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(U.S. Air Force photo by Senior Airman River Bruce)

The following is a work of fiction. It comes from the author’s imagination, inspired in part by various referenced sources and is meant strictly as entertainment. The story below does not represent the official positions of the U.S. Navy nor the Department of Defense.

 

Pacific Ocean, 750NM W of Point Loma, CA

1545 local

Number 46006 belonged to the National Data Buoy Center. Rising six feet from the waves and only a few feet in diameter, it was a frequent pit stop for seagulls on long-distance fishing expeditions. A heavy chain dove 14,000 feet into the abyss, anchoring it to the earth. The buoy was coated in faded yellow paint and wore a small solar panel on top, powering its flashing white light, two discreet transmitters, and a few other crafty odds-and-ends.

46006 was deployed by scientists to report on weather phenomena. The buoy also spied for the U.S. Navy. Normally sedentary, waves swinging it to-and-fro, tonight the buoy snapped awake. Deep throbbing pulses carried through the ocean—whoosh-whoosh, thunka-thunka, clip-clap—on and on. The sounds cycled through an onboard database which dutifully identified one after another. Over the hours, it sat and listened. Keeping a running fix, the buoy catalogued 18 lines of bearing correlating to hostile warships steaming east. 46006’s next scheduled report would transmit at 1700 local time.

***

2040 marked a distinct generational shift in the country’s culture. Exhausted by the politics of senior citizens, the nation placed a young firebrand in the Oval Office. Committed to shattering the status quo, the new administration was powered by a population fed up with fighting abroad and desperate to repair both America and the world.

With wars no longer part of national policy, the defense budget was no longer sacred. The U.S. Army was sent packing as garrisons were shuttered throughout Europe and Asia. The Air Force flew out, as forward deployed wings were defunded and long-range bomber missions reduced. The desert boneyard added rows of planes to its ranks and National Guard units found themselves with heaps of surplus gear they could not afford to use. The Navy, perpetually unable to explain that global trade was not a natural right, was also slashed. Vessels stationed overseas sailed home and their bases closed. To stretch its dwindling budget and focus on modernization, the Navy stopped most routine deployments and axed aging, maintenance-intensive hulls. In a series of brutal cuts, the sea service’s fleet shrank from 300 to 108 commissioned vessels. The savings left just enough for the service to defend the homeland with fully operational ships and allocated some money for other projects—buoy systems such as 46006, repurposed oil rigs serving as offshore early warning bases, modernized B-1 bombers swiped from a grounded Air Force, and even a few long-running special access programs.

America’s redeployments came at a cost. Still allied with various countries across the sea, the President and her military were hard-pressed to meet their most basic overseas commitments. Under great pressure from the U.S. State Department, the President sent a lone surface action group across the Pacific to work with friendly navies and demonstrate American presence and resolve. While the ships were fully capable, the U.S. Navy could only spare three destroyers and still fulfill their homeland defense mission. A hostile nation pounced. On a cloudless, sunny day, warships sat over the horizon with radars silenced and rained passive missiles on top of the U.S. destroyers. The missiles skimmed the sea searching for target emissions. USS Francis Scott Key, conducting routine maintenance at the time, took several hits. Her crew rallied for hours, but ultimately lost the battle as the hull disappeared beneath the ocean. The other ships rescued survivors and fought courageously through mission kills before limping to Pearl Harbor.

The world was stunned. Certain international media outlets gleefully lampooned the U.S. Navy as a paper tiger. The United States did not have the bench depth to replace their lost and damaged ships. Though privately furious, the new President remained idealistic and did not retaliate. As time passed, America’s shrunken military remained watchful. While the services were a shadow of their former selves, the men and women in ranks were smart, fit, and ready to fight when called upon. The country focused on domestic issues and repairing its long-damaged international reputation. The economy boomed and life went on for the average citizen. Meanwhile, the enemy lurked. They were not finished.

Forward Maritime Base Morel

Pacific Ocean, 150NM West of Point Loma, CA

1710 local

The MQ-47C Devil Ray floated high overhead cutting a striking silhouette. The Navy’s premier unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV), it was two hours out from Naval Air Facility El Centro circling a defunct oil platform now known as Forward Maritime Base Morel. An infrared camera focused on the sea-base and its attached helicopter pad where troops were finishing another day’s work.

Pink sheets of clouds stretched for miles as a royal blue ocean swallowed the fading sun. The faint sound of lapping waves marked the only sign of nature on this metal contraption. Neither an oil rig, nor a fortress, it was a Frankenstein’s monster amalgamation of the two. Antennae, weapons, shipping containers, barracks, gyms, and a command center marked the four levels rising from the sea.

Blue and gray camouflage netting created shade on the top level. The deck smelled of anti-rust oil and saltwater. Sweaty Marines tinkered with large-caliber guns. Point-defense weapons faced north and west.

A grey container dominated the center of the platform. With more than its fair share of air conditioners, it had radars on the roof and a thick, sturdy door. Inside, men and women murmured reports at high-tech stations amidst a dull hum and faint blue light. Periodic beeps and static squelches crackled from communications gear.

“Evening, petty officer. How’s things?”

A middle-aged sailor looked up from his display at the officer standing over him. “Not bad, sir. Quiet watch—just needs to stay that way until I get off. UAV just checked on station, callsign SUNSHINE 10—got a few contacts to the west we’re going to check out. Just made some popcorn . . .”

The officer accepted the bag, still hot. Munching away, Lieutenant Pat Jones took in his surroundings, luxuriating in the frigid air. Tall and muscular, a shock of bright red hair topped his pale head. He was the officer-in-charge of this sea base and led more than 50 sailors and Marines, ostensibly defending San Diego. He was supremely confident in his abilities—be it in tactics or at the gym. Personable and charismatic, he was the most likable officer most of his troops had ever met. His operations center was running smoothly tonight. He stretched his arms behind his back, flexed, and cracked his neck.

“Ok, keep up the good work,” he said to the senior petty officer as he handed back the popcorn. He patted his tactical action officer on the shoulder. “Chief, I’m going to hit the gym and then the rack. Let me know if anything pops up. I’m on the radio.”

Most eyes flicked back to their screens once he left as the entire team debated whether he was off to strangle the elliptical or to pick up heavy things and put them down again. Probably both, they decided.

Already in his workout gear, Jones decided to make the rounds before hitting the gym. Talking with the Marines on the top deck, he learned one of his 25-mm cannons was down for maintenance, but otherwise, his weaponry was ready for action. Guns up, ready-to-fire. He checked-in with the junior grunts manning the Naval Strike Missile launchers, the crews on the high mobility artillery rocket systems (HIMARS), and the machine gunners. Next, Jones went down a deck and checked on the team of sailors responsible for the giant long-range antiship missiles (LRASM). In custom-built launchers, these missiles were Morel’s main battery and the Sailors who took care of them were experts. Everyone was in good spirits. On the third month of their rotation, he was happy to see they’d all hit the groove.

As he got an available elliptical machine up-to-speed, Lieutenant Jones’ radio squawked urgently. “L-T to Ops Center, L-T to Ops Center.” Predictable. He jumped down and trotted across the top platform, headed to the Ops Center. Crossing the threshold, he shivered in the chill.

The tactical action officer was across the space clutching a printout. He glanced up and waved at his OIC. “L-T, over here!” The breach in protocol told Jones his people were driving a problem. Good. He sidled up to the chief.

“Sir, just got a download from naval intelligence. One of the early-warning buoys found a ton of enemy vessels heading our way.” Consulting a red digital clock, he continued, “Two hours old, so . . . say, 530 miles from here.” He volunteered, “About 13 hours steaming before entering our missile engagement envelope.”

Thirteen hours was enough time to prepare. Was this a show of force, or something more sinister? Were they on their way to finish the job they had started with the Key and the other destroyers? He needed answers from his bosses. In the meantime, he could get his people in the right mindset, ensure they ate chow, and get them valuable sleep. Lieutenant Jones mulled over a chart hanging from the bulkhead, “. . . if we got some more UAV support, we might get decent early warning. If they want a fight, we get LRASM out there at max range and use the Naval Strike Missiles to mop up. My concern is air defense—we don’t have much. Might save ourselves, but if any leakers get through . . .” He shook his head.

The Devil Ray’s controller got the tactical action officer’s attention. “Chief, something’s up. We’ve got three contacts within 30 miles sailing close together.” He absently tapped his pen against the UAV’s video monitor. “Look at their cargo. Conex boxes fanned out, not stacked in a row. Doesn’t look right.” That was an understatement. Time seemed to slow as the Chief stared at the picture and rechecked the bearing and range of the contacts. Less than 200 miles to San Diego. The truth slammed into him as time sped back up. “Sir!”

As Jones looked over from the bulkhead chart, the infrared images blossomed black. A seaman nearby bolted upright in his chair and stomped on the pedal controlling his lip mic. “Vampire, vampire, vampire! Inbound vampires bear 250. Raid count: many!” At least 50 hostile missile symbols created a fur ball on his display.

The chief took a few steps, sat at his console, and calmly broadcast, “Set Weapons Posture One. Warning Red, Weapons Tight.” A klaxon wailed, bong-bong-bong. Lieutenant Jones joined his tactical action officer at the consoles as Marines and Sailors donned battle rattle and charged to their stations outside.

After a few seconds, the radar picture stabilized and the tactical situation became clear. Eight missiles were headed their way—the rest, 42 missiles, were winging towards San Diego.

Jones snatched a nearby red phone and reported, “Mother, this is Oriole, Sandstorm, bearing 250, range 170. I say again, Sandstorm. Out.” America was under attack.

The air warfare coordinator’s fingers flew over a series of buttons, placing her weapons in automatic. The surface warfare coordinator sat ready, waiting. Pulling on a headset, Jones heard the chief issue orders, “Surface, TAO, kill track 8762 and company, HIMARS.

“Kill track 8762 and company, HIMARS, aye. Killing track 8762 and company.”

Outside, white clouds blossomed in every direction as smoke trails streaked into the sky behind 24 guided-artillery warheads racing towards the three hostile vessels.

As the Marines reloaded for another volley, the loud swish of air defense missiles jumping from box launchers reverberated inside the ops center. The chainsaw buzz of the 20mm cannon followed. Forward Maritime Base Morel was fully engaged.

The repurposed merchant ships were indistinguishable from unaltered ships of a similar size and purpose. With no obvious tripwires and no early-warning, they slipped in unnoticed on standard shipping lanes. The sea base destroyed six of eight missiles headed their way and tricked one more with radar reflecting chaff. The final missile tore in and exploded atop a series of ammunition lockers, lighting-off secondary explosions and causing extensive damage. Injured and faced with difficult crossing shots, the tenacious Marines and sailors managed to down two more heading towards San Diego. Forty missiles continued east.

Greater San Diego

1805 local

The USS Korengal, one of a few remaining cruisers in the inventory, departed the channel. As they passed Point Loma to starboard, Western Fleet alerted them to the inbound raid. After 15 minutes it would be too late. In record time, sailors enabled half of the missiles on board the cruiser, both 5-inch deck guns, and a 20-mm chain gun. With only minutes left, an alarm’s mournful wail cried out, warning those on deck. A sound like an ape tearing phone books exploded from the ship as surface to air missiles poured from their launchers. Deck and chain guns put high-explosive rounds down-range at blinding speed. The ship splashed 14 targets. A nearby Seahunter III unmanned vessel jammed another ten. Sixteen missiles proceeded unharmed towards a city unaware of the approaching danger.

At Naval Base San Diego, Pier 12’s four ships appeared deserted. After-hours duty sections were at battle stations. Hatches were battened down and sailors crouched below-decks, holding their breath. American flags snapped in the wind from each ship’s fantail, as evening colors was overcome by events.

A high-pitched whine broke the stillness blanketing the pier. Three cruise missiles tipped over and dove for the base, the glow from their exhaust visible. A nearby security guard had time to point as the screeching projectiles lanced into nearby destroyer USS Rodriguez and knocked him off his feet. Flashes reflected off low clouds as waterspouts erupted around the wounded destroyer, falling on the prone guard in sheets of rain.

The Rodriguez was in trouble. She heeled violently after impact and her lines parted with a pop-pop-pop. Her brow tumbled into the water as she separated from the pier. Black, acrid smoke billowed as a fire roared upward and out a gash amidships while seawater funneled into a hole just above the keel. Sailors donned firefighting gear as the wounded ship scraped against a neighbor, drifting into the channel. As the stricken vessel smashed through a security barrier, the Rodriguez’s attack team courageously marched towards the burning chaos. While they fought, the ship slowly sank 15 feet and wallowed before a strong current rolled her over in a cloud of steam and bubbles.

The sequence repeated itself at Pier 2. First responders rushing to the waterfront were awe-struck by the flames and haunting silhouettes. Wild-eyed sailors stumbled topside carrying their shipmates, hurling themselves into the water. Primal screams rang out, bringing a chill to the air. Well-trained fire parties made up of brave sailors charged the flames with their hoses at the ready.

A mile north, the Coronado Bridge dominated the city’s skyline at dusk, bathed in warm amber light from the setting sun. It stood regally over ink-black water. Constructed of steel and concrete, at this hour it hefted the weight of rush-hour traffic. The ten remaining missiles bore in, 60 feet off the water. Splitting into pairs, they targeted the bridge’s five central supports. The attack was catastrophic, as girders folded and concrete sections fell, creating plumes visible for miles. Scores of cars were consumed by the mammoth gray cloud now billowing skyward. A mountain of concrete and twisted steel settled on the sea bed, blocking the channel in both directions.

Naval Air Facility Imperial Beach

Patrol Bombing Squadron Eight Eight

1835 local

The dark gray BMW sped effortlessly through the streets south of San Diego. Its driver was focused, wasting no motion, easing and goosing the throttle with precision. He turned off the main drag, weaved through an adjacent residential area, and closed-in on the base. Approaching the gate, he slowed and held his ID out the window, squinting into harsh floodlights. Machine guns covered him as sentries scrutinized his car. Once cleared, he catapulted towards the flight line.

The car screeched into a spot labeled “Commanding Officer.” A lanky man jumped out; mid-40s with a youthful face, his sandy brown hair was a bit longer than regulations dictated. Dressed in a polo shirt and board shorts, he jogged through the turnstile and towards his hanger. An academic comfortable with both books and a brew, Commander “Brain” Soul was a fan of fast cars and an accomplished naval aviator to boot. A graduate of a top engineering school back east and a test pilot, he was the natural choice for Patrol Bombing Squadron Eight Eight’s (VPB 88) first commanding officer. Striding through the hanger door, a group of harried Sailors saw him and snapped-to. Always positive in the face of crisis, Commander Soul’s wide smile returned their greeting and put the young troops at ease.

Everything around him was shiny and new. The base—formerly for helicopters—received lengthened runways two years before. The spotless hanger where he stood was built shortly thereafter. His squadron celebrated its first anniversary only months ago. With a shrunken Fleet, the Navy was hard-pressed to project power and the Air Force was out of the conventional bombing business. The bombers were a bargain compared to a warship so the Navy reactivated patrol bombing squadrons; Soul’s was the first. The concept was simple. Pair the bombers with third-party targeting. Then, identify threats at great distances and inundate them with heavy payloads of anti-ship cruise missiles, bombs, and malicious drones. Readied for Navy use and rechristened the B-1N Kraken, 15 of the naval bombers were stationed in Imperial Beach, awaiting their wartime debut.

The recall alert was barely 30 minutes old, yet more than 50 officers in flight suits congregated in the Ready Room. Most sat in high-backed leather chairs with the rest left to stand along the bulkhead. The space hummed with quiet conversations. The atmosphere was electric.

“Attention on Deck!”

Soul patted the air. “Keep your seats. Ladies and gents, this is an alert. No calls in or out. We have a crisis situation. The attacking force will be in position to fire upon us in eighteen hours. The fleet is blocked-in and the forward base is crippled. We’re it. This is the real thing. This is what you’ve been trained for.”

The skipper’s words were met with deep concern and strained looks between pilots. Sweat glistened. Soul was all business and his usual smile was instead an icy glare. He fell into his chair and pointed urgently at a junior officer. “Squirrel, let’s have it. Attention to brief!”

The squadron intelligence officer stood and cleared her throat.

“An early warning buoy detected 18 warships 700 miles west of San Diego. Forward Maritime Base Morel engaged a scouting force of three disguised merchant vessels. Hostile missiles took out Morel, ships in-port, and the Coronado Bridge. USS Korengal is underway but being kept close for air defense. Your mission is to neutralize the approaching task force.”

Soul stood back up, his face full of resolve. “We’re sending 12 aircraft at these bastards. Load-out will be twenty-one Long Range Anti-Ship Missiles each. Helluva punch. Our ordies will have the missiles hung in a few hours. Flight leads, review fuel management and waypoints. We’ll have targeting airborne ahead of us. Questions?”

A bombardier navigator spoke up, preparing to write in his notebook. “Skipper, who will be up with us providing the picture?”

Soul, now standing with his hands on his hips, gave a rueful grin, shrugged, and then winked. “Classified. If I told you, well, you know . . .”

“You are America’s best. Let’s do it.” With that, he dismissed his people, and headed for the squadron’s intelligence space. His Kraken were to be the teeth of the Navy—tonight they would prove it.

Underground Bunker

Undisclosed Location

1930 local

Garth Brooks crooned softly from a hidden speaker. In the corner, a muted television showed a news feed, displaying the carnage in San Diego. A shrill ring pierced the mood in Captain “Buzz” Willmoor’s office. Asleep on his couch, he peeled his face from the vinyl. A hand flailed for the handset. “Mmhello?” The captain’s eyes narrowed and he bolted upright. Listening for several minutes, he grunted responses. With his jaw firmly set, he responded, “Aye, aye, admiral. Give me a few hours. We’re on it.”

A genius in the sky and on the ground, Captain Willmoor was a naval test pilot and combat veteran extraordinaire. A jet-black flight suit covered in subdued patches hung loose from his torso. Straight from central casting, he was chiseled, short, and high-energy. Channeling the early Apollo astronauts, Willmoor wore a short buzz cut and had an endearing southern drawl. As he zipped up, he reflected on the phone call. Shaking his head, he grabbed a green nylon bag and hooted, “Yee-haw!” Leaving the office, he smacked the door frame and strode down a passageway lit only by dim red lights.

After an hour conferring with staff and an Air Force liaison, Captain Willmoor entered a secure briefing room. The space, like the passageway, was bathed in red. An intelligence officer filled in the highly classified gaps not available to the San Diego-based Krakens. Tonight’s mission was complex. Fuel en route. Integrate with Patrol Bombing Squadron Eight Eight. Get in close. Generate the picture. Distract the enemy. Shoot some film. Recover without being detected or suspected. Another Fine Navy Day.

Before breaking up the meeting, the aptain stood. “Our job is to be sneaky. We beam the picture to the Krakens.” He paused. “We’ll have three drones each to exhaust the enemy defenses. Once the Krakens shoot, we get it all on tape, then we boogie. Got it?” He received nods all around. His officers were ready to spring out of their chairs.

“We have two hours to prep. Let’s make history.”

Naval Air Facility Imperial Beach

2345 local

“Brain” Soul flicked his anticollision lights on. His copilot nodded as they each placed hands on the throttles.

Four long cones of fire streaked from their afterburners as the first bomber lumbered down the runway. An earth-shattering shroooom filled the air. The noise was rock-music to the pilots. The intense vibrations radiating from the controls into their bodies fueled their adrenaline rush. Once airborne, the Krakens formed up in two flights of six and climbed towards the waiting tanker.

Naval Air Facility Rachel

Rachel, Nevada

2347 local

Vultures cawed somewhere in the distance and a few tumbleweeds scurried past a nondescript brick building. Aside from the hungry birds, the only noise was the wind whistling between various hangers. Sodium lights overhead cast the area in amber light. A white door opened and the duty officer skulked out of the air conditioned security hut. The air outside was hot and dry. Up above, the Milky Way swirled into infinity. Situated near a dry lakebed and tucked away on this top-secret Air Force—installation—the young man felt very alone. The lieutenant plopped his butt on a rusty bike rack and waited. The breeze picked up. He absently kicked a rock.

A rotating yellow caution light started flashing nearby. On the ground, a nondescript tan panel slid away, revealing a glowing red elevator shaft.

As the lieutenant looked on, six planes rose to the surface one after another, started their engines, and taxied away. Flat and sleek, they disappeared into the night like ghosts. The sight was mesmerizing. Jealous of his comrades, the duty officer cursed the schedule. Five minutes passed and the sound of engines roared across the desert.[i]

Avenger Flight

Flight Level 450, Over Santa Barbara, CA

0101 local

Captain Willmoor breathed a sigh of relief. His flight of six A-12 Avenger IIs finished with the tanker from the 418th Flight Test Squadron a few minutes prior. They would be feet-wet shortly. He scanned his multi-function displays and glanced at his bombardier navigator; it all seemed so routine.

Once over the dark ocean, he forced himself into the zone. Just a walk in the park.

Kraken Flight

Flight Level 450, Over the Channel Islands

0120 local

Commander Soul eased his flight of Kraken into a left turn and headed southwest. The slate-colored behemoths flew at maximum conserve airspeed with their wings locked forward. Armed with the Navy’s most advanced ship killing missile, they deliberately stalked their prey.

During exercises, they received cueing from UAVs and P-8s. Not this time. It was all a big secret, but Soul strongly suspected an old shipmate was 75 miles ahead, leading this sensitive mission. A grin creased his face as he remembered the good times they’d had as junior officers and later as test pilots. At the top of their field for years, tonight they would prove they had the right stuff.

Avenger Flight

Flight Level 450, E. Pacific Ocean

0156 local

Painted whiteish-gray, Willmoor’s A-12 had no vertical surfaces and was invisible to radar.[ii] The military’s best-kept secret and birthed in an elaborate deception spanning decades, the plane was designed to operate at sea, drop precision weapons, and slip away. Tonight was its first combat mission.

After only a few hours in the air, the pilot’s rear was sore. He shifted in his seat. His right-seater had located the contacts earlier at over 100 miles. So far their threat warning receivers remained silent.

Captain Willmoor’s bombardier navigator spoke up. Buzz, we’re on top of them. Ten left for 20 miles.The pilot glanced at his displays. All quiet. He was impressed. “Well, we certainly got in close, didn’t we? Damn these planes are good!”

With nearly 30 years in Navy cockpits, Captain Willmoor had experienced everything a Naval Aviator and distinguished test pilot could get themselves into. At the end of a top-secret four-year tour, he was leading 12 officers—and many more in a formation astern—into a potential meat grinder. His charges were all that stood between the enemy and the first modern conventional attack on America’s shores. Heady stuff, this war business.

After a few moments of introspection, he spoke to his bombardier navigator. “Okay, JP. Let’s start the music.” Switching buttons, he keyed the radio and spoke in short clips. “Avenger Flight, Lead, master arm on, combat spread. Standby.”

The formation loosened as bombardiers selected their targets. When their drones were hit with enemy radar, their onboard electronics would reflect back ten unique contacts, causing great confusion amongst the hostile ships. “Flashlight, on,” the flight lead ordered over the common frequency. The bombardiers each flipped a switch sending their data out. Now the B-1Ns had the picture, too.

Execute.” A panel on the belly of each aircraft slid aft and the bomb bays opened. The invisible Avengers released their payloads.

Unlike the A-12s, the drones were not stealthy, and the radar returns created a sudden jumble of 180 symbols closing the combatants. The threats consumed the enemy’s attention and drew dozens of anti-air interceptors in response.[iii]

Kraken Flight

5,000 feet, E. Pacific Ocean, trailing Avenger Flight 75NM astern

0157 local

The B-1Ns finished their dive and were over the horizon, unseen. Twenty miles of ocean slipped by as 12 sets of doors opened below the bombers. Commander Soul glanced right, locked eyes, and pumped his fist. With that, he cycled his anticollision lights twice and 252 LRASMs gracefully fell from the twelve planes. Gliding silently for five seconds, their rocket motors lit and hurtled fiery spears towards the enemy fleet. Once certain their weapons were tracking, the skipper yanked his bombers into a 180-degree turn and climbed away to the east.

Avenger Flight

Flight Level 450, E. Pacific Ocean

0217

The drones performed brilliantly. Hostile lances of fire bolted through the sky seeking targets that were largely not there. Smoke trails crisscrossed high and low, earning a puff of gray for the occasional intercept. Unaware of the ruse, the enemy expended their air defense inventory against the opening salvo. The offending decoys distracted them from the LRASMs until it was too late. The true threats faced only token shots.

In high orbit over the enemy task force, the infrared sensors aboard the Avengers broadcast the real-time picture back to headquarters and their comrades in Kraken Flight. The U.S. missiles made it through, obliterating the hostile ships. Keeping the message short, Willmoor transmitted to all stations, “They bought it. Mission complete. Avengers are RTB.”

Naval Air Facility Rachel

Rachel, Nevada

0500 local

“Buzz” Willmoor surveyed the flight line. Six Avengers. Twelve aviators. All intact. Stepping from the pilot ladder, he walked with his bombardier navigator away from their jet. Across the flight line, the squadron intelligence officer emerged from the darkness and rushed over.

Offering a fist-bump to Willmoor, the young woman ran down a list of the battle damage. “Sir, the Kraken scored 16 hard-kills, sinking frigates, destroyers, and heavy cruisers. Somehow, three drones snuck through untouched and banged up the carrier. Credit a mission kill to the Avengers. The last warship bugged out, leaving miles of burning debris in their wake.”[iv] Willmoor was proud of his people and their planes. Passing the maintenance personnel who would move the aircraft back underground, he thought of the return flight. An eerie flicker was stark against the clouds over San Diego. He’d sensed an empty pit form inside his stomach. A warrior at heart, feelings of helplessness were anathema. He was ready to fight and kill again but feared their luck would hold out only so long. The enemy would return. Eventually the country would need to deliver a knock-out punch.

At the edge of the elevator, he looked up as a silent black saucer zipped by and entered the landing pattern. He chuckled wryly—maybe they would be alright after all. Back in his office, he turned up Garth and plopped in his comfy chair. He picked up a yellow-striped phone to call an old buddy. Might as well start planning for next time.

Endnotes

 

[i] Stephen Coonts, The Minotaur (New York: Dell, 1989). (ideas inspired by the novel)

[ii] Stephen Coonts, Fortunes of War (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998). (ideas inspired by the novel)

[iii] Tom Clancy, Red Storm Rising (New York: Berkley, 1986). (ideas inspired by the novel)

[iv] Clancy, Red Storm Rising.

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