Miranda Chase

Chapter 8

“892. See you at ten,” crackled in over the radio.

Mini Boss Lieutenant Commander Falisha Johnson merely nodded, careful to hide her relief from the others in PriFly.

PriFly, or Primary Flight, was the air traffic control tower for the aircraft carrier run by the Air Boss and a Mini Boss like her. It sat at the highest level of the Big Stick’s Island, the only superstructure to reach above the deck. Its windows were angled out at the top to offer the best view of both the air and the deck below.

Big Stick’sLieutenant Commander Gabriel “Angel” Brown, flying his F-35C Lightning II stealth fighter Number 892, had a visual sighting of their carrier from ten nautical miles out. His flight of four was returning with the rising sun to CVN-71 USS Theodore Roosevelt—the Big Stick as their boat was commonly known. He and his flight were back from an extended nighttime patrol over the South China Sea.

Theodore Roosevelt—Big Stick The sky was clear and the newly risen sun was off the starboard beam on a smooth sea. Ideal conditions.

The Big Stick wasn’t here to be confrontational.

Big Stick Yeah, sure. You go on and keep telling yourself that, Falisha. Since when was a ship three football fields long and most of two wide, with eighty of the US military’s elite aircraft aboard, ever not confrontational? America’s aircraft carrier fleet existed to strike fear into the hearts of others.

Yeah, sure. You go on and keep telling yourself that, Falisha. notexistedThe truth was that the South China Sea was one-point-three million kilometers of big f*****g mess that could explode in the worst of ways at any moment. Not even the Big Stick would have much chance of controlling the situation if it all came apart. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t try.

Big StickVietnam, Indonesia, Malaysia, Brunei, and the Philippines had long claimed various portions of the SCS, some claims overlapping and some not. Then the Chinese had taken over several islands in the middle of the sea and dredged up whole reef systems to build artificial islands. Four fighter-capable PRC military bases now dotted the SCS, as well as numerous radar, missile, and heli-bases.

Then they’d declared the entire SCS was theirs exclusively, not only for military and shipping, but also all of the fishing and mineral rights. The rights of the other five countries that surrounded three of the four sides of the South China Sea were blithely ignored.

Every now and then the People’s Republic needed to be reminded that they did not control the world’s oceans by some supreme self-declared right.

not And it was the Big Stick’s turn to do that. They were presently steaming two hundred nautical miles due east of Nha Trang, Vietnam, and the same distance northwest of the PRC-claimed Spratly Islands and the three major military airbases they’d built there in 2015 and 2016.

Big Stick’s The Air Marshall responded to Gabe, “892, update state, go Tower.”

The last part was the handoff to her. The Air Marshall handled flights from fifty to five nautical miles out. His task was to vector aircraft in an orderly flow for her to pick up.

“892, low state two.” Two thousands pounds of fuel remaining, which was low but not dangerously so. That was the twenty-four minutes of fuel Gabe should have after landing, not on arrival in the pattern. But the other extreme, landing an aircraft still heavy with fuel, was significantly more dangerous. Slamming down hard with eight tons of fuel still in the jet’s wing tanks could collapse the landing gear with the least error.

Gabe’s next report should be when his flight reached five miles out. At his approach speed of four hundred knots, that was still forty-five seconds away.

She was glad she’d come on shift in time for his landing. The other Mini Air Boss headed below after making sure the handoff to Falisha was clean. The off-shift Air Boss remained for now, watching the show. Which meant two Air Bosses were watching her, but that had happened enough to not bother her—much.

two Falisha kept an eye out the window of PriFly for Gabe as he headed toward the Stack—the five-mile-wide circle of the holding pattern, two thousand feet above the carrier’s deck.

—On the deck itself, Commander Phil Emerson, the Air Boss, had three aircraft in the launch queue, a landing bird that had snagged the number one wire—earning himself a crappy rating of two of a possible five from the landing officer—and another in-bound, already in the pattern for final approach. So she would keep Gabe’s flight out of his way and circling in the Stack for the moment.

Gabe never earned less than a four for his landings, snagging the third wire of the four on the Big Stick and doing it dead clean every time. A five was reserved for when he nailed his landings in harsh storms or at night. LSOs weren’t big on giving out fives, but Gabe always earned them when conditions warranted.

Big Stick It was a precision she enjoyed greatly in her personal life as well. Mom had warned her off fighter jocks—and Dad had done nothing to disprove her warnings. His affairs and lies had created a disaster area of her childhood worse than even the South China Sea. But she finally understood why Mom had married him in the first place. Falisha was completely gone on Angel Brown, who was bound to be anything but.

gone AngelThe twenty-four hours she’d asked for after Gabe proposed last night—to try and wrestle her common sense to the forefront—had failed utterly. Even knowing what the future would hold, tonight she was going to say yes.

She checked for the inbounds. Gabe, with the three other birds of his flight trailing close behind, was sliding into the top of the Stack. Exactly on cue, he called it in.

“Tower, 892, overhead, angels two, low state two.” And she’d bet that he was within ten feet of angels two, precisely two thousand feet above her deck.

angels two, “892, Tower. Roger.” Dead smooth. Pure professional.

That’s how she’d play it.

She wanted her Navy career as badly as he did. So, she’d solve the creating a family issue by not having one. And when they were sick of each other in two years or five, they could both walk away clean. Maybe after that she’d be ready for a man to settle down with for the long haul. The final crash landing from life with Gabriel “Angel” Brown would be hell, but it would also be hella-awesome while it lasted.

creating a family issue “Flight of four entering the Stack,” she warned the Air Boss.

He didn’t waste time nodding, offering only a low grunt of acknowledgment. Six more staff worked behind them, double-checking that there were no surprises and that Emerson’s orders were carried out in the most efficient way. Jostling eighty aircraft around on a ship eleven hundred feet long ranked right up there with rocket science.

Today she was handling everything entering their perimeter, and Phil knew she’d keep it all under control until he was ready.

PriFly had the best view and the busiest job on the boat. The captain on the Command Bridge a story below steered the boat—at the moment to PriFly’s precise direction. The admiral, another story below on the Flag Bridge, could only order it about.

From here, she and Phil commanded all flight traffic within ten miles. In the Stack, on approach, or on the deck, all orders flowed through their PriFly post high on the Island.

She checked the deck. The first of the line at the bow catapults was punching aloft, they were the patrol to pick up where Gabe’s flight had left off. The trap wires at the stern were all clear and reset for landing.

“Peel ’em,” Phil called out without turning his attention away from the launching aircraft. Long experience had taught her that he didn’t need to look, he knew the exact state and location of everything that even thought about his flight deck, probably including stray seagulls.

thoughtFalisha contained her surprise and carefully double-checked the skies and the deck.

With the first launch gone, the next-up aircraft, an EA-18G Growler electronic warfare jet, was taxiing into position at the head of Cat One. The catapult’s carriage raced from the bow back to midships along its slot in the deck. In a carefully orchestrated ballet, deckhands were positioned to latch the front wheel onto the carriage the moment both arrived, which fifteen seconds from now would be slinging the Growler down the deck and off the bow at flight speed.

Latched. Safety checks. The jet blast deflector swung up behind the plane to deflect its exhaust upward.

The same ballet, ten seconds behind, was happening on Cat Two.

At the proper signal from the deck, the pilot advanced the throttles to full, then saluted the deck.

She knew she was avoiding taking action. Peel ’em?

Peel ’em?A carrier could manage simultaneous launch and recovery operations, but when the pressure wasn’t on, the Air Boss usually ran the entire on-deck show personally, doing one task, then the other.

Phil knew exactly what she was feeling, of course, and spoke without turning. “You’re ready, Falisha. Hell, you can do the whole thing as well as I can. But for the moment, only approach and landing ops are yours—but all yours. Do it.”

The proper response was immediate action, but she did take one more moment to revel in the feeling. The Air Boss saying she was ready to step from Mini Air Boss to Air Boss was a dream she’d been pursuing for the last four years. Rockin’ it!

Rockin’ it!Then she keyed the radio and swung into gear.

“892. BRC is zero-three-zero,” she called up to Gabe. Gabe needed the Bearing Recovery Course to line up with the ship’s runway, which was presently angled thirty degrees east of north. “Your signal is Charlie.” C for Cleared to enter the landing pattern.

He dropped out of the Stack on his next circle around and began descending. He flew forward past the starboard side, turned a one-eighty in front of the bow but well above the launching aircraft. He then turned to fly sternward, well off the port side in clear view from PriFly.

With her big field glasses, Falisha double-checked as he passed directly abeam that his flaps were extended and the wheels and tailhook down. He waggled his wings in a quick wave because he knew she’d be watching. Yep, arrogant as could be, so why was she touched?

“892, in the Break,” he reported exactly ninety degrees off the ship.

Gabe was guaranteed to break her heart, but she already knew that wasn’t going to stop her. Her revised goal? Enjoy the hell out of it while it lasted.

Descending through eight hundred feet, he carved another hard one-eighty and approached from astern.

He entered the Groove of final approach at three-quarters of a mile off the stern.

She released Gabe’s wingman from the Stack to start his own approach.

“892, call the ball,” the Landing Signal Operator radioed aloft.

“892, F-35C. Roger ball. Low state one,” Gabe called back.

The deck would now be verifying that the landing wires were set to react properly for an F-35C with low fuel.

Low state one. A thousand pounds. Twelve minutes. So like Gabe to push the limits. If there was some deck failure or problem with his tailhook, he’d be hard-pressed to reach any Vietnamese airport. The closest land was two hundred miles away.

She glanced forward to make sure that a tanker jet was sitting in the Corral, the area halfway between the Island and the base of the catapults. It was always there in case someone aloft needed fuel pronto.

Gabe had probably been fudging the two thousand pounds of fuel report on entering the pattern because he’d been pushing his flight limits too far—again. That scared her in a way it never had before. He was like the heavy-foot drivers who could never stand to go merely ten over the speed limit.

What if he pushed that envelope past its breaking point one day? She’d be left to live on without him. A thought that made her sick to her stomach.

Breathe, Falisha. Focus on the job.

Breathe, Falisha. Focus on the job.A thousand pounds of fuel didn’t leave much leeway for even a missed approach. Not that it mattered. Gabe never missed a landing, nor did the rest of his flight. They were a very tight team—the top one aboard. They were the kind of flyers that could be tapped for the Blue Angels demonstration team, they were simply that good.

Rumor was that he had never missed a carrier landing, not even as a trainee. A smooth operator in every way there was.

neverFalisha had called her Mom this morning for help talking herself out of marrying him. All her mother had done after listening to her was sigh. Then she’d said, I know exactly how ya feel, honey. Trust me. Exactly! Her promise to also be there when Gabe was gone—to patch Falisha back together afterward—hadn’t been encouraging, but it had been thick with the voice of experience.

I know exactly how ya feel, honey. Trust me. Exactly! Paddles, as the Landing Signals Officer was commonly known, didn’t have to say a word to Gabe. Not one single correction, because Gabe really did fly the same way he made her feel—like an angel.

did The carrier was moving ahead at twenty knots, into a fifteen-knot wind, giving Gabe thirty-five knots of help in nailing the landing. Flying at a hundred and thirty-five knots, he was moving at only a hundred relative to the ship—a twenty-five percent advantage.

A US carrier’s landing area was angled ten degrees to the side from the carrier’s centerline so that if there was a major problem, the approaching plane could take off again without slamming into the planes launching from the bow. Or, if a worst-case scenario occurred and a plane went into the ocean, it would go off the side and not be run over by the aircraft carrier.

That was a problem with many other nation’s carrier designs but not America’s supercarriers. It made the landing trickier but US Navy pilots were the best in the world and proved it with every landing they made. Damn but she loved being in the service.

That angle meant that Gabe had to constantly sideslip as he simultaneously managed his angle of descent, his yaw, thrust, and a jillion other minutiae that had been trained to the point of instinct.

He flew clean all the way to the deck. So focused on that Number Three Wire that he wouldn’t see anything else.

It was so damn sexy to watch him fly.

It would help if the man didn’t know that.