Chapter 4
Operation: Eagle Watch
Near the Kuril Islands
0630 hours...
“Good Morning, everyone,” Captain Richard Muldoon told the eighty-two
pilots in the breifing room, “and welcome to the Kuril islands. As you know,
we’re here to diffuse a very volatile situation. Several divisions of
Russian Army, Air Force, and Naval units have refused to observe the Russian
pull-back from the island of Urup and Shinshiri, which are officially
reckognized as Japanese territory. These rebels have control of the 7th Red
Banner Air Force, two armored divisions, and a small section of the Russian
Pacific Fleet. They operate two Akula class submarines, one of which sank
the USS Ronald Reagan, a Kiev-class CVA task force, and numerous Pomornik
landing craft and Sarancha missile boats. It is the Saranchas and Akulas we
must keep watch for.
“However, there exists an even greater problem. Some of you may have
noticed we are carrying B-61 tactical nuclear bombs on board. The rebels
control at least eight SS-18 ICBMs. These missiles would allow them to
annahilate American and Japanese cities and comunications capability if they
saw fit. Intelligence reports that they are in the process of cracking the
launch codes as we speak.
“Also, many of you have noticed, and complained about, the presence of that
young woman back there. Mrs. Hendrix, would you please stand.” Serena stood,
feeling all eighty-two sets of eyes gaze at her. Many of them were with
hatred, others with disdain, and a few with curiosity. “This is Serena
Hendrix. She is a journalist here on assignment with the LA Times. You will
give her your full cooperation unless it interferes with your duty, is that
understood?” At the round of “yes, sirs,” the CAG nodded. “Good then,
Operation: Eagle Watch begins now.”
Super Hornet 106
The Lockheed S-3B Viking was an ugly airplane. The jet was absurdly round
and was tall enough that the fifty-three foot fuselage seemed to short. The
nose was blunt with large cockpit windows. The wings were shoulder-mounted
and the engines looked more like those of a jet liner than a military
aircraft.
It was an airborne excercise in squeezing a quart into a pint-sized
container. The fuselage was jammed with anti-sibmarine warfare including a
Forward-Looking Infra-Red, retractable Magnetic Anomaly Detector, and a
submersible sonar probe that could be dipped into the water and retracted
back into the fuselage by a cable. It held a crew of four.
There was a detatchment of six on board the USS John C. Stennis from VS-24.
Right now two of them were aloft, searching the depths for any sign of the
enemy subs. However, all they detected was the hunter/killer USS Pasadena, a
Los Angeles (688i) class submarine sent to protect the task force.
Flying aside them were a pair of F/A-18Es in the livery of VFA-105. Dutch
and Mercury were in these aircraft.
“I hate SubCAPs.” Amy complained in her silvery voice. Not every pilot
enjoyed flying low and slow, protecting the ASW planes. Indeed, it was
trained into naval aviators that flying in such a way was dangerous. Below
five-thousand feet was unfriendly even to a zero-zero ejection seat if
something went wrong. The waves shimmered bright and beautiful in the
morning sunlight, seeming to laugh at Mercury about her fears.
“You feeling claustrophobic, too, huh?” Robinson asked her. She could hear
the smile in his voice, and cursed him for being a veteran pilot.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t in the fucking Gulf War, and all the tiffs in the
Balkans.” she shot back, “I’m not a hot shot like you. You been at this shit
for fifteen years, I haven’t.”
“Whoa, cool it, Mercury.” Dutch said after a good laugh, “You’re so
defensive.”
“Yeah, well, every twenty-eight days...” She growled. She was lying, of
course, but she had to have some defense. Didn’t she? “God, I gotta pee.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Anderson!” Dutch chided. “I’m sure the boys back at
ACC would love to know that!”
“Shut up, Dutch.” Amy grumbled as she pulled what was called a “piddle
pack” from under the seat. This was, more or less, a urine collection system
that used the same powder found in a diaper to congeal the urine. Amy being
female, she selected the proper attachment and unzipped first her G-suit
then her flightsuit down to the appropriate place. She then placed the
attachment where it belonged and relieved herself.
As she did so, she was reminded of a funny story. During a training
mission, some “chairforce” puke had to take a piss while aloft in his F-16.
He pulled out his piddle pack and was in the process of urinating when his
flight computer decided to crash. The F-16 is a fly-by-wire aircraft that
uses computers to analyze and respond to stick movement instead of hydraulic
lines. Such a crash gave the pilot no control over the fighter, and so he
was forced to eject, piddle pack still firmly in place.
Amy stuffed the bag, now partially filled with yellowish gel, into the
storage place and set her hand back on the stick. The entire flight would
reveal nothing.
“Control, Gunslinger 106, strike inbound mothers, state twelve-point-one,
angels six.”
“Gunslinger 106, control, acknowledge mothers, switch marshall.” As
ordered, Amy switched over to marshall control and reported in. She was then
bombareded with more radio reports.
“Gunslinger 106, mother’s weather, broken, wind thirteen at sixty-six, case
three recovery.
“Gunslinger 106, marshall at angels six, twelve miles. Estimated recovery
time is two-three, time now, one-seven.”
“Roger marshall.” Amy complied, turning her Hornet for the marshalling
stack position. She would orbit here before being cleared. Below, she
watched a pair of F-14s being launched. The two interceptors headed
southwest for a CAP. Just as they were leaving, one of the S-3s came down
clean on the deck. They tailhook grabbed number three and the big jet slowed
to a stop. The wire was withdrawn and the Viking taxied out of the way. Not
a minute after the first ASW plane landed, the second came down.
The landing system on a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier is set up so that the
carrier can recover a plane every fifty seconds. The crew has to work fast
to be so efficient. Afterall, there is no excuse for an on-deck collision or
for an aircraft to down because it is out of gas.
“Gunslinger 106, push marshall stack. Cleared inbound for recovery.”
“Roger, control. Gunslinger 106 is pushing marshall stack.” Amy turned for
the Stennis, turning on her Instrument Landing System. She put her gear,
flaps, and tailhook down and put her engines to 46% power and slowed to 180
knots. At the six miles out cue, she slowed even further to 130 and held
there.
The F/A-18E Super Hornet has an Automatic Landing System that allows for a
hands-off landing. A computer on board the carrier would recieve a signal
from the incoming aircraft and then guide the plane to landing. Though it
was easier, many pilots didn’t like to use it because they felt a lack of
control. Mercury was one of the pilots who perfered to guide her Hornet down
herself.
The ILS lines projected on her HUD crossed exactly in the center, telling
her that she was on a perfect glide slope. She pulled the engines back to
25%.
“Gunslinger 106, three-fourths mile, call the ball.”
“Control, Super Hornet Ball, state three-one-zero.”
“Roger, ball.” the Landing Safety Officer acknowledged. “A little hot for
landing.”
“Understood, slowing.” She was a half mile off the deck and on the ball
when a message came over the broad band. “Contact, unidentified aircraft,
two ship formation, angles seven, Inbound from the north, hot!”
“Pukin’ Dog one, copy contacts. Inbound.” Mercury did some quick
calculations. The pair of F-14s were on the southeastern side of the carrier
on CAP. They were fifty nauticals away from the carrier and if those
contatcs were hostile and carrying ASMs, the Johnny Reb hadn’t a chance.
She retracted her tail hook and slammed the throttles forward with the
radio cry “bolter, bolter, bolter” and made her rotation. The Super Hornet
screamed across the deck, afterburners flaming blue.
“Marshall, landing control, Mercury is bolter! Mercury is bolter!”
Amy gained altitude, switched over to traffic, “Diamond, Gunslinger 106,
investigating contacts!” It was just moments before she was supersonic and
headed for the pair of bandits.
“Mercury, what in the hell are you doing?” Dutch asked. Having broken
marshall formation, he pulled up alongside.
“Yell at me later, Dutch. We’ve got some bogeys to ID.” Amy had by now
switched her computers to air-air mode. On her left Multi-Funcion Display
was her missile stores; eight AMRAAMs and four Sidewinders. The right MFD
displayed her radar in track-while-scan mode. The center MFD was set to
display her threat radar indicator.
Right now, her radar was displaying a pair of green boxes with lines
pointing down. These green lines were the direction her targets were
heading. The threat radar indicator showed two boxes with the number 27
inside.
“Contact, Floggers.” she reportd the targets as being MiG-27s (NATO
designation: Flogger). These were fighter/bombers evolved from the MiG-23
air superiority fighter of the 1960s. They were capable of carrying four
AS-7 ‘Kerry’ laser guided ASMs. Though highly inaccurate, these weapons
still posed a threat to the carrier. Perhaps and even greater threat to the
aviators were the pair of AA-2 “Atoll” medium-range IR homing missiles slung
beneath the wings.
“Gunslinger, Diamond, disengage contacts. Repeat, disengage and return to
carrier now!” This was the voice of the CAG. Mercury though for a moment of
disobeying orders, but on hearing the “fox one” report of a released AIM-54
Pheonix she turned for home. Twenty-seven miles out from her position the
lead Flogger was splashed.
And she was in trouble.
Damn.
As she flew home, she didn’t notice the sigil of Mercury fading on her
forehead.
Back on deck...
“CAG is pissed.” Anjali Krist told Amy as she led her to safety.
“How pissed?”
“Pissed, Ams.” the young yellowshirt said, “He wants you in his office in
right now.”
“Oh, shit.” the pilot rolled her eyes. Office calls to the CAG meant that
he was unusually displeased with someone. The last guy that got called in
there lost his wings.
Amy decided it best to be punctial. She filled out her mission report on
the way to his office, sliding it into the box on the door before knocking.
He called her in and she entered, standing at attention before his desk.
“Lieutenant Amy Anderson reporting as ordered, sir.”
He glared at her for a long time. Like many pilots, Captain Muldoon was
short, maybe five-eight if he were lucky. His head was bald from spending
the last twenty years beneath a flight helmet, and his eyes were wide and
blue. Situational awareness was a hard habit to kick. Finally, he patted his
leg with a notepad and spoke to her. “What the hell were you thinking up
there? You were half a mile out and already on the ball before you pulled
that crazy stunt.”
“I am well aware of that, sir.”
“You coulda got somebody killed! What would have happened if you stalled
out. I’d have a hole in the deck of this boat and another letter to write. I
agree that we have to take risks, but even the risks have to have an
envelope.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, you gonna stand there like an arrow with curves, or are you gonna
explain yourself?”
Amy though carefully before making a response. “I didn’t think the Tomcats
would have enough time to ID the targets before they were in range. For the
safety of the boat, I had to check them out.”
“Mercury, Floggers don’t carry weapons that are decent threats to our
aircraft carriers?”
“The contacts were not ID’d yet, sir. They could have been Tu-95s carrying
‘kickbacks’ or ‘exocets.’ I had to make sure they weren’t.”
“Point made.” Muldoon conceded. “But what you did was still extremely
dangerous and I’m going to have to discipline you for that, though I have no
idea how. Usually, I’d be handing you some nasty duty, but you love flying
so much it wouldn’t matter. I could ground you, but that won’t look like too
good a punishment to the air boss or the captain. You women are just hard to
get.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that every damn female on this ship is the exact polar opposite
to every male sailor. You’re all just so damn persistent.”
“But...”
“But nothing. You’re confined to quarters until further notice.”
“Yes, sir.” Mercury said icily before turning on a heel and stalking out
the door.
