Unknown Rider

Good airspeed, he thought, watching the numbers in his Helmet Mounted Display tick upward into three digits, relieving him of the fear of a soft catapult shot. His body jerked forward with the sudden loss of acceleration at the end of the stroke.

“Three oh seven, airborne.”

Colt raised the landing gear and climbed away from the water, activating his combat systems in preparation to rendezvous with the tanker overhead the carrier to top off his fuel tanks.

“Three oh seven, tower, switch rep.”

Colt scanned his engine instruments, wondering why the Air Boss in the tower wanted him to talk to the squadron’s representative in the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center.

“Three oh seven,” he replied.

He dialed up the assigned frequency and caught the last of the broken transmission. “…oh seven, you up?”

“I’m up. What’s going on?”

“Hey, Colt, they’re suspending the launch. Alpha Whiskey reported unknown air contacts in the area.”

He chuckled. “Isn’t that the whole point of an ADEX?” he asked, referring to his Defensive Counter Air mission in the Area Defense Exercise.

“Yeah, but these are interlopers. Real-world bogies.”

His smile vanished. Just his luck, he was flying in the strike group’s most capable fighter but had no weapons loaded. There wasn’t much he could do other than gain a visual on the unidentified aircraft and bring back video from his EOTS, or Electro-Optical Targeting System, for the intelligence types to pore over.

“Copy. How many made it airborne?”

“Just you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

The rep keyed the microphone to speak, but then released it. The E-2D Hawkeye was still airborne, and they were probably trying to decide whether it was worth pushing him to their control or just recover him early. He began a climbing turn to the left to set up an orbit over the carrier while awaiting their decision.

“Three oh seven, push Banger.”

“Three oh seven,” he replied in an even tone with a silent fist pump, thankful they had pushed him to the Hawkeye controller for tasking instead of leaving him sidelined.

2

USS Mobile Bay (CG-53)

“Right full rudder,” Beth said. “Steady on course zero nine zero.”

“Steady on course zero nine zero, aye, ma’am,” the helmsman said, spinning the wheel to the right while watching the gyro compass. Every few seconds, his eyes shot up to look through the forward windows at the glowing lights swirling above their ship.

“Abe suspended the launch, but not before a JSF got airborne,” her XO said.

Shit!

She kept her face passive, trying to shield her sailors from her concern. If she remained calm and collected, they would follow suit and be the professionals she knew them to be. But dammit if it didn’t bother her — they had unknown air contacts swirling around the strike group while one of the air wing’s most valuable assets flew around defenseless.

“Let’s put some distance between us,” she said, hoping to use her ship as a decoy and draw the swirling lights away from the carrier. As the strike group Air Warfare Commander, known as Alpha Whiskey, it was her responsibility to protect the carrier from air threats. And until they had more information, the swirling lights were definitely threats.

“Ma’am, steady on course zero nine zero,” the helmsman said, centering the needle on his compass to point due east.

“All ahead flank three,” Beth said.

“All ahead flank three, aye,” the lee helmsman replied, smoothly advancing the throttles to full power, opening up the gas turbine engines to propel the five-hundred-and-sixty-seven-foot guided-missile cruiser through the dark waters.

“Ma’am,” Master Chief Ivy said over her shoulder. “Do you want to call the crew to general quarters?”

This can’t be happening, she thought. They were off the coast of California for a pre-deployment exercise, not in hostile waters. She shouldn’t have to rouse her crew to prepare for combat. She turned and looked into Ben’s stoic face, then nodded reluctantly.

The Master Chief picked up the handset for the 1MC public address system and flipped the brass switch to sound the klaxon before speaking into the microphone. “General quarters, general quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. The route of travel is forward and up to starboard, down and aft to port. Set material condition Zebra throughout the ship. Reason for general quarters is imminent unidentified aircraft. This is not a drill.”

Beth leaned forward and rested her knuckles against the porthole as she stared through the fog at the glowing lights. They no longer appeared to swirl around her ship but matched pace with the cruiser as it raced east for the California coast.

She glanced up at the digital display above the centerline pelorus.

Thirty knots.

What the hell are these things?