Unknown Rider

Beth grinned, remembering her time as TAO aboard the USS Stockdale. She recalled with fondness the war games she had participated in during the pre-deployment workup cycle and knew they were always more exciting than real-world operations. Martin was young and enthusiastic, and she envied his ability to look upon the looming exercise with wonder.

“I would expect so,” she replied. “How many air contacts do we have?”

Martin gestured to the large screen across the cramped space, showing an expanded view of the airspace around the Mobile Bay. His Operations Specialists manning the radar consoles catalogued each of the air contacts in their operating area, defining them as either hostile, friendly, or unknown. “Nine contacts holding north of the Desired Commit Line and an additional three unidentified within Whiskey Two Ninety-One.”

He referred to the Warning Area above them that was set aside for military air training. Most of the carrier strike group sailed in what was known as SCORE, or Southern California Offshore Range, while completing a series of tests that evaluated their ability to deploy. Of all the ships in the strike group, none was more important than the aircraft carrier. But her little cruiser came close.

“Keep an eye on them. They’ve disguised hostiles as white air before,” she replied, knowing exercise planners sometimes hid adversaries within the flight profiles of commercial aircraft.

“Yes, ma’am, that was our thought too,” Martin said.

She nodded. Her predecessor had trained his crew well, and she had inherited a combat-ready team more than prepared for the upcoming test.

A commotion near one of the radar consoles caught her attention, and she craned her neck to observe two young sailors chattering and gesturing at the screen. One of them turned to Martin with a panicked look. “Lieutenant!”

Before Beth could inquire about the problem, the portable radio she carried everywhere squawked to life with, “Captain to the bridge! Captain to the bridge!”

Master Chief Ivy also heard the radio call and intercepted her at the door. She knew her way around the ship, but the protective Master Chief wasn’t about to let his new skipper face whatever problem awaited without his wise counsel at the ready. Only this time, he was the one trying to keep up, listening to Beth’s size-six boots pounding on the steel deck.

Once on the bridge, she didn’t announce her presence and walked straight to her executive officer, a Navy commander who had been her Plebe at the Naval Academy. “Talk to me, XO,” she said.

“I don’t…”

He trailed off, and Beth followed his gaze through the open hatch on the starboard side of the ship. Instead of the pitch black she had expected, a half dozen bright lights glowed through the thick fog just above the horizon, swirling and dancing as they multiplied and circled the warship. Her mouth fell open.

“What the hell?”

“Ma’am?”

Beth had spent years of her life sailing the world’s oceans and had seen strange and unusual things, but nothing could have prepared her for the unexplained phenomenon at a pivotal moment in her career. As she stepped out onto the bridge wing, she craned her neck upward and watched the glowing orbs swirling in the late evening mist like massive fireflies.

You are the captain, she reminded herself.

“Ma’am?” her XO prompted again.

“Radio the Abe and have them suspend the launch,” she ordered. “And call away the SNOOPIE team. I want to know what the fuck those things are.”

USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN-72)

Fifteen miles south of the Mobile Bay, Navy Lieutenant Colt “Mother” Bancroft sat in the darkened cockpit of a brand-new Marine Corps F-35C Lightning II Joint Strike Fighter. As a guest pilot, he was respectful of the trust the squadron’s commanding officer had placed in him. But as one of the most experienced JSF pilots in the Navy, the eighty-million-dollar jet was in good hands.

The sights and sounds beyond the canopy were familiar to him, but he felt a little out of place and took his time to prevent making careless mistakes. The Black Knights were only the second squadron operating the JSF from an aircraft carrier, and the first for the Marine Corps. To say there was pressure on them to succeed was an understatement. His job was to make sure they had the tools needed to integrate the fifth-generation fighter into the strike group.

They had already completed a check-in with the airborne E-2D Hawkeye Air Intercept Controller and received their seven-line Defensive Counter Air brief. He fought for control over his nerves as he waited for the Tophatter department head to initiate their event’s check-in.

“Taproom, Bolt check Aux, Taproom Three One.”

“Taproom Three Two.”

“Taproom Three Three.”

“Taproom Three Four.”

The first four jets in their event were FA-18E Super Hornets, highly capable platforms in their own right.