Kevin Miller - Raven One

Wilson was prepared for this confrontation and decided, at this point, he was unwilling to needlessly risk his life and the lives of the others.

“Commander Patrick, when we launch tonight, we are two individuals trying to do the job, and we’re also trying to give ourselves the best chance of survival. We aren’t going to highlight ourselves and motor straight up there like flying pincushions for their missiles. We are going to stay low and tank enroute, under the radar until we get into the Persian Gulf. We will then ramp up over a less heavily defended area, hit the target, and egress to safety the way we came. I am going to plan this, and you are going to brief it and lead it and take the fucking credit . But if you deviate from my black line by so much as a mile, I’m gonna take it back. You’ll know when you hear me transmit on strike common, ‘Flips, go alternate tac.’ We will then wheel away from you en masse, and you will be alone, sir.”

Saint leaned in and whispered, “You’re fired.”

“As you wish, sir, but who are you going to get to help you? Weed? Blade? They aren’t stupid. Clam? He’s not a qualified strike leader. And CAG thinks the lineup is already set. Tell him that the Raven department heads are off the strike, and then brief him and the admiral on your flawed plan. He’s right down there in his stateroom just 10 frames away, probably trying to nap.” Wilson pointed to the starboard side of the ship for effect. “Go ahead, sir. Wake him up, and get this news to him early so he has time to flex.” Pausing for a moment, he then said, “You need us, sir, and we’ll come through with a plan that’s tactically smart and meets CAGs objectives and gives us all a chance at survival. Now, commander , shall we proceed? Or am I still fired?”

Wilson watched a crimson flush of color race across Saint’s face, still locked in its piercing stare. Wilson knew Saint didn’t have the guts to follow through on his threat.

After several seconds, Saint pushed back from the table and looked at his watch. “When I come back at noon, I want the plan and the weapons load out, in detail. CAG needs the load out ASAP.”

“Aye, aye, sir. You’ll have it.” Wilson nodded slowly with determined eyes.

Fifteen minutes before launch time, Wilson released the parking brake and taxied, under the skillful control of the yellow shirt, from his spot on El 3. In the 20 hours since their confrontation in CVIC, he and Saint had managed to plan the add-on strike to Yaz Kernoum with a minimum of friction. When disagreements did occur in front of the others, a raised eyebrow from Wilson was all it had taken to get Saint to defer.

The plan was to launch the package after a routine “dawn patrol” launch of two S-3s and two Hornets to monitor the surface picture around the strike group and deal with any threats. Valley Forge’s two nights of retaliatory strikes against IRGC and Iranian Navy units was complete. There had been no additional American losses, and the last of the strikers had recovered the previous hour. Just before walk time, Wilson had stolen a glance at CNN and heard a Pentagon reporter say the strikes were over. The report was accompanied by an Iranian-manufactured propaganda videotape of burning residential areas and frenzied crowds chanting “Death to America.”

Wilson had shrugged it off, too tired to care anymore. Messaging was not his job.

He was tired. During the past 48 hours, he may have slept three hours, maybe four, grabbing fitful catnaps whenever he could. He had forced himself to remain alert during the strike brief, which Saint delivered to the equally exhausted aircrew in his flat monotone.

Now, in the early morning darkness, the typical nadir of human performance, he and the others had to perform at their peak to make this strike a success.

An E-2 and two Vikings were soon launched into a clear night, half-moon almost overhead. They were followed by two Buccaneers off the waist. On routine patrol, these aircraft would make themselves known to the Iranians, and keep their attention, while the strikers worked their way, unseen, into position low on the water. The deception plan was beginning to come together.

In line behind the waist catapults, Wilson fidgeted in the cockpit of 405 , his familiar nighttime butterflies returning. Weed was behind him in the queue in 407 , hands resting on the canopy bow, and Blade was going through final checks on El 4 in 411 . Dutch was the airborne spare, turning on the fantail in 413 with his canopy down, ready to go. Saint was starting up in 404 someplace on the bow. The Raven division call sign on this raid was Anvil , and the Spartan division was designated Sledge. The two divisions would be joined by the Tron self-escort suppression element of one EA-6B and two Moonshadows . Tonight there would be no check-in on strike common, no post launch voice calls from the strikers. To a great degree, the strike’s success hinged on their ability to maintain communications discipline, waiting to expose themselves at the last possible moment.

The Rhino tankers were next off, as a Prowler taxied down from the bow to feed the cats with airplanes. Wilson looked at his kneeboard card: just a few minutes behind schedule, time Saint could make up.

Off to his right, Wilson sensed motion, and looked down to see Chief Grant waving to get his attention. Pointing to the bow, Grant raised four fingers, then a fist, then four again, followed by a thumbs down. Wilson immediately grasped the meaning: Saint’s jet was down and, as alternate strike leader, this would now be his mission to lead.

Yes! Wilson thought, as he returned a thumbs up in vigorous acknowledgment. He caught Weed’s attention and, through hand signals, passed on the news. His roommate shook a thumbs up in return, followed by two raised fists of encouragement. In the last moments before the launch, Wilson shook his head with contempt. He knew Saint would find some reason not to go, but at the same time he was relieved he would not have to deal with Saint’s airborne leadership.

In short order, the Sledge and Tron elements launched. Then, Wilson, a mix of adrenalin and rage coursing through his bloodstream, impatiently waited for his turn at the catapult to do what he trained a career for: lead a long-range power projection strike deep into enemy territory, which would make everyone happy . Make Washington happy, make the GCC happy, and make the admiral’s staff happy. Just hook me up, dammit! and put Yaz Kernoum out of action now and bring everyone back and everything will be okay. Saint, Cajun, Psycho, CAG, the admiral… even Mary and the kids… all was blocked out when he was finally hooked up to the catapult, checking the cockpit, cycling the controls, watching for the burner signal, and then shoving the throttles to max, locking his left arm hard against the stops, like a caged animal, impatient to be set free, furious to get off the friggin’ ship, breathing deeply as he scanned the blackness off the cat track ahead of him, full of resolve to do his duty and make everyone happy .

With a familiar jolt, Wilson was shoved back in his seat. The deck edge rushed up and under as he accelerated into the void, fiery thrust lifting him into the night, a free man.

Saint exploded, in a barely suppressed rage, into the ready room, followed by Ted asking for more detail on 404 . Saint threw his helmet into his chair, but it bounced onto the deck with a crack. At the duty desk, Psycho rose to her feet in shock, and Nicky froze in his back-row chair.