ARISEN, Book Eleven - Deathmatch (28 page)

She could see the air wing’s two hotshot F-35 mechanics, the old man Chief Davis and the young kid Pete, trying to do last bits of work on her bird, even as it was towed by a flight deck tractor into position at the base of the angle deck. Man, that was devotion. Hailey figured these two would take off with her, clinging to the fuselage, if that’s what it took to make sure it was in perfect flying condition.

In another minute, she was up the ladder, into the cockpit, helmet on, canopy down, and tearing through her checks. When she inventoried her weapons suite, she saw she actually had now been configured for air-to-air. There were four ASRAAM anti-air missiles in her weapons bay, in addition to ground munitions and her topped-up autocannon. How the air wing guys pulled that off so quickly was a total mystery.

However, when Hailey did a commo check with Pri-Fly, she got a less inspiring response – and one she didn’t want to hear.
“Stand by, Thunderchild. Your mission is not yet go.”

What the hell? How could her mission not be go? But she already knew the answer. Hers was the only fighter or ground-attack aircraft left in the entire carrier air wing – in any state of repair. And she was the last ambulatory fighter jock on the entire roster. So that made her the carrier’s last significant defense, or offensive asset.

How they had come to this pass was hard to fathom. But it had become clear the Russians were back – though not in what capacity, strength, or numbers. And Abrams was going to hesitate a long while, and think very carefully, before sending his last F-35 back out into the meat grinder.

And as terrified as Hailey was of going back out there into the teeth of whatever had just killed Morris, she was even more terrified of not being able to do her job. It was strange. For so long she had been afraid of coming up short when it counted, of her skills being lacking, of being found out as a fraud. Now, after her two successful engagements in support of the ground team, for the first time she was no longer afraid of failing – and, in fact, actually felt as if she could do anything.

And she also felt that if her father, the eternally judging admiral, or her more accomplished brothers could see her now, they might finally give her their approval. But you know what? She also didn’t care anymore. She was free.

Somehow, she had broken through.

But she’d also, evidently, just got shut down. Grounded.

She finally knew she could do the job. And she wasn’t being allowed to do it. Did the guys upstairs not understand? This was
it.

She’d been briefed that the Seahawk was down – though whether from the same SAMs that got Firecrotch was unclear. But there were survivors. And they were now down on the ground – alone and naked, without support. And Hailey was all that was left to provide it. The conclusion seemed obvious. The whole world was counting on this mission.

She
had
to go up and support it.

And then she started trying to figure out… if it would actually be possible to launch without authorization. It wasn’t something that had ever come up before.

Or that she ever imagined would.

* * *

Handon set a brutal pace through the thick bush. The others just had to keep up. He had them on a heading toward the GPS coords of the Russian crash site. They’d pick up the trail from there. They had to. If they lost them, if Patient Zero disappeared, after all this…

Fat drops of rain fell on their heads from the forest canopy – though it was impossible to tell if it was still raining up there, or if this was runoff.
Well
, Handon thought,
at least we don’t have to worry about heat casualties.

His radio went. Around deep breaths, he took the call. It was Campbell in CIC.
“Listen, Cadaver, be advised – there’s a debate going within command about whether to send you our last F-35. If not, we’re going to put the UCAV drone up for you. But be advised – whatever air we do send: they CANNOT get closer than five-point-two kilometers to the Russians on the ground.”

“I’m guessing that’s the range of those Grinch SAMs.”

“Affirmative. And this may limit the support they can give you.”

“All received. Just get us something flying. And keep me updated.”

Handon turned when Ali spoke behind him. “I don’t suppose the Grinch would appreciate the homage.” She was referring to a legendary Delta operator who went by that call sign.

“No,” Handon said, powering his way through thick vegetation, which rose up to mid-thigh in some places. Even the dead didn’t venture back here. “Wherever that unkillable sonofabitch is.”

Even two years into the ZA, no Delta guy ever imagined any other Delta guy
wasn’t
still alive and operating out there somewhere.

It was probably a safe assumption.

* * *

Hailey, stewing in her cockpit on the flight deck, was just about to call and hassle Pri-Fly for another update on her mission status, and what the hell was taking so long, when she was stopped by two things happening out on the deck around her. First, she saw their UCAV – the big stealth flying-wing drone – rise up on the port aircraft elevator.

That couldn’t be a good sign.

But much worse was when yellow-shirted aircraft handlers ran out and started disengaging the shuttle for the catapult from the towbar on her plane’s nose gear.

Oh, you sons of bitches!

They weren’t going to send her up.

They were going to send the drone instead. And that wasn’t good enough. It could do close air support – up to a point. And, in theory, the UCAV was even supposed to be able to do aerial combat. But it had nothing like the F-35’s capabilities for either. And it wasn’t just the weapons or performance characteristics that were the problem. It was also that the guy piloting the damned thing would be sitting in a comfy chair down in CIC.

He’d have no skin in the game.

No – Hailey needed to be there. With the guys on the ground, going into harm’s way. They needed to know she was over their heads, the angel on their shoulders. For the first time in her career, she knew she could do it.

And they weren’t going to let her!

But Hailey also knew a little something about the capabilities of her aircraft. She knew that, with her Pratt & Whitney afterburning turbofan engine’s 43,000 foot-pounds of thrust, it could actually launch off the flight deck
without
the catapult.

Even loaded down with four ASRAAMs.

Jackasses

JFK – Bridge

Commander Abrams put the phone handset down and sat up straight in his leather captain’s chair. He was in total agreement with Campbell down in CIC, and the Air Boss up in Pri-Fly. Sending up their last F-35 – five minutes after their second-to-last one got shot down – would be a huge mistake. It would be a very serious decision to make at the best of the times.

But doing it now that the Russians had made some kind of return the scene… well, that would be madness. They thought they’d eliminated the threat when three Alpha operators – Homer, Henno, and Ali – had gone off on their own and sunk the Russian battlecruiser. Though, also come to think of it, Abrams now remembered Juice, before stepping off for this mission, giving him a specific warning: that they had no idea how many Spetsnaz naval commandos might still be out there.

Abrams looked around his bridge. He also remembered that Commander Drake had made the mistake of not listening to the operators – and he had made it more than once. And both the ship, and Drake personally, had paid a terrible price for it. Abrams did not intend to repeat those mistakes.

Now they knew there was at least one Russian aircraft still flying, and an indeterminate number of Spetsnaz shooters on the ground – and all right in the mix with their shore team. And Abrams figured they’d really better not assume there were no other ships, or anti-ship missiles, out there either.

No, that last F-35 was their last defense. And it, and its pilot, were staying on the deck, on cockpit standby.

Finally – just one damned easy decision.

But even as Abrams relaxed for two seconds, he looked up to see a sailor enter the bridge from the outside ladder. And he immediately recognized him as that same random blond-haired electronics technician – good-looking, big shoulders, narrow waist – who had strolled in a couple of days before, then bizarrely excused himself and turned around again. At the time, Abrams had assumed the guy had some reason to be there, and he hadn’t recognized him because he was new, and had been too embarrassed to admit it. Now the dude looked slightly different – he was wearing a sidearm, which an enlisted sailor definitely shouldn’t be, and his chest somehow looked puffed out.

And this time, Abrams was going to find out who this jackass was, and what his business on the bri—

But even as he started to rise, he heard a horrendous roaring sound from outside on the flight deck. He dashed over to the port-side screens and peered down.

Holy mother of God
.

* * *

Chief Davis and Pete still stood alongside the angle deck, their hands in their jumpsuit pockets. This last round of maintenance checks, and the cycling of Thunderchild’s bird for launch, had been one of the fastest of their careers. But they’d done it. They would never let Hailey go up in an aircraft that hadn’t been checked out.

Now they stayed on deck to watch her take off. Since she was their responsibility, they wanted to see her get airborne safely. But when the deck crew unhooked her and started rolling out the stupid UCAV – the two mechanics shared their pilots’ disdain for unmanned drones – they turned to go.

But then when Hailey’s engine started up with the atrocious roar that only a jet engine in close quarters can make, they stopped and turned around again.

Pete looked up at his older colleague. “What the hell?”

Chief Davis just shrugged.

“You don’t figure she…?”

Davis shrugged again. “Wouldn’t put it past her.” He took a couple of steps and craned his neck to make sure there’d been no one back behind her when her engine blasted up. Then again, if there had been, it was too late. They were now either incinerated, or floating in the ship’s wake, or most likely both.

Now the engine wound up even more – from atrocious to bowel-thrumming – as Hailey throttled it up to full power. “Holy shit!” Pete said – then put his mouth to Davis’s ear and shouted, “Hey, you don’t figure she—”

But then she did. She dropped her own holdback bar.

And Thunderchild rocketed away down the deck like a thunderbolt hurling herself.

* * *

“Holy mother of God,”
Abrams said aloud now, across the open channel to both CIC and PriFly.

“Yeah,”
Campbell answered from CIC.
“Roger that.”

But up in Pri-Fly, the wizened old Air Boss kept his mouth shut. Instead he just shook his head and marveled. Wells refusing a recall order to stay up and do close air support for a bunch of civilians on the ground in Virginia had been one thing.

But this
… he thought. He was impressed despite himself. You almost had to admire someone who could fuck up on a such a previously unimaginable scale. Actually, he realized, this almost made more sense
.
At least she was now disobeying orders to do CAS for their own actual shore team.

Finally, he found his voice, and addressed Abrams. “Commander, do you still want us to launch the UCAV?”

There was a delay, one tinged with disbelief, before Abrams responded.
“Affirmative. Launch it. Just in case we can get Thunderchild’s mutinous ass back here…”
Then, slightly under his breath, but definitely audible on the channel:
“Or for when she gets her ass shot down, too.”

“Roger, Commander. Wilco.”

Yes,
the Air Boss thought.
I will comply.

Totally unlike Thunderchild…

* * *

Chief Davis and Pete still couldn’t tear themselves away from the dramatic open-air theater the flight deck had become. Of everyone on the boat, they were probably least surprised at Hailey’s one-woman self-authorized air mission.

Because they knew her best.

Now they watched the deck crew getting that Batman-looking UCAV monstrosity lined up and hooked into the catapult shuttle. But, a minute later, when it tried to fire up its single turbo-fan engine… it flamed, belched once, and then flamed out again. Two minutes later, the UAV mechanics were on the scene, trying to troubleshoot and repair their big blind bat.

Davis and Pete held the drone mechanics, who were a totally different crew from those who worked on manned aircraft, in about the same low esteem with which they regarded their unmanned aircraft. So they stood there for a minute or two watching them flail, until Pete finally said:

“You think we should go help these jackasses out?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Loyalty to the ship and its crew trumped inter-team rivalry.

But then they both turned around at an unexpected sight: three Naval Security guys, approaching them across the open deck at a brisk trot. And they were totally tooled up – rifles, pistols, vests, helmets, the works. On top of that, the one in charge was wearing what looked like a Marine Corps officer’s sword.

“Where’s the war, boys?” Chief Davis asked their leader.

The NSF officer slowed to a stop and nodded – then addressed them in an English accent. “You blokes the star aircraft mechanics? Chief Davis and, uh…” and with this he consulted some handwritten notes, “and Seaman Silvers?”

“Pete,” Pete corrected him.

“Yes. And I’m Chief Davis.”

The man took his glove off and stuck his hand out. “Lieutenant Wesley, NSF. These are Burns and Jenson.”

Davis nodded. “What can we do you for, gentlemen?”

Wesley said, “You need to come with us.”

Davis’s eyebrows climbed up over his droll expression. “For what?” He resisted adding, “…possible purpose?”

“We’ll have to brief you on the way,” Wesley said. “Right now we just need you to grab your toolboxes.” He paused, looked down, and dug into a pocket, pulling out another rumpled sheet of handwritten notes. “And everything on this list.”