By the way, see Switch, Jester and the rest of the 188th TFS(N) arrive on the Vulture, and undergo their final training work-ups at
The clip ends with Switch taking off on his "infamous" night exercise. (Not actually obviously, but I saw the clip and it matched the story too well not to show to all of you)

I do not own Ace Combat 5 nor any of their trademarked characters or plots.

Without further adeau, I present...

Ghost of War

CHAPTER 3: "Shock & Awe"

-CV Vulture, off the Osean coastline, East Ceres Sea-

Two minutes is a long time in the military world, more specifically, the world of the fighter pilot. Two minutes can mean the difference between bombs on target, or bombs on the kid's preschool thirty miles down the road. Two minutes can mean making a safe trap onboard a nice dry, solid carrier with fuel to spare, or having to take a cold bath in the North Ceres Sea. Essentially, an error of two minutes in the military world is often the difference between life and death.

That's why men around the world greatly appreciate the fact that "dating", is firmly considered part of the civilian world.

My watch blinked back 1017 at me, but I had still taken the time to pause outside the door to the Aft Mess, just so I could catch my breath and look over myself one more time. My brief experiences with women while back at port had taught me that women will accommodate lack of punctuality as long as you look good, and make the inconvenience up to them sometime shortly thereafter. While Ensign Harper was to be my first experience with a fellow Navy officer, but I made the assumption that at their core, all women have the same ideals. Only after I was sure I looked presentable and was no longer panting for breath did I reach to open the door to the mess.

"General quarters air wing! General quarters air wing! All flight personnel to ready rooms! General quarters air wing!" The ship's P1C loudspeakers blared out, followed by three sharp klaxon blasts.

I just stood there and stared at the speaker with my jaw touching the floor, and I particularly remember going through three distinct thoughts,

What the…?

Why would…?

Where's my pistol?

Hey, I said they were distinct, not that they were particularly complicated or for that matter, intelligent.

To the best of my recollection, that was the first time in my young navy career that I had ever paused and considered disobeying an order. Now had the speaker then and there said we were at war, then I am certain there would have been no two ways about it, I would running my flight suited butt five hundred meters and one deck up the direction I just came, straight to the 188th's ready room. But the P1C hadn't included that crucial bit of information, and that, combined with the fact that I was still "grounded", and hence not on flight status meant that I seriously contemplated disobeying the General Quarters alarm, and at the very least saying a quick hello to the attractive Ensign on the other side of the door.

My dilemma of "to enter the mess or not" was decided however, when the light upstairs finally switched on and I realized that there had been no "this is a drill" statement following the alarm. Only after that point did I finally realize, still standing awkwardly in front of the aft officers mess, that I had heard my first ever genuine General Quarters alarm.

Disgracefully, I was still standing outside the mess when I heard my second.

To recover some prestige however, I was already thirty feet down the corridor before the alarm ended, during which time I clearly remember thinking, she's in the service too, she'll understand, and who knows, with the alarm she might not even remember that you weren't on time!

Over next few of the Vulture's numbered days, I would never find out if she had noticed or not.

The 188th's ready room was already occupied by thirteen other pilots when I stormed in, roughly three-quarters of the 188th's roster. As per usual for a briefing, the lights were dimmed over the pilots and bright at front where, again as usual, the CO stood at a plain wooden podium watching his squadron stream in and take their assigned padded steel seats one by one.

The silence however, was anything but usual.

There are very few reasons to assemble an entire squadron. Even during the largest exercises, rarely more than two flights of four are in use at any one point to allow for regular maintenance on the squadron's aircraft and more importantly, to leave half a squadron rested and ready in case of unforeseen circumstances. But even when only eight pilots are assembled, there is always a constant stream of chatter and conversation before a briefing. With all seventeen pilots assembled (eighteen minus the CO), there is no way in hell the quietly whirring fans in the air ducts should have been heard. Everyone in the room knew this alarm was out of the ordinary, everyone wanted to know what was going on.

We didn't wait long.

"Allright ladies, shut up and listen up." The CO stated quite unnecessarily as the seventeenth flight suit hurried into the room. His boots were still unlaced.

"As I'm sure you all picked up, this alarm is no drill, I am not quite sure of what the situation is personally, but I have been told that the CAG himself will be briefing the entire Air Wing from the CIC." The CO stated coolly as the whiteboard to his right lit up with the projected image of the CAG, the eerily blue interior of the Vulture's CIC visible behind him.

"Gentlemen, shut up and listen up!" The CAG's voiced boomed over the ready room's small speakers as everyone, myself included, straightened up out of reflex, the fact we all knew he couldn't see us quite irrelevant.

"As of thirty minutes ago the nation of Yuktobania issued a declaration of war against the Osean Federation. Now pick up your jaws and listen, this is the important part. We've received FLASH traffic from Western Naval HQ in Port St. Hewitt. They are currently under attack by a large number of tactical fighter-bombers with heavy fighter escort. The carrier Kestrel and her entire battlegroup are moored there, and currently racing to get to sea. Command is scrambling orders, but the only re-enforcements that will arrive in time for the melee are a flight of Tomcats of the 137th, and elements from Sand Island Air Base," he paused, "a training unit."

"Very simply, this opening, surprise offensive appears to be targeting our only current offensive weapons, the CVN's. With the Barbet in Oured's drydock and out of the picture that leaves the Kestrel, the Buzzard, and us. The Kestrel is already under attack so the Admiralty believes that Port St. Halworth, the Buzzard and our home port, will also come under attack. Latest intelligence puts the Yuktobanian Carrier battle group still at port, meaning they may believe we're holed up in port with the Buzzard and therefore not expecting or looking for a naval engagement. In the meantime, Fleet HQ has given orders to sail, but the Buzzard battlegroup won't be going anywhere at least six hours.

Fate has given our ship a major defensive advantage, but we must protect the rest of the fleet, those ships are invaluable gentlemen." The CAG's voice boomed in a fast, powerful pace. Once again, everyone stiffened as they knew what was coming next; orders. Overhead a rapid, low rumble echoed through the ready room as one of the Vulture's four steam catapults viciously released its pent-up power.

"To that end we've quickly devised a battle plan. This is for the 120th," The CAG continued as a digital chart of the Western Osean coastline replaced his face on the whiteboard.

"I want all of your Tommie's in the air immediately; you're off to Port St. Hewitt. You won't arrive in time for the battle, but the Ceres is too wide for those tactical aircraft, they'll have to tank somewhere on the way home. Arming crews should be loading up Phoenix's on your rails now. Get your asses out there and mop up anything that escapes the melee over the Kestrel. Bombers, fighters, and especially any tankers they have out there, splash them all. You will be too far away to return here, so you'll be landing at Nillius Air Base, refueling, and returning to the Vulture from there. We are launching both of our Hawkeye's now to assist in your hunting." The CAG ordered, referring to the F-14's unique arsenal, the AIM-54 Phoenix missile. Despite a horrendously expensive price tag per unit, when the missile and fighter combine, they become long range, high speed platform capable of tracking, engaging and neutralizing a target at over a hundred miles away. The CAG had ordered the ship's F-14 squadron on their dream role; long-range extermination. Overhead, a second low rumble meant the second slow, prop-driven Hawkeye naval-AWACS and been hurled into the air.

Ahead on the whiteboard, the screen flickered and became a new chart, centered on Port St. Halworth, which was closer, but still dangerously far from the Vulture icon on the screen.

"This is for the 188th and the 196th. As soon as the 120th is airborne you will be launched in order that your craft are ready. Proceed immediately to the airspace above our home port and take up a combat air patrol. You will be in range of shore based fire control so you won't need any Hawkeye's. There will be a strike package inbound, jump them, neutralize them, and escort the Buzzard to sea. As soon as the last aircraft launches, the Vulture will turn out of wind and head full steam towards your position, you should be able to recover here by the time your engines are running on fumes. That's all gentlemen, consider this a scramble order, I want all aircraft airborne in fifteen. Hunt the bastards down. CAG out."

I instantly joined the rest of my squadron as we left our seats to grab our G-suits and helmets hanging on the back walls. There was an obvious sense of urgency but everyone was carefully taking the time to put their suits on properly, especially since we knew we would be putting them to use. Muffled noises could be heard outside the ready room as pilots from the two other squadrons raced down the hall at breakneck speed, the 196th boys to the hangar bay, and the Tomcatter's to the flight deck. Securing my G-suit was the easy part, the dash through the Vulture's halls turned out to be nothing more than a headlong sprint that probably had me on equal chances to end up the infirmary before I even got airborne.

Although at the time, everyone, including the Captain and CAG, thought the war was unfolding several hundred miles away, the Vulture was in a truly precarious and awkward position. Osea was at peace, which meant her incredibly expensive navy was kept at port as much as possible. The construction of the four carriers in Osea's arsenal was a direct result of the Belkan conflict, but the expenses of running and maintaining the carriers (which included each carrier's Air Wing of seventy plus aircraft and battle group of seven support ships per flattop) was a massive black hole to the Osean economy. With the outbreak of peace, Osea could no longer afford her massive wartime-born arsenal of air, land, and sea forces and cutbacks were inevitable. The first to suffer was the Army, whose size dwindled to a mere four divisions, only one of which was armoured. But this alone was not enough. The Air Force saw the chopping block next, her massive numbers of standing, regular force squadrons being replaced with reserve units or being disbanded altogether.

The premise for this action was that maintaining four carrier Air Wings was enough to supplement the need for a standing Air Force. And so the Air Force was decimated, its strength relying on part time pilots who were ready to be called up, and massive fleets of hundreds of aircraft sitting idly on the ground and in the open in three great open "boneyards" ready to be used in an emergency, but only in an emergency.

Despite these drastic measures, the Navy was to suffer her share of cutbacks as well. Budget restraints meant that battlegroups rarely ever steamed at sea in full fleets, and the only time a carrier herself was allowed to sail was if new pilots or old needed to qualify or re-qualify for carrier operations. This was exactly the reason why the Vulture was at sea now, the training of the 188th and re-qualifications of the 196th and the 120th. She did not carry a whole Air Wing, only these three squadrons requiring workups, two E-2C Hawkeye naval AWACS, and two COD versions of the E-2 for aerial re-supply and crew transport. She was missing an electronic warfare squadron, a third Hornet squadron, her anti-submarine Vikings and Seahawks and a full complement of naval AWACS. Likewise her battlegroup was nearly nonexistent, comprised of only two destroyers. The destroyers themselves were only allowed to sail as to give the Hornet squadrons realistic anti-shipping targets to simulate runs on, as well as to give the destroyer crews practice in their anti-aircraft duties. In perfect truth of the matter, the Vulture battlegroup in her current state could just barely be considered combat-capable. That being said, at the outbreak of war, we were the only active fighter squadrons on the west coast of Osea, with the exception of the reserve wing at Sand Island Air Base, the training center at Hierlark, and a squadron of Tomcats led by the famous Capt. Snow, which was practicing basic flight procedures before they replaced the 188th for a naval warfare and flight operations training berth onboard the Vulture.

With the Barbet at port in Oured, the Kestrel fighting for her life at port St. Hewitt, and Buzzard turning over her boilers, the Captain and CAG of the Vulture were going to rely on the vastness of the ocean to keep her from being hunted and engaged as well.

It was a bold move, and almost failed.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I can clearly recall the first sensations that hit me when I finally reached the hangar. That is because the sickening stench of hydraulic fluid, oil, Jet-A, and most worrisome of all, the roar of hundreds of voices yelling at each other basically summed up the near anarchy that was breaking out in the bay. The cavernous flight bay was a mess of chaotic, frantic activity. What should have been a massive empty space only half filled with aircraft was completely congested sea of brown and blue vested sailors of the Vulture Air Wing. Around each aircraft brown shirted maintenance crews hurriedly made last minute adjustments to the aircraft in their charge and set about firing up the electronics prior to the pilot's arrival. Zipping in and around the aircraft, blue clothed personnel moved in packs, with a collection of specialized vehicles looking to hook up any aircraft they could find and start moving to one of the Vulture's four large shipside elevators. I nearly got my head taken off by the wing mounted weapons rack of a Hornet as I struggled to move through the surging river of personnel to get to my bird. The only thought at the time going through my mind was how long I was going to have to wait just to get onto an elevator, never mind launched at the rate the "scramble" seemed to be progressing.

Now reading this, I am sure you are probably astounded at how fast the Vulture's specialized Navy crew could break down into outer chaos despite flight operations being the exact and near only job of everyone in that hangar. To explain the source of the chaos simply, you need to understand that the order to "scramble" does not exist in carrier aviation.

At an Air Force Base, you say scramble and off the crews go to work, the first aircraft ready simply taxies out to the runway and off he goes.

On a carrier, you have to deal with the fact there are no taxiways, only a handful of designated arming points, a separate handful of fueling points, and only four bottleneck elevators to get your aircraft up topside. Once topside the fun doesn't stop and aircraft need to be guided across the steel deck, keeping the landing portion as clear as possible, while being queued up for a catapult slot. Granted, in a wartime situation there are always six fighter aircraft sitting up on the flight deck, fueled, armed, crewed and ready to be launched within five minutes of the order, but whenever any other sizeable force is to be used, even in wartime, it requires eons of careful planning and orchestration to get those aircraft fueled, armed, moved through an often jam packed Hangar, lifted to the Flight Deck, and moved efficiently to the catapults. Without that planning and orchestration you have the near free-for-all I was experiencing first hand as the Blue's just grabbed the closest aircraft to the elevators and sent it on up, whether the Brown shirts say it's ready or not, neither groups caring if there was actually a pilot at that aircraft yet. The pilots just entering into the fray have to frantically search for their aircraft, do their pre-flight, walk-around, strap in and be ready to start up immediately upon reaching the Flight Deck, a place where space is even at a higher premium.

Now, thankfully I did not have the problem that many of my squadron mates were experiencing as my Hornet was not being shoved around by the blue shirts as they argued about which order it should be fueled, armed and sent topside. In fact, my problem was that everyone seemed to be ignoring my Hornet completely.

"Chief Laskar!" I screamed upon reaching what must have been the only unattended bird in the colossus hangar.

"Aye!" came the reply from a brown shirted maintenance chief firing up the electronic suite on a Hornet thirty feet from mine.

"Why the hell isn't my plane ready! Have I got fuel? Because I can sure as hell see I've got no weapons!" I bellowed, competing over the roaring din of the hangar.

"I'm sorry Sir! But I was still under the impression you're off active duty, I can't get that bird prepped without the CAG's approval." The only thing that stopped me from hurling my quite solid helmet at the Chief's head was the fact that I was still going to need it in one piece. Instead I reached under and up into the nose gear bay and hit the button for the canopy release, waited for it to open sufficiently, and tossed my helmet and mask up into the cockpit before running back across the chaotic ocean that was the Vulture's hangar bay.

"Just get that bloody plane armed, fueled, and topside ASAP, I'll get that approval!" In hindsight, it was quite the day for me, fitness wise. Considering all the running back and forth first to the mess, then to the ready room, down several stories to the hangar, followed by my dash now to find the CAG, who would naturally be in the Vulture's CIC, the nerve center of the carrier, which happened to be located several more stories back above the bay, I'm surprised I wasn't dead by that point.

As I continued my half mile sprint through the narrow steel passageways I could hear the now almost continuous rumbling as the Vulture's four catapults were throwing up Osea's only frontline defense in this surprise war.

My only thought at the time was how pissed off I was that at this rate, Jester was going to get first crack at the Yuke bastards before I could.

My deep apologies for taking to so long to add another chapter, most regrettably life intervened, but I am back and so the story will continue
Once again this was supposed to be half of a greater whole, but as I'm finding is consistently occurring, a chapter in my outline (which is currently laid out till two more chapters ahead) is turning into at least two in real writing… anyways off I go to work on the next installment, so enjoy this one, and please R&R.

Cheers,