to when he would be the one on the other end generating those reports. He could already imagine the tight, crisp, and understated phrases he would use in place of the sometimes wordy prose he was required to file.
It was his habit to skim through all the messages first, noting the subject lines, so he could pull out anything of urgent importance. This time, one third of the way through the two-inch stack, he froze. The subject line struck immediate terror into his heart, and all thoughts of his later career drafting messages went out the window.
Possible biological weapons use, confidence medium. Confidence medium — that meant they had more than a mere rumor. At least one fact or background or history to back it up. He took the message out of the stack, absorbing it in one large gulp, then going back to read it more carefully a second time. By the time he started reading it the third time, he was already on his feet and headed for the commander’s office.
Commander Busby felt his gut tense when he saw the look on Ellison’s face. He had been pleasantly surprised to find out that his temperament and that of the petty officer were closely matched, despite the disparity in their physical appearances. He was nurturing the young man along, hoping someday soon he would apply to one of the number of college education programs the Navy sponsored.
“Biological weapons,” Ellison said as he passed the message to Busby. “Medium-confidence report.”
That was all Busby really needed to know, but he scanned the message anyway for the details. This particular weapon came in the form of a two-ton truck abandoned in the middle of the desert, discovered by an Army patrol that had inspected the contents. In it, they had found twelve bodies, black and swollen in death, the features distorted. A bit of canny work by an intelligence specialist had given the warning before the situation could become disastrous — and later, blood samples taken from the patrol who’d investigated it brought terrifying news.
The black plague. Certain death in the Middle Ages, somewhat treatable these days by modern methods, but by no means always curable. It spread rapidly from airborne exposure, symptoms coming on quickly, its victims almost immediately debilitated by raging fever and painful muscles and bleeding.
“They caught them in the chow line,” Busby said softly, horror in his voice. “My God, the close quarters — they must have infected another fifty people, minimum.” He scanned the remainder of the message, looking for the details of the evacuation plan, and saw that anyone exposed to a member of the squad was currently on a large transport headed for the States. But for some it would be too late.
A buzzer sounded, capturing their attention. Busby picked up the red phone on his desk, the one that connected him directly to TFCC.
“Intelligence, Combat. We’ve received a Warning Order, sir. We’re to stand by to conduct precision strikes again suspected Iraqi biological-weapons sites. They’re requiring a preliminary plan within the next six hours.”
“Roger,” Busby responded. “Assemble the rapid-response team in the admiral’s conference room. I’m on my way.”
He pulled out the folder that contained the contingency plans already drafted, thankful that they had done their homework. The bare bones of such a mission were already sketched out, accompanied by a floppy disk containing the details formatted as a message. Manning, missions, cycles, and requirements — it was all laid out, merely waiting to be tinkered with to fit the particular targets designated. He silently thanked Senior Chief Armstrong’s foresight, since he had been the one to make sure all the plans had been updated.
By the time he got to the conference room, the rest of the team was assembled. Strike, operations, supply, maintenance, and representatives from each squadron, generally the squadron commanding officer. There was a brief flurry as they discussed the message among themselves, and then a sharp, “Attention on deck,” that brought them all to their feet as the admiral walked in.
“Carry on,” Coyote said immediately, indicating they should return to their seats. He walked to the front of the room, passed a scribbled piece of paper to the operations officer and said, “These are the initial targets from JCS. This is being handled at the highest level. I don’t have to tell you that the intelligence that brought us this information cost several lives.” He glanced over at Busby, as though he might have additional information on the deaths. “So, let’s get on it. I’d like to see strike details in an hour and have the completed answer ready to go out half an hour later. Any problem with that?” He glanced around the table, confirming that there was not. “Very well.” He turned and stalked out of the conference room, barely giving them time to come to their feet again.
It took the team only forty-five minutes to put together the first draft of the plan. Exactly 106 minutes after they had received the initial order, their response to the warning order left the ship.
To their credit, the watch team at JCS was no slouch, either. After a brief phone conference with Fifth Fleet, the response came back:
Fastball and Rat’s argument was interrupted by word of a possible mission. It had not come over a radio circuit from the Air Boss or over the 1MC. Instead, a young airman had climbed up the boarding ladder, motioned to them to undo the cockpit, and filled them in on the details. The more informal channels moved far faster than the official ones.
From the moment he heard the news, Fastball was ready to go. Rat, the more experienced, began her preparations as well.
Finally, when the order came, they were ready.
“We’re going first,” Fastball crowed as he increased power to the engines and waggled the control surfaces for a final check. The catapult officer stepped forward and made a motion with his hands, indicating that Fastball should cycle all of his control surfaces. He did so, circling the stick, and was rewarded with a thumbs-up, indicating that all control surfaces appeared functional. There were a final few details on the radio, and then the catapult officer snapped off a sharp salute. Fastball returned it, immediately dropping his hand back to the controls and increasing the engines to full military power. Seconds later, a massive force shoved him back in his seat.
The bone-rattling run down to the end of the catapult always seemed to go on for far longer than it actually took to launch that much metal into the air at a speed capable of sustaining lift. As they shot off the bow, the Tomcat sank momentarily, fighting to remain airborne. Fastball dealt with the familiar clutch of panic that he always suffered at this point as he contemplated the possibility that insufficient pressure at the catapult had given them a soft cat shot and insufficient airspeed.
Seconds later, the Tomcat caught the air, fought her way back above the bow, and gained speed steadily in response to the full throttle. Fastball heard Rat’s sigh of relief and echoed it. He let the Tomcat gain more speed and made sure they were going to continue flying, then slid her into a steep climb. She was now fully under his control, responsive to the slightest twitches of his fingers, a melding of man and machine. In the back, he heard Rat grumbling, but he ignored her. Later, when they had targets to destroy, what she had to say might be important. For now, she was just a passenger.
“All flights airborne,” a voice over the speaker announced.
“Good hunting, ladies and gents,” Lab Rat said softly. “Good hunting.”
“Skeeter, get over here,” Fastball ordered. He heard a sigh over the circuit he shared with his wingman, and then the other Tomcat slid snugly into position.
“That close enough for you?” a slow drawl asked.
“That will do. Now stay there,” Fastball ordered. “Rat, give me a vector.”
“First target, bearing three-two-zero, range forty-five miles,” she answered. Even as she spoke, Fastball was putting the Tomcat into a hard turn, coming to base course.
It was a site they knew well, one that they had briefed countless times. It had been on the top of their list of potential biological-weapons facilities for the last month, and small bits of information continued to increase the probability that that was what it was.
He shrugged, putting the question out of his mind. Those decisions were made way above his pay grade, but someday… Fastball viewed their failure to destroy this target as the sort of cowardly behavior that he’d come to expect from most Administrations. Maybe they were afraid they’d hit a baby-food factory instead of a real
