaded to handle at least a couple of whatever is coming. We need to make visual contact with them, hope we don’t get launch signatures. Numbers are too damn high for this not to be an attack.”

“I concur, Sir. We’ve not picked up any surface contacts, but we are way too far out of range for Sovenia or another country to get here across the pond,” the Lt. Commanders’ voice began to sound much more stern. “They’ve got a fleet out there somewhere, and if those numbers are on the money, it has to be at least two or more carriers.”

“Right,” Prescott knew that the numbers were just too high for this to be anything else. “Sound General Quarters.”

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The call came out with the accompanying blare of a very loud warning siren. General Quarters had been called and the ship was alive with controlled worry. The admiral had something in the vicinity of 20 minutes to get as many birds up in the air as they could, all while coordinating for the defense of not just the carrier, but of the incredibly vulnerable MEF that was tagging along with the battle group.

He had to make a call, but even with more than his normal compliment, fifty to sixty birds that close was going to put them into a tight spot.

“XO, welcome to the deck.” The Admiral motioned towards his XO, Captain Arnold Travis. “Something of a situation here, glad you could join us.”

“No worries, Sir. Always glad to help when I can,” the XO smugly replied. Though their banter was cheerful on the outside, the next hour or so could potentially alter the course of the fleet.

“They’ve caught us in the strait, and though we’re still not sure on what we’re dealing with, we’ve confirmed 58 contacts, we’re designating them bogeys at this point, on radar.”

“Alright then, what else?”

“We’ve not located any surface contacts, but we are assuming at least two carriers with necessary support ships. I’d suspect Sovenian at this point.”

“Orders, Sir?”

“I need to make a call to Admiral Green and get them on alert, no way they’d have picked up the noise yet. Need to inform staff office as well. We’re carrying a lot of cargo right now.”

“Indeed, what do you need me on?”

“CAG is outside the wire with his flight right now. You’re in charge of flight deck operations at this point. I’ve got Lt. Comm. Nusbaum on the horn with the rest of the fleet; the ensigns are there at your disposal.”

“Aye, Sir. We’ll get the birds up soonest.”

The XO exited the bridge and moved towards the Air Traffic Control. Prescott put in a cable to Southern Seas Command to inform them of the situation and then made the necessary call to Admiral Green.

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The phone rang a couple of times before Prescott heard the click of the phone being picked up. “Prescott, I would have to say that this is a little early for our rendezvous, wouldn’t you think?”

“Sir, unfortunately we are still in the strait,” he winced as he braced for the next couple of comments he was about to make. “One of our Hawkeye’s has picked up multiple points of contact on their scopes. We have 58 confirmed contacts; I am designating them as bogeys at this point. Sir, advise you move your fleet out of the area and inform your CAG. We could use the support.”

“Admiral, call is appreciated. We’ll be there shortly.” The phone clicked off.

Prescott, too concerned to wonder why the phone call ended that quickly was already on to his next task, directing the fleet towards a defendable position in such a hazardous area. The strait of Silverbrush were so named due to the light reflection that came off the bluegrass during the early evening, local residents had called it a canvas dominated by what looked like the brush of silver that permeated throughout the region. Today though, it was a bottleneck, one that trapped dozens of boats in an area no wider than 20 miles at any point. The Sovenians thought this one through, didn’t they? Prescott thought to himself.

He sat down, a prominent line dominating his forehead as he thought about how to counter the impending assault. The bridge was momentarily quiet save for the roar of the engines coming from the now rapidly departing aircraft off the deck.

“Lt. Commander, get on the horn with the Ticos and the Burkes. I want that Aegis bubble up as soon as possible. Tell the MEF to gather around the carrier. We need to put up a protective net around the carrier and the MEF. Those bogeys incoming are going to do their damndest to take this boat out, but I will be even more damned if we let them get past the SAM shield. In the meantime, I want drones launched; we need to find their fleet. Soon as we’ve mopped up their fighters, we’re going for them, and you can be damn certain they’ll be moving to engage the fleet as we’re tied up with the bugs in the air.”

“Sir, fleet has been informed,” rapidly replied the Lt. Commander.

“I want all offensive capable birds out and going in the next twenty minutes. They have that long to get out there to defend the fleet,” Prescott was almost yelling his orders as the instinct that had been offset by peace slowly crept back in. “Ensign Flanagan, how far is the end of the Strait?”

Stammering for a second, “Uh…Sir, the strait ends in about 13 nm,” the visibly scared ensign replied.

”We have 13nm until we can effectively provide a defense for this carrier and for our MEF. Crew, you will push through the enemies kill box and we will break past this strait into open water. We are on our own so you will show me what Carrier Strike Group 1 is all about. You understand me?” he bellowed, as if believing his entire crew could hear his commands at this point.

As the bridge crew gave a taut, professional reply while they worked to fulfill the Admiral’s orders, all four catapults on the carrier came online. F-14D Super Tomcats and F/A-18F Super Hornets, otherwise known as Superbugs were lining up ready to take off to defend their mother, their engines roaring to proclaim that nothing was going to touch their mother.

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“AWACS, Callsign “Prankster” to all forces operating in the area. Southern Seas Command has issued new picture. Naval Forces as of 0820 have picked up multiple bogeys at low on a heading that has them going past hotdog red; they are about to punch through Sea Haven sovereign airspace.”

Shit, that call had caught the Colonel by surprise.

“Praetorians, you are to snap to new heading bearing three-four-zero, at gate from Angels one-five. Location is above Carrier Strike Group 1 in the Silverbrush Straits, designated Bullseye 2.”

“Guard 1 Actual Copies. Snapping to new heading and on GATE towards bullseye 2.

“Be advised, friendlies are operating on their own from home plate, still attempting to contact their CIC, but again, chicks are in the area squawking correctly. We should have contact in the next couple of moments. Heading is considered green; you will provide a support role until they are able to get their bearings, Copy?”

“Guard 1 Actual Copies. Prankster, do you have a confirm on the number of bogeys at this present time?”

“We have five-eight on scope at this time. No confirmed presence of a fleet at this time.”

“Roger,” he switched to squadron frequency, “Alright Praetorians, Navy flyboys want our help as they aren’t fit enough to handle a couple of gnats. We’ve been called in to provide assistance as necessary, Give me comms check.”

“Guard 2 acknowledges.”

“Guard 3 acknowledges.”

“Guard 4 acknowledges.”

“Guard 5 acknowledges.”

The Colonel saw the rest of his squadron come into formation on the rest of the echelon. “Glad to have you guys back on the wing.” Guard 5 opened up, anticipation in his speech, “Sir, we’re ready to go. Finally time to bring these puppies to bear.”

“You got the right,” Harrison replied. He had to admit, he was getting a little anxious too. He had been incredibly busy with action in the Sinners, but even then, it was mainly for Close Air Support and the occasional whirly-bird shoot down. They had contacts, and a lot of them coming.

“Boys, Time to get our feet wet!”

Citrinitas —–Impact

“Spector 1 Actual to all wing commanders, give me comms check.”

“Widowmaker 1, check.”

“Lionheart 1, check.”

“Spear 1, check.”

“Sickle 1, check”

“Trident 1, check”

“Comms check good, we’ve just past their sovereign airspace and have likely hit their early warning detection systems. Intel puts their first barrier in about one-zero-zero Nm from our current position, and then another one-five-zero Nm until we are able to pierce through the heart of their fleet.”

He checked his instruments again, ensuring that they packages on his wing were ready to be set free at the initial launch point. “We have one-zero minutes until we are able to produce lock and commence the attack.

Gentlemen, the eyes of the nation are upon you and your King awaits his victory,” the wing commander at the lead of the formation in his custom white and yellow painted Su-33 “Flanker-D” was shrill with his speech to the assortment of aircraft behind him.

They were to be the first real punch in the war to take back what was rightfully theirs. Their King had fought bravely to regain their national identity under the foot of communism; it was time for his people to repay the debt, and the first of many victories lay just above the cloud ceiling flying at a relatively slow speed.

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Lieutenant Commander Patrick was getting anxious. They had already cleared up to Angels three-zero and were making best speed back to the protection of the carrier.

No air cover and we’ve got to get de-loused before they recognize we’re here, the anxious pilot was checking his bearing while the rest of the crew kept their eyes pierced to the radar and other early detection systems.

While the Hawkeye had no offensive means to defend herself, she held the basic and what would be considered minimum amount of items to help dissuade enemy fire. A few chaff pods and flares were all that helped to keep this bird alive, and though that would usually help against one, perhaps two missiles, it was the job of one of the more sophisticated EA-18G Growlers to provide interference and jamming.

Today though, the crew went without such luxuries, and they had to hope that they could get out of the maximum engagement distance between them and the rapidly approaching bogeys.

“Gate one-zero-four to Mother, we’re about one-zero-zero Nm from bogeys, and they are moving fast on attack vector, request immediate support.”

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The carrier’s ATC team was already working to provide that cover and in the past ten minutes, about 20 total aircraft were up. The carrier, a Gladiator-class nuclear powered carrier was one of the most advanced pieces of machinery in the world, and though they had been produced in New Haven, Sea Haven was considered the first real wall into the western world, all thanks to the six carriers she possessed.

With a compliment of over 5,000 personnel and a full wing of aircraft totaling 70 in number, a carrier from the western world was designed to be a force multiplier and if necessary, a statement to countries that got out of line. While naval theory since the last Great War had rapidly seen to the ascension of the carrier as the principal ship in the waters, it was New Haven and Sea Haven that fully embraced the power that these floating fortresses could command.

A demonstration of power, and so far 19 of the 70 aircraft were up and running. The crew on deck had about five more minutes to get their birds up and in anchor until first contact could be made. The staff up top was confident that a BVR, or Beyond Visual Range launch was going to occur, and had thusly planned to retaliate in turn, should it come to that.

To answer any threat from the sea, CVW-2 was fitted with some of the most sophisticated aircraft in the world with some of the best pilots and crew ever formed. F-14D “Super Tomcats,” or Supercats, as the pilots referred to them, were the last remaining relic of the Cold War era, but for good reason. The bird was feared for the AIM-54 Phoenix, a long-range air-to-air missile that was designed to take out a target from well beyond visual range. While the Supercat was able to take out targets from range, Captain Ramsey ensured that each craft was given a few self-defense AIM-9X Sidewinders. Loadout for the mission was to be four Phoenixes and two Sidewinders.

The Superbugs, officially the F/A-18F Super Hornets, were to handle any seaborne threats when the inevitable enemy fleet got into distance. He’d have them launch after the other Tomcat squadron was up in the air. They’d be packed with two AIM-9M Sidewinders, but their main compliment was to be the AGM-84 Harpoon, a powerful Air/Surface-to-Surface missile meant for anti-ship.

The crew in the Hawkeye didn’t have to wait long, but they would have to hold out, CVW-2 was about to come to the rescue.

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“VF-14, welcome to the air,” Ramsey gave a little wing gesture to say “hello” to one of the fellow squadrons now making their way towards the anchor point above the fleet.

“This is Cerberus flight lead, Callsign Hound one-zero-zero, glad to be here Caesar,” the gruff voice of an aging airman speaking as though he were annoyed to be up in the air, “Where do you need us?”

“Deploy to briefed position. Stay in pattern until we can ascertain what we’re up against. Skipper deployed a few Cyclopes out to find where the fleet is, and we are attempting to make contact with them now, but get to float.” He ordered, giving the code ‘float’ to get his squadrons into a defensive posturing.

The Captain was glad to have two full squadrons of Supercats up in the air at this point; he hadn’t figured the flight deck could move that fast without him, regardless of that though, he had two Tomcat squadrons on station with Growler support and a Superbug squadron ready on deck and getting anchored.

Though they numbered 16 total birds at this point, the added compliment of Growlers and eventually the Superbugs was going to come in handy. 16 Tomcats with 4 Phoenixes each made for a mean punch, but they didn’t know how heavy their punch needed to be at this point.

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“Sir, Cyclopes away and on bearing towards estimated location of the enemy fleet,” Ensign Flanagan reported to the Admiral.

“Excellent,” the Admiral was fairly confident at this point that they were suitably ready for any sort of engagement that was likely to occur at this point. The Tomcats were up and providing air cover to the fleet, but he ensured that nothing too was to be released unless the fleet was fired upon first. Though they were officially at war, there was nothing that could concretely put the coming mass as Sovenians.

“Get Gate one-zero-four on the line; I want an update from them soonest.”

Lieutenant Commander Nusbaum keyed her communications station, depressing the mic. “Gate 1, this is Mother. Give BRAA,” informing Gate one-zero-four to provide tactical information relating to the enemy formation relative to the Hawkeye.

“Mother, current enemy position is bearing one-seven-five towards the battlegroup. Range is six-three Nm from our current position, altitude is low and aspect is also one-seven-five.”

“Roger, continue on course back to home plate. You should have air cover in the next 10 minutes.”

“Aye Aye, Out.”

The admiral sat back in his chair as he contemplated the coming minutes. The Aegis system was designed to be as close to impenetrable as possible; forming a mass of layered radar that was able to help pick off and jam any sort of missiles or torpedoes fired, but the sheer volume coming in towards the battlegroup was immense, and only 20 of the 25 ships in the fleet had Aegis.

It was time to give them the opening statements to what would inevitably become a battle. Unfortunately, he had to follow the rules and offer radio communication before he was able to fire upon what was clearly an attacking force. “Mrs. Nusbaum, I want you to hail the ingressing bogeys and give them our intentions. They have to know we are aware of what they are doing at this point”

She picked up the mic, unintentionally getting the rest of the bridge crew to stop everything. They were all anxious, hoping that they could at least know whom they were up against. “This is Sea Haven Carrier SHS Gladiator. You are in Sea Haven Sovereign territory on a vector towards our airspace. You are in violation of MOA two-two-one-four. You will snap to heading zero-one-zero and egress out of the airspace or you will be fired upon.”

She let off the key, as static and the occasional crack were all that the radio offered. “I repeat,” her voice trembled just slightly enough for the Admiral to register, “This is the SHS Gladiator of the Sea Haven Navy. Unidentified bogeys, you will walk out of the airspace on heading zero-one-zero or else be fired upon.”

It didn’t sink in immediately for a few of them. Of the bridge crew, only two of them had ever seen real action, and the Admiral had never been one to highlight the “glory” of the fight. They sat there, for only the slightest second knowing that their training would actually have to be put to use.

“Bring all turrets online and prepare to counter the enemy volley,” Prescott blared before fear and anxiety got the better of the younger officers. He knew that Sovenia liked to get off a few cheapshots, or BVR shoots, before they got within visual range. He at least had to be thankful that their assortment of technology wasn’t the most reliable. “Check with the Burkes and the Ticos, ensure that SAM bubble is in place and ready to go.”

The various ships, his ships, were already in posturing to provide a shield for the carrier and the assorted ships that were part of the MEF. He needed everything they had to bust the upcoming volley, and though the carrier had an initial defense of Mk. 29 Enhanced Sea Sparrow Missiles designed to intercept other missiles supplemented by a point defense of RIM-116 Rolling Airframe Missiles and the CIWS Phalanx, they had potentially hundreds of enemy missiles to deal with.

Even with the combined firepower of 12 Arleigh Burke class destroyers and 8 Ticonderoga class cruisers, they were in for a hell of Sovenian greeting.

Before he could process the logistics in his mind, Captain Jacob’s voice down at the CIC blared in the horn. “Sir, Gate one-zero-four is hailing us.”

__________________________________

“WARNING, RED. We have eyes on the bandits; can confirm that Sovenian aggressors are ingressing with intent to fire upon the battlegroup. I repeat, WARNING, RED” Patrick had never been more scared in his life. He had to have been showing up on their radar at this point, and it was as if they just wanted to ignore him, like he was a fly. “Sir, can confirm several formations of Flanker-Ds and Fulcrum-Ds. They are definitely carrier-borne.”

__________________________________

The admiral had to make a snap decision. They were assuredly about to be fired upon, and he had only 21 aircraft and his fleet up and ready to go against 58 enemy aircraft intent on sinking them. “Make ready for initial volley. Inform the CAG that he is weapons free as soon as we get confirmation that they have launched. ROE still applies at this time; we have to take this hit.”

The bridge crew became alive, radioing across the bands towards the other ships in the fleet and to the air wing. As if by magic, Prescott looked out the deck to see the SAM and point-defense turrets move to anticipate the threat while the roar of the engines from the birds in the air were already moving to meet the enemy.

Prescott made a quick mental note of the numbers on where to get his gun crews positioned then made a quick call to the Flight Deck. “Inform Gate one-zero-four to bugout and make best speed towards the coast.”

At this point, they had just leaked past the first defensive barrier without so much as a radio warning, and had ignored the carrier’s initial hail.

__________________________________

Patrick made a run for the coast, hoping to at least get over land. The order from the Gladiator informed them to get out of dodge and make for feet dry. They would not get the air cover they had requested; the fight was coming in far too fast. From initial contact point to this moment had taken all but twenty minutes. They were getting close to Joker fuel state, and would be bingo in about fifteen.

He had started making the turn when the red lights started to flash. It was something no pilot ever wanted to see, they had been spiked.

“Shit, fucking shit!” The crew was already working to get countermeasures ready to go. A spike meant that they had been lit up and that the clearly-hostiles-at-this-point were about to engage.

__________________________________

“Guard one-zero-four to Mother, we are spiked, requesting cover, we are as fragged on egress, two bandits have broken off and are pursuing. Please advise?”

The call came in rather suddenly, too fast for the ATC to patch the call through back up to the bridge.

“I repeat, we are spiked,” the line went quiet for a moment, but the ATC staff could hear the pilot yelling in the background for chaff and flares. “We have been fi-.”

Static filled the band.

__________________________________

“Sir, ATC has just informed us that Gate one-zero-four has faded from radar, presumed lost.” Before she could follow up with last known position, Jacobs blared through the comms from the CIC.”

“We have multiple confirmed launches from bandit group, repeat, multiple VAMPIRE launch from bandit group.”

They knew it was coming. They all knew that the group, which was now 70 Nm out, would eventually have to launch. The carrier group would take the initial hit, but they were now cleared hot to bring in the air cover.

“Prep all SM-2 tubes and begin to counter,” Prescott was methodical, precise and composed as he formulated the directive to keep tens of thousands of men alive. “Have the Sparrows hot keyed and ready for deployment and for God’s sake, keep those Vampires off the personnel carriers.”

While Prescott did indeed command the entire battlegroup, it was up to the individual destroyers and cruisers to coordinate an effective defense against individual threats. While the Carrier lacked the fabled Aegis system, it was more than capable of defending itself against incoming attacks in the form of two launchers containing Enhanced Sea Sparrow Missiles, designed to intercept and destroy anti-ship missiles. Those could be launched with targets still at a distance, but in the event that any should break through, the Gladiator was equipped with the latest in point-defense capabilities, the Rolling Airframe Missile. Designed as a close-range point-defense turret, the RAM was designed to rotate along the longitudinal axis during flight to stabilize itself.

The carrier, capable enough as it was, had a sturdy protective shield around it in the form of the fabled Aegis. The Aegis was either a cloak or shield that would protect those whom were under the good graces of the Gods. Today, it was the triple layered shield that would protect the ships and her crew by the good graces of the Sea Haven Navy.

There was a slight pause from Prescott’s orders, “CIC commands from all ships are linked and on target, Sir! SM-2’s away!”

The bridge crew, consumed with the various tasks needed to run the ship in a defensive posturing hardly noticed as twelve Arleigh Burke class destroyers along with eight Ticonderoga class cruisers began to stream off their SM-2 payloads. The RIM-156 SM-2ER was an extended range SAM designed to intercept and destroy incoming threats; primarily the type that were cruising towards the battlegroup at over Mach 3.5.

Prescott, not accustomed to the sheer amount of firepower being lobbed to meet the enemy threat was a sight he’d never thought possible. The initial set of SM-2’s had been launched, their contrails painting dozens of lines of gray over the calm sea air. The Aegis combat system was designed to allow for all ships in the fleet to communicate with one another in the event of a multiple launch scenario. Individual ships were given tasking and firing orders in a way that assured that no duplicates were had of targets.

A lull occurred in between the first and second volley, giving Jacobs just enough time to get the Admiral’s attention. “Sir, CIC’s are reporting that we do not have the time to launch all SM-2’s, we’re going to switch to ESSM’s in about 20 seconds, and bracket them with our RIM launchers in about 15, God willing we won’t need to bring in the Mk. 36s and Phalanxes.”

Prescott, still gazing at the wisps of contrails being left by the departing SAM’s thought over the numbers; “102 contacts against our 20 Aegis boats…not bad odds,” he was confident, but he had to remember that no one had come up against that type of firepower before.

“Splash, Multiple Splashes on the SM-2’s!” Ensign Thompson, who had been manning the weapons station on the deck, eagerly cried out to the bridge. “Confirmed 47 splashes on enemy vampires. Sir, the rest are still coming in low!”

Without even having to say a word, the Gladiator joined in with her fleet as the enemy vampires crossed into the critical 27 Nm range that allowed for the RIM-162 ESSM to launch. Another set of contrails lifted off from each of their launchers as they hurried to meet the enemy.

The Evolved Sea Sparrow Missile was an updated version of SAM that was perhaps the most advanced countermeasure on the ship. Coming online in 2004, the ESSM was larger, more powerful and better equipped with an enhanced missile guidance suite when added to the Aegis Combat System’s SPY-1 radar. What made them even more valuable was that they took up even less room, requiring 4 missiles per cell on the standard Mk. 41 Vertical Launch system employed by the destroyers and cruisers.

The contacts felt almost instantaneous as the young ensign was already confirming another 35 down as the constant roar of rocket fire became even more intense with the battlegroup switching from medium range ESSM’s to the RIM-116 Rolling Airframe Missile.

“Sir, second layer penetrated, 40 seconds to impact!”

“Continue with RIM barrage, make ready the Sea-Whiz,” Prescott was getting anxious at this part, the numbers still looked good to prevent any strikes. They’d successfully down over three fourths of the enemy vampires, but any of them could prove deadly if they found purchase near the ships’ magazine.

“Aegis switching to RIM, barrage away. 35 seconds to impact!”

The deck of the ship clouded with dust as more and more heavy rockets separated from their tubes. The view Prescott took in was one of hundreds of contrails that had already pushed through to counter the incoming bombardment.

More and more puffs on the horizon, but still more were able to penetrate the barrier.

“15 seconds to impact, Sea-Whiz is opening up! SRBOC around the battlegroup deployed!”

It was a deafening roar as the CIWS, or Sea-Whiz as sailors often referred to it as, opened up with a barrage of kinetic rounds meant to force a wall of lead into oncoming missiles.

The battlegroup in essence had become a Spartan phalanx, its shield visibly deployed as a glittery silver dust cloud gleamed against the shining of the sun, enveloping the Gladiator and her charges from all that would dare to antagonize her. From beyond that protective veil, lances of heat and lead penetrated and shattered the enemy where it dared approach.

Even then there was not sufficient time to counter the remaining threats. This Spartan phalanx would be broken.

“There’s too many of them!”

“Continue artillery barrage! Brace for Impact!”

Citrinitas —– Crossed Swords

It was hell down there.

The vampires were already on target towards the carrier and her battle group, but they had less than a third of the wing up and on station. Missiles were screaming from the destroyers and cruisers, and the chaff cloud was growing more and thicker as they inevitably prepared for missile impact.

He didn’t have time to pay attention to the fleet; his job was to coordinate an effective counter against the rapidly approaching hostiles. “Fuck, we’ll have to make due.” Captain Ramsey cursed under his breath.

Reeves, sensing that the CAG was not too happy with the current situation interjected, “Caesar, we have the rest of The Black Hearts up, Cerberus made it up too, and a flight from the Trojans are on station. Mother also got one of the Growlers up from The Specters.”

The crew in the Growler hissed on the radio, “This is Whiskey two-one-three; our number two is on catapult, delayed due to incoming on the fleet. Black flight, picture?” Their job was essentially to provide a stiff middle finger to any enemy incoming. The advanced systems of counter electronic warfare and jamming equipment made them a valuable asset in any furball.

“Black, Whiskey; gorilla, holding hands at cherubs five bearing east at one-one-zero. Track west at five-zero-zero knots. Form up on our wing and provide countermeasures.”

“Whiskey two-one-three acknowledges.”

“Alright everyone, time to fence in,” indicating to all flights that it was time to get all cockpit instruments ready for the coming engagement.

Ramsey cycled through the logical choices to make at this point. Their contacts were only at 500 feet off the deck, they had already launched giving him clearance to fire. “Hound flight 2,” he radioed towards VF-14 “Cerberus,” “You have eyeball on this one. Hound flight 1, form up and make ready Fox-Three’s. Hound flight 2, snap to heading two-seven-zero at gate. You will continue as fragged for intercept, make ready slammers.”

He wanted to get the Superbug flights out to medium range so that they could open up with their slammers, a medium range air-to-air missile. While the Superbugs closed the distance, the 12 Supercats would be cleared to launch their AIM-54 Phoenixes, a long range BVR missile meant to take out targets from over 100 Nm, and they were well within range.

“Hound flight 1, acknowledged.”

Ramsey held formation with his squadron and half of Cerberus. The Growler had taken position at the rear of the formation, already engaging its ALQ-218 Jamming Pods. These pods, mounted to pylons akin to the same way of missiles, were designed to interfere and defeat the guidance systems to all forms of air-to-air missiles

The Superbugs were at full burner and making for intercept on the group when he turned back to the task at hand. “Hostile group is one-zero-zero tracking east and closing. Flight is cleared hot on the bandits.”

Reeves acknowledged the order, “Tally, contacts one-zero-zero miles out, illuminating,” he paused for a moment. “Have tone,” another half-second passed. “Locked up!”

“Engage. Black one-zero-zero, fox three, fox three.”

Calls from the other birds came in as the first volley was released from their pylons. Ramsey felt the clank as his own Phoenix was dropped from the bird. Reeves didn’t miss a beat as he let the first Phoenix get on its own guidance suite. The twelve substantial missiles were given a moment to free-fall before they rocketed towards their targets with a charge unyielding.

Reeves was already searching for another set targets. They would launch two at once this time, sending a total of 24 missiles against the enemy formation. “Second volley in two seconds. Post attack, roll in and commit to furball.” The flight had already started actively searching for another target, as Reeves guided the illuminator towards another hapless foe. “Tally, contacts eight-eight miles out. Have tone.” The lock was almost instant this time.

“Black-one-zero-zero, fox three, fox three.”

A set of 24 was on their way by the time the first volley had made it to the hostiles. “Splash five,” Reeves reported as he saw targets disappear from his radar. More than half missed, but that was certainly a start. The next volley would have more difficulty this time as the enemy formation had already begun to splinter and launch chaff.

“Hound flight to Black one-zero-zero, don’t worry, we got them.”

Though he couldn’t see them at this range, the Superbugs had just launched their Slammers, the AIM-120 medium range air-to-air missile that would do some serious hurt to the enemy formation. Calls of Fox One filled the airwaves as the 8 Superbugs met an onslaught of enemy Flanker-D’s and Fulcrum-D’s.

At least they’d be facing less than they started out with. “More splashes on second wave combined with those slammers!” Reeves was getting excited, “Eight more splashed.” The enemy might have had warning this time, but even not even the best pilot is going to be able to dodge that many missiles every time. It was worse a ratio than the initial volley, but splashes were splashes.

Still showing 45 contacts, the 21 friendly birds were in a more than 2-to-1 engagement at this point. “Caesar,” Reeves was keeping tallies on their numbers, “Superbugs have entered furball with a bulk of the hostiles.”

Bastards are staying outside the SAM bubble from our ships, going to make this a little tougher. Ramsey wasn’t happy with the situation they’d been put in, but they’d have to do something.

“Alright, Black flight, commit to furball. Hound flight 2, stay on deck with Specter two-one-three and keep his ass covered. We’re going in.” Their Tomcat made a sharp bank to the right as he and the others dropped altitude to meet up with the furball occurring twenty miles out.

__________________________________

“This is Trojan one-four-two, got two hostiles on my rear!”

Ramsey pulled his bird to a hard right to engage and de-louse the Superbug that had turned in a bit to hot on his attempt to engage a pair of Flanker-D’s. He had accidentally pushed his stick to hard in a miscalculation of speed and had subsequently overtaken his quarry. The two Flanker-D’s were hoping not to waste their reprieve and aggressively pursued Trojan one-four-two as he attempted to break from the engagement. Ramsey kicked the airbrake in an effort to gain distance to afford a heater shot.

“Trojan one-four-zero, bank two-four degrees right. I’ll get you de-loused,” Ramsey struggled to get the words out of his mouth as he attempted to compensate for the eventual turn. His angle would bring one of the Flanker’s directly down his boresight, giving him just enough time to gain lock.

The Superbug, after a moment’s hesitation radioed back to Ramsey. “Trojan one-four-zero banking two-four degrees on mark” Ramsey was already illuminating the trailing Flanker. “Mark!”

The aircraft made a bank to the deck with both of his pursuers following like hounds to the fox. What they didn’t anticipate was the F-14D two miles behind that was able to gain tone. “Black one-zero-zero, fox two, fox two!

The AIM-9X sidewinder, or the heater, was a short-range air-to-air missile designed with agility and speed in mind. The missile streaked off the left front pylon as the sound thundered through the cockpit. Though the missile was a “fire and forget” weapon, Ramsey kept his eye on the missile as it made a b-line for the closest Flanker-D. He watched as it tried in vain to pop chaff. The sidewinder hit right behind the canopy on the left engine, causing the Flanker to ignite almost immediately. Ramsey saw as the front of the bird, along with the pilot, was detached and sent towards the sea. Secondaries blossomed through as he felt the concussive force of the explosion when he passed the now scrapped enemy bird being engulfed in its death pyre.

His maneuver had caused him to lose his positioning behind the remaining enemy, he’d be forced to make a banking turn and swing around. He saw as the rest of the squadron was in a major furball with the majority of the contacts a couple miles to the west of their positioning. The two Flankers had given chase to a straggler, not counting on Ramsey to interfere.

The turn was coming around; he’d be right on the nose with Trojan one-four-zero and the lone hostile. “Trojan one-four-zero, Black one-zero-zero, I’m coming for a head on pass, hook right in 5 seconds.”

Ramsey counted down to the five-second mark, the Superbug and Flanker rapidly closing the distance towards him. At the zero mark, Trojan one-four-zero turned hard at full burner, leaving just enough time for Ramsey to get a perfect nose shot with his remaining heater.

The missile sliced through the air towards the lone Flanker from only two miles, not even allowing enough time for the target to attempt release of chaff at this point. The heater struck on the right hand intake of the Flanker, almost perfectly going into the hole. The detonation of the missile tore shrapnel through the engine as it caught fire and began to become unfastened from the rest of the plane. In an instant the enemy had combusted, not a fragment of her resembled the once proud Su-33.

Ramsey didn’t have enough time to count up today’s tally. Already at 4 confirmed shoot downs, he was out of AIM-9s and only had one AIM-54 Phoenix left, which was for nothing as he didn’t have the range to launch it properly. Regardless, he’d have to press on until they could get some form of relief. The rest of his flight was in the furball, trading Sidewinders for Archers, Slammers for Alamos. He’d broken off to save the Trojan bird, as he’d been pushed out of the fight by pursuing enemies.

Trojan one-four-zero formed up on his wing as they made bearing for the furball. Ramsey saw that he still had one slammer and two heaters on the rails; he was still good for the fight.

Reeves yelled from his seat in the RIO position. “We’re being spiked!”

“Shit, Where?”

“Four bandits have broken from the furball and are head on with our bearing. Shit, Atoll, Atoll!” The contrails of several missiles were on their way towards two aircraft. Ramsey blared to his charge “Drop confetti and bank right!” Both Ramsey and the Superbug from the Trojans banked opposite of one another while popping more chaff and flares in an effort to defeat the enemy missiles. Reeves concurrently engaged the ASPJ system, a jamming pod that supplemented other protective measures on board the craft. Trojan one-four-zero on the other hand had a full range of countermeasures in which to combat enemy incoming.

Those measures would have to pull through as three of the four incoming archers raced towards the juking Superbug. The first archer was a clean miss, passing right in front of the Hornet without causing any damage. The second archer connected, but hit the trailing ALE-55 Fiber-Optic towed decoy that had been deployed the moment the lock occurred. The third however, clipped the left wing from the front, bounding and tumbling down the wing detonating just over the wing.

The pilot brought the bird to a level heading even though a gaping hole now sat in the middle of the wing, it was a miracle that it hadn’t ignited, but the archer had missed any of the vital systems. A rattle had started to reverberate throughout the frame causing the wing to violently flap up and down until ultimately the wing was ripped from the fuselage. The brutality of the action caused the entire bird to start to spin along its horizontal axis, catching even more debris as pieces of the frame were torn apart by the centrifugal forces.

Ramsey didn’t have time to see if chutes were deployed; his evasive maneuver had taken him away from where the Hornet was heading, but he was focused on the archer making speed towards his bird. He rolled his bird with canopy facing the deck and pulled, hard. The archer veered, eating it in the confetti; giving Black one-zero-zero a chance to breath. He rolled back to his original heading, waiting to take on the rapidly approaching hostiles.

He let go of the throttle and performed an Immelmann just as the lead Fulcrum brushed past; its 30-millimeter cannons spitting fire to the right of Ramsey’s canopy.

Reeves’ primary task at this point was to keep eyes on the enemy bandits. “Lead Fulcrum just buzzed past, he’s coming for another pass. Other two are merged and tailing.”

He didn’t have many options at this point, but he still had the Gatling gun on the wing to work with. He leveled out of the Immelmann and rolled towards the Fulcrum that had buzzed past. The enemy fighter was trying to come out of a turn, but had pulled too tightly, causing it to lose an immense amount of speed. He saw his opening, a stroke of luck more than anything else, but the enemy exposed the most amount of surface area that he could have hoped for.

“Bandit on the Nose! Guns, Guns!” He roared as he got off a solid two-second burst that punched a multitude of holes through the enemy Fulcrum’s cockpit and spine. He blew right past the wreckage as it lost its forward momentum and began to drop into the abyss, her nose completely fragmented by the devastating kinetic barrage she had just endured.

“Jesus, Caesar!” Reeves hardly had time to congratulate his pilot on making ace in one sortie, but they still had to deal with the two Fulcrums on their tail. The enemy birds performed a split-S maneuver to try and box him in, “Bandits, at our 5 o’clock high and bearing in!”

Ramsey jostled the stick towards himself to pull up. He was doing about 400 knots as the G-forces pushed the blood to the bottom of his body. Heavy breathing and his flight suit’s pressure design helped him keep consciousness as he bore through the 7G turn. A zip of 30-millimeter cannon from one of the Fulcrums passed by, as he was vertical to the ground. He rolled the Tomcat onto her belly and pushed out of the turn to make a break back to friendlies already engaged.

“This is Black one-zero-zero, got two bandits on my six, I am Joker and running out of confetti!” He keyed the mic as soon as the pressure pushing against his stomach subsided. He checked his speedometer and noticed that he was just breaking past 600 knots as he gunned the throttle.

Reeves yelled from his rear, “Fulcrums still engaged. Shit, Atoll, Atoll!” The tone in the cockpit screamed as another AA-11 archer jettisoned from the rails of the lead Fulcrum. He banked hard right and prepared to try for a Split-S maneuver while he popped the last of the flares and chaff. Going into the turn at the speed of sound was putting considerable strain on the airframe as he rolled into a corkscrewing maneuver to try and confuse the sensors of the incoming missile.

“Impact, Impact on the chaff cloud!” There was a thunderous growl that pierced even the noise of the engines, “Damnit our luck has to be out by now!” Reeves yelled as the two had just pulled off yet another miracle.

“Looks like we lost these two, they must have disengaged and I’m not picking up anything on the RWR, we’re not actively being illuminated.”

“Alright, let’s find out where the rest of the guys are, see what we have left.” Ramsey took a moment to strike the picture of Trojan one-zero-four’s wing tearing from the fuselage. He hoped the crew had been able to punch out.

“Caesar, calls of Winchester are going out, everyone is simply out of ammo. We’ve managed to take another four out on top of the three you bagged here, but Cerberus flight is down three and we’ve lost Black’s two-zero-one and two-zero-three. Black two-zero-four had to punch out as well. Specter flight and Cerberus flight two are still doing fine. We need to bring this back to the SAM bubble, we’re taking a pounding.”

The Tomcat had slowed to a scant 250 knots as Ramsey attempted to find the furball. Their previous engagement had pushed them even further out than before, and he had no idea where the action was taking place. “This is Black one-zero-zero, I need status. Anyone got me on here?”

“Black one-zero-zero, this is AWACS Callsign ‘Prankster,’ we got you.”

The call was completely unexpected, an Air Force AWACS in the vicinity? Nonsense. “AWACS Prankster,” Reeves thumbed through their data pad on getting the correct pass codes, they hadn’t been briefed on Air Force personnel showing up. “Squawk Ident, authenticate ‘Macallan.’” He needed to affirm that he was talking to friendlies in the area, there was an active war zone going on and anyone could potentially be a problem.

“Black one-zero-zero, we are squawking. Authenticate is ‘Balvenie.”

The challenge and pass denoted that the flying AWACS was indeed a friendly bird. The squawk ensured that the IFF, or Identify Friend or Foe was working properly. They had an honest-to-God AWACS supporting them, Reeves was ecstatic; his energy shot back into him, even after the emotional and physical drain he had endured during the dogfight.

They had support, and that meant that they had a chance.

“Roger, Prankster. Friendlies are currently engaged with bandits numbering four-zero-plus. Friendlies are approaching joker fuel state and remaining birds are Winchester. We’re clichéd at the end of the rope.”

“Black one-zero-zero, hold tight.”

__________________________________

The formation was looking good, but the calls they had received from AWACS weren’t making anyone too happy. Their scramble had finally gotten underway, and with 16 Raptors up on the air accompanied by another sixteen F-15E Strike Eagles, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Sea Haven Air Force Command for the Southern Seas, or SSC-SHAFCOM as the acronym loving military put it, had issued a WARNO, or warning order to James Air Force Base ordering the immediate scramble of the entire 18th Fighter Wing with a supplement squadron from the 14th Fighter Wing also stationed at James AFB. Their mission was to intercept and kill the encroaching enemy; Intel put the number at 58 enemy fighters, but chatter had confirmed something in the neighborhood of over 15 splashes.

“Guard 1 Actual, Prankster; we’ve been in contact with CAG. Furball is bad news.”

“Guard 1 Actual copies.” Harrison keyed the rest of the wing, “all flights, be advised, divide into two elements, I want all Strike Eagles continuing on approach. We have furball at bullseye one-four-zero, descend to cherubs ten and make ready slammers. Element 1 will comprise of all F-22’s; form up on my wing. Element 2 will continue as fragged for intercept. Stand by for candygram.”

The Raptors started to peel off climb. Harrison was going for a bracketing engagement that would pit his two elements against the single furball in which the enemy force was completely engaged. With the Raptors’ added ability at stealth, this made their jobs that much easier.

“Prankster, Element 1 requesting candygram.”

“All elements, candygram sent. We are tracking bandits at bullseye one-four-zero tangled with friendlies. Provide burn glint on target and commit.”

Element 2 should have already been picked up now. They were actively searching, RWR from each crew had already identified enemy Flankers and Fulcrums mixed in with friendly IFF receivers from the F/A-18Fs and F-14Ds.

The Raptors screamed up to angels fifteen as they neared their target. Harrison just had to hope that the Eagles would present an appealing target to the enemy birds.

“Prankster to Element 2, be advised, large number of bandits are breaking off and on your bearing!”

Harrison interjected “Element 2, commit to enemy contacts. We’ve got first launch.”

It had worked perfectly; the bandits, sensing the new threat of incoming had broken from the main furball with the Navy birds and had gone after fresh contacts. What they didn’t know was another set of contacts coming at them from on high that were far closer and more capable.

“Element 1, RWR is tracking two Flanker-Ds and six Fulcrum-Ds. Hit ‘em with the Slammers.”

“Fifteen miles out, bandits illuminated.” Harrison’s flight of Raptors had capabilities that no other aircraft on Earth could hope to have in the next ten years outside of the West, and one of those technologies was ensuring that each bird in the sky knew where the other was, and what each was doing. From Harrison’s cockpit, he had already assigned two shots per enemy to ensure that something was going to hit them.

“Engage!”

Calls of fox one were made as all sixteen Raptors released their AIM-120s at the enemy formation. While the exterior of the birds made it look like they carried no ordnance, a flip of the switch would drop the load bay doors as a missile dropped from the aircraft’s bosom.

Sixteen missiles tore through the sky as they homed in on their intended targets.

Without them even knowing they had been engaged from a separate bearing, warnings screamed through each cockpit as the enemy pilots tried in vain to break and attempt to counter the incoming fire.

It was too late; there was no time.

__________________________________

“Grandslam! I repeat, Grandslam!” Prankster’s RIO was elated as the Raptor flight had dropped all eight bandits in one fell swoop.

“Good,” Harrison hadn’t let the feeling get to him as he remembered his days with the Sinners. “Element 2, hold back and take cheapshots at the enemy formation with Slammers. Element 1, time to dive in.”

They broke through the cloud layer towards the furball. Harrison could see the aircraft bounding around as cannons roared, intending to find targets. The RWR lit up the remaining targets, a grand total of 25 remaining contacts. Not bad for the Navy, Harrison thought as he remembered the initial WARNO had stated 58 solid bandits. They’d just downed eight, but it seems the Navy had already handled a solid 25 on their own, given that they only had 16 in the fight.

The Navy had taken a pounding. Their numbers were dwindling, and though they still had a full flight of Tomcats protecting a Growler that had been ignored, the remaining force had been halved. Their CAG still remained though.

“Guard 1 Actual to Prankster, Callsign on the CAG, he’s up here still, right?”

“Roger Guard 1, Callsign for CAG is Black one-zero-zero. Hit to frequency three-two-five-point-four.”

Harrison switched over to key in the naval frequency, “Black one-zero-zero, this is Guard 1 Actual with the 204th Fighter Squadron. We’re from the government and we’re here to help. What State?”

He felt as though these swabbies needed a little humor, given the hell they had just gone through the past 20 minutes.

“Black one-zero-zero acknowledges. We appreciate the help. Our flight is Winchester and approaching bingo fuel state, please advise?”

“Key over to three-four-seven-point-four. AWACS has new picture for you; playtime is over. We’ll cover as you guys separate and head towards bearing two-four-zero. We’re going to have you reset until we can ascertain the situation with the fleet. AWACS Prankster will guide you through”

The AF was going to take over the rest of the fight from here on out, AWACS had picked up multiple Winchester calls indicating that most of the birds were completely out of weapons at this point.

The AF birds on the other hand had fresh ordnance, were able to commit and were not mentally fatigued from all of the stress in a dog-fighting situation. The Raptors and Eagles would cover until the Navy could bug out of the zone and make it to awaiting refueling craft.

While the Navy already started on their bugout, the Air Force was on the ball at this point. Harrison pulled alongside a fellow Raptor as they gained from his squadron, The Praetorians, as they got on tail behind a flight of Flankers that had tried to gain some altitude, searching for the Strike Eagles that had been raining Slammers on them for the past couple minutes.

“Guard 6, get ready to ripple fire on my count, hit the lead and I’ll go for the tail, heater shot. Tracking.”

Guard 6 acknowledged as both of them tracked the two Flankers making for altitude; they hadn’t realized that there were two Raptors on their tail, they had successfully boxed them in, with the Eagle’s bearing on them, the Raptors would have the faster shot

“Engage.

“Guard 6, fox two, fox two.” A missile from the side bay was released as it screamed towards the enemy flight. Their flares were already pumping as the pair split off in an attempt to fool the AIM-9Xs barreling at them.

“Engage”

“Guard 6, fox two, fox two.” The second shot was sent not ten seconds before the first one. The first heater streaked just to the right of the tailing Flanker. “Missile Shot trashed,” reported Harrison as he watched the second blow through right past the chaff cloud.

The Flanker kept moving into a hard right bank as it tried to barrel away from the second missile, but the heater was able to track it even as it went into a steep, perhaps unrecoverable dive. Dumb bastard, Harrison thought as he saw the shrapnel and explosive engulf the Flanker in a torrent of fire and black cloud. The explosion ballooned as the Fuel reserves ignited, causing the aircraft break apart and fall, a meteorite burning up as it fell to Earth.

__________________________________

Unlike the first volley with the Slammers that had come as a total surprise, the enemy had recognized that Raptors were in the fight. Their best move was to break away as soon as possible under the circumstances. They were low on fuel, low on war shots and they had no real jamming or cover options available to them at this point.

Harrison knew these men had been sent on a mission that they might not make it through, but to launch against a major Sea Haven battle group had proven that they could actually launch an attack.

No matter, these enemies would be made to pay for it, and the F-22As were ensuring the debt was paid in spades. Several splash calls had been radioed from both the Raptors and the Eagles. They were having huge success with no loss to their own side as of yet. An Eagle had taken a cannon hit to the fuselage, but the crew reported the craft as serviceable.

He tracked as his Raptors were mopping up on the enemy forces, noticing that the remaining enemy craft; 10 by his count on the RWR were beginning to bug out.

“Guard 1 Actual to all forces. Disengage on retreating enemy. Continue cover of friendly forces.”

The fight was over, for now, but at an enormous cost. Their Navy counterparts had been hit hard and were lucky to still be alive.

“Guard 1 Actual, Prankster; HQ requesting What Luck?”

That call had indicated that their defensive operations were ceased at this point. The enemy fighters were bugged out and they had air supremacy in less than 15 minutes from initial contact.

“Prankster, with full engagement; count is 48 enemies splashed at cost of 10 friendlies. 204th, 205th, 206th and 202nd report no casualties.

Ramsey keyed the mic; “Black one-zero-zero reports two birds down from VF-14, three down from VF-30 and four down from VF-32. Also report loss of one friendly from VQW-103.” His voice was rasp as he counted himself lucky not to be a part of the list. They had been good pilots, but against a force so large, there wasn’t much more that could have been asked for.

He had come out an ace, but at the cost of almost a fourth of his wing.

Harrison opened back up, attempting to get the rest of the wing to stay focused on mission. They might have pushed back the enemies, but there was still an enemy fleet out there to deal with.

“Guard 1 Actual, calling BLANK A SEAD. RWR shows clear picture.”

“Roger that, all flights, you are to snap back to bullseye over Home Plate and make ready for boomers. SHS Apollo and her Strike Group have entered the playground. Admiral Green has something planned for us.”

Citrinitas —–Parlay

He awoke with a start, a sharp piercing pain permeated throughout his chest and neck. The blast had been deafening, to the point that his ears still rung while he struggled to grasp at for each burning breathe. In the moment that the first missile broken through the last barrier, Adm. Prescott was barking orders for the ship to keep on track with the incoming, a choice he still did not regret, but one that had sent him to the deck knocking him out.

His vision was still blurred, his head pounded and every single cell in his body was screaming for reprieve, yet he fought to his feet for the embrace the armrest on his chair. The blood drained from him as he stood upright, dazed and in considerable agony over the impact the top of his head had suffered when he fell. His vision might have been blurred by the trickle of blood coming from a gash on his head he now realized, but the sight was unmistakable.

He heard them first, realizing that the bridge crew was already on top of the situation at hand. “Fire on decks 2 through 10, continue to contain the blaze!” Their cries, muffled at first, were already working to contain the damage the ship had received. Prescott only had to find out where the impact, or impacts, had occurred.

He staggered to the viewing port to survey his proud ship, ablaze as crews from around the ship fought to keep her seaworthy. The deck was of bonfire, a dance of metal and ash. His vision began to focus as he saw the aircrews rushing to hose down the burning carcass that lay on top of catapult one; a shell of a Super Hornet lay barren and aflame. The image began to sink in as he saw the top of the deck had a considerable hole at the top and side of the deck on the opposite end of his position, a missile impact had blown right through the top deck.

“Sir!” Captain Travis had been handling things for the moments that the Admiral had been out. “We’re still afloat, battle group has taken some casualties, but the boys up in the air are keeping them at bay.”

“How long have I been out?”

“About 5 minutes, medic already looked you over and let you rest.”

“Status, now.”

“Ship took a hit from a Krypton, we busted about busted on course for us, but the Sea-Whiz couldn’t keep up. Got lucky, I suppose; it hit the deck, impacted on one of the RAM launchers and skipped on the flight deck. Hit the Growler on launcher two.”

“Casualties?”

“Growler crew is dead. We couldn’t get them launched in time. Most of the deck crew made it out without a problem. We were heads down while the rounds came in.”

“Fleet?”

“Monarch took two hits to her stern, Captain thinks she’ll pull through, but there is a heavy list to port. We’re still getting casualty figures. Fealty was struck three times and took a hit to the magazine; she’s already at the bottom. Courser is already attempting recovery with the remaining crew, but things aren’t looking too good. One of the MEF ships, the Upstart took two hits to her bow, she’s going to go under, but we’re getting the crew out; her Captain reports 35 KIA.”

“Anything else?” He noticed as his breathing became increasingly shallow as his brain made contact with the reality of it all. SHS Gladiator, Carrier Strike Group 1; had just lost two Arleigh Burkes and an LSD Class docking ship from the Marine Expeditionary Force. It was a godsend that none of the troop carriers had been hit.

“Sir, reports from ATC are saying that the catapults are gone, literally gone, and our guide wires are shorn. We’re unable to assist in take-off and landing operations.” The Captain sighed with accepting defeat of their situation. He suspended for a second, and then groaned. “CAG and his flight are going to have to divert.”

The Admiral looked out to the rest of the fleet; his battle group had sustained a great loss, one he hadn’t seen since his days with the Redwallian Fleet. He contemplated for a moment, searching for an appropriate response. He direct to the bridge crew as the life returned to him. “I want to know where our birds are and what exactly is going on up there.”

Jacobs’ voice crackled through the speakers to the bridge, acknowledging the call from Prescott. “Black Hearts, Cerberus, and a flight from the Trojans along with one of the Specters up are up in the air. CAG Ramsey reports that they are Winchester and have already lost several.”

“Where the hell is the Apollo?” he pondered.

“Sir, we’ve been unable to raise the Apollo for a few minutes. Admiral Green’s last contact was before the initial impact. Comms seem to have hiccupped slightly after the salvo came in.

“Air Force show up then?” He winced and rubbed his brow as he kept fighting to keep himself upright and attentive.

“We’ve been working with them for about 15 minutes now, AWACS is in the air with elements from the 18th wing out of James AFB; they’ve relieved the CVW and are already mopping up the remaining bandits. Recorded 48 splashes, all from the air.”

He straddled the deck as he took the sight in. The firefighting crews had contained the blaze on the deck, allowing the extent of the damage to show through. They had recovered the bodies from the charred Growler, finally giving the deck crew the chance to remove the husk, an undignified burial to yet another loss from the Carrier Air Wing. Prescott watched the crew push the bird off the deck and begin to assess the damages with the catapult system.

The Kh-31 “Krypton,” as the NCTO designated it, was designed as an air launched anti-ship missile. The impact was designed to hit a boat near the water as to induce even more damage and possible sinking. This specific Krypton had been one of four that had made it past the chaff cloud produced by the fleet. While one of the missiles had been deflected into the water and detonated, the other three made their way directly for the carrier. The two Phalanxes positioned on the Gladiator had been mounted to each side, along with the RAM launchers, but as the RAMs couldn’t counter from that close a distance, the Phalanx was set loose to spit rounds down. In that regard, they had been successful against two of the incoming.

The last one had broken through before either Phalanx could gain a firing solution to destroy the warhead. Though one had grazed a round at the bottom of the head, the tracking solution on the missile was still able to guide it in to the top of the boat at the base of the tarmac near the catapults. The warhead was able to punch through and wreck a path of explosive and fire through two decks and out the top through the doomed Growler. The catapult lines had been severed, destroyed and snapped at each line.

His carrier was out of action, two of his warships had been taken out of action with one sunk, and he had failed to protect one of the MEF boats. The remaining boats were still on the defensive, her crews’ alive and screaming revenge for what had just occurred. He had to ensure that they survived another round, first of all.

“Mr. Jacobs,” Prescott was more forceful now that his dizziness was beginning to subside. “Flash to all boats, we will continue along the channel and break out towards our rendezvous with the Apollo. In the meantime, make ready Destroyer Squadron One and Four. We are going to find those bastards and see what we can do to make them pay for the damages.

__________________________________

The remaining time for the cruise had been hectic. Prescott was glad to see that his crew had already stopped the flames and had started to get work done on the catapults. Reports from the deck crew indicated that it would be weeks until they could be flight operations capable, but at least they had reinstalled the tension lines to get the birds already in the air back to the ship.

The Monarch was listing to her port side, about 15 degrees and she was unable to answer more than half at this point, but the crew had kept her up and afloat. She was out of the fight. The Fealty was gone. So was her crew. He did not see it, but the picture offered by the crew had not been the prettiest. She had taken the hits simultaneously; a gap in the SAM shield was being blamed at this point. Nothing they could do but move on; recovery efforts for the sunken Burke would commence soon enough, the naval inquiry would last even longer.

The battlegroup was finally getting a little calmer, but battle stations were still called. The Air Force boys had done some exemplary cleaning, forcing the enemy air group to turn back. They had already been called back to the protection of the SAM bubble that the Aegis Combat System provided. The wing up in the air confirmed that they had received no losses. News from CAG was not as cheery; out of the 21 birds that made it in the air, only 14 were coming back.

Prescott sat at his chair, taking a moment to let the ice pack he now had on his head press against the large gash on his head. The medics had come by, after he insisted they work with others injured on the deck, and informed him that the gash would need stitches as soon as possible, but he would have none of that while they were still in the fight. There might have been a reprieve, but he needed to concern himself with the tens of thousands he was responsible for, not himself.

He breathed in, letting the cold “Anyone, any news on the Apollo or Cyclops?”

An utterance came first from the deck hand Ensign who had been manning the UAV drones from the ATC. “Sir, all three drones are still actively searching. Will inform the bridge when we find them.” Referencing Cyclops was an instant, generalized term for any Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, and the three already in the air were tasked with locating the Sovenian fleet.

“Thanks, Ensign,” he sighed, disappointed that they still hadn’t found the enemy carriers. He had another couple of hours that the Cyclops would be in the air, and finding that enemy fleet was paramount.

Nusbaum had been waiting for her chance to speak, seeing that the Ensign was done, she could finally bring in some good news to the Admiral. “Sir, we’re about 2 kilometers out from the strait, rendezvous should occur in the next half hour with visual contact in the next ten!”

Everyone on board was rife in anticipation with the prospect of getting back at the Sovenians for the attack; they only needed to find them first.

The Admiral took a step on the deck, leaving his chair. He strolled from one side of the bridge to another, waiting and anticipating the eventual call that would come from Admiral Green and his battle group.

He gazed up in the air, watching as several formations of Air Force F-15Es and F-22As locked up and kept watch over the injured fleet. With several larger boomers and an AWACS, the aircraft would remain on station for some time, as to ensure that protection was assured for the next several hours. They looked like birds, flapping their wings against the now bright sun.

He couldn’t help but think of them as angels, just as he did back when the Requiem was belching smoke and taking on water all those years ago. He saw them; he saw all of them, joining as one as they pursued the original Sovenian fleet. Back then they glittered through the smoke and destruction, their engines bellowing a call of unyielding fury as they united against the true face of tyranny. The birds aloft right now hit him with the same mental image, forcing him to remember that this was a land made of willpower and an insatiable desire for freedom. Those birds would be doing more, and this time the Navy would be helping.

__________________________________

“Looks like they got things under control, the strait ends right up the road there.” One of the wingmen from VF-30 “Praetorians” radioed to Captain Ramsey.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Finally some semblance of peace.” He had just topped off as the last bird from the Naval element. The Sovenian fighters had either been splashed or had disengaged. Air Force guys were saying only 10 made it out, a mix of Flankers and Fulcrums. They had noted that several of them were lacking on the rails. Regardless, they had driven them back.

The Raptors and Strike Eagles had another boomer to draw from, but maintained a defensive perimeter around the battle group. The Raptors had dropped clean their external tanks when they entered the engagement zone. They’d need to continue to draw from a boomer every couple hours. Under normal situations, the Raptors would have come and gone. The current situation however, dictated that they remain on station.

“Prankster, Guard one-zero-zero; how are we on distance and the air element?”

“Guard one-zero-zero, fleet is coming about to heading. We have visual contact with Apollo and her group. You are to remain on station and anchored, seems like your carrier has taken a hit to the deck.”

His posture straightened, but Reeves was on the radio first. “What the hell did you just say?”

“Repeat, Gladiator took a hit to her topside. One of the Growlers on the cat was about to run shit hot out, but it took an impact from a vampire.”

“God Damnit!” Reeves smacked the back of Ramsey’s chair.

“Yeah, I know,” retorted Ramsey. They’d lost more than their share today.

__________________________________

“Admiral Prescott, I apologize for our tardiness, we made best haste. But it would appear that we were late.” Admiral Green had taken a chopper from the Apollo to the Gladiator. He had also taken the liberty to bring along a bottle of scotch and a few glasses to the crew after what they had just gone through. He poured a glass, neat, and offered it to Jacobs, then another to Travis and then Prescott, rounding out the pour to himself as they sat in Prescott’s quarters. “You did a damn good job here, don’t even begin to believe otherwise.”

“James, I…” Prescott tried to speak.

“I won’t hear it. You did good.” Green moved his hand to Prescott’s shoulders as he looked him straight in the eyes, “and that will be the end of that discussion.”

Green’s fleet had moved to supplement the Gladiator and her wounded crews. The carriers were being protected by another eight destroyers and two cruisers; bringing the total to 34 ships total after counting for the two ships lost in the attack.

“Now, we’re going to take your wing and try to get them some rest.” The first of several aircraft were already starting to roll in as only a couple had ordnance remaining. The occasional rattling of the scotch in the glasses reminded them that operations were already underway. CAG Ramsey had refused to come down until the very end, when all of the others had landed.

“We’re going to have to get the Gladiator back to the yards as well as see about getting you an escort back through the inland sea.” Green leaned against the desk as the officers contemplated their next move. “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to push back this little party back a few days until we can either bring up the Spartan or one of the boats from the Northern Fleet.”

Prescott was disappointed, but understood that the Gladiator was out of the game for now, and would be for some time. Reports had put repairs at the next week on a double shift.

The conversation continued for a moment as the officers discussed the upcoming moments. They had supplemented their forces substantially, even added another carrier to the fleet, and that meant a supplemental air wing.

Things were finally starting to calm down. Battle stations had been lifted but crews had been advised to stay alert. Regardless, that hadn’t stopped this ensign from busting into the Admirals quarters.

“Sir, CIC reports they’ve found the enemy fleet!”

__________________________________

“Un-fucking-believable!” Reeves was ecstatic. The remaining elements of the Trojans and Cerberus had already touched down, but The Black Hearts were still in the air. “They find the fuckers the moment we’re on approach, and we’re about to get denied re-entry into the fight!”

“Not if I can help it.” Ramsey keyed the radio to Apollo ATC and with his best, authoritative voice informed the controller on duty “This is Commander Air Group, CVW-2, Captain Jonathan Ramsey. We are landing on your deck, you got me?”

Ramsey had broken more than a few etiquette rules on his call, but he’d be damned if he was going to sit back and watch the fleet take the fight back to the Sovenians.

__________________________________

“Jesus.”

“You don’t say?”

“They brought that many ships?” Jacobs surveyed the images as they came in. The Sovenians weren’t playing around this time. There had been limited, smaller engagements, but this was a full-blown fleet.

“Well, two Ulyanovsk carriers and an Admiral Kuznetsov. We didn’t even see a full wing from them.” CAG Ramsey had moved from the Apollo to the Gladiator, yelling the entire way. “They committed two fucking carriers? Along with their supplemental fleet?”

Prescott took a look at the images coming from their UAVs. They had deployed them prior to the initial contact, and had finally caught up with the enemy fleet. “Enemy fleet is 200 Nm west of our position,” the UAV operator was hovering close enough to get a view on the enemy formation. “Four-Zero total ships. Three carriers and…Jesus, the ones surrounding the carriers; those five big ones, Kirov class cruisers!”

The Sovenians had come prepared, and Prescott knew it. Though their first wave made up perhaps most if not all of one of their carriers, probably extras from one of the others. While the Ulyanovsk carriers were comparable to their own, the Admiral Kuznetsov class was a smaller carrier, capable of around 12 or so aircraft. Sovenia had seized almost all of Ruskolovia’s naval assets when they exploded back towards their former status prior to the communist revolution. Sovenia had been working on their own, internally developed naval assets for several decades at this point, but the bulk of their forces had been former communist assets such as the nuclear powered Kirov class cruiser, the largest surface warship in the world at this point.

The UAV operator continued with his report to the brass, “Sir, we’ve got six Slava class cruisers as well, 22 destroyers of various makes and even a few guided missile frigates!”

Green took a sip of his scotch that he had poured, but the deck remained quiet for a time until Green cleared his throat.

“That is certainly one big fleet,” Green slightly chuckled to himself. “Shit, I haven’t heard of a fleet that big since New Haven entered the last World War.”

“Well, this isn’t World War 2, John.” Prescott offered

“No,” Green shrugged, “no, it’s not.” He put his glass down, cleared his throat and offered, “Alright, this is simple enough. We’re going on a little expedition. They’ve got a concentrated group. By the looks of it, they have substantial presence for both anti-ship and anti-air but we do not know of their anti-submarine capabilities.”

Ramsey stepped a little bit, asserting his plan. “We’re gonna bring the fight to them. Those boys in the Air Force are going to be up in the air for a bit, but we will definitely need some support from the ships. As for our assets, the Raptors and Tomcats will take on whatever they put up in the air and provide air superiority, and our Eagles and Superbugs will supplement our ships.”

“The Gladiator is out, don’t forget,” Prescott retorted.

“Yeah, but the Apollo has CVW-5, correct?”

Green perked up for a moment, “Why yes, yes we do.”

“Good, we’ll strap on the Harpoons and harass them until the fleet can get in order. They lack Aegis after all.”

After a few more minutes of discussion, it had been decided. Green and Ramsey took a bird back to the Apollo to ready up for the mission; Ramsey insisted that he would be in the air for the eventual fight. Elements of the destroyer squadrons and most of the boats from Green’s fleet would move in and take the enemy fleet. A supplementary force of 5 destroyers would remain with the carriers and MEF ships for fleet protection.

Prescott, content with the fleet mock up, finished off the scotch that Green had offered him with a final sip. He let the smooth single malt Scotch whisky splash in his mouth as he looked down at the still charred and mangled deck. He was out of this fight, but he would be back. Turning around, he looked at the assembled officers. “Alright then.”

__________________________________

“Apollo tower information Charlie,” the ATC running with Ramsey’s specific bird was hurried. He had been losing his voice after the rather rushed deployment. “Zero-niner-five-five Zulu. Wind calm. Visibility infinite. Sky condition Clear. Temperature five-nine. Dew point zero-five. Altimeter two-three-four.”

Ramsey was on deck with the Apollo, he was already strapped in with Reeves at the RIO seat. He’d landed on the deck, jumped out with Reeves and the pair had gone to one of the elevators to get down to the hangar. They routed to the squadron room for VF-3, The Rascals. Talking to their CO for a scant few minutes, Ramsey and Reeves were given one of the Tomcats on the deck, a poor Lieutenant Commander and his RIO would have to sit this one out.

“Caesar, everything looks good. Oil, flow, RPMs, fuel and temp are all good,” Reeves was flipping switches on their borrowed Tomcat, Callsign Rascal two-zero-four. He would have to make do with the new “Pitot heat on, spoiler armed,” he checked his instruments yet again. “Beacon on as well. We’re green.”

“Rascal two-zero-four, departing catapult three. Right hand-pattern in use,” the ATC in the tower was straining to keep up with the rapid deployment.

“Apollo tower, Rascal two-zero-four at catapult three with Charlie; for shit hot departure.” Ramsey motioned for the crew on the ground, who had finished their pre-flights some time ago. They motioned a salute, in which he and Reeves offered rebuttal with the same gesture.

“Cleared shit hot departure, maintain heading to angels two, Rascal two-zero-four.”

The Tomcat, on a runway less than the length of a football field, suddenly and violently lurched forward as the catapult erupted from hibernation. The pull of the catapult added to the roar of the engines launched the aircraft to over 200 mph by the time solid concrete disappeared. The aircraft, a bull. The pilot, a bull rider. The opening moments of the launch was a rodeo in every sense of the word as the pilot ensured that his steed stayed on target as it was forced off of the boat. A quick surge of force pushed him forward as the catapult ended and the engines, already on full burner, struggled to pick up the slack.

A slight dip, but he nosed up and started to reach towards the faint presence of clouds in the air. “Positive rate of climb, gear up.”

“Rascal two-zero-four, cleared to angels seven,” The controller wrapped up the latest launch, already looking to process the next bird on the billet for the operation. “Proceed on two-four-zero as fragged. Contact AWACS Prankster on three-zero-seven-point-four.”

“Apollo tower, cleared at angels seven, going to three-zero-seven-point-four.” Reeves had clicked the radio over to the appropriate channel to link up with the Air Force AWACS, which they had worked earlier in the morning. “Prankster, Rascal two-zero-four, Alpha Check?”

The new controller, an air force enlisted sitting in the E-3 Sentry that served as the platform for the command and control asset for other aircraft in the air, toggled