AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, the big mission was supposed to be this chapter, but then I realized I kind of needed another "briefing" chapter so everyone knows where they're going and what they're doing. It also gives me a chance to do some character moments and introduce a few new characters-they're more NPCs than OCs, but still important. So next week (just in time for Thanksgiving!) will be the start of the aerial combat-and I've got some good stuff lined up.
Onboard USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76)
Near the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Washington Dead Zone
14 May 2002
4:30 AM Local
Ruby Rose sat down in the front row of VFA-41's ready room, feeling extremely out of place despite sitting next to Oscar. Her flight suit was the same olive drab as the others in the room; the only real evidence that she was USAF rather than Navy was her Fighter Weapons School patch on one arm and her checkered neck scarf. Naturally, of course, the Black Aces pilots knew who she was—there weren't too many short, red-haired female fighter pilots in any case. None treated her with hostility, at least not so far. All the same, she was an outsider and knew it.
It also hurt, more than Ruby could say, that she was not going on Operation Tsunami.
After spending six blissful hours in Oscar's bunk, she had quietly crept back to the stateroom given her, next to Blake and Terri, both of whom ribbed her unmercifully—Blake sighing that she was the only person on the ship who was getting laid (Ruby somehow doubted that), and Terri extolling the wonders of married life, up to and including the wild sex positions she and her husband had tried. If there was any doubt that female sailors could be as filthy-minded as their male counterparts, Terri Suul dispelled it.
The day previously was busy. Ruby had no sooner gotten a few hours of sleep—the carrier's slight swaying in the waves actually was soothing to her—than she was put on a helicopter and flown over to the Theodore Roosevelt, there to brief the captain of the ship, the commander of the air group, and five squadron commanders on Tsunami. The Navy men and women had accepted the briefing in silence, then asked many questions, only half of which Ruby could answer. Yes, the Kobolds shouldn't be able to fly without the ground station, and even if they could, with Boeing Field out of action they wouldn't get off the ground. No, she had no idea how many GRIMM might be available to Merlot. After hours of that, she had flown back to the Reagan, joined Blake in repeating the briefing, but this time the high-ranking officers were joined by the rear admiral that commanded the entire armada. Once that was finished, there was time to eat dinner—which, to her surprise, was quite good—and fall into an exhausted sleep in Oscar's bunk. They did not make love, and not because Hatman was asleep in the bunk above Oscar's; they were too tired. Ruby hoped she would not regret that.
Now it was time to brief the pilots themselves. The sky outside was still dark, the sun still half an hour from touching the horizon. The pilots were roused early, given some breakfast—for those that could eat—and reported to their ready rooms. Many still held steaming mugs of coffee. Above them, on the hangar deck, aviation ordnancemen loaded the aircraft with ammunition, missiles and bombs, plane captains and mechanics made last minute decisions if aircraft were ready to fly or needed to be downed and replaced, and deck crew got ready for the largest launch they were likely to ever participate in.
"Attention on deck!" the Marine orderly at the door shouted, and all the pilots leapt to their feet. Entering the ready room was VFA-41's commanding officer, Commander Mickey Simon, and—to Ruby's surprise, and everyone else's—Captain Joseph Bruno, the CAG. The term Commander Air Group was a holdover from World War II, even if Bruno actually commanded Carrier Air Wing Five, made up of all seven squadrons aboard the Reagan. Simon was tall and rail-thin, making it look like he needed a good meal, with a shock of bright blond hair that reminded Ruby of Jaune Arc. Bruno was not quite as tall, but built like an Olympic powerlifter, a former Huntsman with 45 kills that had finally been forced into promotion; in defiance of Navy regulations, he had a thick black beard that made him look more like a Civil War general than a fighter pilot.
"Take your seats," Simon told them. Ruby had met him the day before: he was a professional, somber man that Oscar said rarely cracked a smile. The Marine closed the door, and Simon himself switched on the computer that would show the strike map. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "this is Operation Tsunami. This is what you've been hearing about for the past few days, and why we're here rather than headed for Yokosuka." Bruno dimmed the lights, and leaned against the bulkhead near Ruby and Oscar.
Simon went through the Navy's part in the operation in broad strokes, much the same way the generals had to Ruby Flight at Cheyenne Mountain. Ruby heard hushed murmurs behind her, as the pilots whispered to each other about the mission. Once Simon was finished, he nodded to Ruby. "Lieutenant Rose, please brief us about the Kobolds and the reason behind this mission. Black Aces, this is Ruby Rose, whom you've undoubtedly heard of by now."
"Yes, sir." Ruby stood and walked to the front of the room, right next to the projection. More murmurs, and Ruby caught some snippets of it—people wondering why a kid was briefing them, talk about the court-martial, and muffled snickers about her and Oscar.
Bruno cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen of VFA-41!" He had a deep voice, a basso profundo that made sure his voice was heard no matter where he was on the ship. "I am ashamed of you. Is that any way to treat a guest to the USS Ronald Reagan, an honored guest from our fellow service, the US Air Force? Now I want to hear a real fighter pilot welcome!"
"Her, her, fuck her!" the pilots instantly shouted, and everyone laughed.
"Hey, isn't that what Oscar's doing?" Simon's head came around like a battleship turret, but whoever said it was lost in the darkness.
Oscar blushed, but he raised his voice. "Rave on, envious rabble!" That brought more laughter, a lessening of the tension.
"Enough," Simon snapped. "Lieutenant, if you don't mind…" Bruno was grinning hugely at her. Oddly enough, the ribald welcome made Ruby relax.
Simon brought up several pictures of the Kobold, provided by the CIA, and Ruby explained the stealth GRIMM's weaknesses and strengths. That quieted the pilots, especially when she mentioned that only heat-seeking missiles and guns were effective against them. Once that was finished, she gave a brief description of Dr. Merlot, given to her hurriedly by Riana Arashikaze back in Colorado. After that, there was only silence in the ready room.
Simon cleared his throat. "Lieutenant, would it be fair to compare Dr. Merlot to Dr. Mengele in World War II?"
Ruby nodded. "Yes, sir, I'd say that was a fair assessment."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Ruby knew a dismissal when she heard one, so she sat down. Simon resumed his part of the briefing. "All right then, Black Aces…now here's our part in it." There were no murmurs down, and each pilot leaned forward, taking out notepads. "Our job will be suppression of enemy air defenses—Iron Hand. The last SR-71 pass identified as many as thirty surface-to-air missile sites and about eighty antiaircraft guns." He brought up a map of Boeing Field and the immediate area around it. Each flak gun had a red circle around it; the field was a solid mass of them. "It looks like this Merlot has had a few years to get ready for us. The good news is that it looks like the flak guns are local control only—probably light machine guns, maybe some heavier stuff like .50 calibers and 20 millimeter, but nothing radar-guided. The bad news is that we don't know what the SAM sites are. Some are definitely some ancient SA-2s, but others look like more modern Roland and Rapier systems. Even so, even light flak and an old SA-2 can kill you.
"Our job, Black Aces, along with the Diamondbacks next door—" Ruby knew he referred to the other Hornet squadron aboard the Reagan, VFA-102—"will be to shut down those sites. We'll be joined by VFA-25, the Fists of the Fleet, and VFA-34, the Blue Blasters, off the Teddy Roosevelt. Therefore, we'll be groomed for Iron Hand. You'll be carrying four Rockeye cluster bombs on the wings for the flak guns, plus two HARMs for the SAM sites. Sidewinders on the wingtip stations and AMRAAMs on the fuselage ones, plus a centerline drop tank. One bird out of each squadron will draw the short straw and play tanker with buddy stores—they won't be going the whole way. We made a random selection before the mission started, and Archon, you're it."
"Shit," Archon said from the darkness.
"Looks like you're passing gas today, Archon," someone else said, and the room burst into laughter, except for Simon, who just rolled his eyes.
"We'll be the second squadron in, behind the D-Backs," Simon continued. "Because we're going to have damn near fifty F-18s over the target, that's going to get real crowded, real fast. So, we will have two two-seater birds configured as forward air controllers. They will vector aircraft onto the target. The first one will be flown by our very own Lieutenant Oscar Pine…and our aforementioned guest from the Air Force, Lieutenant Rose. They seem to be a good team…in so many ways…that we see no reason to split them up." Ruby's eyes widened and she couldn't hold back a grin: she was going after all. Someone else might feel fear at the very good prospect that she had just been given a death sentence, but Ruby found possible death preferable than being left behind, to watch Oscar and Blake go risk their lives while she waited on a carrier.
There was silence in the room for a moment, then someone—Ruby thought it sounded like Hatman—said "Jesus, did the CO just make a joke?"
"Yes, I did," Simon growled, "and unless you want to switch positions with Archon, Hatman, you'll enjoy the moment and keep your yap shut."
"Sir?" Oscar raised his hand. "Who's going to be the other FAC?"
"Me," Bruno boomed. There were audible gasps in the audience. "What, do you morons think that just because I'm CAG means that I don't fly missions anymore? I'm flying today."
Simon waited until the cheers and jeers died down, then once more resumed his briefing. "We'll be covered by four Tomcat squadrons—VF-84 and '213 from down the hall, and VF-11 and '31 off the Roosevelt. You are not to dogfight any GRIMM that come up. Let the F-14s earn their pay today. They'll be getting rid of their antiques and switching to Super Bugs soon anyway." There was a bit of a rivalry between the Tomcat and Hornet squadrons; it gave no end of pleasure to the latter that the F-14 squadrons would soon be converting to Super Hornets. "We'll have jamming support from VAQ-141's EA-6s, and naturally the E-2s will be in the air. Hell, we're even going to surge the S-3s and the SH-60s, just in case this Salem woman has some Sea Feilongs out there or one of us goes in the drink." Simon paused. "This is a full-on Alpha strike, people. We're launching everything that can fly."
He let that sink in for a moment, then finished, bringing up another map of the Olympic Peninsula and Puget Sound. "We'll be going in from here. With the centerline, you should have enough fuel to get to the target and back, but just in case, that's what the tankers are for. If you get hit, safe bailout zone is to the west and northwest. If you bail out over the Strait, the Seahawks will pick you up, or the Helena will. Yes, our battlegroup's very own attack sub is playing rescue boat today, just like back in World War II. If you bail over here—" Simon pointed to the area around the ruins of Bremerton "—sit tight and wait for the Marines. Once we're finished with the target, they'll surge off the Saipan and Guam and take the airfield here, then move into the target zone. If you bail over the target…well, don't. There's rumors that whatever still lives in Seattle might just be cannibalistic.
"Once you drop your Rocks and fire off your HARMs, egress to the west. Don't hang around the target." Simon hesitated again. "We'll be approaching the target at 20,000 feet, then peel off and attack."
That brought a lot of talk from the pilots, and Ruby heard Hatman's voice again. "Sir, that's kind of high, isn't it?"
"It is, but at that altitude, all we have to worry about are SAMs on the ingress…and we want them to light off their radars. The moment they come up and we're in range, either the EA-6s or the FACs will give one of you clearance to pop them. Do not fire unless cleared. The last thing we want is forty fighter pilots firing off their HARMs at one damn SAM site." He pointed to the map again. "There's also a very good reason for us to go in high and make ourselves a target, besides being SAM bait. At the same time we clear the Olympic Peninsula, there will be an Air Force strike on a GRIMM control station at Mount Rainier. Any radars Merlot has will be looking at us, not them. They'll be stealthy anyway. After we've cleared the flak, there will be another strike coming in from a classified location—three Panavia Tornados of the Royal Air Force and the Italians, and one Typhoon from the Luftwaffe. The Tornados are equipped with cluster bomb dispensers that will completely shut down that runway, even moreso than our Rockeyes can. Problem is, they have to go in low and in a straight line. If we don't put that flak down, they get killed. Understand?" Simon saw nods and gave them one of his own. "All right. Any questions?" Bruno switched on the lights.
Another pilot stood up. "Sir," she said, "permission to speak freely?"
"Of course, Mage," Simon replied.
"Why launch this mission at all? I mean, it's probably too late to call it off or anything, but why not just paste the place with Tomahawks? Or better yet, send in the B-52s or the B-2s that the Air Force spends all that money on?"
"Good question, Mage," Bruno said. "The answer is because the area just outside the airfield is Merlot's labs. We have reason to believe his test subjects are there. Those people have suffered enough, so we'd prefer to recover as many of them as we can, alive. Also, the CIA wants Merlot alive, so they can put his atrocity-committing ass on trial. He might even know where Salem hangs out. If we get this bastard alive, then we might actually be on the road to ending this war, permanent-like. Which is why we're risking our asses—especially yours, Mage—on this mission instead of flattening the place. Good enough?"
Mage nodded. "Good enough, sir." She sat.
There were a few more questions, then Simon read off frequencies, callsigns, and navigation checkpoints to be programmed into the aircraft. Each pilot jotted them down, then Bruno stepped forward again. "People," he said, "I think today we make history. Assuming you live through this, you'll be telling your grandkids about this someday. I could tell you that you're going to make your country proud, but they're already proud. We're gonna kick ass. And by God, I can't wait to lead you beautiful fuckers today, so when I'm ossifying in Norfolk as some fat admiral, I can look back and say that I did it with you. Black Aces, we're going to not just hurt Salem today, we're going to bend her over a table and fuck her pasty ass until she screams." Simon looked positively embarrassed at the CAG's crudity, but the pilots bellowed out a cheer that could be heard on the hangar deck.
Vulcan Air Force Base
Near Vulcan, Alberta, United States of Canada
6:00 AM Local
The sun was coming up over the horizon and Marrow Amin watched it with a smile. He took a sip of coffee and leaned back against a bench someone had installed just outside the equipment room. He was already dressed for a fight—flight suit, G-suit, survival vest, combat boots, sunglasses, personalized helmet in its cloth bag. Spectacles, testicles, watch and wallet, Marrow remembered his father saying. He patted one of the pockets of his survival vest. In theory, pilots were supposed to "sanitize" their equipment before they took off, leaving behind pictures, rings, everything but their ID card. Since the GRIMM didn't take prisoners, most pilots ignored that rule. Marrow always had. In that pocket, under his rubber survival map, was a picture of his father in his policeman's uniform. Even when he had been captured, by the men in Poland who were deserters from Salem's army, they had looked at the picture and handed it back to him.
He took another sip of coffee and thought more about his dad. Dane Amin had been a career policeman, serving in the Calgary police force since before he had married Marrow's mother. When he was 12, three men had come by their house in the suburbs to tell them Dane Amin was dead, killed in a botched robbery. Marrow had wanted to be a policeman himself then, but the call of the air caught him and he became a fighter pilot instead. He had carried his father's picture since his first solo, and he'd carry it on his last mission, whether that was a "fini flight" before retirement or if he was killed.
He chuckled to himself when he thought of what his dad would say if Marrow would tell him he was sleeping with a human girl, and a Schnee at that. He'd say, 'Damn, son! You're trading up in the world!' with that big grin of his. Marrow laughed softly, remembering when his dad had given him The Talk, less than three weeks before he died. He had handed Marrow a copy of Penthouse—the first with a Faunus posing nude in it—and said Son, here's some naked women. Some are humans and some are like us, Faunus. All built the same, eh? You're not quite there yet to appreciate a naked woman, but you will be soon. So here's what you do and don't do when you do finally end up with one. Since Marrow had been only 12, he wasn't quite sure what his father was talking about, but he was already starting to realize that maybe girls weren't weird after all.
"Someone's rather chipper this morning." The door opened and Harriet Bree walked out and sat next to him. "We got a weather delay. Nothing serious; just a squall line. We should still have scattered and broken over the target. Wheels up in forty."
"Good. Kind of want to finish enjoying this sunset."
Harriet nodded. "I know what you mean." She had her own cup of coffee, and looked out over the flightline. Three F-35s, Pyrrha's F-22, and Yang's F-23 were there, fueled and bombed and ready to go; the ground crew were making some last-minute checks, taking advantage of the extra time. "They don't look real," she commented. "The planes, I mean. They all look kind of alien, compared to say, a Harrier or a F-16."
"Pretty awesome, eh?"
Harriet laughed. "Yeah, pretty awesome." She drank some of her coffee. "Did you get to see your mum?" Marrow's mother Charlotte lived just down the road in Nanton.
"Yeah, last night. Pyrrha, Yang and me went over for dinner." He paused. "You should've come with us." He had invited her and Elm, but Harriet had politely turned him down. He had figured she would, but still, his conscience had compelled him to ask. Elm had remained behind to keep Harriet company—and, she said, because she'd probably eat Mrs. Amin out of house and home.
"No, not going to intrude on that." She finished the coffee and tossed the plastic cup into a garbage can. "Ugh. Hope I don't have to piss. Whoever designed the relief tube in the F-35 was definitely a man." Harriet leaned back and stretched her legs out. "How's things with you and Weiss?"
Marrow suddenly realized Harriet was nervous. She never asked questions like this. While she had stopped being unfriendly to Marrow after Poland, she never brought up his personal life. Or her own, for that matter. "They're good."
"Gonna marry her?"
"It's not like that."
"Huh," she said with pure disbelief. Harriet was quiet for a moment. "Tortuga and I were going to get married." Then she held up a hand. "Well…maybe. I think he was getting ready to propose." Marrow stared at her; Harriet never spoke about Miguel Tortuga, the first member of Ace Flight to die. Marrow had replaced the Spanish pilot. "But who the hell knows? We were only together a few months."
"But you loved him." Marrow made it a statement.
Harriet laughed. "Of course I bloody well loved him, you donkey. I don't normally marry people I don't love." She reached into a pocket and took out some chewing gum. "Funny, isn't it? How we seem to just jump into people's beds. Ren and Nora, Ruby and Oscar, you and Weiss, Blake and Yang—that's the rumor, anyway—me and Tortuga. Pyrrha and this Jaune Arc guy I keep hearing about." He saw the muscles of her jaw bunch up. She and Pyrrha were no longer enemies, but they weren't friends, either.
Of course, there was another reason, and Marrow decided to bring it up—why, he had no idea. "You and Clover?"
"Ha!" Harriet snorted. "I wish! But no, he was still pining for that Okinawan girl of his that got killed. Or Qrow Branwen, if you believe that rumor. I know that his thing with Pyrrha was under orders, and he refused, but…I think he did want her. I don't blame him, not now. She's rather attractive, yeah?"
"Yeah," Marrow agreed. He wouldn't stray on Weiss, open relationship or not, but if Pyrrha offered, he'd be hard-pressed to say no.
"Used to hate her for that, but I didn't really have much of a chance anyway. Now I wonder why I thought I did. Ah, well." She turned to look at him. "Why do you think we do this? Shag each other so much?"
"We're in a war, and there's a good chance we're going to die," Marrow answered without hesitation, because he'd thought about it too. It was why Weiss had come to his room that night in Moravia. "So we might as well live. Live fast, die young, tomorrow we are about to die, no one wants to die a virgin—all that shit, eh?"
"That must be it." Harriet got up and stretched. "Might go for a run. Got to get the piss out…stop being so nervous."
"What are you nervous for?" Marrow had to think about it for a moment, and realized he wasn't nervous. In fact, he didn't feel fear at all. Naturally, the Mount Rainier site would be defended, but their stealth would catch the bad guys by surprise, and with a whole Alpha strike coming at them from the carriers, Ace Flight Plus One would slip past pretty easily. With a little luck, they would be back in plenty of time about dinner. Don't think about that, Marrow admonished himself, don't think about tonight. It was a fighter pilot supersitition that talking about coming back almost guaranteed getting killed. It was stupid, like most superstitions, but many pilots adhered to it.
"Oh, I don't think I'm coming back from this one," Harriet said casually. Marrow gave a start of surprise, and she laughed again. "It's probably stupid. But I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought was that I am going to die today." She pulled one foot up to the small of her back. "So I've been thinking about it. Last breakfast—it was okay; the eggs were terrible—last brief, last dawn." She put her foot down and thumbed at the rising sun. "But it doesn't bother me. That's the daft part. I'm not really afraid, just…nervous. Even saw the sky pilot a few minutes ago." He knew she referred to the base chaplain, who had come out to bless the aircraft—it was apparently something that he did on a regular basis. "That's really strange. I don't even really believe in God, but there I am, confessing my sins to a Catholic priest, even though I'm pagan, attached Church of England."
"Harriet, you shouldn't think like that," Marrow told her. They might not have been ever close, but he didn't want her to die. "Sometimes thinking that…it can be a self-fulfilling prophecy, eh?"
She waved it off. "Like I said, it's probably stupid." She stretched some more; he was impressed at her flexibility. "You can make fun of me when we get back." She burst into laughter at the concern on his face. "Oh my God, Marrow! Would you like me to raise more death flags? Get my picture taken with a shot-up aircraft? Confess my love to you and say we'll get married?"
Elm and Yang walked out of the equipment room at that moment. "We walked into something," Yang said.
Harriet grinned. "Oh, Marrow thinks I'm going to die. It's all bollocks. I'm going for a run." She promptly turned and began jogging down the flightline.
"Why do you think she's going to die?" Elm asked in alarm.
"I don't," Marrow said, getting to his feet. "She does."
Covert Base Comox
Near Courtenay, British Columbia Dead Zone
7:30 AM Local
Weiss finished preflighting her Typhoon and checked her watch; the carriers would be launching their strike at 0800. Ace Flight, with the furthest to travel, would already be in the air for the hour and a half flight to Mount Rainier. If they kept to their schedule, they would arrive about ten minutes before the strike on Boeing Field began, but approximately twenty or thirty minutes after the Alpha strike was detected…assuming Merlot had a radar. There had been no indications of that, but Weiss figured that there wouldn't be antiaircraft defenses if Merlot wasn't expecting to be attacked, and he'd have to have a radar somewhere. Pirate Flight—Fox had named it because no one could come up with a good acronym for Weiss, Velvet, Fox and Sage—would take off at the same time as the carrier strike, as they had roughly the same distance to go, but if all went to plan, they would arrive just as the Navy strike would be about finished. The name had also been chosen because the code for Pirate to begin their bomb run was "Repel Boarders." Captain Bruno was supposed to give the order, but in case he didn't, Weiss would use her own judgement. Pirate Flight would head through Puget Sound at low level, trusting in the various islands' terrain to hide them from radar. The denser air and the need to weave around hills and such would slow them down some, but not much.
With nothing to do for another ten minutes, Weiss decided to walk over to the three parked Panavia Tornados. They were big aircraft, and tough looking, with a blocky fuselage, two engines, and a large tail; the swing wings were swept forward at the moment. Weiss had heard Velvet and Fox affectionately call their aircraft the Tonka, a nickname she wasn't sure of the origin for. All three were painted light gray; the Royal Air Force Tornados carried the splitting-dam emblem and lighting bolts of 617 Squadron—the legendary Dambusters—while the Aeronautica Militaire also carried a lightning bolt on the tail, this one from 50 Stormo; for good measure, Sage's Tornado carried a leering sharkmouth. I'm surprised Yang hasn't painted one of those on her F-23, Weiss mused.
Unlike her Typhoon, the Tornado was a two-seater, and Weiss looked over the crews as she got closer; she knew Velvet, Fox and Sage from Beacon, of course, but there Fox and Velvet had been a single crew, and Sage had flown a F-104. The other three were, like their pilots, British and Italian: the raven-haired and beautiful Oriana Paloma; the lanky John Devereaux, who despite his French name was more Cockney than even the late Ruth Lionheart; and Conall O'Reilly, who was technically Irish, from Belfast—he was a huge albino wolf Faunus, who looked like he could pick up one of the Tornados and carry it around.
Weiss waved. "Ready to go?"
"Just about," Velvet said. She bent down and gave the massive JP233 dispenser a shake. It was a third the length of the Tornado, attached on the underside like a cruise missile without wings. It was also wide. The front half carried no less than 215 antipersonnel mines, while the rear carried 36 larger cratering munitions. When the latter hit a runway, they would first blow a hole in the surface, the munition would drop into the hole and then explode, causing the runway surface to heave upwards and leaving it almost impossible to repair in a short time. Of course, Weiss knew, it also required the Tornados to fly straight and level for about ten seconds, an eternity in air combat. She straightened up, dimpling her rabbit ears on the wing. "Ow." Velvet smiled at Weiss. "Are you?"
"I think so." She turned to the others. "All set?"
"Yes, ma'am." Fox looked like a pirate himself. A grenade had gone off near his face during the Battle of Beacon, temporarily blinding him. An operation had restored the sight in his right eye, but not his left, and he wore an eyepatch.
"Can't wait," Sage said with heavy sarcasm. His flight suit was open to the neck, exposing the Roman numeral tattoos he had around it. "What did you say, Weiss—one pass, haul ass?"
"Yes," she said. "I know the Tornado can actually dogfight, but even though you'll be carrying Sidewinders, don't hang around. It's not your mission this time. If there's any GRIMM, that's my job, and the Navy Tomcats. Sorry, Sage."
"Ah well. That's what I get for transferring into Tornados." He glanced at Paloma, who had a cigarette in her mouth. "Oriana, what are you doing? There's fuel and high explosives all around us!"
"Oi," Devereaux added, "you trying to be a loaf of bread?"
"What?" Paloma asked.
"He means dead," Fox translated.
"I wasn't going to light it," Paloma told them. "I'm nervous, all right? At least I can taste the tobacco." She took the cigarette out of her mouth and put it in her pocket. "We're flying into a damned flak zone with that huge piece of shit attached to us." She pointed to the JP233. "If the Americans get this wrong, then we'll all be loaves of bread."
"Ah, it'll be fine," O'Reilly said, his Irish brogue so think he was nearly incomprehensible. "They'll knock down those sites. You'll see."
"You have a lot of confidence in them," Paloma observed. "One of their F-14 pilots nearly shot my arse off over Iraq."
"And a fine bottle and glass it is," Devereaux beamed.
"I wish I knew what you were talking about, stupido—"
"Enough," Velvet snapped, which stopped all of them, since she rarely raised her voice. "Let's get ready to go. Weiss has the lead, and she makes the choices. She was at Beacon with Fox, Sage and me. She's a bit of all right."
"I'll do my best," Weiss said to them. They nodded to her, then Fox hugged her, lifting her off the ground, while Sage settled for a more sedate handshake. Devereaux and Paloma continued to trade barbs as they walked to their aircraft.
"They should just screw and get it over with," O'Reilly observed. "Well, off to work, then." He threw Weiss a jaunty salute, RAF style, and climbed up the ladder to get into the rear cockpit—how he fit, Weiss had no idea.
Velvet gave Weiss a nod. "Are you good?" She lowered her voice.
"Of course," Weiss said, and meant it. She had slept well and felt alert. She hoped her friends would be all right, but she also had confidence they would be. At least, she hoped so. "You?"
"Feels weird going into a fight without Coco, but I'll manage." She patted the name on the Tornado's nose: Ruth's Reply. "Wish she was going in with us. She wouldn't miss this for the world."
"I imagine she is, in her own way…along with Jaune and the others." Weiss reached out and drew a surprised Velvet into a hug. "Well…shall we?"
"We shall." Velvet picked her helmet off the tarmac and put it on. "Fear God," she began.
"And dread naught," Weiss finished.
Onboard USS Ronald Reagan
7:35 AM Local
Ruby and Oscar walked across the flight deck to where VFA-41's Hornets were parked. The deck was loud, with aircraft powering up and various carts running across the deck, but Ruby heard Blake shout her name. She stopped and hugged her friend as Blake ran over to her. "Sorry I didn't see you earlier!"
"Didn't have a lot of time!" Ruby yelled back. "You ready?"
"As I'll ever be! I can't believe you convinced Bruno to let you fly!"
"I didn't have to—he volunteered me!"
Blake nodded. "Glad to have you all the same." The two looked at each other for a long minute. Neither needed to say what they were thinking. "We'll keep the GRIMM off of you," Blake finally spoke.
"And we'll keep the flak off of you," Ruby replied. They gave each other a nod and then separated, Ruby wiping her eyes of tears as she resumed walking to the aircraft. There was always that possibility that one of them was not coming back. The Tomcats would be holding high on CAP duties, but all it took was the odd angry shot to result in someone not coming home.
They arrived at the line of F-18s, all tied down to the deck. It was a beautiful morning with very little wind and clear skies, but Ruby could still feel and see the carrier going up and down in the waves. She doubted Oscar noticed it, but she did. She noticed the number on the nose—505—and the ace of spades on the tail. Fast Eagle Five Oh Five, she told herself. Guess I can remember that. Both she and Oscar preflighted the aircraft, then it was time to get aboard. Ruby gave a gentle shake of each piece of ordnance—the two Sidewinders, the two AMRAAMs, the two HARMs, and the four Rockeye cluster bombs.
Ruby almost mounted the ladder to the front seat, then laughed at herself and went to the back. "Sorry, Oscar! Muscle memory!" He smiled and went up to the front. Ruby sat and did a quick familiarization of the controls and buttons. Unlike most naval aircraft, this F-18D was configured as a dual control aircraft, with stick and throttle in the backseat, to train new pilots. Once the plane captains helped them strap in and hook up, pulling the pins from the seats, they got down and Oscar closed the canopy. It shut out much of the noise. "Ruby, you hear me?" he asked over the intercom.
"Yep. Ready to go back here." She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the instruments again, finding the ones she would need. It was a daytime mission, but it was a habit Ruby got into. She watched as the aviation ordnancemen removed the covers from the missiles and armed the bombs. The tiedowns were removed, and Oscar began to spool up the engines. "You didn't have to do this," he told her.
"Yes, I did," Ruby replied. "I'm not going to stay behind on the damn boat and listen to the stupid radio while my friends get shot at. Bruno knew that. That's not how this marriage is going to work, Oscar!" She put some humor into her voice, to let him know it wasn't personal.
"Well…I guess he's right. We make a good team." Their eyes met in the bow mirror and Oscar smiled. "Let's go kick some ass, Mrs. Pine."
"You bet, Mr. Rose." They shared a snicker at that, then it was time to get serious. They strapped on their oxygen masks. Oscar watched the signals of the men and women on the deck; Ruby guessed that the red shirts handled the weapons and the yellow shirts were deck crew of some sort, but she had no idea what the white shirts, the green shirts, and the purple shirts did. Moreover, she also had no idea how the carrier was going to launch nearly eighty aircraft from a deck that looked a lot smaller than it was, already crowded with aircraft. Somehow all of them had to get into the air from four catapults, manuevered into position by the color-coded people on deck, and it had to be done without someone hitting someone else, someone getting chopped in half by a spinning propeller off the E-2s or decapitated by helicopter blades from the SH-60s, or sucked down an intake of one of the F-14s, F-18s, EA-6Bs, or S-3s. Ruby was suddenly fervently glad she had joined the Air Force.
She watched as the E-2 Hawkeye, almost twice the size of their F-18, taxied forward, its wings snapping into place from where they had been stored along the fuselage. The dome atop the Hawkeye gave away its purpose. It was hooked to one of the bow catapults, and Ruby watched as more people moved around it, attaching cables and somehow avoiding the whirring propeller blades. They scattered as a single person in a yellow vest stood to one side of the aircraft. Ruby watched as the catapult officer—she supposed that was who it was—twirled their fingers and the E-2 crew ran up their aircraft to full power. Then after some other hand signals that confused Ruby, the catapult officer saluted the E-2 pilot, dropped to one knee, and touched the deck with two fingers. Then those fingers rose and the catapult fired, sending the Hawkeye on its way.
"Well…here we go," Oscar said, and Ruby felt the Hornet moving. They would be one of the first of the strike aircraft to launch. She thought she saw Blake and Terri's Tomcat somewhere towards the stern of the ship and waved, then watched the deck crew guide the Hornet forward to line up with the catapult groove. Ruby leaned to one side to see: the groove led to the bow of the ship, which was slightly moving up and down. She could hear the wind whistling past the canopy; the Reagan would have at least thirty knots of wind over the bow to launch aircraft. Then Ruby craned her head to see what the other crew were doing. "What's that guy under the nose doing?" she asked Oscar.
"Bridleman," Oscar told her. "He's hooking the nose gear to the catapult shuttle. Pretty soon we're hauling the mail." He saw her head moving around in the mirrors. "Ruby, no offense, but get into launch position. Put your head back in the rest. The cat officer won't launch us if you're rubbernecking."
"Oh, sorry!" Ruby did as instructed, and made sure her straps were tight.
"Keep your hands off the controls—when we launch, it's going to shove us backwards with Gs, so if your hand is on the throttle or stick, it could cause you to haul back on either one…and that would be bad." He put his hand up on a handhold over the instrument panel. "Grab that and hold on."
"Roger." Ruby felt her heart pounding. Sure hope this catapult works. Really don't want to go swimming. Oh well, at least I can say I've gotten a trap and a cat shot. Weiss and Yang are going to freak out. She put her hands in place as she saw the catapult crew head for the catwalks on the left side—port, she reminded herself. Next to their F-18 was Captain Bruno's single-seat Hornet, which wore the full-color markings of VFA-41. Their eyes met for a moment and he gave her a nod.
"Here we go," Oscar repeated, though this time it was a warning. Ruby leaned back as Oscar tested all the flight control surfaces, moving the flaps, ailerons and rudders around. She felt the Hornet shaking as he ran it up to thunderous full power, afterburners lit now. Ruby watched the catapult officer, who dropped to one knee. He saluted them; Oscar and Ruby returned it. Then his fingers dropped to the deck and Ruby took a deep breath.
The fingers came up and pointed. The catapult fired.
Ruby held on for dear life as the F-18 shot forward, taking exactly two seconds to reach the end of the bow and come off of it. There was a thump as it did so, and they were airborne, rising into the air. Ruby saw Oscar's hands move and saw the throttle and stick do the same, so he had control. The landing gear came up with another thump. "And that's how we do that," Oscar told her.
"That was so cool!" Ruby gushed. "Okay, I can see some advantages to joining the Navy."
Oscar put the F-18 into a holding pattern as the rest of the strike launched. Ruby watched in fascination as aircraft after aircraft was launched—as promised, just about everything both carriers had. As they circled the armada, she spotted the Harriers, CH-46 Seaknights, and CH-53 Sea Stallions aboard the Guam and Saipan. They would get airborne in an hour or two, once the defenses were suppressed. Her eyesight allowed her to see the Marines as they began boarding their helicopters. She wondered who in the tiny figures were Delta Force—or if they were already gone, put into position the night before.
After ten minutes of orbiting, the aerial armada was assembled and climbed to 20,000 feet, turning southeast. The target was two hundred miles away.
AUTHOR'S OTHER NOTES: Area 88 fans will recognize VFA-41's CO, though Mickey has to be missing his Tomcat. The other OCs (or NPCs) are all my own invention-Joe Bruno was a friend of my dad's in the Navy, though he looked nothing like his fictional counterpart (this Bruno is based on Brian Blessed, the great British actor), while the Tornado backseaters are based on an old White Wolf World of Darkness Werewolf group we had back in college.
Okay, so next time is the first chapter of a probably three-chapter airstrike. What characters will live...and which ones will die?