Plug had just finished speaking into the radio when the F-18 aircrew began calling him on the radio, asking him for more input. Then the aircraft carrier’s internal phone rang next to his computer station. The caller ID read “CSG BWC.” It was the battle watch captain, the same duty officer on the admiral’s staff that he’d been speaking with.
The chief who was on watch with Plug said, “Sir, I’ll talk to the F-18 crew. You talk to the strike group staff.”
“Got it. Thanks, Chief.”
He grabbed the phone in one hand and handed the radio to the chief with the other.
The battle watch captain yelled something in his ear, but he was speaking so fast that Plug could hardly understand him.
Plug heard the chief say over the radio, “Ripper flight, we see your FLIR image and are getting input from the chain of command. Stand by.”
The battle watch captain said, “What type of missiles…?”
On the tactical radio Plug heard, “Foxtrot Alpha, this is Foxtrot Whiskey, we have missile warnings bearing two-seven-zero…” The destroyer in charge of the strike group’s air defense had just announced a missile launch.
Plug said, “He is over the merchants. How the hell do you think we’re seeing this video feed?”
Then the screen that had displayed the FLIR went black. The F-18 was no longer broadcasting video.
The 1MC above them began emitting a gong-like sound. “General quarters, general quarters. All hands, man your battle stations…”
The pair of F-18s from VFA-11 waited on the catapult of the USS Ford’s flight deck. Neither crew expected to launch. They were the swing-loaded alert aircraft, ready for both air and surface combat, if needed.
Lieutenant Kevin Suggs had technically left the squadron two months ago for his job as an admiral’s aide, but he was still current on many of his qualifications and had convinced Admiral Manning that he would be better able to serve him if he occasionally got time in the cockpit. Admiral Manning, surprisingly, had been supportive.
It had taken a few weeks of convincing, but since the Red Rippers were short on pilots for this cruise, their fighter squadron’s skipper had finally relented. He probably just felt bad for Suggs being a loop. No self-respecting jet pilot ever wanted to take an assignment outside of the cockpit.
Suggs was thrilled. He would keep flying. And what did those jokers at the carrier air wing operations do? They put him on the alert schedule, so he could sit and bake in the sun.
At least he had a book to read. The Red Sparrow, by Jason Matthews. Freaking amazing book.
The first indication that something unusual was happening was when one of the ordnancemen ran from one end of the flight deck to the other, waving his arms and screaming, signaling to another ordnanceman near the elevator.
Then the speaker on the flight deck broadcast the voice of the carrier’s airboss, an O-5 seasoned pilot who directed all flight operations launching and recovering from the carrier. “Let’s go, Ford! Launch the Alert-15 swing-loaded aircraft. Get moving.”
Yellow and green shirts began sprinting around the deck. Then the ship’s general quarters alarm sounded, and the airflow through the open cockpit picked up as the carrier began increasing speed and turning into the winds.
Everything happened in a flash.
Their orders came over the radio. Targeting information was being beamed into his cockpit computers.
Suggs’s rear-seater was a woman who had recently arrived at the squadron for her department head tour. She and Suggs began racing through the pre-takeoff checklists. He followed the direction of one of the yellow shirts, the heavy wind across the flight deck whipping his shirt and cargo pants. The canopy closed overhead. Suggs taxied into position on catapult number two. His wingman taxied onto the catapult next to him. The director then signaled to lower the launch bar, and the aircraft slowly taxied a bit further until the launch bar aligned with the catapult shuttle. Suggs held his hands up during this part of the process. An ordnanceman in a red shirt ran underneath, arming the aircraft, passing a hand signal to the aircraft when complete. Then the yellow shirt, one hand outstretched and one palm open, signaled to “take tension.” The F-18 squatted into position and was ready to fire out of a cannon.
Now the “shooter,” another yellow shirt on the flight deck, waved his hand in the air in a furious rhythm, giving the run-up signal. Suggs set his throttle forward into military power, the highest afterburner setting. Two cones of fire erupted from the F-18’s exhaust, and the roar of his jet engines filled the ears of all four thousand men and women on the ship. Suggs and the Shooter saluted, then Suggs placed his hands on the handlebar above his head. His hands couldn’t be on the controls for launch, as it was such a violent process.
The Shooter pointed to several spots around the flight deck, making his final checks, crouched low as he touched the flight deck, then leaned and pointed forward, signaling for the launch.
Suggs, engines still at afterburner, heart pounding, hands still on the bar above his head, braced himself for the…
The aircraft jolted forward.
His helmet pressed back into his seat as the USS Ford’s electromagnetic catapult accelerated his F-18 to over one hundred and fifty knots in two seconds. The Superhornet launched off the flight deck, and Suggs quickly placed his hands back on the controls as they became airborne.
Shaking off the familiar shock of a cat launch, he checked his instruments, turned the aircraft to the proper heading, and climbed up to five thousand feet. He pushed the throttle forward and accelerated to five hundred knots while the weapons systems officer in the rear seat began prepping for their attack.
37
Captain Hoblet stood in the balcony overlooking the dimly lit ship’s mission center of the USS Michael Monsoor, designated the DDG-1001. It was the newest commissioned ship in the Zumwalt class of destroyers. And they were — hopefully — about to prove that it had been worth the nearly four billion taxpayer dollars spent to build it.
“TAO, hostile air tracts are now in range,” he heard piped onto the balcony over the speaker.
Below, highly trained and hand-picked sailors worked feverishly at over a dozen individual three-screen workstations. There, they could control everything on the ship, using trackballs and special button panels on the common display system. Hoblet watched his team as they sucked in information from the sensors and radar and used it in conjunction with the information other ships were plugging in to the datalink.
Updated positions of Chinese air contacts, now identified as J-15 attack aircraft, were projected on the screen in front of him. By Hoblet’s estimate, they would be in range to fire air-to-surface missiles any minute now. If they were going to drop bombs on Guam, it would be a while longer. It was time to respond.
The TAO looked up at the captain from the floor twenty feet below, speaking through his headset. “Captain, TAO, we’ve received unconfirmed reports of explosions on Guam. Initial indications are that they are under missile attack.”
Captain Hoblet looked at the tactical display again. The column of Chinese fighters en route to Guam couldn’t have fired missiles already. They were still too far away. “Do we know where the attack came from?”
“We think the attack may have been submarine-launched, sir.”
Captain Hoblet knew that Anderson Air Force Base was a strategic air command base. As such, it would be well protected against missile and electronic attack. But would they be able to withstand a coordinated attack coming from submarine-launched missiles and fighter squadrons?