Somewhere in the Sea of Japan, Present Day...
The darkening skies bellied the comming storm from somewhere to the south as the atomic aircaft carrier USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN was roughly pounded by thirty foot swells. Her deck slowly bobbed in the raging waters of the Pacific from a typhoon not more than one hundred nautical miles from the fleet. At her outskirts were at least a dozen other warships of the Navy's Fifth Fleet, all there for just one purpose...to protect her.
Like tiny sea birds returning to their mother, F-14 and F-18 fighters landed on the rolling deck one by one, each caught by a single tethering line and brought to an abrupt stop on the carrier deck as swarms of deck crew skillfully and quickly manuevered each war machine off to one side to make room for the next landing. For the past hour, Badger flight had been inbound and was currently finishing landing detail. Soon, Badger flight would be home; then it would be Fox flight's turn.
The Captain of the ABRAHAM LINCOLN stood at the railing just outside the bridge tower, watching, as he always did, his flights coming home safely. It was said that while his birds were in the air, the Captain never slept. Captain Thomas 'Buzz' Aldridge never confirmed or denied those rumors; to be as aloof and dispassionate from the rest of the ship was the burden of being Captain. In peace time it was difficult enough to get sufficent sleep when one was captain of a floating city that could deliver, upon command, an air strike virtually anywhere in the world. But since the events of September 11, the ABRAHAM LINCOLN and every other ship in the Fifth fleet had been on constant alert.
It was a different world now, Buzz Aldridge mused to himself; no longer the battle lines of gigantic fleets locked in mortal combat on the high seas. Now it was an order to strike here, or recon there, or just fly around, just to show that you were in the area. And when they were in the area, most of the countries behaved themselves; they weren't stupid. They knew that for every ship on the water you could see, there was another beneath the rolling waves of the Pacific you couldn't see.
The submarines.
An almost forgotten element of the United States Navy, the submarines were, without a doubt, the most powerful and fearsome war machines ever devised. Like tiny underwater cities, the submarines could stay down there for months at a time; even longer...but that was classified. The fact was, the submarines operated completely independant of the surface fleets. Carrying their atomic arsenals deep within their bellies, one submarine could virtually destroy and entire continent with its compliment of multiple warhead ballistic missles.
Then, there were the sub killers.
While they didn't carry much, if any in some cases, in the way of offensive weaponry for use on land targets, the sub killers were still dangerous. They carried dozens of highly sophisticated torpedoes, for use both on enemy subs and for surface ships. Four well placed torpedoes could easily render an aircraft carrier like the ABRAHAM LINCOLN so much scrap metal. While the ballistic submarines might have been the Great White Sharks of the U.S. Navy, the sub killers were the Piranahs.
But never under estimate the power of the carrier, Aldridge pointed out; they were the Mammas of the fleet; everything revolved around her. She was the shield of protection for her children, able to take on an entire city of refugees, as it did when Mount Pinetubo blew in the Phillipines back in the late 1980's. An entire airbase and naval detachement was rescued by a single one of these behemoths. She could enforce a no-fly zone in the deserts of Iraq, or deliver a crushing blow deep within the wilderness of Africa, where many enemies of freedom thought they would be safe.
Yeah, Aldridge considered, the aircraft carrier was one mean bitch when she wanted to be...
Aldridge glanced down at the dispatch from COMSINCPAC only that afternoon; a group of loose papers he held which told of the continuing agressiveness of the North Koreans. He chewed on his cigar as he leafed through them, one by one.
After a ballistic missle test three weeks ago by North Korea, Japan had sent a destroyer into the Sea of Japan as a show of force and as a warning to the growing hosilities that seemed to intesify daily between the two countries. That hositilty could be traced back to World War Two, when Japan had attacked Korea, slaughtering tens of thousands of Koreans during the war. Although World War Two was ancient history to everyone else, the Koreans never forgot.
The Japanese destroyer Yukiawa was severely damaged by the ballistic missle which had slammed into their ship, killing seventy three sailors and injuring scores more. North Korea blamed Japan for the incident, claiming that they had abided by all exsisting treaties when they announced their missle test; it wasn't their fault.
Japan, and many other Asian countries, had seen things differently, however. World protest was united in condeming North Korea for the 'accident', which several had said appeared to be no accident at all. North Korean embassies had been ordered closed in at least a dozen countries.
And that was just the beginning of a series of events that Buzz Aldridge felt would send the whole situation spinning out of control.
The North Koreans and South Koreans had a considerable naval engagement only two days ago; one ship sunk, hundreds on both sides dead. The ABRAHAM LINCOLN had been dispatched to monitor the situation and keep a close eye on the North Koreans. Now, Aldridge realised vaguely, there was a North Korean sub out there, somewhere in the Pacific, that was playing tag with the fleet; and at least three subs from the United States that were also in the area.
What was happening just beneath the waves was anyone's guess...
"Captain Aldridge to Command and Control." the disembodied voice came over the loudspeaker.
Captain Buzz Aldridge glanced to his left at the 'squawk-box' and snuffed out his cirgar on the railing, before he tossed the smoldering weed into the dark, churning waters far below.
"Captain on deck!" a Navy Leiutenant barked, as Aldridge appeared in CNC. It was a large, rectangular room, burried deep below the flight deck, nestled securely under the tower itself. A sprawling room of glittering, colorful lights, screens and chatter, Captain Aldridge came over to a giant glowing table, which showed the position of the fleet at any given moment. Almost at once, Aldridge saw the problem; one of the destroyer escorts which had been assigned to protect the ABRAHAM LINCOLN's starboard flank had fallen back during air recovery operations. His chisled features turned to his second-in-command.
"Robert," Aldridge snapped, stabbing a thick finger at the display, "where the hell is the POTEMPKIN going? Our entire starboard flank is exposed."
"Aye, sir," the bald African American Leiutenant nodded, "Captain Williams reported that the POTEMPKIN has got engine trouble. Admiral Carson has dispatched the HAYES and OLYMPIA to cover for her until the POTEMPKIN is underway again."
"The POTEMPKIN is six months overdue for a overhaul and engine upgrade," Aldridge bit, "and Carson puts that bucket of bolts in charge of our starboard flank. What an asshole."
Robert Thomlinson, the executive officer and Aldridge's personal, hand-picked choice when Aldridge was given the ABRAHAM LINCOLN, nodded briefly. One thing the Old Man couldn't stand was younger, snot-nosed Admirals putting his ship in danger because of their incompetence. Carson was no exception; he was known in most circles as 'Brown Nose' Carson.
"We are a hundred miles due east of the North Korean Peninsula, sir," Thomlinson reasoned, "the HAYES should be in position with about thirty minutes; the OLYMPIA within forty two minutes. Do you think there's a chance that?"
"Brown-Nose Carson has got us at the ass end of the fleet, Bob," Aldridge pointed at the glowing points of light on the battle map, "and swinging south to face the typhoon head on, with our side exposed. Add to that the fact that the North Koreans just got a huge shipment of MIG-29 Russian fighters and spare parts, and we're not looking too good. Those damn MIG-29s slip below radar and skim the surface to their targets."
"You mean us, Captain?" X.O. Thomlinson asked.
"Damn straight," Aldridge thumped his fist on the table, "until Badger flight is safely aboard, order Fox flight to the deck and keep their eyes open; the North Koreans are just itching for a fight. I don't want to give them a free shot at us."
"Aye, sir," Thomlinson replied, then turned to the Operations Officer, "Ops; prepare to swing us about twenty-two degrees. All ahead, two thirds; notify Fox flight to take it to the deck and begin recon until further orders."
"Aye, sir!"
Fist of the Fleet Squadron, Section 3
"Eight Ball, this is Jackass, over," LT.JG. Billy Barton called into his mike, "Eight Ball, are you out there, dahlin'?" His thick, mid-western twang drawled his r's to h's.
"Eight Ball here, Jackass," came the reply, "coming up on your eight at two miles."
"That's what I like," Jackass grinned, looking over his shoulder, "a woman who comes at me from behind with weapons at the ready. Reminds me of my ex-wife."
"Don't get your hopes up too high, Jackass," Leiutenant Ashley Spinelli called back from the cockpit of her F-15-A-D Super Hornet, "I get dinner and a movie first."
"Roger that, Eight Ball," Jackass laughed, "I always knew you wuhs one of them high classy girls."
"What's your beef, Jackass?" Spinelli asked, rolling her dark eyes beneath her visor.
"Mamma says we gotta take it to the deck and watch for the bad guys," Jackass said, "Badger flight's bein' a bunch of wussies about landing when its so rough."
"Awww, poor babies," Spinelli quipped, "maybe we outta tuck them into bed and give them some warm milk as a reward for flying when there's a little rain?"
"Whoooo-doggie!" Jackass exclaimed, "Is that all it would take for you to tuck me into bed!"
Jackass's Navigator, Tonya 'Peaches' Peterson, an African American female with the highest scoring ever in both navigation and radar disernation, chuckled.
"Watch him, Boss," Peaches warned Spinelli, "he tries that line on every woman he meets!"
"Tell me something, Jackass," Spinelli called out, "did you really get your call sign at flight school like everyone else, or was that your mamma's nickname for you?"
"You know me, Eight Ball," Billy replied, "don't ask; don't tell."
"See you on the deck, Fox-Two," Spinelli called back, laughing softly.
Ashley Spinelli trimmed back on the power, glancing at her fuel guage which appeared on the Heads-Up-Display directly in front of her before she flipped on the internal mike. Just behind her, Ensign Sara Nichols, Spinelli's navigator and copilot, chortled.
"Sounds like Jackass has got the hots for you, Boss," she teased.
"Lucky me," Spinelli shot back easily, "Just what I need; a Spam-sucking, trailer trash romance."
"You don't like him?" Sara pressed.
"He's okay, I guess," Spinelli replied, "but I just can't get past those ears of his; they look like goddamn radar dishes."
Sara giggled.
"I've got six thousand eight hundred pounds of fuel," Spinelli called back to her Navigator, "do you copy?"
Sara checked her own instrumentation against Spinelli's, to ensure that both of them were reading it correctly. She nodded.
"Roger, I've got six thousand eight hundred pounds, too."
Spinelli nodded, checking her speed, direction and the all-weather radar. In front of the F-15-A-D, about ninety miles, was typhoon Janice. A huge splotch of red covered the doppler computer which caused Spinelli to frown to herself. The rising winds began to buffet the F-15-A-D, jostling Spinelli and Sara around inside the cockpit. Spinelli's Heads-Up-Display shimmered on the cockpit canopy in front of her, allowing Spinelli to monitor every system on the dual-cockit F-15-A-D without having to look away. Two green gradated bars showing her altitude and heading floated in the air, dancing as the F-15-A-D was shaken from repeated winds.
"I hope the Old Man lets us land this bird soon," Spinelli growled softly, "this wind is kicking my ass."
"Mamma says Badger flight's almost roosted," Sara replied, glancing off to her right, where she could clearly see Jackass's F-14 Tomcat following alongside, "our turn should come soon."
"Eight Ball, this is Jackass, copy?" came Billy's voice again, clear and sharp.
"Go, Jackass," Spinelli replied, listening intently.
"Peaches says we've got something at our six, range ninety miles and closing fast. Do we have any other flights out here, Boss?"
Spinelli's skin tingled at Jackass's tone; he was tense, worried.
"Any of our birds out that far, Sara?" Spinelli called back.
"Negitive, Boss," Sara said professionally, all pretense of humor gone from her young voice, "we're the rear guard on this flight. The birds from the USS ENTERPRISE are flying close in fleet support today."
"Jackass, give the ABRAHAM LINCOLN a ring," Spinelli ordered quickly, "then follow me; I want to check this out."
"Rodger Dodger, Eight Ball," Jackass confirmed.
Ashley Spinelli banked her F-15-A-D Super Hornet hard about and cut in the afterburners, intent on closing the distance quickly. The powerful, twin F-414 engines roared to life, shaking Spinelli's insides. The driving rain began to beat against the windscreen with such force that Spinelli had to yell to be heard above the noise, calling back over her shoulder.
"Sara, give me a tactical; I can't see a damn thing through this shit."
"Online," Sara called back. The battle computer flickered to life, then sharpened its image to reveal three MIG-29 FULCRUMs and one SU-37 SUPER FLANKER, no doubt their leader, closing at subsonic speed, skimming the surface of the turbulent Pacific. This wasn't a recon probe, Spinelli decided quickly; this was an attack force, bent on sinking the ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
"Christ!" Spinelli's eyes bugged out, "Eight Ball to Jackass!"
"Go," Jackass instantly replied.
"I've got three MIG-29 FULCRUMs and an SU-37 on the deck at just sub-sonic; they're trying to slip beneath the radar! The ABRAHAM LINCOLN is wide open!"
"This is Fox-Three to ABRAHAM LINCOLN," Spinelli relayed to her aircaft carrier, "repeat, this is Fox-Three!"
"Go, Fox-Three," came the calm reply.
"I've got intruders on the deck, bearing niner-five degrees at eighty miles now and closing!"
"Roger, Fox-Three," CNC said, "intercept and determine intent, over."
"Roger!" Spinelli flipped two switches on her joystick while she began barking orders into her mike.
"Fox-Two, follow me! Sara!"
"Go, Boss," Sara answered immediately.
"See if the ABRAHAM LINCOLN can send us some more backup!"
"Understood!"
Ashley Spinelli throttled her engines forward, as she felt the thrust of her plane throw her and Sara into their seats. Spinelli kept her bird level and straight, watching the blip on the tactical screen close in at blinding speed. A sudden thronging alarm sounded in Spinelli's helmet as her blood went cold.
"DANGER! MISSLE LAUNCH!" the computerized voice rang out in her head, "DANGER! MISSLE LAUNCH!"
"They're launching against the ABRAHAM LINCOLN!" Sara cried, horrified as she saw the missles represented by red blips on her screen close the distance between themselves and their ship.
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Captain Aldridge's vision was obscurred by the interior lights as they went from normal to blood red. Alarms and klaxtons began to blare throughout the ABRAHAM LINCOLN CNC, as personel began scambling about.
"VAMPIRES! VAMPIRES!" the Operation Officer cried out, "Incomming missles!"
"General Quarters!" Captain Aldridge barked, "All hands to Battle Stations! Bring our PHALANX online!"
"SIR!" Thomlinson reported, "TAC reports the incomming vampires to be EXCOCET missles!"
"Hard about!" Aldridge demanded, "All ahead flank! Prepare for impact! Launch alert five aircraft!"
But Captain Thomas 'Buzz' Aldridge already knew it was too late...
Fox-Three
"We've got two incomming EXOCET missles, twenty klicks and closing fast!" Sara cried out, her voice near panic.
"Them sonsabitches will sink Mamma," Spinelli growled to herself, "those EXOCETs are ship killers! Jackass! Do you copy!"
"Right here, Boss," Jackass said.
"I can't get them both," Spinelli spat, "you'll have to take one; I'll get the other. Don't let it past you; even one of the EXOCET missles could send the ABRAHAM LINCOLN to the bottom!"
"You got it, Eight Ball!"
"Sara! Gimme all missles at the ready!"
"You're gonna go missle to missle!"
"Those EXOCETS are big and slow, compared with our AIM120s, Sara," Spinelli explained quickly, "we stand a good chance of splashing them if we head directly at them and launch!"
Sara flipped two switches, "You got it Boss! Plus five hundred and seventy rounds of twenty caliber ammo!"
"Lock on the lead missle!" Spinelli ordered, "Hurry!"
"Lock on secured!"
"Fox-Three, fire Fox-One, fire Fox-Two, fire Fox-Three!" Spinelli called into her headset.
The fire control computer responded, and three missles lanced forth from under Spinelli's F-15-A-D, roaring away as Spinelli fought the F-15-A-D for control; launching three missles in the high winds caused her tiny plane to shutter violently.
"Missles away!" Sara yelled, "Contact in three seconds!"
"Come on, baby," Spinelli wished as she helplessly watched the three blips close in fast on their targets, "Gimme a splash!"
From just ahead of them, slightly to the right, Leiutenant Spinelli saw a sudden, brief flash in the darkness and rain; the tactical indicated that only one EXOCET missle had been destroyed. The second EXOCET was still on its course directly for her carrier.
"Damn!" Spinelli cursed, "Eight Ball to Jackass!"
"Go, Eight Ball!"
"You got any Sparrow missles on your bird!"
"Negitive," Jackass reported, "just four AIM 92s and two empty external fuel tanks, copy?"
"That won't do the trick," Spinelli thought furiously, "Those 92s are very short range. Go to your main guns, Jackass; I'm goin' in. If I miss, it's your baby. Don't let that sonofabitch past you! Save those 92s if the MIGs get too close to you!"
"Switching to the guns, Eight Ball," Billy said.
"Let's do this by the numbers," Spinelli bit, as she prepared her plane for combat, "Jackass, stay up with me; we're going sonic!"
"I always let the lady lead me, Eight Ball," Jackass crooned, "Just watch youself, Boss!"
"You, too," she whispered as Spinelli edged her throttle forward as far as it would go. With a thundering BOOM, Lt. Ashley Spinelli's F-15-A-D shattered the sound barrier...
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
"Status!" Aldridge bellowed.
"One EXOCET splashed by Fox-Three," the Operations Officer reported, "one incomming; Fox-Two's missles are short ranged 92s; he's down to his guns."
"Order the PHALANX to begin probes," Aldridge said to his X.O., "If we get hit by that thing, we're going straight to the bottom with all hands."
"Sir," Thomlinson reported, "Fox-Three is going in; but satilite recon indicates three MIG-29s and an SU-37 closing on her position."
"Damn," the Old Man growled, "That SU-37 is their leader; if we can splash him, the others might just turn tail. Any of Badger flight still airborn?"
"Just Badger Four," Thomlinson said, "and he is fully loaded with AIM 120s. Plus, we have our alert five aircraft; but they won't be in range for at least ten minutes."
"We don't have but two minutes, maybe three. Send Badger-Four," Aldridge ordered, "and order Fox-Two to cover Fox-Three's ass; those MIGs mean business."
"Aye, sir," the X.O. acknowledged.
Fist of the Fleet Squadron, Section Two; Badger-Four
Johnny Vermachelli, aka Johnny V., lined up on the rolling deck of the ABRAHAM LINCOLN when his headset sparked static and a call came through from CNC.
"Ops to Badger-Four," CNC called.
"Badger-Four, Roger," Babytooth replied, "Go, ABRAHAM LINCOLN."
"Roger, Badger-Four," CNC said, "Fox-Three and Fox-Two in tango with three incomming MIGs; divert and assist, over."
"On my way, Mamma," Babytooth called out as Johnny V. gunned the engines of his own F-14 Tomcat and skipped off the flight deck, banking sharply to the north.
"Did you copy last, New Kid?" Baby Tooth called back towards his own Navigator, Marine Leiutenant Gustav P. Griswold.
"Roger, Babytooth," Gus replied, his hands flipping through the sequence nesessary to bring the F-14 Tomcat to battle ready, "all weapons online; tactical online. Let's go get 'em, Johnny!"
"Hold on to your britches, boy," Baby Tooth snarled, "Eight Ball's in deep shit this time; I'm gonna kick this pig!"
"Works for me!" Gus shot back as he was slammed against his restraining harness.
"Peaches, this is New Kid, copy?" Gus called out.
"Go, New Kid!" Peaches replied, her transmission static filled.
"We're inbound, your location," New Kid informed her, "contact with you in thirty eight sierra, copy?"
"Thirty eight seconds is about thirty five seconds more than we have, New Kid!" Peaches called out, "Hurry Gussie! Those MIGs are comming in hot and heavy!"
Johnny V.'s F-14 carved out a blue flame in the dark skies as Badger-Four crossed the sound barrier with a resounding boom...
Fox-Three
"DANGER! MISSLE LAUNCH! DANGER! MISSLE LAUNCH!"
"Shit!" Spinelli cried over her shoulder harness, "Two more EXOCETs just got launched! Gimme a firing solution!"
"Remaining missles locked!" Sara reported back, "But this is our last volley!"
"Eight Ball to Jackass!" Spinelli spat.
"Go, Eight Ball!"
"I've now got three total EXOCET missles inbound!" Spinelli said as she thought furiously, "I can only take down one, maybe two more; copy!"
"I'll catch the leftovers, Eight Ball!" Baby Tooth called out. An F-14 Tomcat slammed on its airbrakes as it came out of super sonic speed with a boom that Spinelli could feel in her bones.
"Johnny!" Spinelli cried out for joy, "Is that you!"
"None other, Sweets!"
"Stay with Jackass," Spinelli said, feeling a wash of relief come over her, "help him take these bastards down!"
"We're on top of it, Eight Ball!" Baby Tooth sang out, "Go get 'em!"
"Roger!"
Ashley Spinelli fought the bucking controls as she ordered the computer for lock-on; the computer confirmed and Spinelli fired her remaining missles in a tight volley at the incomming nightmares.
"Fox-Three, fire Fox-four, fire Fox-five, fire Fox-six!"
Spinelli's F-15-A-D shook violently once more as the remaining missles in her cluster launched from their perches beneath her wings; their flaming tails clearly visible in the night sky. Without warning, all three missles detonated less than a mile from the nose of Spinelli's plane. The F-15-A-D shuttered as Spinelli flew past the debris that had been the EXOCET missles. A warning buzzer sounded as a glowing schematic winked out on Sara's panel which monitored the engines.
"Boss!" Sara cried, "We've got a flame out on number two engine!"
"It must have sucked in some of that debris," Spinelli gripped, "don't worry, Sara; we're not down yet!"
"But we're completely dry!" Sara reported, "No missles!"
"I'm switching to the guns," Spinelli said, flipping back the tiny panel on her joystick and postioning her thumb on the trigger, "those guys ain't goin' home until they've had their pound of flesh!"
"You splashed two EXOCETs with that volley, Eight Ball!" Baby Tooth reported, "Nice shooting!"
"Save it, Baby Tooth!" Spinelli growled, "I'm down one engine, dry on my missles and these boys still want to dance!"
"I'm at your three position, Eight Ball!" Jackass broke in, "Just keep it low and level; I'm above you now!"
"I'm on the last EXOCET, Eight Ball!" Johnny barked.
Babytooth's F-14 pulled away, shaking violently as Johnny V. slammed his engines through their mountings, trying to close the distance with the deadly EXOCET ship killer.
"Roger, Johnny!" Spinelli said, "Jackass, prepare to scissor left; I'll take one MIG-29, you take the other. The SU-37's already turning tail! Looks like he's the smart one!"
"Ready when you are, Eight Ball!"
"GO!"
Spinelli went hard right, kicking in the afterburners as she lined up on the elusive MIG-29, while Jackass went left, firing his cannons at the nimble his own MIG-29, who seemed to dance through the hail of gunfire.
"Whoooo-doggie!" Jackass crowed, as he twisted his F-14, "This boy's slippier than a greased piggy!"
"Stop screwing around and down that plane!" Spinelli barked at Jackass.
"He's too far for guns, Boss," Jackass said, "I'm comming back to you!"
"Negitive!" Spinelli ordered, "Take him down with your AIM92s!"
"Fox-Two, fire Fox-one!" Jackass said, as the voice recognition system launched an AIM92 directly at the MIG-29 dead ahead.
"Good lock!" Jackass reported back to Spinelli, "Impact in eight seconds!"
"Stay with him until he gets flamed, then form up on me!"
"But, Boss!" Jackass said, "You don't have a wingman!"
"If we don't take these boys down, Jackass," Spinelli gritted, "we won't have a ship!"
Spinelli's fighter jostled from the backwash of the Russian MIG-29 as it turned and twisted, attempting to throw her off; but Spinelli was right on top of him, firing her 20mm nose chaingun in short, controlled bursts, as she clipped the deadly fighter. The MIG-29 continued to fly a short distance further, before her left wing folded, then completely snapped in two, the Russian plane now bound for a watery grave below.
"Got him!" Spinelli grinned. A sudden, screaming alarm made her smile fade in an instant.
"It's the SU-37, Boss!" Sara screamed, "He doubled back! He's firing!"
The deadly SU-37 that had peeled off, giving Spinelli the impression that he was fleeing, had doubled back and had Lt. Ashley Spinelli in his gunsights. A firey spray of bullets danced across the sky as Spinelli frantically went right as she attempted to roll away.
"DANGER! EVADE! DANGER! EVADE!" the computerized voice yelled.
"He's got us!" Sara screamed, "Shoot him!"
"Our guns are dry!" Spinelli said, "Sara, dump the externals; we've got to escape to warn the fleet-"
A sudden roar of bullets ripped through the cockpit as Fox-Three broke apart, disappearing right in front of Fox-Two in a fiery shower of smoke and debris.
"EIGHT BALL!" Billy screamed, as he and his Navigator, Peaches, helplessly watched Ashley Spinelli's shattered F-15-A-D fighter veer off as her starboard wing burst into flames. The fighter fell from the sky, first rolling onto her back, then headed straight down, nose-first. Billy Barton watched in horror as his flight leader's F-15-A-D plumetted towards the cold, dark waters of the Pacific far below...
Badger-Four
"JUST DO IT!" Johnny V. ordered, "DUMP EVERYTHING! I NEED TO BE ABLE TO MANEUVER!"
"We can't kill that missle without our missles!" Gus pointed out.
"Our only chance is to take that thing down with the guns!"
New Kid flipped a switch, then pressed a button as he watched their extra fuel and all of their missle compliment drop harmlessly into the Pacific Ocean.
"Dump complete!"
"Hang on, Gustav," Johnny sneered, throttling his Tomcat to full power, "we're only gonna get one shot at this!"
Baby Tooth lined up on the quickly advancing, subsonic missle as the EXOCET came at them at blinding speed. The F-14 Tomcat and the EXOCET missle were on a collision course, heading at each other, nose to nose.
Baby Tooth waited as the microseconds ticked slowly by; with the lightest touch, Baby Tooth let out a wall of super hot lead which split the EXOCET missle in two with a firey explosion.
"Holy!" Gus stammered, not believing his own eyes, "You-you did it!"
"Badger-Four, this is Fox-Two," Billy called out somberly.
"Go, Fox-Two," Babytooth replied.
"Two MIG-29s splashed," Jackass reported quietly, "The SU-37 turned tail and ran; but Eight Ball is down."
"Spinelli!" Gus cried out, but Johnny V. ordered him silent.
"At ease, Leiutenant," Babytooth said, "get on the horn to the ABRAHAM LINCOLN; tell them we've got a downed bird."
"This is Badger-Four to ABRAHAM LINCOLN," New Kid said, choking back his tears, "we've lost Fox-Three. Do you copy?"
"Acknowledged, Badger-Four," the ABRAHAM LINCOLN replied, "return to base; we're on our way..."
"Roger," Gus said as he sat back. He sat there, feeling as though he'd been punched in his gut.
"Hey, Johnny?" Gus called forward.
"Yeah?" came the soft response.
"You think they made it out okay?"
"Spinelli's the best damn pilot in the U.S.Navy," Johnny V. replied, fighting back his own fears, "if anyone could survive that, Spinelli could. Now, shut the hell up; I've got to land this plane."
II.
USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Lt. Gustav P. Griswold headed down the forward hatchway towards medical and Ashley Spinelli, who had been fished out of the churning waters of the Pacific only hours before. According to what Gus could gather, Spinelli had suffered only superficial injuries when she ejected from her F-15-A-D.
She had been lucky.
Sara Nichols was still missing.
Gus stopped at the double hatch entryway to the medical section of the ABRAHAM LINCOLN, his stomach knotted with worry. He stepped through the entrance and glanced about, looking for the on-duty Corpsman.
"Excuse me," Gus called out to a young female nurse, "I'm looking for Leiutenant Ashley Spinelli; the pilot who was rescued a little bit ago from a downed F-15-A-D. May I see her?"
The nurse looked back at the handsome young Marine Leiutenant, still dressed in his flight suit, then noticed his wedding ring.
"Are you her husband, sir?"
"No," Gus said, "but I was with her flight when she was shot down."
"I'm not allowed to let anyone but the chief surgeon and her commander-" the young nurse began, but Gus put his hand on her shoulder.
"Please," he asked softly, "she's been my friend since grade school; just five minutes? Please?"
The young nurse glanced about uncertainly, then nodded.
"Five minutes, sir," she said, "no more; and I don't know anything about this. Recovery room 12; down the hall, to your left."
"Thanks," Gus said, as he slipped past.
Gus stopped cold at the door to Spinelli's room, as he gazed upon his friend's frail body tucked beneath the sterile white sheets. Her face, normally angellic, was bruised and swollen; a gauze bandage covered a group of stitches that ran along her hairline, high on Spinelli's forehead. Her lips were swollen slightly as well, mostly from the minor surgery she had been through within the last two hours and the painkillers she had been given. Still drugged, Spinelli laid on the bed...silent, unmoving.
Lt. Ashley Spinelli's eyes slowly opened, as the familiar form of Marine Lt. Gustav P. Griswold hovered over her bed. She could feel Gus brush the hair from her eyes, a worried look on his tiny face turning to that of relief as he saw Spinelli's dark eyes focus on him.
"Hey, Spin," he whispered gently, "how are you feeling?"
"Like shit, you jarhead," she coughed.
"Well," Gus said, stiffling a laugh, "at least your sense of humor's back; that's a good sign."
"Have they found Sara yet?" Spinelli asked, her voice tense.
The question caught Gus off guard; he knew she would want to know.
"No...not yet," he said quietly.
"She was my responsibilty, Gus," Spinelli bit back her tears, "it was her first flight; that's why they gave her to me. I was supposed to watch out for her."
"You did everything you could," Gus told her.
"But-" she began, but Gus cut her off.
"She knew the risks, Spinelli," Gus remined her, "we all do; that's part of the job. Sara was young, but she knew what could happen."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Spinelli shot back venomously.
Gus just took Spinelli's bandaged hand in his own, squeezing it gently.
"No, it isn't," Gus replied, "it's supposed to hurt; that's how we know someone meant something to us."
"I don't know if I can do this anymore," Spinelli confessed, her tears coming forth in torrents. Gus sat on the edge of her bed, holding her close as Ashley Spinelli wept bitterly, "It's cost me too much."
"Yes, you can," Gus soothed, "this is what you were born to do."
"But...how?" Spinelli asked, looking up at him from the warmth and safety of his arms, looking very much the fourth grader Gus once knew.
"We'll find a way...together," Gus said as Spinelli let her emotions out, craddled in the arms of one of her best friends in the whole world...
III.
Pearl Harbor Naval Air Station, three months later...
Lt. Ashley Funicello Spinelli stood at rigid attention in her dress whites, her long, jet black hair pinned up, her hat on the desk next to her. Directly in front of her, not more than three paces away, the Board of Inquiry which had been conviened to review the circumstances of the engagement and the subsequent death of Ensign Sara Ann Nichols. The Board was made up of Spinelli's superiors and their peers, all of which had sat in relative silence during the three days of testimony from Ashley Spinelli and the following day of cross examination by the Board. Over and over, Leiutenant Spinelli relayed the events of the encounter with the MIG-29s and the mysterious SU-37 off the coast of North Korea, which had nearly turned into a nuclear confrontation between the two nations; only an intervention from the Chinese had narrowly averted World War III.
Now, it was time for the Board of Inquiry to render its decision.
Ashley stood there, unmoving as the Board entered the room and officiously took their seats at the long table. Spinelli was vaguely aware of the morning light which filtered through the windows off to her right, shedding its warm glow as Spinelli's eyes quickly darted from one Board member to the next; but she could not read their faces, let alone their thoughts.
"Naval Aviator Lt. Ashley Funicello Spinelli, step forward," Admiral Carstairs said. Spinelli took three steps forward and saluted him, to which Carstairs replied before continuing.
"Lt. Spinelli," he said, "is there anything else you would like to add into your testimony at this time before this Board of Inquiry renders its verdict?"
"No, sir." Spinelli swallowed hard, her eyes tearing slightly.
"Is there anything that you would like to say to this Board on your behalf that should be taken into consideration?"
"No, sir."
"Is there any part of your testimony that you would like to amend?"
"No, sir."
"Are you prepared to recieve the judgement of this Board?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you do so with the understanding that you have waived any right for legal representation?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, Leiutenant."
Admiral Carstairs glanced from one end of the long table to the other, silently receiving the nods from the other members before he removed the paper from his folder. He looked at Spinelli.
"Naval Aviator Lt. Ashley Funicello Spinelli, service number 0032X47B, currently on assignment with the naval aircraft carrier USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN," he began, "it is the decision of the Board of Inquiry that on March 12 of this year, during an engagement with several enemy fighter craft off the coast of North Korea, you acted accordingly with the rules of engagement and the safety of both your ship and those under your command at the point and time of contact. You are hereby to be commended for your actions which reflect both the spirit and the duty of every person in uniform, whatever their duties may be.
"As to the death of Navigation Officer Ensign Sara Ann Nichols," he continued, "this Board of Inquiry finds no fault with any decision that you made, any action that you took or any resulting condition arising from those conditions. Her death is a terrible loss to the Navy, to the country and to her family, but an unavoidable one."
At this, Spinelli winced, her eyes filling with tears as she tried not to show any emotion in front of her superiors. Admiral Carstairs concluded.
"Your flight status is reinstated," he said, "and you are also hereby promoted to the rank of Leiutenant Commander, both effective immediately. You are to be temorarily reassigned to Fallon Naval Air Station in Nevada for additional flight training. This concludes this Board of Inquiry."
The mid-morning sun shined down upon the five figures gathered within the USS ARIZONA monument, casting a surreal light upon those that Ensign Sara Nichols had left behind. Each stood at rigid attention, eyes forward, as Commander Lance McCormick, commanding officer of the squadron Fist of the Fleet of the USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN slowly went down their ranks. Upon each officer, Cmdr. McCormick pinned the Distinguished Flying Cross, which was taken from a cherry oak box lined with red velvet. In all, there were six medals; but only five people to recieve them.
Lt. Cmdr. Ashley Funicello Spinelli stood as stoic as the monument itself, her long, ebony hair pinned up, leaving only her long bangs in front. Dressed in her dress whites, Spinelli fought back the tearing that blurred her vision as her commanding officer stepped in front of her and pinned upon her uniform, the Distinguished Flying Cross. Cmdr. McCormick said nothing during the small ceremony, but remained as silent as those sailors who were still within the hull of the destroyed USS ARIZONA.
McCormick paused after he pinned Spinelli's medal on her, looking deep into her fathomless, dark eyes, as dark as midnight, gleaming like two black diamonds in the soft morning light. Spinelli did not return the commander's gaze, but kept her eyes on some distant point far beyond Pearl Harbor.
McCormick had seen that look before...in his own eyes, more than twenty years before during Desert Storm. It was a bitter thing to lose a flyer; it was even worse when that flyer was also your subordinate. McCormick said nothing, made no motion, as he started to close the oak box in front of Spinelli. With a swift, yet soft movement, Ashley Spinelli put her hand on the box, next to his own. He looked at her expectantly.
"Sir," Lt. Cmdr. Spinelli began, "with your permission, I'd like to take charge of Sara's medal."
"Why?' Cmdr. McCormick asked in the same, soft tone.
Lt. Johnny Vermachelli glanced sideways at Lt. Gustav Patton Griswold, while Gus's jaw only flexed in both sadness and anger at losing one of their own. Next to Gus, Lt. JG. Billy 'Jackass' Barton stood at attention, but his overly large sky blue eyes were misted. Next to Billy, his Navigator, Tonya 'Peaches' Peterson wept openly, but silently; her tears streaking down her dark skin. She looked at Billy, who offered not a smile, but a reassuring warmth in his expression. Peaches smiled to thank him.
"I'd like to present Sara's medal to her parents myself, sir," Spinelli replied "Sara wasn't just my Navigator and subordinate, sir...she was my friend."
"Lt. Cmdr. Spinelli," McCormick said in a subdued tone, "that duty is the responsibility of her commanding officer. That means me."
"I know, sir," Spinelli said in return, looking McCormick in the eyes, "but I know she want would do the same thing for me, sir."
Commander McCormick glanced sideways at Spinelli's Wing section, then nodded briefly.
"Very well, Spinelli." He offered the box to Ashley, who took it reverently from him, her hands wrapped tightly about its high luster finish. McCormick turned to the other flyers.
"I could go into a long winded speech about how Sara gave her life for her country," he said, as he paced back to stand in front of them, "but I don't consider this ceremony a funeral, which is why I chose to hold this ceremony at this memorial; to remind us all of the duty we may, someday, be called upon to perform. This is to honor all of you as well as Sara, for the heroism of saving the USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN. As far as I am concerned, Sara is still with us in spirit. Sara meant a lot to all of us but we can't let her death prevent us from doing our jobs. We're still Navy pilots, when it's all said and done. We have a job to do now...and Sara would want it that way.
"Captain Aldridge put in a request eight weeks ago that each of you attend the Navy's Fighter Weapons Training School, at Fullon Air Station in Nevada. You will report there immediately upon dismissal for six weeks of intensive fighter combat and flying evaluation."
McCormick waited for his words to sink in, then barked, "Dismissed."
The small group began to break up as McCormick turned to the railing of the USS ARIZONA monument.
"Not you, Spinelli," he added, from over his shoulder.
Spinelli paused, then looked back at Babytooth, New Kid, Peaches and Jackass, as she silently waved them to go on without her. Johnny V. looked back at Spinelli with a worried glance, to which Spinelli tried to reassure him with a small smile of her own. Johnny V. trotted after the rest of the group, while Lt. Cmdr. Spinelli came up next to Commander Lance McCormick. For a long time, McCormick said nothing, but watched a seagull lazily glide about the shimmering waters of Pearl Harbor. He looked down into those blue waters, and saw his own reflection, along with Ashley Spinelli, peering back at him.
"When you first came to the ABRAHAM LINCOLN," he began, not looking at her, "You were nothing more than a snot-nosed rookie pilot, fresh out of flight school."
He leaned on the railing while he spoke, casting a sideways glance at Lt. Cmdr. Spinelli. She said nothing in return, finding it difficult to meet her commander's steady gaze. Instead, Spinelli watched the same seagull fly about, leaning on the rail next to McCormick, shoulder to shoulder while he spoke.
"Spinelli, I've seen you go from that snot-nosed rookie fighter pilot to section leader in just under three years; that's some accomplishment. But you've got to get past this guilt. It wasn't your fault."
"I can't get Sara's death out of my mind, sir," Spinelli lamented softly.
"You have to let her go, Spinelli," McCormick insisted, gazing out at the harbor, "when you become a leader, one of the first things you realise is that you're going to lose people; that's just part of the business."
"I'm not so sure I want to be a part of this business anymore, sir," she said flatly.
"This country needs good officers like you Spinelli; and so do I."
Spinelli felt flush as McCormick looked at her with folded arms.
"You saved the ABRAHAM LINCOLN and all aboard from those missles," he continued, "if it weren't for you, Billy, Tonya, Gus and Johnny V., we wouldn't be having this conversation now. Sara gave her life to ensure the lives of the crew of the ABRAHAM LINCOLN. Do you want Sara's sacrifice to have been in vain?"
Spinelli felt ashamed and embaressed.
Sara's ultimate sacrifice would not be in vain, she decided.
"No, sir," Spinelli replied, "I wouldn't want that at all."
"Then get your gear packed," McCormick said firmly, but with a smile, "because you're going to TOP GUN."
"Yes, sir."