 
### Hell Hath No Fury

By Robert Reid

Copyright 1992 Robert Reid

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Foreword

In September of 1939, World War Two cast a shadow over the globe. The plea from those that were stricken by the aggression of the Third Reich went out for the assistance of other free countries. From around the world ships sailed; ships full of men. Men who had left behind their lives and their families. They faced the fires of Hell all in the name of freedom. They met the enemy with heavy hearts. With fears that they may never return to the countries from whence they came, they faced them nonetheless.

Many never came back. My father was one of the fortunate ones who did return. With his new bride, he re-established the life he had left behind. Together they etched a living for their family. We never understood, as children, the sacrifices he had made for us. Since that time others have sailed away from their homes in the name of freedom. We are older now with children of our own and at last we understand the courage it took to do what they have done.

Thank-you Dad, for all that you so unselfishly gave for us even before we were born.

For those who sailed before him, for those who sailed with him, to those who have sailed since and to you who will go in the future to defend our freedom, I thank-you.

Though the Gulf War was a sad reality, the events and characters depicted in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to people and actions are entirely coincidental. My infinite appreciation goes out to those who were instrumental in my bid to write this manuscript.

To Marcella; my flight instructor, for her encouragement in the writing, and her participation in realizing my dream; the freedom of flight.

To Lt. Col. Ron "DINGER" Guidinger. Commanding Officer of the 416 Lynxes Tactical Fighter Squadron of the Canadian Air Force; for introducing me to the Hornet Fighter and taking the time to help me make this story more realistic.

To Sharon; for the patience to read my efforts piece by piece, and for the encouragement. Your friendship has been priceless.

* * * * *

A Soldiers Reflection

As I look up to a cold grey dawn  
And to the lines ahead  
I think of a sun that soon will shine  
Upon the glorious dead  
Those who have died  
But not in vain  
For they by thought and deed  
Will live again in others  
To crush a nation's greed  
Now the sun peeks o'er the crest  
And lights the morning sky  
It shines upon a war-torn earth  
Where still we fight and die  
But those who stand they fill the gaps  
Made by those who fell  
The bombs they fall, the cannons roar  
Amid that awful hell  
Now that pulsing ball of flame  
Sinks slowly in the West  
Where all is calm and so serene  
And mankind seems at rest  
It's then we think of days we knew  
Days which are ahead  
And whisper forth a silent prayer  
As we salute our dead

Private Louis L. Reid

Royal Canadian Scottish Division

Canadian Forces

1921-1972

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

One of the greatest pains in human nature

Is the pain of a new idea

(Walter Bagehot, 1826-1877)

* * * * *

Three hundred miles from the coast of California the United States Ship "Enterprise" loafed through the Pacific waters at twenty knots. Her computer designed hull split the waves effortlessly. Only one ship graced the planet's surface that could lay claim to being bigger and faster than her. The "U.S.S. Nimitz". However, what the Nimitz gained in size and speed, she lost in character. The name Enterprise was not only a ship. She was a tradition. In a couple of hours she would turn her bow to the wind and accelerate to over thirty knots to begin launching aircraft. Even though the Enterprise was only ten hours sailing to the refuge of her home port, the gaggle of ships surrounding her would keep a watchful eye while the vulnerable task of air operations was underway. All along her eleven hundred and twenty-three foot length men toiled. Perhaps the most sophisticated and formidable weapons system ever devised; the ship required a population of fifty-five hundred men to operate her. It had been remarked that, should the United States sail her into Minsk and leave, it would take the Russians fifty years to figure out how to operate her.

Deep inside the ship, close to the Combat Information Centre, Vice Admiral Louis Alexander was busying himself with the mountain of paperwork that precedes an arrival at the Navy's shipyard in San Diego. At least he wouldn't have to deal with the inconvenience of all the pleasure craft that turn up when they knew the giant aircraft carrier was coming to port. This particular arrival was completely unscheduled and quite a surprise to the Officers and crew of the task force. The communiqué had arrived only two weeks ago via satellite. It read,

To: Vice Admiral Louis Alexander  
Commander, Pacific Battle Group  
USS JFK dispatched to provide relief  
ETA your position 1800 hrs GMT 10/27/90  
Return to San Diego Naval Station upon relief  
Dispatch Fighter Squadron VF-41 to Naval Air Station Miramar prior to arrival.

FROM CINCPAC.

Although the message was a touch out of the ordinary, twenty-three years in the Navy had taught him to save his questions until an appropriate time arrived to ask them. Still his curiosity was piqued as to what could be so damn important that this cruise was cut short by more than two weeks, and having to off load half his fighters before getting there.

"Well, I'll find out in due time," he thought to himself and continued with the stack of paper that kept the US Navy afloat. Quite possibly the recall was tied into the developments in the Middle East. Everyone aboard had been monitoring the newscasts closely. The overthrow of Kuwait was a constant source of conversation and speculation. The young men that served this ship didn't see any reason at all not to sail into the Gulf and liberate the small country single-handedly. Alexander had been young and idealistic himself once. Years ago he had sailed into a Gulf to set a small country free. The scars of that experience still haunted him.

Things were now starting to get lively above deck. To launch twelve high performance fighters into the air with an overgrown slingshot requires the skill and coordination of a team of professionals. One of these men was no exception. His ability to keep aircraft combat ready, even in adverse conditions was known throughout the ship. Plane Captain Ron Nawrot was occupied under the wing of an F-14 removing the various guards and tie-downs that are in place while the fighter sits idle. He had just removed a cover from one of the huge rectangular intakes, when a pilot from the Black Aces walked up and gave him a smack on the ass.

Though short, Nawrot gave people the impression that they were being looked down upon. Ron turned to glare at the errant pilot. The aviator could see that he had dissatisfied the stocky mechanic.

"You know," said Nawrot, "if assholes could fly, this would be a goddamn airport." He then feigned a shocked expression. "Glory be, assholes do fly and this is a goddamn airport," he proclaimed.

"How does she look, Ron?" asked the pilot

"Oh, it'll get you to where you're going all right, but after that I don't know what the hell you are going to do without me. When you boys leave the boat, I doubt if you're going to be able to find someone who will put up with the way you kick hell out of these airplanes."

"Ah, you're starting to miss us already you old fool. Why didn't you take shore duty with us when it was offered to you?" Nawrot took offence to the reference of old. The average crew member's age aboard this ship was around twenty-one years. At thirty-four, he was not old. Just experienced.

"Because," began Nawrot, "as you gossipy fly boys have so rudely discussed with the whole ships complement, I am going through a divorce from hell right now and it probably isn't a good idea for me to be on the same continent as the little woman." And then he added, "Or any other woman for that matter."

"Well, you know we'll be thinking of you as we're enjoying the babes 'n' beaches of Southern California," said the pilot. He then turned to go and pre-flight his own aircraft.

"Cocky bunch of bastards," thought Nawrot, continuing with his task.

Later, down in the pilots' ready room Nawrot was enjoying a cup of coffee before the launch began. He sat down in one of the tattered old chairs and pondered his dilemma with his wife. He really didn't want to get a divorce. Her actions were making it difficult to do anything about it though. The door opened and Commander Braidon Roberts strolled in, interrupting his concentration. Nawrot thought it strange that he wasn't in his flight gear, or at the pre-flight briefing.

"Hey Commander, you better hustle your butt if you're going to be flying off to the sunny beaches of California with your cohorts." Roberts looked icily at him. His familiarity was definitely not Navy SOP. The fact that both had come from the same hometown lent some margin of informality to their dealings with each other. In private their bantering was unrestricted by the naval chain of command.

"Can it, Nawrot. The old man just informed me that I get the pleasure of another cruise aboard this tub as Squadron Commander of the Gunfighters." The Gunfighters was the other squadron of F-14s stationed on the Enterprise.

"Well congratulations, I think. You don't seem overly zealous about your new posting." Roberts flopped himself down on a chair.

"I'm not. I was looking forward to a little shore time to try and get settled a bit. I'm not getting any younger you know, and everything I own will fit in the cockpit of a Tomcat with me in it." Nawrot considered the newly crowned Squadron Commander's remark.

"Am I being led to believe that the great Roberts is actually looking for some lucky little lady to help settle him down?"

"Yeah," said Braidon, "that pretty much sums it up all right."

"And here I always thought you was queer," roared Nawrot, obviously giving himself too much credit for his joke. Before the Commander could retaliate with a tirade of insults against the swarthy little man he felt the deck shift beneath his feet.

"Well, gotta go," chuckled Nawrot, "it's show time." The Enterprise was starting her turn into the wind. Nawrot made his way to the flight deck and the tilt of the ship became more pronounced. The deck thrummed under his feet indicating that the nuclear heart of the giant was delivering full power.

Sitting in his chair high above the hubbub of activity on the flight deck, the Captain of the Enterprise was being bombarded with weather, speed, headings and a mass of other information relative to the proper handling of ninety thousand tons of aircraft carrier. Although a Flag Officer was aboard his vessel, the safety and performance of the carrier rested solely in the hands of Captain Bill Williams. Surveying the activity around and below him, Captain Williams wondered what the hell was going on. Admiral Alexander was not the type to withhold anything from him, but here they were, home two weeks early, and launching an entire squadron of aircraft. Maybe he was a bit old fashioned, but he liked to know where his airplanes were going and when they would be back. A voice broke through his reverie.

"Captain, Met Office reports winds now 170 degrees at four knots, destroyers Stark and Spruance holding screen position twenty-five hundred yards astern to the port and starboard."

"Very well Lieutenant, right 15 degrees rudder, steady on course 170 and give us thirty-five knots over the deck."

"Aye Aye, Sir. Right 15 degrees rudder steady on course 170, make turns for thirty-one knots," repeated the Officer of the Deck to the helmsman.

The Enterprise heeled over even farther. Down below, in engineering, a technician pushed some buttons and stoked the nuclear furnace. The massive ship pushed through 30 knots and began to return to an even keel.

Down on the flight deck it seemed like pandemonium. To a bystander it was beyond comprehension that any living thing could survive more than a few minutes amidst the winds and roar of the fighters. The giant intakes of the jets threatened to suck in anyone foolish enough to get close to them and blow anyone over the side that wasn't quick enough to dodge them as they turned toward the catapults. Yet men walked beside these howling pieces of machinery, hands out patting their alloy skin, ducking in and out making last minute checks.

Once the Tomcats were laced to the catapults, the Plane Captains would walk to the side, looking back all the time as if sending their daughters out for their first horseback ride. They would turn and crouch down, looking up at the pilot once clear of the fighter.

"Your saddle's tight baby, have fun." This was signalled to the pilot by the age old thumbs up. Upon receiving the high sign, the fighter would crouch down from the enormous power escaping its tailpipes. Like wild animals awaiting the perfect second to pounce, they shuddered in the catapults.

Up on one of the observation decks, known as Vulture's Row, Commander Roberts watched his former squadron prepare to be hurtled off the deck. Judging from the mood those guys were in last night he didn't think any one of the whole bunch would be able to fly anything more demanding than a kite come tomorrow morning. A few months at sea tended to make them a touch enthusiastic when they were finally thrown back into civilization. The sun was just breaking the horizon and the scream of the Pratt and Whitney's announced the ardour that the pilots were feeling about going home. The first two Tomcats were flung into the air from the main and then the waist catapults. He had made some friends during his cruise with this lot. Some he would see again, others he wouldn't. He bid them all a silent farewell as they left amid the steam and wind and fire. Some simple arithmetic involving most of his fingers would put at least half the squadron in bed, in jail or unconscious by supper time. Add a few toes and you wipe out the whole bunch.

On November 10, 1530 local time, the Enterprise was tied alongside the naval dock in San Diego. Upon arrival, a port relief crew had reported aboard to handle the repairs and any refitting that was required. Much of the ship's complement had departed for shore leave. Those remaining would oversee the replenishment and repairs of the carrier.

Half an hour after the ships arrival, a Navy car pulled up to the dock and took delivery of Vice Admiral Alexander. Forty five minutes later, a Navy Yeoman escorted Alexander into the office of Admiral Douglas Hall, Commander in Chief, Pacific. He entered the office and Admiral Hall greeted him at the door. Alexander snapped to attention to deliver the regulation Navy salute.

"Vice Admiral Louis Alexander reporting as ordered, SIR." After Admiral Hall had returned the salute, he dropped his hand transforming it to the handshake of friends who hadn't seen each other in some time.

"Now that we have that Navy shit out of the way. How the hell have you been Lou?" grinned Hall.

"Couldn't be better," Alexander replied. "How does it feel to be in charge of all the hardware this side of the Rockies?"

Admiral Hall had been appointed Commander in Chief, Pacific only three months prior.

"I can't say as I'm really quite used to it yet Lou. I seem to be dealing with a lot of world class ass kissers and yes men on a regular basis around here."

Lou delivered his best pitiable expression.

"Ah the perils of power shall not overwhelm a man such as yourself." he replied.

Although each man's Navy Career was above reproach, Hall had the ability to keep his mouth shut in tense moments. Alexander, on the other hand was quite hasty to call a spade a goddamn shovel. This minor shortcoming had seriously stunted his career back in '69 when he was flying F-4s from the John F. Kennedy in the Gulf of Tonkin.

A Navy V.I.P. had been aboard and requested that an operation be mounted for him to observe. Although he was told that the weather was closing, he insisted that a sortie be sent out before his departure. An operation against a lightly defended target was hastily put together and four Phantoms were sent to dispatch it. Among them, Lt. Louis Alexander along with his wingman and best friend, Paul Simms. After delivering eight thousand pounds of ordnance each to a rice paddy in Vietnam, the combat squadron began to climb and turn back toward the carrier.

On the way back, some industrious North Vietnamese anti-aircraft gun crews took a few pot-shots at them. One round had exploded near Paul's F-4. The shrapnel severed the hydraulic line to his elevators. The weather had worsened since their departure and Paul made his approach to the carrier using his trim tabs for pitch control. Everything was going well as the stricken fighter made its way down the glide path. Then, just three hundred yards out, Lou watched in horror from behind Simms. The stern of the ship caught a swell and began to rise. He could see the nose of his friend's plane coming up and the tailpipes belching black smoke from sudden full power, but Paul had over controlled on the trim. The Phantom stalled and ploughed into the stern, belly first in full afterburner, spewing flames and debris along half the length of the ship. In the blink of an eye, the lives of two men were snuffed out. And for what?

Afterward, the VIP was making his departure among the flashcubes of his press entourage. Lou strode up to him in full Navy dress. When the man turned, Lou crisply saluted with his right hand and with his left he held out a small velvet box with a picture of a woman and her baby child.

"Sir, I would be honoured if you would present Lt. Simms' Navy Cross to his widow. And then possibly you could explain to that little girl why she has to grow up without a Father."

He violently poked his finger at the infant in the picture.

"Maybe you could tell her that you killed him to destroy a rice field."

The man just stood and stared at Alexander with a self-important look on his face. From three fingers below the brim of his hat Alexander's cold blue eyes bored into him. No longer able to face the contempt, the government official turned and scrambled into the sanctuary of the Chinook Helicopter. Alexander stood rigid while the wash of the twin rotors nipped at his stature. He remained at attention until the aircraft was a speck in the sky. Then he did an about face and marched away. In his hand he carried all that he had left of his best friend. A week later the incident, accompanied with pictures and dialogue was splashed across every newspaper and television in the United States. Alexander knew beyond doubt why he was still floating around on the oceans of the world while his colleagues rose to bigger and better things.

Doug invited him to have a seat in an informal meeting area set up in one section of the office. Alexander sat down, and then came straight to the point.

"So Commander what is important enough to bring one of the greatest warships on earth a quarter of the way around the world ahead of schedule?"

Hall thought for a moment, as if formulating how to broach a difficult subject. "Lou, a special squadron of F/A-18 fighter bombers has been in training for the last several months. They have just recently finished carrier qualifications and are ready to put to sea on the first available carrier. We have removed the VF-41 Black Aces from your ship to accommodate this squadron and. . . ."

"Wait a minute," broke in Alexander, "this sounds a lot like our stateside time is going to be cut short."

"Yes and no," replied Hall. "We had you come in a couple of weeks early with that in mind. Up until now your fighter complement consisted entirely of Tomcats. Correct?"

Alexander just looked at him.

"Well anyway," Hall went on, "it will take a touch under two weeks to get all the equipment and personnel necessary to look after these F/A-18s placed aboard your ship. Once that is taken care of you are to put to sea for three weeks to give this batch of pilots a shakedown."

"And is there any particular reason why I have been chosen to do the honours?" asked Alexander.

"Several. I'm being leaned on from upstairs to get this bunch operational, and you have the first available ship to do it. Number two, I know you'll work the hell out of them and teach them something. And most importantly, you will do the job properly without me having to babysit you."

Alexander rested his chin on his hand and thought this last bit over.

At last he said, "I guess I'm your man then. Any chance of getting a decent amount of leave for everyone after this is all over?"

"You can count on it, Lou; I knew you wouldn't let me down."

Alexander just grinned at him.

"Why is it every time I get near you I feel like I just lost my virginity?" he said.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to get around to insulting me," replied Hall.

"So tell me," asked Alexander, "what's so special about these Hornets?"

Hall seemed to fidget nervously for an instant before replying. "It's not the planes that are special Lou, it's the pilots."

"Okay then, what's so special about the pilots?" Alexander failed to notice, but Admiral Hall seemed to become more agitated by the minute.

"I think it would be better if you met their Commanding Officer," Hall said.

"Wonderful idea. So when do I meet him?" Alexander still never noticed anything unusual.

"I've had their Commander waiting in the outer office."

"Fine, go get him then," said Alexander.

Hall left to retrieve the Commander. Lou sat back in his chair and scrutinized the paintings of famous naval battles that adorned the back wall of the office. Alexander never heard them return until Admiral Hall spoke.

"Vice Admiral Alexander, I would like you to meet the Commanding Officer of the VF/A-47 Fighter/Bomber Squadron, Commander Graham." Alexander rose from his chair. He started to turn and extend his hand in welcome. Halfway around he froze and his jaw dropped, followed instantly by his hand to his side. Graham, seeing the stunned look on Alexander's face immediately seized the initiative and delivered a perfect salute.

"Commander Heather Graham reporting for duty, Sir."

As Alexander began to regain his composure, his old nemesis, the mouth, kicked into gear.

"What in the hell is a woman doing commanding a bunch of Navy pilots?" he demanded noisily. Hall started to open his mouth to explain, but Graham cut him short.

"If I may Admiral?" Hall looked at her and nodded.

"Admiral Alexander," she began, "the Department of the Navy thought it best for this particular squadron of Naval Aviators to be guided by an Officer of their own gender, which as you know has been the tradition since its inception."

"Do you mean to tell me that the whole bloody squadron is female?" retorted Alexander.

"Yes Sir." Graham's reply stood as rigidly as she did.

Three days later Alexander was in his cabin onboard ship, taking care of some last minute details when he heard a knock on his door.

"Come in," he barked through the portal.

Captain Williams entered, and as he saluted he asked, "Sir, may I have a word with you?"

"Certainly Captain. Have a seat," said the Admiral.

"Sir, my Officers are pestering me about this shakedown we're going on, and no disrespect intended Sir, but it does seem to have put you on edge also."

"Captain Williams, I apologize for the need to keep our orders confidential, however I see no harm in telling you what it is we are about to do. But this conversation does not leave this room. Understood?"

"Yes Sir."

The Admiral then recounted his meeting with the Commander in Chief three days prior. Alexander finished his narration and the Captain let out a whistle.

"You know Sir; this is going to cause us problems that we haven't even imagined."

"You can say that again. In any event, the plan is to have them land aboard ship once we are in open waters."

"Sir, wouldn't it be safer to load them aboard ship with the yard cranes?" Alexander thought about this momentarily.

"No, their Commanding Officer assures me they are ready, willing and able to land aboard. Besides, maybe it will give us an opportunity to start evaluating them right away."

Williams stood to leave. He paused a moment at the door.

"What shall I tell the men, Sir?" he asked.

"Tell them . . . tell them that we are going out to shake down a squadron of specially equipped F/A-18 Hornets for three weeks."

"Aye Aye, Sir."

"One other thing Captain, you know that we set sail in ten days. Let's try to have her ready a couple of days early so everyone can take a short break." After the Captain had left, Alexander quickly finished his work and headed out to enjoy a few days at home with his wife.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWO

Women are not all together wrong

When they refuse the rules of life

Prescribed in the world

Forsomuch as only men

Have established them

Without their consent

(Michel de Montaigne, 1533-1592)

* * * * *

Down in supply, a Quartermaster was tallying the mountain of supplies they had received with a list he had attached to his clipboard. Walking along the rows of crates and boxes he stopped and peered closer at two in particular.

"Hey Garcia, get over here," he yelled.

Able Seaman Garcia came out from between the rows of warehouse shelving where he had been stacking away supplies. "Whaddya want?" he asked.

"What the hell are these?" asked the Quartermaster pointing to the two boxes.

Garcia pulled out a knife, popped open one of the boxes and looked inside. Pulling out one of the packages, he inspected it for a moment. "Lucky for you, Sir, I grew up with four sisters and I think I can say beyond a doubt that these here things are Tampons."

"I know what they are you dumb ass. What I want to know is what the hell are they doing aboard a United States' aircraft carrier?"

Garcia smiled. "Got me. Maybe damage control ordered'em for shoring up torpedo strikes. Just stick 'em in the hole and poof, they swell up and stop the ship from sinking."

"You are such a putz Garcia. Throw them over in the corner. We'll give them to the gun crews at sea. They're probably bored with practicing on barrels all the time." The Quartermaster continued with his task and never gave it another thought.

Annette Alexander sat patiently and waited. Something was troubling her husband. He was sitting in the kitchen sipping his coffee at four o'clock in the morning. Whenever he got up this early at home, she knew there was something on his mind. They had been married for over twenty years and he still played the same game. He wanted to talk about it, but he would sit quietly for hours before actually saying anything. At last he blurted it out.

"What do you think of women in the Military, Annie?"

"In what capacity?" she asked.

"In the capacity of fighter pilots. Attack planes that, as a rule fly in an aggressive and unfriendly manner."

"Is this a hypothetical question?"

"I wish it were. There's a squadron of them coming aboard ship for three weeks for a short cruise." His distaste was evident to her.

"Are they good pilots?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Women have been in the service for decades now. What is the problem all of a sudden? You've never disapproved before."

He considered this for a moment. No, he had never even thought about it before. "The difference is that they are flying fighter/bombers. Their purpose is to engage an enemy on his own turf."

Annette watched him as he spoke. He was digging himself a nice tidy little hole. Before too long it would be deep enough and then he would jump in. At last it came.

"How would you feel if our daughter got shot down or killed during a war?" Alexander was satisfied with his statement. It drove the point home. How could anyone send their daughter to war?

"I would feel the same as if our son were shot or killed." She had him cornered with logic. Amused, she paused for her husband to give himself the finishing stroke.

"That's not what I'm trying to say. What if she was drafted and didn't want to be there in the first place?"

"Lou, I've never agreed with the draft. But for the sake of argument we'll use it. What is so right about sending young men to war? Maybe if the Military allowed women into their ranks there wouldn't be a draft. Maybe enough women would volunteer, that the cannon fodder bin would be full. Maybe I would feel the same as if they drafted my son. I love them both equally. I can't make a choice between them and neither can you."

Alexander couldn't think of an answer for this. She was right. How do you choose between your children? Why had Hall done this to him? There were a lot of other people who would have taken this squadron out for a shakedown and kept their mouths shut. Cleverly, he brought the discussion under control.

"Do you want to go down and look at some sloops today?"

Annette smiled at him. "Yes. I'd love to."

At the hangar deck level one of the mechanics had the engine covers off an A-6 Intruder. He had wedged himself up into the engine compartment so far that only his bottom half was sticking out. Plane Captain Nawrot walked past the bomber and could hear the mechanic grumbling about something.

"You need a hand in there?" he yelled, coming closer to the plane.

"Nah, everything is just ducky up here," replied the mechanic

"Then what the hell was all the bitching I heard when I walked by?"The man was busy getting untangled from the airplane. He didn't answer until he'd freed himself and dropped to the ground.

"I was just telling myself how unfairly we blue collar types are treated aboard this boat."

"What do you mean?" asked Nawrot

"Well, as you know, all the Officers are on rotating leave until we set sail again and here's us poor trogs down here busting our humps to get this thing ready to go again."

"Didn't you have a couple of days leave when we docked?"

"Yeah, but . . . . ."

"Save your yeah buts, Sailor," Nawrot broke in. "All we have to do is take this thing out to the lake for three weeks and let the pilots see if they're better at breaking their airplanes than we are at fixing them. Then, when we come back we'll get our regular leave plus a couple of extra weeks. Besides that, do you think the Officers should get this thing ready for sea? We'd sink as soon as they untied us from the dock!"

"Where did you hear that?" the mechanic asked.

"One of the boys overheard the Captain telling Commander Roberts," said Nawrot. Just then the public address system in the hangar crackled to life.

"Plane Captain Nawrot report to the OOD on the double."

Ron squinted, as he left the artificial lights of the interior of the ship and walked into the bright sunshine on the flight deck. He paused briefly to look around and locate the OOD. Almost immediately he spotted him standing near the gangway talking to a civilian in a suit and tie. Nawrot walked the ninety feet from the island to the gangway at a leisurely pace.

He approached the two men. The civilian looked at him.

"Are you Plane Captain Ronald Nawrot?"

"Yes I am. And who might you be?"

"I am James Dixon with the law firm Hardell and MacLane. Our firm has been retained by your wife to handle a divorce action against you." While he spoke he unlatched the attaché case that he had picked off the deck beside him and retrieved some papers from it. These he handed to Nawrot and continued.

"In your absence a petition was filed by your wife regarding child custody and alimony payments. These documents are the result of those proceedings. Good Day Mr. Nawrot."

The lawyer turned to head toward the gangplank. Nawrot just stood there bewildered. Onboard this vessel he was safe from the perils of so powerful an adversary as the Soviet Navy, but even the mighty Enterprise couldn't protect him from the vengeance of the little woman.

He walked over toward the island, leaned against a bulkhead and began to read the papers that had just been served on him. Reading the last page his face screwed into anger. He threw the papers to the deck and exclaimed, "That woman is unbelievable!"

At that moment Captain Williams walked around the corner and witnessed Nawrot's outburst. "Is there a problem here sailor?" asked Williams.

Nawrot, taken aback by the sudden presence of the Captain answered. "Uh, no Sir, just some minor grief with a woman."

The Captain was, thinking that maybe some word had leaked out about the coming assignment and he probed a little more.

"And what kind of grief might that be?"

"Sir, I'm going through the start of a divorce right now and it looks like my wife is going to take me to the cleaners. After this is all over I don't believe I'll ever want anything to do with women again."

"I see. Plane Captain . . .?"

"Nawrot, Sir."

"Don't let it get you down. Time will heal the scars of a painful relationship. I think that after this next short cruise you may have a different outlook."

At this last comment the Captain smiled to himself. Here was one sailor who was going to experience the surprise of a lifetime when their new squadron came onboard.

While the Enterprise continued re-supplying for her next cruise, several miles away another group was preparing for the short voyage. Commander Heather Graham stood in the shade of a fighter's wing and watched the final approach of one of her squadron's F/A-18 Hornets. Although they had spent weeks practicing carrier landings at this Naval Base, getting on board the Enterprise was going to be even more challenging. Her fighter/bomber squadron had done exceptionally well during carrier qualifications, but she kept them at it. There was going to be enough hassle with the men on the carrier without some member of her squadron becoming the first female bolter. The fighter came across the threshold of the runway; its tail hook touched the ground a split second before its main landing gear, catching the third of four heavy steel cables stretched across the concrete. The instant the cable was engaged Graham heard the shriek of the sleek fighter. The pilot had applied full military power. Though it had safely caught the wire it was standard procedure to engage full power on landing. This was to ensure the aircraft could become airborne again should an arrestor hook or cable fail. Graham gave a satisfied smile as the fighter was jolted to a stop. The landing had been done flawlessly and she was confident that all of her command would perform the same.

In the cockpit of the now idling F/A-18, Lt. Kristen Nicols watched a crewman come running out with a crowbar to disengage the arrestor hook from the cable. Once free of it she retracted the hook and taxied toward the concrete revetment to park the fighter. Nicols loved to fly but she was glad to be done with it on this particular day. Graham had been pushing them so damn hard lately that just about everyone was near exhaustion. After a half dozen of those bone jarring landings, a shower was going to feel great.

Nicols brought the plane to a stop, popped the canopy and did her engine shutdown. When the last whisper of the powerful twin General Electric turbofans died away, she heard Graham's voice from the ground.

"Well done Lieutenant, I see your arrested landings are right up to standard."

For the first while, Nicols had been experiencing difficulty with the rigors of carrier qualifications. In fact, when they had done actual landings on the training carrier U.S.S. Lexington just off the coast, she had come close to washing out.

"Thank-you Ma'am, I've done so many of them now I think I could do it in my sleep."

"For the next ten days you just may well be doing it in your sleep Lieutenant. From now until we are dispatched to the Enterprise I want every pilot in this squadron in the air as much as possible. In fact, I want you back out there after dark to do some more night landings."

Nicols slumped down in her seat, bringing one of these things down in what amounted to a controlled crash was frantic enough, but doing it in the dark or in bad weather made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She had about three hours to go until dark, so if she hurried she still might be able to get that shower.

In the locker room Kristen was stripping off her flight suit. She then changed into her duty uniform. Turning around, she was startled to see Chelsea Gordon standing there.

"JESUS Gordon! How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?"

Gordon replied with an idiotic smirk, "Today makes seventeen, total."

"You know, one of these days I'm going to stick a Sidewinder up your tailpipe," Nicols joked.

"That would be divine," laughed Gordon.

From the day the squadron of pilots was assembled, Gordon had been the resident comedian. Graham had dressed her down several times for her antics on the ground. Once in the air though, Chelsea was all business. It was like she became part of the machine she flew. She had acquired a larger collection of "pipper on time", fighter pilot slang for "an adversary in her cross hairs" with her HUD film than anyone in the fighter squadron.

"Want to go over to the Officers Club and watch the men mutate?" Gordon inquired.

"I can't Chelsea. Graham wants me to go do some night landings. I recommend that you disappear or you're going to be flying too."

"Jesus. That woman is a slave driver. If anybody asks, you haven' seen me today," said Gordon and she took off.

Commander Graham sat in her office, looking out toward the runway. She could see a group of pilots heading toward the flight line. From this distance they looked like any other aviators in the Navy. Graham knew they were far different though. They were heading toward a line of F/A-18s with an ill-tempered looking spider painted on the twin vertical tails. These were her pilots. Graham had fought long and hard to make this squadron a reality. Ever since she had earned her commission in the Navy, this had been her dream. The obstacles standing in her path had seemed insurmountable. For the most part her greatest difficulty had been the ego of the U.S. Navy's male dominated hierarchy. At the beginning of her bid to construct an all female fighter squadron, the powers that be, were amused. She would receive excuses like; "Navy policy forbids women from flying front line fighter aircraft." No one really knew or cared where the ruling had originated. Only that this was the way it had always been done. So far she hadn't found anyone with the foresight nor the desire to go against Navy policy. At this she was expected to go back to her job as a flight instructor. Graham had much bigger things in mind than teaching green pilots how to fly the Navy's training jets.

One advantage to doing this however, put her in contact with a lot of pilots, some of them women. Some of these were worthless as pilots and they would be shuffled off to non-flying jobs. Others were average; they would complete their flight training and go on to more advanced schools. They, more likely than not would end up flying transports. And then there were the few. It was easy to pick these out. They learned extremely fast, they would forever push the plane a little harder than she required them to. And they all had one thing in common; they wanted to fly high performance fighters. They would belt the little F-5 around the sky, always in complete control. And always on the edge of its flight envelope.

Graham kept a list of these recruits and their postings. Whenever one of these natural pilots came through, she would recommend they be trained as ferry pilots. In this capacity they would be taught to fly several different types of aircraft. Among these were the Navy's elite, the F/A-18 Hornet and the F-14 Tomcat. All the while she kept pushing to put a squadron together.

Her big break came quite unexpectedly. A dinner party had been arranged to honour a visiting dignitary. Among the list of guests was Senator Margaret Heriot. Graham had been sipping a cocktail after the banquet when Heriot walked up to her and introduced herself. The Lieutenant immediately took a liking to her. Not overly tall and in her mid-sixties Heriot carried herself with an air of confidence. They talked throughout the evening. Graham learned that the Senator had come to the States in 1944 from Scotland as a war bride. Her husband had been in the Marine Corps. They had four children, but sadly they had lost a son to the war in Vietnam. At this point Heriot had decided to enter politics. Her education in law, received in Britain, allowed her to enter the field with little difficulty. Maybe if she worked her way into the government's decision making process she could save someone else from the anguish that she had suffered. So here she was, twenty-one years later, a member of the U.S. Senate. For the largest part of the evening however, Heriot had listened to Graham. She heard of her decision to join the Navy, of the obstacles facing women in the service and some of the more humorous aspects of life in the armed forces. Heriot listened with intensity to Graham's dream of a dedicated fighter squadron staffed by women. And then the evening was over, but as they exchanged good-byes, Graham had a feeling that she hadn't seen the last of this woman.

Several weeks later, Graham was returning from an especially harrowing low level flight with a student. She had exited the plane and was waiting for her student to come and get her lumps for trying to kill her. Before she could begin her condemnation, a fellow instructor came running up.

"The old man wants you in his office NOW, and he sounds pissed."

"Christ. What now?" thought Graham. She turned to her student. "I want you in my office in an hour to discuss your temerity up there today." She left the young woman staring at her feet. She'd had the benefit of Graham's wrath previously and was not looking forward to another round of it.

Graham went directly to the base headquarters. In the Captain's office an Ensign announced her arrival to the CO. Over the intercom she heard Captain Oakes' gruff reply

"Send her right in."

Graham entered the office, came to attention and saluted. "You wanted to see me Sir?"

Oakes rose from his chair and paced behind his desk. "Lieutenant, I am aware that you have been trying to get a female fighter squadron approved by the Navy."

"Yes Sir."

"I am also aware that every attempt you have made so far has been met with some resistance."

"Yes Sir."

"Well it seems this last bid to get your way has fallen upon someone heavy handed enough to step on some very influential toes."

"Uh oh, here it comes," thought Graham. Her last request had been sent directly to Navy headquarters in Washington. It sounded like someone there was going to shut her down for good.

"I can assure you Lieutenant, that the Navy will not allow you to fly F-14 Tomcats off a carrier." With his last comment, Oakes thrust a sheaf of papers at her. Graham reluctantly took the papers and began to read. She skipped over all the official mumbo jumbo and located the heart of the message. As she read the one short paragraph her eyes sparkled and a shit eating grin spread across her face.

"It does seem however," interjected the Captain, "that they are going to give you a crack at some Hornet fighter/bombers."

Graham looked up to find a fatherly smile on Oakes' face. He offered his hand and as Graham took it he said, "Congratulations Lieutenant. You are to leave in three days for Miramar. You have some time in fighters while you were ferrying them. You will be put through advanced training on the F/A-18 along with some of the women from your private list."

"How did you know about that list Captain?" asked Graham.

"I make it my business to know everything that goes on here Miss Graham. Yet I am at a loss as to how you got through to Senator Heriot without my knowledge."

"That came about quite innocently, Sir."

"Well, no matter, she pulled the right strings and you are on your way. Don't screw this up Lieutenant. You're only going to get one shot at it."

Graham was in a great mood when the student pilot entered her office. To the Ensign's surprise she smiled and offered a chair. Then she happily informed her that she would have to try and kill someone else. After she had left she wrote in her file for the benefit of the next instructor.

"Pilot exhibits a natural ability to handle high performance aircraft. Caution should be taken that she does not exceed the capabilities of the F-5. Recommend Ensign Dankow be transferred to ferry duty upon completion of training."

Now here she was, months and countless hours of wearying work later. Her squadron was about to get the opportunity to prove themselves to the Navy.

* * * * *

CHAPTER THREE

Change is not made

Without inconvenience

Even from good to better

(Richard Hooker, 1551-1600)

* * * * *

On November 24, at 0530 Alexander rolled out of the bed in his cabin. He had been up late the night before going over the sailing orders with Captain Williams. He had returned to the Enterprise two days prior to her departure. His suggestion to the Captain earlier had not gone unheeded. The ship was ready to set sail on short notice. All that he had to do was a cursory inspection of the vessel to feel confident that everything was in order. Captain Williams was indeed a very competent Officer. In half an hour the hawsers that attached the ship to the dock would be dropped away. Already the ship's sound had increased in intensity. The night watch had been busy getting everything up and running for their 0600 departure.

By the time Alexander had shaved and dressed he could feel the gentle motion of the massive warship as the harbour tugs nudged her away from the dock. He left his cabin and headed for the bridge. His normal post at sea would be down in the CIC, but there wasn't much threat of an attack coming out of home port in peacetime. When he entered the bridge a voice called out.

"Admiral on the bridge."

The Admiral returned the salutes of all the Officers and men that were not too busy at that moment to give them. He looked out the slanted Plexiglas windows and spotted the Coast Guard pilot craft two thousand yards and 20 degrees off the port bow. Captain Williams walked up beside him with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand which he offered to Alexander.

"Everything is going smoothly by the looks of it," said the Admiral, accepting the cup.

"Yes Sir," replied the Captain. "We'll have manoeuvring room in another few minutes. Once the tugs are cut loose we'll follow the pilot out under our own power."

"Sounds good to me Captain. Once we have settled on a heading for the rendezvous point have the radio room dispatch a message to Miramar."

"Aye Aye, Sir."

The Admiral had chosen a point just off Santa Rosa Island, one hundred and seventy nautical miles to the northwest of San Diego to receive the fifteen aircraft of their new air squadron. There were some small land based airstrips within range should any unforeseen problems pop up in bringing the Hornets aboard. Once the harbour pilot craft released them to their own navigation, they would take up heading and speed. The navigator already had the course and speed plotted to the meeting point. The message would tell the fighter squadron the exact time of arrival, radio frequencies etc. The destroyer screen and supply ship would meet the carrier at the mouth of San Diego Bay. These ships had departed through the night. Too many large ships manoeuvring in a small bay was asking for trouble. In Alexander's opinion, enough trouble was going to come aboard this ship to last a lifetime.

Commander Braidon Roberts had one thing on his mind, get through the next three weeks and get home. He had spent a few short days of leave in San Diego getting drunk with the rest of the pilots from the Gunfighters. If he kept hanging around that bunch he was never going to get settled down.

It was amazing that someone could spend seven years at the same profession and not develop some sort of stable life-style. Roberts had joined the Navy at twenty-one. Before that he had been attending M.I.T. in Spokane. After two years of aviation electronics he'd found that it looked more interesting to fly them than to fix them.

"I wonder if it's as lonely though?" thought Roberts.

From the demeanour of your basic Naval Aviator it was difficult to see the abysmal loneliness suffered from months at sea. Add that to the stress of crashing fifty thousand pounds of airplane onto a pitching rolling platform several times a day and what do you get? A group of men who used arrogant and unbridled behaviour to hide the debilitating stress. Yet every single one of them was willing to pay the price. The reward; the privilege to wear the cartooned two-tailed Tomcat patch that said ANYTIME BABY on their shoulder. He was just heading to get another cup of tea when in walked his new wingman, Lt. Commander Darren Pederson.

"So," inquired Pederson, "what did you think of that sweetheart I picked up at the club the other night?"

Roberts gave him a disgusted look. "You're a pig, Pederson. I bet she only had three toes."

"Are you just a tiny bit upset 'cause you didn't get lucky Roberts?"

"I wouldn't classify what you did as luck. I think the appropriate word for it is masochist behaviour."

Pederson thought himself to be quite a lady's man; problem was Roberts didn't think he had ever been out with a lady. If he ever saw Pederson with a good looking woman he would bet that he'd had to pay for it.

"Are you ready to give these new pilots a good going over Darren?" asked Roberts.

"I suppose. What's the story on them anyway?"

"I'm not exactly sure. The Captain said they have some sort of new gear on the F/A-18s that they're flying."

"It better be something pretty goddamn special if they plan to take on the Gunfighters." Ask any fighter pilot anywhere who is the toughest, meanest and best. Without fail his own squadron will be his answer.

"By the way they're keeping everything under wraps, I wouldn't doubt that it is some kind of hummer," said Roberts.

Pederson had seated himself in a chair across the room from where Roberts was standing. He'd picked a copy of Newsweek up on the way and was leafing through it. The magazine carried a controversial article about the role of women in the military. After a few moments of reading he expelled a snicker.

"Can you believe these assholes?" he reported.

"Believe what?" Roberts' reply was less than interested. It was abnormal to see Pederson reading anything but a cocktail list or a Playboy magazine. Pederson held up the periodical and slapped it with his free hand.

"Some Goddamn politician is pushing to get women integrated into fighter squadrons in the Air Force."

"So? What's wrong with that?" Roberts had never really thought about the concept, but disagreeing with Pederson was second nature.

"Can you imagine having a woman fighter pilot in our midst? Jesus we'd all get killed babysitting her in the air."

"You saying that they can't fly fighters?"

"No. I'm saying that we don't get enough air time as it is because of budget cutbacks. What are they going to do? Spend a million dollars training her so she can get pregnant and not be able to fly anymore."

"Excuse me if I'm wrong. But my Mother had four kids and I can't remember her being an invalid because of it."

"That's not what I meant. You put them in with a bunch of men and sure as hell they'll get pregnant. That will ground them for at least eighteen months."

Roberts was appalled at Pederson's attitude. "Lt. Commander. Do you think women just go around and mindlessly get pregnant? Not everybody has a total lack of morality. Besides, you'll never have to worry about it."

"What does that crack mean?"

"It means that it takes two to make a baby. Fortunately you are the only person I know that is totally devoid of scruples and a woman would have to be blind to have anything to do with you." Roberts strolled over to the door to leave. Opening it, he turned to his wingor and smiled.

"If they run an article about allowing blind women into fighters, let me know. Then I'll worry."

With the seed of contemplation planted, the Commander continued to speculate. Why couldn't they fly fighters? His own older sisters had worked with him on the farm. They had never been bound by society's perception of what they could and could not do. They just went out and did it. He was sure that without their help his father would not have been as successful at farming as he had been.

Back at Miramar, the pilots of the VF/A-47 were preparing to depart. They hadn't received a takeoff time yet, but each pilot had a small flight bag loaded aboard. They had also gone through briefing and done a pre-flight check on their aircraft. All they needed now was fifteen minutes notice and they would be in the air. Graham sat in the office waiting for the message to arrive for them to leave. She had briefed her pilots on this flight just an hour ago. Everybody had seemed confident and raring to go. Gordon had been up to her usual tricks too. She wanted to do a mock air strike on the carrier to establish right away who was going to be boss out there. Although a tempting proposition, Graham didn't think Alexander would be impressed. Now there was a hard-nosed character if she ever saw one. She sat trying to suppress the nervousness that was starting to descend on her, when an Ensign walked in with an envelope.

"Got a letter for you, Ma'am. Just came in by courier," he said

Graham took it and opened it.

To: Commander Heather Graham

Commanding Officer/VF/A-47 Black Widows

Miramar Naval Air Station

Dear Commander Graham,

I trust this message has reached you prior to your departure. Firstly, I extend my congratulations to you on your promotion to Commander four weeks ago. I would have been honoured to be present at your departure as you requested. Unfortunately, government business has preceded your gracious invitation. I also would like to thank you for allowing me the distinction of naming your squadron. I know that you and your fine group of pilots will live up to the name I have chosen. It was inspired by the famous Royal Scottish Regiment of the Black Watch. During World War One, the Black Watch was always led into battle by a Piper. The spectacle of a kilted Piper approaching was quite unsettling to the Germans. This earned them the nickname of "The Ladies from Hell." Though you will not be led by a Piper, I would venture a guess that your presence will not go unnoticed. I wish you and your charges luck and Godspeed.

Sincerely,

Senator Margaret Heriot

Graham was thrilled by the receipt of this letter, and a wave of confidence swept over her. Somehow she knew Senator Heriot would be proud of them no matter how things went.

A few minutes later the klaxon sounded and Graham scrambled off to the locker room. Arriving, she found her pilots were in various stages of changing into their flight gear. Ten minutes later they were seated in their fighters and the first note of thunder from the exhausts split the tranquil air.

Graham lowered her canopy and switched the NAVCOMM to tower frequency. She snapped on her oxygen mask and lowered her visor, all the while running her free hand over the myriad of switches and buttons in the cockpit. With a final gyration of the stick, the graceful fighter flexed its control surfaces. In a fluid motion the various panels and flaps rippled as the bird's computers interpreted its master's commands. To an onlooker the motion was reminiscent of a hunter from the wild stretching for the task ahead. Satisfied, Graham gave a thumbs up to the ground crewman. As he snatched away the wheel chocks she could see the same scene being replayed all along the flight line. With the smile of a kid with a new toy she keyed her mike.

"Ground Control, Blue Flight, taxi fifteen of the finest." The conceit in her voice was unmistakable.

"Blue Flight you are cleared to taxi runway zero six left. Altimeter setting two niner niner seven. Contact Tower on 126.2."

She gripped the stick and advanced her throttles to one third. The fighter started to roll and she brought back the power. The aircraft rotated out in turn with what seemed to be timed precision. Graham wheeled onto the taxi way and headed for the active runway. Approaching the button of the runway she switched her radio to the required frequency and depressed the comm switch on the control stick.

"Miramar Tower, Blue Flight Leader requests takeoff."

Instantly the radio crackled to life. "Blue Flight Leader, winds 075 degrees at 12. Cleared for takeoff, runway zero six left. Advise fifteen miles out."

"Blue Flight Leader, Roger."

The fifteen F/A-18s taxied closer to the active runway in single file. Turning onto the runway, they formed up in staggered pairs. Graham took a fleeting glance over her left shoulder to see that her wingman was there. With this last check she turned her eyes to the runway, slammed the throttles all the way to the stops and thirty thousand pounds of Hornet screamed to life at her fingertips. A quarter of the way down the twelve thousand foot runway, the fighter broke the confines of gravity and leapt into the air. Graham retracted the landing gear and flaps, pulled the throttles out of burner and began a gentle turn to the right. They would orbit the field until everyone was in the air, then forming into three groups of five they would head out over the Pacific Ocean. The last aircraft joined the flight and checked in. They turned their noses toward the coast and started an ascent to eighteen thousand feet. At their present speed of three hundred knots they would reach the fifteen mile limit in three minutes.

Graham keyed the radio again as they approached Miramar's reporting point. "Miramar Tower, Blue Flight Leader. Approaching fifteen mile limit."

She was surprised when she recognized the voice of Captain Oakes respond. He had made a special trip to see his former instructor off. To his disappointment he had missed them by only a few moments. He had rushed to the tower and pulled rank on the OOD to get on the radio.

"Blue Flight Leader. We have you on radar. Recommend you come right one eight degrees to heading two eight three.

"Blue flight coming right to new heading two eight three."

The flock of fighters banked right and the radio broke in again. "Blue Flight, Maintain Angels 18, Enterprise TACAN is one two six, monitor 126.7 for civilian traffic. The Miramar Naval Air Station bids you Bon-Voyage."

At that the radio went mute. The pilots of the Black Widows switched frequencies and remained silent. Each was immersed in her own thoughts as they streaked toward their final hurdle at over three hundred and fifty knots. All had their reasons for being here. Each reason was as valid as the other. Reasons powerful enough to invoke the impassioned dedication that was required to fly some of the hottest hardware in the United States arsenal. The ardour with which they had performed up to now was even more evident if one took into consideration what they had accomplished. The academic, the physical and the emotional stress alone had weeded the less capable members of their group out as little as four weeks ago. They had all looked on uneasily as the heart broken pilot made her farewells. She had come so close, only to be washed out by something that the male pilots took for granted and bragged about. She'd been caught being less than virtuous with a member from one of the other squadrons that traveled through the base. Graham had not delayed to strike her name from the roster and ship her out. The reason, she explained to the remaining members of her squadron, was to uphold the reputation that they were trying to establish in the Navy. Her warning had been clear to all.

"We're stepping into a domain formerly reserved for men. We have to be as smart as they are, as strong as they are and as confident as they are. But be aware that we cannot act as they do. To do so, is our dissolution. It is hard for us and if we fail it will be next to impossible for others."

Those that remained were what stood between success and failure. The torch they bore was a difficult one.

* * * * *

CHAPTER FOUR

We stand today

On the edge of a new frontier

(John F. Kennedy, 1917-1963)

* * * * *

The E-2 Hawkeye Early Warning Aircraft came wings level. Having completed its turn, it maintained station thirty miles from the carrier. The Frisbee attached to its fuselage radiated a powerful, invisible stream of radar waves. A technician sat at one of the three consoles aboard the plane, watching the blips that represented contacts. From the jumble of aircraft on the coast, he quickly picked out what he had been told to watch for. Skilfully he ran his hands over the appropriate sequence of buttons to establish a data link with the carrier. In less than thirty seconds, the information on his screen was replicated for another technician aboard the ship.

"New contact, bearing 096 degrees, three hundred and sixty knots closure."

The OOD walked over to the console of one of the radar operators in CIC. "What have you got Keats?"

Petty Officer Third Class Keats' face glowed green as he studied the cathode radar screen in front of him. "Several contacts just crossing the coast, flight level 180 and heading straight for us. ETA twenty-eight minutes."

"That's got to be our boys," said the Officer. "Keep tabs on them, Keats."

The OOD walked to another console and picked up a telephone receiver.On the bridge, Captain Williams looked at the intercom speaker when it came to life.

"Bridge, the Hawkeye has contact with the flight out of Miramar, ETA now twenty-seven minutes."

"Very well," acknowledged Williams. He turned to the man beside him. "Inform CAG that air operations will commence in twenty minutes."

Williams then busied himself with manoeuvring the ship into the wind, paying no attention to the Admiral. He suspected that he would be here until all fifteen fighters were aboard. It was apparent that this assignment was making him uncomfortable.

Nawrot was busy in the hangar bay checking the air flow dampers on a F-14. He caught the telltale signs of coming air operations almost instantly. After clambering out of the Tomcat's intake, he headed for the flight deck. His curiosity had the best of him. If there was something new on these F/A-18s, he wanted to see it. The Enterprise had completed her turn as Nawrot mounted one of the observation decks on the island. Looking back over the stern, he could see the curved wake they had left behind. Down on the flight deck there were men in green shirts scrambling about everywhere. The deck was almost cleared to receive the fifteen incoming fighters. As he took in the scenes before him, Roberts came up beside him.

"You up here to make sure nobody breaks an airplane Nawrot?" he asked.

"'Bout the only way to do that is to keep you pilots away from them Commander."

"Rub a lamp Plane Captain. It won't happen in your lifetime."

Nawrot thought about this for a second and answered. "They can fly them by remote control already. If they can ever program a computer to drink and be a smart-ass, you're out of a job Buddy." Now that they had exchanged the required insults they looked out over the ocean and resumed waiting for the Hornets to arrive.

Ninety miles from the carrier, Blue Flight Leader keyed her mike.

"Enterprise, Blue Flight Leader."

On board the ship a radio operator smiled and thought to himself, "This guy sounds like a goddamn fairy." "Blue Flight Leader, Enterprise, go."

"Enterprise, tracking on TACAN one two six, ETA fourteen minutes."

"Roger Blue Flight. Descend to two thousand at twenty miles. Contact air traffic control on 126.4."

On the bridge the OOD reported. "Captain, on heading 188 degrees, speed thirty knots. LSO reports ready to receive aircraft. ETA now eight minutes."

On the deck the Landing Systems Officer studied the sky for the first glint of the inbound fighters. Once they came within sight, he would have total control of their actions. The radio telephone crackled in his ear.

"Enterprise Air Traffic Control, Blue Flight Leader, approaching twenty miles, descending to angels two, speed three hundred and fifty."

"Roger Blue flight. Runway heading is 188, thirty-eight knots on the deck. Descend to circuit height at five miles."

"Roger Enterprise."

Descending through nine thousand feet, Graham spotted the five ships of the carrier group through the light haze on the ocean. They would approach the carrier from directly behind and slightly to port. In the cockpit of each fighter the pilots were performing their landing checks.

On the observation deck Roberts nudged the Plane Captain and pointed out over the water. There, eight miles to the stern, he saw the faint smoke trail left by the fighters. The squadron approached and slowed to two hundred and fifty knots. Roberts watched the first group of five come abeam. The instant they reached the island the first F/A-18 banked hard left and sped away at 90 degrees to the ship. It would be followed every twenty seconds by another as they entered their landing pattern. The dance on the deck was about to begin.

Lt. Chelsea Gordon was the first to turn onto final approach. Completing her turn, she pulled back on the throttles. Satisfied that carrier and plane were lined up perfectly, Gordon dropped the hook, the gear and lowered the flaps. The radio spewed forth instructions from the carrier, which she answered when required. The smooth surface of the ocean afforded a more stable approach than a land based airstrip. There were no obstructions to create mechanical turbulence. She crossed the stern of the ship just above the stall. The tail hook kissed the deck and snagged the third wire. Gordon was thrown against her harness as if in a head-on collision. The fighter strained at the wire and went to full power. Then, with the same suddenness as they had come, the eye popping G forces of landing were gone. Gordon flipped the switches to disengage the hook and fold the wings. She looked out on the deck at a green-shirted man standing there. He signalled her that she was free of the wire and to taxi clear. The first of the Black Widows had made a perfect "trap" aboard the Enterprise. Gordon taxied her fighter away and another thundered aboard in the same fashion. Graham, in the final aircraft in the pattern watched with self-satisfaction. Her squadron hit the deck one after another like old pros. Her light heartedness was short-lived. Coming onto final, she watched the aircraft just about to land. It looked too high to make it aboard.

Nicols cursed to herself. She heard the LSO screaming BOLTER, BOLTER, BOLTER at her. She had crossed the stern too high to snag a wire and had to go around again for another try. Because she had failed on the first attempt, Nicols would be the last one to land. She came onto final again and knew that all eyes were on her. Though not as bad as the first try, she was still a bit too high. Determined not to bolter again, she pulled off the power and hauled back on the stick. The fighter came across the deck with an ever increasing angle of attack. The hook grabbed the fourth wire and the main gear was still up in the air. The arresting cable snatched the thirty thousand pound craft from the air and slammed it to the deck. Nicols gave her head a shake as she came to a stop. The last of the Black Widows had quite nearly bent her airplane coming aboard. Everyone who had witnessed her unique style of landing would agree if they could have heard Nawrot up on the island.

"I think we'll call that pilot Kamikaze," he said to Roberts. The Commander sombrely nodded his head in agreement, then turned and headed for the ladder.

"Let's go see what this new equipment is on these Hornets."

"I'm with you," answered the Plane Captain. He followed Roberts down the ladder.

Approaching the first Hornet that had landed, they saw its driver climbing down from the cockpit. Nawrot looked up and checked for the Officer's name that he knew would be painted just under the canopy. He moved closer as the pilot dropped to the ground.

"So tell me, Lt. C. "Joker" Gordon, what is so all fired special about these Hornets you're flying," he called out.

"Ain't any different from any other F/A-18 I've flown," said Gordon, removing her flight helmet.

Nawrot's mouth dropped open when he found himself face to face with this particular F/A-18's specialized equipment.

Alexander peered out the window high above the deck. He could see the new arrivals disembarking their aircrfat after shutdown. He noted with aggravation that when the crews drew near to secure the aircraft, most would stop and have a double take as they spotted the pilots. He turned to the Captain.

"I want all Flight Leaders and Squadron Commanders in the briefing room in thirty minutes." Before he left the bridge he added, "I think you should be there also Captain."

The pilots from the newly arrived squadron gathered just below the island. Some joked nervously about their performance upon landing. They all knew that they had done a commendable job coming aboard, all except one. They were also aware of all the catcalls and leers from the men who worked the deck. It was suddenly crystal clear to them that the five thousand plus souls on this ship were going to be extremely hard on them. A sailor approached them and coming closer, he lifted the visor on his helmet.

"Which one of you is the Commanding Officer?" he asked.

Graham stepped forward and identified herself.

"I have been instructed to tell you that there will be a briefing for you and your Flight Leaders in twenty five minutes. If you and your pilots will follow me I will take you down to the galley. They can hang around there until the briefing is over."

"Thank-you. . . .uh. ." Graham quickly scanned his tunic looking for a name tag, "Dornan."

The fifteen members of the Black Widows followed the sailor into the ship's passage ways. After what seemed to be a five minute walk they arrived at one of the ship's kitchens. Still in their flight gear they felt a bit uncomfortable. This was magnified by the fact that all heads in the dining room turned to follow their every move. Gordon was preparing to cuss out a seaman who had leered at her when she was intercepted by Graham.

"Lt. Gordon, If you would please come with the other Flight Leaders and me to the briefing." At this, the sailor hollered,

"See you later, sweetheart."

Graham turned and, while staring at the man, said to Gordon. "After that you can come back here and deal with Romeo here."

Gordon looked at the sailor. "Don't go away. I want to come back and see if you're really as simple as you look or if you're just trying to impress your buddies." She then left to attend the briefing.

Nicols had gotten herself a coffee and was sitting at a table in the centre of the dining room. Roberts came through the door with Nawrot in tow. Clear across the room and loud enough to be heard by all he announced the reason for his presence.

"I'm looking for the pilot that had a mid-air with an arresting cable a little while ago."

Nicols looked over at him and sunk down in her seat. Nawrot nudged Roberts and pointed over at Nicols.

"That one over there trying to crawl under the table might know who we're looking for Commander."

They started toward her table to the sound of male laughter filling the room. Roberts pulled out a chair and plunked himself down cowboy style. Nicols looked at him, pleading with her eyes for him to go away.

"That is one of the finest landings I have ever witnessed and had the pleasure of congratulating a survivor. With your permission, I would like to have the Plane Captain here paint your new call sign on the aircraft you fly. "Nawrot was grinning so hard he looked as though his face was going to split.

"How do you spell Kamikaze, Commander?" he asked.

They got up after being sure they had totally embarrassed Nicols and made their exit to the cheers of their shipmates.Nicols was near tears. She thought to herself what assholes men were in general. Out in the hall Nawrot was still laughing uncontrollably. Roberts on the other hand was having a different feeling. Normally he loved to poke fun and embarrass people, but he felt guilty about doing it to that woman.

"That is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," he announced suddenly.

Nawrot stopped laughing for a second and looked at the Commander. When he saw the seriousness in Roberts' face he broke into another fit of hilarity.

An hour and a half after the briefing had begun, the door to the briefing room flew open and Graham exited in a fit of rage. She had never doubted that being on board a U.S. warship was going to be difficult for a squadron of women, yet she hadn't expected to be put on a ship with Attila the Hun. Throughout the briefing Alexander had repeatedly belittled her and her squadron. He expected all of them to be no less than a band of women's libbers who had pulled some political strings to bully their way into his own personal navy. The crowning insult had been his joke about the fly by wire systems aboard the new fighters. He had hinted that it was a clever plot to allow women to fly them with their inferior strength.

The whole contingent of male Officers that had attended the briefing had reacted to their presence with varying degrees of hostility. The only one who had displayed any form of welcome had been Commander Roberts, although Graham suspected him of foul play despite his demeanour. Alexander had informed them that the gunfighters would be taking on the aggressor role throughout the next three weeks of training. Quite possibly Roberts' welcome was the same one a wolf would use for the lamb. During shore side manoeuvres her pilots had flown against A-4 Skyhawks and F-5 Freedom fighters. They had done well against the instructors at Miramar, but again they had been flying superior airplanes.

She was curious and nervous about how well they would fare against the Navy's elite air defence fighters. Getting in the phone booth with a Tomcat was going to be a damn sight harder than bumping off an F-5 Freedom Fighter. The Tomcat could turn with them, match them missile for missile and once through the Mach, could outrun the Hornet. Added with the experienced pilots that flew them, it should turn into quite a contest. In another twenty-four hours her curiosity would be satisfied. They had been given that long to get settled in and tour the ship and its facilities before the flying started in earnest.

Gordon and Nicols had been assigned to a berth together. After they had stowed their gear and changed into fresh duty uniforms they embarked on a tour of the ship. As they walked through the hangar bay, Nicols spotted her fighter among all the other aircraft. She tugged at Gordon to get her to follow. Nicols wanted to see if she had done any damage to it with that erratic landing. She approached the fighter from behind, looking over the underside and landing gear as she went. Coming from under the port wing she spotted a crewman perched on a ladder near the canopy. He seemed to be immersed in some task of great import by the level of concentration he displayed. She came closer and he failed to a notice her presence. Nicols looked up to see Plane Captain Nawrot, paintbrush in hand, just putting the finishing touches on the name KAMIKAZEE. The sudden rage hit her like a ton of bricks.

Without thinking she shrieked, "What in the hell are you doing to my airplane?"

At this Nawrot lost all interest in his task and devoted himself to falling off the ladder in a fit of anxiety. He looked up from the steel deck and saw Nicols standing over him, fists clenched and looking as though she was ready to kick him. He picked himself off the floor and looked directly into Nicols' eyes.

"You know Lieutenant, you will enjoy this cruise quite a bit more if you ease off a bit and learn to take a ribbing."

Nicols looked over at Gordon and wasn't surprised to see that silly grin of hers. "I guess I'm stuck with that handle, right?"

"Well, you are the one who blew a landing your first time aboard," answered Nawrot.

Nicols shrugged her shoulders in resignation and turned to leave. After a few steps she turned to Nawrot again.

"Plane Captain, I apologize for startling you and losing my temper. And in the future when you are pulling a prank on someone, you should at least try to get the spelling right."

Nawrot looked up at the name just under the canopy.

"Kamikaze only has one E." she ended.

Nawrot looked up at the letters below the canopy. He was sure Roberts said it had two E's in it.

* * * * *

CHAPTER FIVE

We wish to throw no one into the shade

But we demand our own place in the sun

(Count von Bulow, 1849-1929)

* * * * *

Dawn broke the next day with a brilliant display of colour on the horizon. The light mist that carpeted the water's surface refracted the morning light into a sparkling array of beauty. Graham had arisen early on this morning. The unfamiliar sounds of the ship had interrupted her sleep throughout the night. The last time she woke she saw no sense in trying to sleep anymore. She had visited the briefing room to get a cup of coffee. Now with cup in hand, she stood out on one of the lookout wings taking in the splendour around her. It was funny, she mused, how the U.S. Navy resisted change and clung so vehemently to tradition. Here she stood beneath millions of dollars worth of antennae and radarscopes. Equipment powerful enough to keep an aircraft or vessel from approaching undetected. Yet the equipment wasn't good enough to replace the lookouts that maintained a constant watch across the water. They were not resented because of the need to have them. Why was her squadron? She could accept failure if her pilots just weren't good enough or if there were no need for them. Capable pilots were a need. To start out with a strike against them because of their gender was totally unwarranted. Alexander had not seen fit to share their intended destination with her or any of the other flight Commanders during yesterday's briefing. It was easy to tell though, that they were headed west. The Enterprise and her escorts had their sterns bathed in the rising sun behind them.

Graham arrived at the briefing room at 0900 per the previous day's orders. Possibly now Alexander was going to share his plans with her. She knew this was only a training cruise, but she didn't perceive being kept in the dark a necessity. The Flight Commanders filed into the room and she noticed that neither Roberts nor his Flight Leaders were present. The meeting came to order immediately upon Alexander's arrival. Obviously he didn't condone banter during briefings. Once everyone had taken their seats Alexander turned to a map display at the front of the room. Without looking at his captive audience he began.

"Today's training exercise will involve six F/A-18 aircraft from the newly arrived Black Widow Squadron. Your aircraft have been fuelled and armed according to my instructions." He turned and eyed Graham.

"Commander Graham, you will choose six of your pilots to execute this exercise, excluding yourself."

As he returned to his notes and maps, Graham glowered at him. How in the hell did he come up with such a stupid damn idea. The first flight off this tub and they have to go without their Commanding Officer.

"At 1300 hours the Black Widows will depart on a heading of 015 degrees. They will remain on that heading for a distance of three hundred miles. An A-6 equipped with buddy packs will be dispatched half an hour earlier. They will rendezvous at a range of three hundred miles from the ship for refuelling." At this point Alexander paused long enough to introduce Graham to the crew that would be flying the refuelling aircraft.

"The F/A-18s have been loaded with cement bombs on their hard points to give them the equivalent range and performance that they would have for a real anti-ship strike. Once they have refuelled, they will return and perform a low level bombing run on this carrier group. Instruct your pilots to drop their ordnance outside a one mile radius of the ship. We don't want anyone getting hurt. Any questions?"

It all seemed simple enough to Graham. She didn't like the idea of not going along, but, arguing with Alexander would be the same as looking down the tailpipe of a Tomcat in full afterburner.

Graham assembled her pilots and briefed them on today's mission. Despite the fact that only six would be participating, she required each member of the squadron to make the necessary preparations for the flight. Six would launch, but she would have two standbys ready for any unforeseen problems. The rest were required to prepare to gain the practice. Going over the list of her pilots she called out the names of those who would be flying today.

"Reiley, you and Foster, Swain is with Ulrich and Gordon your wingor will be Krysak. Nicols and Moroki, you'll back them up in the ready aircraft."

This brought to an end their first mission briefing aboard ship. The members of the Black Widows set to the task of planning and briefing for the flight.

Shortly before takeoff time, the fighter crews arrived to pre-flight their airplanes. After three minutes of walking around shaking this and kicking that, they seemed satisfied that they would fly. Now they would get a last minute update on weather before they boarded and launched. Takeoff time drew closer and the fighters were being positioned in order to be tied to the catapults. All of the pilots were in their planes, including Nicols and Moroki in the standbys. The first two fighters were in the catapults, tailpipes spewing flame. At precisely 1300 hours, Swain gave the Cat Officer a thumbs up. He dropped to one knee and pointed down the deck. The shooter acknowledged his action by pressing a button on his console. This signalled the catapult controller a deck below that all was ready. Swain had just barely grabbed the holy shit handles when her head slammed back into the headrest from the jolt of the sudden acceleration. Three seconds later her craft roared off the deck at one hundred and sixty knots. She was followed closely by the rest of her flight.

Krysak was the last to be launched. She started spooling up her engines only to receive a warning light on one of her systems.

According to her instruments she had a low oil pressure indication in one engine. In disappointment she made her decision. She looked over at the Catapult Officer and made a rapid slashing motion at her throat. Nicols could see the man on the ground aborting the shot. Even before the shuttle was hooked up to her airplane, Nicols had the turbofans spinning, getting ready for takeoff. Less than two minutes from the abort, Lt. Kristen "KAMIKAZE" Nicols was riding an all up weight of twenty one tons of fuel and engines off the end of the deck. She climbed up to join her flight in afterburner. Once within sight of the other five aircraft, she eased back the power to match speed and unite with her wingman. She slid her fighter in beside Gordon's and her radio activated.

"Those cat shots are better than sex," quipped Gordon's voice in her headset.

Nicols smiled and keyed her mike "Doing my nails is better than sex."

A radio operators voice from the carrier broke out on the radio to scold them.

"Hornet flight. Please maintain radio protocol."

Gordon clicked her mike in acknowledgment. Smiling she thought, "Probably dented his pride."

Nicols switched on the IFF beacon and set her radar to the standard search mode. They would continue on this heading until they picked up the refuelling aircraft. This mission seemed to her to be far beneath their abilities. Another negative was all the weight they had slung under the wings. The Hornet's performance was seriously hampered by all the excess baggage. These thoughts had been shared with the other pilots during flight planning. All were in agreement that Alexander was doing this to them because he was an asshole.

Graham checked her watch for the fifth time since her squadron had left. Forty minutes had passed since their departure. She assumed correctly that they were refuelling right now. She had gone down to CIC to monitor their progress on radar. An E-2 Hawkeye had been dispatched a short while ago to keep track off them. She sat watching the blips on the screen from the data-link when Alexander entered the room. He strode up to the OOD and started to give orders.

"Lieutenant, I want all electronic emissions from this carrier group stopped immediately."

"But Sir, we have aircraft that will be inbound shortly."

"Precisely Lieutenant, I intend to see how long it takes them to find us."

Graham heard all of this and came over to Alexander. "Sir." she began "What is the rationale behind not giving my pilots a homing beacon?"

"The rationale Commander is that a hostile naval force will not give your pilots an invitation to bomb the hell out of them," answered Alexander.

"I presume you told them by radio that this was happening."

"No Commander, I did not, nor will you attempt to do so. They should be aware that EMCON is standard procedure. If they get lost we'll send someone out to find them. The Hawkeye will be in contact with them throughout the exercise."

"And what other surprise might you have prepared for them Admiral?"

Alexander grinned. "If you can make it up on deck in ten minutes Commander you will find out first hand."

Graham hurriedly left the room to get up to the flight deck and find out what was going on. She mounted the observation deck to be greeted by the ear splitting roar of a Tomcat lunging down the flight deck. She watched in dismay as three more followed it aloft. That sonofabitch Alexander was going to ambush the Black Widows.

In the cockpit of side number 200, Roberts was busying himself with arming his HUD camera for the upcoming show. Alexander had briefed his and the three other crews on what he wanted them to do. They all had a laugh when Alexander said, "When those F/A-18s show up I want you boys on them like rust on a muffler."

Roberts planned to hang around at forty thousand feet. Then when the black Widows started in on their bomb run, the four Tomcats from the Gunfighters would jump them. They could use their search radar without fear of detection from the Hornets. The RIO would also use the nose camera to spot them inbound. With it he could pick them up and identify them at about twenty miles. Roberts pushed the throttles into afterburner. The flight computer ordered the pivoted wings to their most efficient position as the fighter accelerated. At five hundred knots he pulled the nose into a fifteen thousand foot per minute climb. Closing on his desired altitude he eased off the power and levelled out at forty thousand feet. A quick scan outside assured him that his wingman was where he should be. Not much could be said about Pederson's taste in women, but in the air the man stuck to you like glue. Satisfied that all was ready, the Gunfighters loitered seven and a half miles above the carrier, ready to spring their trap.

Gordon was hooked into the hose trailing behind the A-6. Another minute and her tanks would be full. Glancing over the instruments, her eyes came to rest on the TACAN. Something was not as it should be.

Keying the mike, she asked Nicols, "Is your TACAN giving you a reading on the carrier?"

Instantly Nicols answered. "No it isn't working, checking VOR emissions."

She briskly pushed the appropriate buttons in search of something to home on the carrier with.

"Nothing," she came back on the radio. "Programming in an azimuth on the last course and speed of the carrier."

Gordon knew immediately what had happened. Alexander was throwing them a curve. She thought about it and it occurred to her that this probably wasn't the only trick he had up his sleeve.

"Rieley, Swain, Ulrich and Foster, form up and head back to the carrier to do your bombing run. He's gone EMCON so I want radio silence. He's not broadcasting but you can bet your ass he's receiving. Nicols and I are going to fly escort for you."

The refuelling was complete and as Gordon broke away she radioed the A-6 pilot.

"I don't want to hear a peep out of you guys' radio until this is all over."

In the cockpit of the tanker the pilot looked over at the navigator and smiled. "No problem sweetie, go show those fighter pukes what attack pilots are made of," he answered.

The two F/A-18s pulled up even with the tanker. Gordon and Nicols punched a button in their cockpits almost simultaneously. Four tons of dead weight was blasted off their wings and fell to the ocean below. With the click of a button the Hornets had transformed themselves from slightly cumbersome bombers to lithe and deadly fighters.

"Who you calling fighter pukes?" Gordon quipped at the A-6 pilot.

With that, the fighters peeled away from the tanker in a breathtaking climb.

Twenty minutes later Reiley and her companions cut back their power and began to descend from twenty thousand feet. They had closed the carrier thus far at six hundred knots. Now they would level out at three thousand five hundred feet and do their run at four hundred and fifty knots. The Radar Intercept Officer in Lt. Commander Pederson's F-14 excitedly hit the switch on the internal communications system.

"I GOT 'EM, I GOT 'EM, eleven o'clock, fifteen miles at about four thousand feet."

Pederson instantly added power and flew out in front of the other three fighters. He rocked his wings to signal the others to follow him. Seeing this, the other RIO's frantically scanned the sky ahead looking for the bandits. In very short order all four fighter crews had a visual on the Black Widows. They had picked them up over thirty miles from the carrier. Alexander was going to be pleased when they splashed all six of them before they got close enough to release their loads Unfortunately the RIO's were too busy congratulating themselves to notice that there were only four Black Widows. Just before the bombers passed underneath, the Tomcats flipped over on their backs into an inverted dive. Pederson, straining under the G load, was beaming to himself. How dare a bunch of women tread on seventy-five years of naval aviation tradition.

Five miles away Gordon spotted a glint of light from the sun hitting a Tomcat's canopy.

"Tally ho," she reported to Nicols. Nicols had seen it also, Gordon had been right.

"Let's go get 'em!" Nicols answered, and not waiting for a reply started a rapid descent. To engage the Gunfighters. At the speed everyone was going it took only seconds to get within visual range of the carrier.

Alexander had joined Graham on the observation deck. He peered through a set of binoculars trying to get a glimpse of what was happening. Then he saw it. About eight miles out he could make out the specks of the bombers and just above, the rapidly descending Tomcats. Alexander enjoyed watching a good air to air engagement. However, he also relished the odd turkey shoot.

"Just like shooting fish in a barrel," he grinned, handing the binoculars to Graham. Graham snatched the glasses from him and put them to her eyes. The whole scenario had moved a couple of miles closer by this time. Her mood improved greatly. The developing battle before her certainly wasn't what the Admiral had been hoping for.

By the time she was in firing range, Nicols realized she had put on too much speed in the dive. She only had time to put a missile lock on the furthest Tomcat. Pederson and his RIO had been so engrossed in locking up one of the bombers, they had neglected to check their six.

"SHIT SHIT SHIT!" exclaimed Pederson. The beeping in his ear had become a steady taunting tone. The "FOX TWO" call from Nicols confirmed it. By the rules of practice engagement Lt. Commander Darren Pederson and his partner were now KIA. Pederson broke off the attack at once and climbed to a safe altitude until it was all over.

Roberts had a missile lock on Swain, when Nicols' Hornet streaked over him. He watched her make the equivalent of a hip shot to toast his wingman. He had no idea whose F/A-18 that was but she was about to pay the piper. He slammed the throttles forward and the twin Pratt and Whitney turbofans clawed the air with forty-two thousand pounds of thrust. Nicols strained in her harness to see behind her. She had made a critical error by over flying the fight. The Hornet afforded her an excellent rear view between the two canted rudders. The nose of the closest Tomcat began to rise to the challenge. Things were going to be tense for the next little while.

Meanwhile Gordon had successfully gotten a lock on one of the other Gunfighters. She had, however failed to do it before he was able to take another one of the bombers out. Gordon watched both the Hornet and the Tomcat behind it climb away to wait out the rest of the battle. A quick look around and she had a handle on the progress of events. Two Black Widows were out of the fight with two of the Tomcats from the Gunfighters. She could see Nicols streaking away with a Gunfighter in hot pursuit. That left one Tomcat unaccounted for. Another quick look and she spotted him trying to line up the violently manoeuvring Reiley for a shot. Gordon was slightly below and to the right of the other two aircraft. Her chin sucked down to her chest as she fed in full afterburner and threw her craft into a hard climbing left turn. By the time she was close to being lined up for a shot the Tomcat was inside effective missile range. She hastily flipped the toggle on her control stick to guns. Lining him up with the pipper on the HUD she squeezed the trigger. With her HUD camera whirring she announced their demise to them in an excited voice.

"GUNS GUNS GUNS."

Happily she snapped her fighter to the left. Bagging two Tomcats was a good days work.

Things had happened so quickly, Alexander was just comprehending what was going on. It seemed that two more airplanes had suddenly appeared from nowhere and started raising hell. He ducked instinctively as a clap of thunder rolled over the carrier. Nicols had broken the sound barrier just behind the stern of the ship in a desperate bid to shake Roberts. Graham had a lump in her throat. She had never gotten tired of the grace and beauty of a high performance fighter in flight. She watched Nicols haul her Hornet to vertical. Condensation clouded the top of the fighter and its tailpipes glowed as it clamoured for altitude. A second boom echoed the first as the Tomcat that was chasing her went supersonic. The fighters were going far too fast for anyone to tell whose they were. Secretly Graham hoped the lead Hornet belonged to Gordon. All of her pilots were exceptional but she knew Gordon would be able to sort him out in short order.

At the top of her climb Nicols rolled the fighter and began to level out inverted. She tilted her head up, toward the ground, only to see an F-14 just below lined up for a perfect gun shot. Roberts saw the opportunity to end this engagement as Nicols came out of her climb. Without hesitation he seized it. A mocking male voice filled her headset.

"GUNS GUNS GUNS."

Nicols knew that she'd been had and levelled out. Roberts flew up on her right to within a few feet of her wing. Nicols looked over at the numbers painted on the nose of the fighter to see who had got her. The Tomcat driver had lifted his visor and removed his oxygen mask. She watched him raise a cocked finger to his lips and blow, mimicking a smoking revolver. She glimpsed the number 200 as he snapped his fighter to the right and dived away.

"Great. That asshole again," she thought.

Alexander watched the two surviving Black Widows approach point of weapons release in disbelief. There was no way they should have been able to get past four Tomcats. The Hornets discarded their practice bombs a mile out and dropped their noses. They levelled off at 500 feet and as they flew over the carrier, each executed a victory roll. Graham eyed Alexander smugly. The pilots of the Black Widows had acted in the finest traditions of the Navy. Still by the look on Alexander's face, it was apparent that the shit was going to hit the fan very soon.

Alexander met her gaze and through clenched teeth said, "I want a report prepared and presented to me by 1700. Along with the pilots who participated in today's exercise. That will be all Commander Graham."

* * * * *

CHAPTER SIX

Women must come off the pedestal

Men put us up there to get us out of the way

(Viscountess Rhondda, 1883-1958)

* * * * *

When Pederson walked into the post-flight briefing he was met with a first class rousing from his squadron mates. He had earned himself the distinction of being the first Naval pilot to be splashed at sea by a woman. The room took on an air of silence when the door opened to admit the pilots from the bomber squadron. Nicols was heading directly for an empty seat and had to squeeze past Pederson on the way.

He grabbed her arm as she tried to get by "You were a pretty lucky little lady up there this afternoon."

She jerked her arm away from him and vehemently stabbed her finger into the Gunfighters squadron patch on his jumpsuit. The patch depicted a cartoon feline with two tails and a six shooter hanging from his hip. Under it the challenge, "Anytime Baby".

"Anytime Buddy," she said, contemptuously modifying the logo on his patch. Then she raised her voice so that all the others could hear.

"Maybe that little kitty on your jumper should have its tails between its legs." At this, all the pilots in the room began to laugh.

"Hey Pederson," someone yelled, "up in the air isn't the only place you better be looking over your shoulder."

By now Pederson had suffered enough humiliation because of this new batch of pilots. He decided to cut his losses by just sitting down and shutting up. He was sure one of them would screw up and he would be there to take advantage of it.

From the midst of the Tomcat pilots, a voice called out indiscreetly.

"Hey Darlin', I got about a hundred and fifty frames of HUD film with you in a very compromising position." Again the laughter erupted throughout the group of pilots.

Alexander entered the room at 1700 on the nose. All those present came to order and the briefing began.

"To begin today's briefing, I would firstly like to congratulate Commander Roberts and his merry band of warriors on their valiant efforts in the sky. You have achieved a one to one kill ratio with an adversary. This reflects well with the five to one record that your squadron has enjoyed up to now. And I might add you managed it against green pilots. Do you, Commander Roberts have any comments?"

Roberts stood to answer. He felt like he had a golf ball lodged in his throat.

"Sir, our poor showing today is attributed to our underestimating the opposing force. Had we known they were going to dedicate two aircraft to escort, I am confident that we could have dealt with them effectively." At the end of his repartee Roberts looked up at Alexander. With his deft ability to interpret hindsight, he was reasonably certain that his answer was not what the Admiral wanted to hear.

"Commander, let me remind you of the great expense the taxpayers have so kindly extended to make you one of the best fighter pilots in the world. They have also provided you with a forty million dollar aircraft that can do damn near anything. They DO NOT want to hear that you underestimated the competition. They want to hear that you kicked some ass, or at least took several bad guys with you. Is that understood?"

With a reddening face, Roberts sheepishly answered, "Yes Sir."

As he took his seat he noticed Nicols out of the corner of his eye. He looked over at her and immediately recognized the "Serves you right asshole" look on her face. He had to hand it to her, she had come close to shaking him with that supersonic elevator manoeuvre. He had damn near shit himself when he loaded up the G's to stay inside her climb. He could still hear the complaints of his RIO after he'd bagged Nicols.

"You dumb shit what am I going to tell my wife when I get home? I must be three inches shorter now."

Alexander's voice brought him back to the briefing abruptly.

"Now, that is dealt with, I have some comments for our hotshot fighter-bombers". He cast a threatening glare over the group of female pilots. Noticing that not one of them broke eye contact or blinked, he abandoned this tactic and continued.

"When I send you on a bombing mission I expect you to perform a bombing mission. At Miramar you may have changed roles in mid-operation but out here you follow my orders to the letter. I send six bombers out, I had damn well better see six coming back. Further, in the future any pilot who performs a victory roll will be reprimanded as provided for in the Navy regulations section on careless operation of an aircraft. And to sum up this meeting, if any one of you ever again goes supersonic within a two mile radius of this ship, I will personally clip your wings off at the neck. Another operation is in the planning stages and you will be brought up to speed on it at the appropriate time." With his closing comment, Alexander snapped his folder shut and strode out of the room.

He had deservedly given them all a serious scolding for their boldness in the air. Yet on his way back to his quarters a faint smile graced his normally rugged features. He had seen enough fighter jockeys to know that this squadron would have to be reckoned with. His Tomcat pilots were second to none, but the Black Widows had quite effectively kicked their butts.

Over the next few days the air operations increased in frequency. With the progression of flights, Alexander formed an accurate assessment of each pilot's strengths and weaknesses. Gordon was an excellent all-round pilot, however she displayed a tendency of rebellion. Her orders were followed each time but she rode the ragged edge of the true spirit in which they were given.

Graham seemed to have command capabilities sufficient to her position. Sometimes it seemed she took too much of a personal interest in the pilots of her squadron. During battle, Commanders had to send their troops in harm's way. No latitude for personal sentiment was allowed.

One of the most interesting of the fold was Nicols. Alexander had watched her first landing aboard ship. Although technically it had been classed a good landing, that was owed solely to the fact that she had walked away from it. He had stood on the bridge and watched her Hornet's nose rise toward a stall when it was suddenly thrown to the deck. He had been cast twenty two years back, to another era. All the anguish he had felt when he watched his friend die, was with him once more. Albeit only for an instant, it was no less intense.

Possibly that was the reason he was being so hard on these aviators. Could it be that in some subtle way he thought he was protecting them? He'd been on their case so much since their arrival they would either quit or grow so exemplary at their duties they would be unassailable. Either way, they would survive. Nice thought Alexander, he reflected, they think your just a mean sonofabitch, why argue with a pack of women. At any rate Nicols was a fine pilot. Her problem was only one of confidence. Whenever the heat was on, she seemed to make mistakes. Not serious ones, but enough to get herself killed in a real air to air engagement. He wrote some more on the papers in front of him. He'd get this squadron whipped into shape and then hopefully get them off the ship.

He let his thoughts slide from the weight of command. Leaning back in his chair he clasped his hands behind his head and mentally planned his and Annette's future. Retirement was approaching in a couple of years. He intended to devote all of his time to making up for his stints away from home. The Navy had kept him at sea for months on end. The sloops the two had been looking at were a fitting conclusion to his career. He loved the sea and he loved his wife even more. What more could a man want than to spend his reclining years at sea with his wife. His thoughts took him to far off ports where they could drop anchor and enjoy. They had seen a forty-four footer that fit his plans while he'd been home for his short leave. Annette had balked a little at the price, which was natural. Thanks to her, it was possible to look at such things and afford them. She had always handled the money. She had always done everything to make his life more than he ever could have on his own.

His mind wandered of its own accord to the fighter pilots again. He remembered what it was like at that age. He wished for all of them to be blessed with a companion as wonderful as his. And then it struck him. One of the reasons for his objection to these women had not anything to do with their ability. They should all be at home. War was a man made institution and therefore should be administered by man. He didn't see a need to involve women in something that they probably would abolish if given the occasion. There were those that would disagree with him, but a world without war was a very inviting prospect. Hell, he was looking for a job when he'd found this one.

After ten days at sea a communiqué arrived from CINCPAC. The radio operator ripped the sheet from the printer and turned to the runner beside him. It was marked:

URGENT - To Vice Admiral Louis Alexander.

"Get this up to the old man, pronto," he told him.

After Alexander had taken delivery of the message he immediately sent for the Captain. When Williams walked into his cabin he could see the concern in Alexander's face.

"Captain, have you been following the developments in the Persian Gulf?"

"Yes Sir I have. I expect this embargo has to be causing Hussein some hardship," answered Williams.

"Apparently it hasn't been causing him enough. We have just been ordered into the area."

"Jesus, Admiral. There are already a couple of carrier groups in the Red Sea."

"The America and Saratoga have also just received orders to enter the Red Sea. Our destination is the Persian Gulf itself."

"What are the sailing orders then, Sir?"

Alexander walked to a map hanging on the wall and poked a finger into the middle of the Pacific.

"We are about here, correct." He looked toward Williams and received an affirmative nod.

"Set a course for Pearl Harbour. We are to put in there for ten days for re-supply. While we're there, try and get everyone a few days ashore on a rotating basis. This is not going to sit well with the crew. They are already past due for leave."

"What about the Black Widows, Sir?" queried Williams.

"The dispatch never mentioned their dispersion. But I expect we will be leaving them in Hawaii. There are a couple of squadrons of F-14s there that we can take for replacements. That will be all for now Captain."

"Aye Aye, Sir." Williams flipped him a salute, turned on his heel and left to carry out his orders.

Bell Telephone could take lessons in rapid communications from the grapevine aboard a carrier. Within two hours everyone that was awake knew they were headed for the Gulf. Alexander was still waiting to have it reported through the ship. The watch would be changing shortly and more people would be privy to the announcement. When the official version of the orders was finally given out, it was met with many reactions. The ship's crew for the most part would have liked to have gotten their regular leave before this assignment. There was no way that anyone could say how long the task force was going to be deployed. By the look of things it was apparent they would be at sea for Christmas. In all, Alexander was pleased with the relatively inconsequential amount of griping. There were fifteen women aboard that felt fortune had smiled upon them. They had only been aboard for ten days and were eager to get a real tour of duty. They had not been told that Alexander was planning to dump them in Pearl Harbour. When the orders had come they had only three days sailing to reach Hawaii. Alexander stepped up the flying to get as much training in as he could for his fighter crews. The Black Widows were starting to feel like cannon fodder. All of the training exercises had them being target practice for the F-14 Squadron.

A day out of port Graham approached Alexander. She'd had enough of being skeet for the Gunfighters. She hesitated briefly before knocking on his cabin door. This could turn into a first rate reaming out for her. Alexander didn't like to be questioned regarding his actions as a Commander. The Admiral opened his door and Graham snapped him a salute.

"Sir. Might I speak with you in private please?"

"By all means Commander. Please come in."

This seemed a bit odd. Normally he was gruff with everyone, but it almost seemed as if he were happy right now.

"What can I do for you Commander?"

Graham decided to take advantage of his good mood and came straight to the point.

"Sir, for the past two days my squadron has been flying their hearts out, always as targets for the F-14s. We would very much like to be the ones doing the shooting for a change. the pilots under my command have the training and experience to be much more than what you are allowing them to be. And I don't accept this as being unprejudiced to them."

After her little commentary Graham realized she had raised her voice an octave in closing. She unconsciously sat back in her chair waiting for the repercussion. Alexander thought about this for a moment. When he finally spoke he took Graham totally by surprise.

"You are quite right Commander. I haven't been treating them equally. Leave this with me and I'll try to come up with something challenging for them before we reach port."

As she was about to leave she turned to the Admiral.

"You must be looking forward to this Gulf assignment, Sir. You seem in good spirits."

"Yes Commander, I suppose I am. I won't be in the Navy forever and it would be nice to do something important before I leave."

"You already have, Sir. You have given my squadron a chance and we all appreciate it."

After she left, Alexander was feeling a bit deflated. Women shouldn't be on ships. His good mood was owed to their upcoming departure. His wife always did that to him. He couldn't explain the feeling really. Guilt readily came to mind. Well, the least he could do was give them something to remember. An idea began to formulate in his mind. No, they wouldn't forget this flight for a long time to come. He left his cabin for the comm centre. An old friend of his ran things at the Pearl Harbour Naval Station. If he remembered correctly he had shot a MIG off his tail many years ago and he still owed him one. Pay back time.

Gordon sat in the cockpit of a Tomcat in the hangar. She had taken some of her free time to familiarize herself with the systems aboard what, as of late, had been her main opponent. When she had first started flying jets, her dream had been to command one of these. The cutting edge of the fleet's air defence. Swivelling her head she took in the enormous expanse of the fighter. It was quite a bit larger than her own. Although sleek and deadly, after flying the Hornet, she wondered if anything else could compare. The F/A-18 was a beautiful airplane to fly. You could liken it to a high spirited thoroughbred in the hands of a skilled jockey. Watching the maintenance personnel crawling over her own aircraft she was glad that the Navy hadn't given her a choice of planes to fly. They had simply given her the best. Climbing down from the cockpit of the F-14 she was approached by Plane Captain Nawrot.

"Looks like you're all going out this time Lieutenant."

"Yea, they got you guys busy by the look of it," replied Gordon. Graham had said they had a good assignment coming but no one seemed to have any idea what it was.

"I think it may be a long one. We were told to put drop tanks on all of them."

"What else is going on them Plane Captain?" asked Gordon.

"Nine of them are equipped for anti-ship roles and the other six are air superiority. The anti-ship planes are going to be pretty sluggish. They're loaded close to maximum takeoff weight."

"Sounds like this may be a repeat of our first flight from here," Gordon thought out loud.

"I don't think so Lieutenant. We weren't told to get any F-14s ready."

"Doesn't matter really, ours is not to question why."

"Ain't that the truth." Nawrot answered.

He was ticked about not being home for Christmas. Divorce or no, he wanted to be Santa for his girls. After a few more minutes of conversation, Gordon ambled off to get some sleep. Pre-flight briefing was at 0400 and getting up early had never been Chelsea's strong point.

* * * * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

Give me a firm place to stand

And I will move the earth

(Pappus Alexander)

* * * * *

At 0400 Alexander entered the briefing room. All the pilots from VF/A-47 were present and ready to fly. Also present were a few pilots from the Gunfighters. Curiosity no doubt. He walked to the front of the room and immediately began.

"Ladies, if I may have your attention please." He turned to a map on the wall and smacked it with a pointer.

"At 0615 the fifteen Hornets on this ship will launch and perform an air strike on military naval assets at this location."

All eyes focused on the map. Alexander's pointer was resting precisely on Pearl Harbour. A low murmur swept over the room.

"I have cleared this operation with the C.O. at Barber's Point Naval Station. He has agreed to scramble his defences only when the threat is identified by radar. He also promised me that he will send your squadron back to this carrier with its tail tucked between its legs. I trust you ladies will not allow this to happen." A dash of clamouring erupted at this comment.

"At a cruise speed of three hundred and fifty knots you will arrive over your target at approximately 0715. I need not remind you of today's date, December 7th. When you arrive over the target you will find your opponents to be extremely trigger happy and after forty nine years it is inevitable that they still have an axe to grind. You have six Hornets dedicated to escort. I expect the other nine to get within missile range of the ships in the harbour. After that you can go and play with the Tomcats to your heart's content. And ladies, the Navy pilots at Pearl do not know who you are. I have observed over the past few days, that the Gunfighters have been a mite easy on you. I know this seems sexist and unfair to you but, it is a fact. The fighters at Pearl will give you no quarter. They are going to play to win."

At that moment a sailor walked into the briefing and handed the Admiral a packet of photographs. He quickly looked through them and then threw them on the table at the front of the room.

"These photographs," he continued, "are from one of our EA-6B Prowlers. It is over the target at this moment and has sent us infrared reconnaissance pictures. Please study them and formulate your attack plan. Upon launching a second Prowler will accompany you to the target to provide ECM support. I failed to mention these two aircraft to the Commander at Pearl, use it to your best advantage. That sums up this briefing. Good-luck."

Everyone was in a jovial mood as they left the briefing. This was indeed an entertaining assignment.

Pederson was standing at the door while the pilots filed out of the room. When Nicols reached the doorway he put his arm across the jam and stopped her.

"You're going to get your asses kicked up there today Nicols."

Gordon was right behind her and was going to intervene but before she could react Pederson's eyes bugged out. She looked at Nicols and saw she had Pederson's crotch in a vice-like grip.

"Just what I thought Pederson, no balls, maybe you should come with us." Nicols spat at him.

"Jesus Kristen," said Gordon out in the corridor, "you really know how to make friends don't you."

Gordon was still behind her and couldn't see the tears filling her eyes. Why did everyone have to be so damned rude on this ship?

Krysak and Gordon were hooked to the shuttles, ready to launch. It was 0642 according to the clock on the CRT in their cockpits. In three minutes they would be flung into the ebony sky before them. Meanwhile they would wait. Just as it was for any pilot anywhere, the wait was worth the reward. Countless hours and flights of total boredom were sacrificed for the few precious seconds of soul searing excitement that awaited. These people were not merely pilots, they were addicted to it. Thirty seconds before 0645 Gordon slammed her throttles to the firewall. This was only a training exercise, but soon it would be real. The idea of going to the Gulf seemed to saturate her thoughts of late. The fire from her exhaust was no less intense than that burning inside her. Her and every other pilot lined up behind her awaiting their turn.

Alexander and Williams stood on the bridge. They could see the twin points of flame from the afterburners blink out in the pale morning light as each fighter was launched and attained flying speed. Williams turned to the Admiral and commented.

"I'm glad they're on our side Sir."

He was answered with a muted, "Yep." Alexander was concerned. It was serious, but it was training. Yet he wasn't sure where these women drew the line.

Over the horizon, three hundred and fifty miles distant, Alexander's old friend, and Commanding Officer of Pearl Harbour Naval Station, Commodore Wayne Kronlund sat eating a hearty breakfast. Seated across from him was the Commander in Chief, Pacific, Admiral Doug Hall. Hall had flown out to Hawaii to deal with the logistics involved in sending a task force half way around the world. He also had to take care of the Black Widows stationed aboard the Enterprise. He had received nothing but commendations from all of their previous COs. His final decision on their destiny would wait until he read Alexander's report on their performance. A day after Hall had arrived, Kronlund had approached him with the radio dispatch from Alexander's Task Force. Hall had immediately agreed. Although he wasn't certain, he strongly suspected the attacking force would be a highly motivated squadron of young women. It would be excellent training for both sides and Admirals are known far and wide for their cat like curiosity.

An Ensign converged on their table. He discreetly spoke to the commodore and departed. Kronlund unhurriedly wiped his mouth and stood.

"Admiral, I have just been informed that a sizable contact has been detected by coastal radar. They are at low level and closing at three hundred and fifty knots. Their ETA is approximately eighteen minutes."

"And what defences have you scrambled to deal with them?"

"Eight F-14s from Barber's Point Naval Air Station are now taking off and four F-16 Falcons from the Hickam Air Force Base have been dispatched to do away with them."

"Seems a bit of overkill doesn't it Commander?"

"You have to remember Sir, I have a bottle of the cheapest whiskey money can buy riding on this engagement."

They walked out onto the veranda. Kronlund had chosen this location for its excellent view of the harbour. If any of Alexander's flight managed to get into the harbour, they would have a superb view of their demise from here.

Admiral Hall mulled over his decision to put the Black Widows aboard the Enterprise. He had his choice of other carriers that were less conspicuous to evaluate this squadron. When he'd ordered them aboard he'd known that there was a possibility the ship would be going to the Gulf. The option was there to send them along or remove them here in Hawaii. The political sparing over women on the firing line had been going on for years now, and would continue until someone took the bull by the horns and said Yay or Nay. He had effectively taken it out of the hands of the politicians and made it a military matter. Although it was something that was on his agenda in any case, Senator Heriot's strongly worded request to his office moved the time frame ahead considerably. The stage had been set to have the decision made. He had a well respected member of the United States Senate backing him. He had the authority to make it happen. He had a Flag Officer that wasn't deterred by career and politics. And by the look of it, he would have a war to test them. He'd placed his own career in a precarious position with these decisions but throughout history people had made sacrifices to change its course. This was his Navy now and he wanted it to be as good as it could be. If things worked out, he would have a resource to man that Navy that had, as yet, been virtually untapped. The female population of the United States.

A hundred miles to the northeast of the Oahu coast, the ECM Officer on board the Prowler reported.

"Contact, we've been painted by coastal radar." He began flipping switches and turning dials, tuning his electronic wizardry to deceive the enemy radar. Satisfied with his handy work, he radioed the squadron of Hornets surrounding him.

"Ladies, we have you covered, sick 'em."

Instantly, the nine bombers inverted and started to descend. The remaining six fighters began to fan out over a two mile front. Cloaked by an electronic cloud from the Prowler, nine of the flight dropped from their thousand foot altitude to skim the water's surface. If the original deception worked, no one would spot them until they were just about in the mouth of the Harbour. The six fighters that stayed behind would continue in a straight line, overland to Pearl Harbour. They would have to deal with whatever was being sent up to oppose them initially. The bombers would turn to a different heading and swing around the southern tip of Oahu, to approach Pearl from the south. This would add a number of miles to their destination. To compensate they accelerated from three hundred and fifty to over seven hundred knots.

At the Pearl Radar Installation a technician reported to the officer on Duty.

"Sir, the contact has just begun to jam us."

"Does it look like they're still inbound seaman?"

"Yes Sir. I haven't seen any deviation in the flight path. They seem to be spreading out though." The OOD turned to another seaman.

"Get on the horn to Oahu International. Tell them the harbour Naval Reservation will be active for the next hour."

The airport would keep its traffic away from the harbour until they were told differently. An airliner wandering into a bunch of fighters was not a desirable scenario. He turned back to the radar technician.

"Vector the F-14s out to the main contact."

"What about the Air Force F-16s Sir?"

"Keep them over the harbour, if anything gets through, they can have it."

The OOD didn't expect anything to get into the harbour. He had wrongly assumed the attacking force would be the slower A-6 Intruders he knew to be stationed on the Enterprise. The three hundred and fifty knot closure served to promote his assumption.

Forty miles out to sea, the Prowler stopped jamming and began a turn back toward the carrier. His purpose had been to dupe the enemy radar while the bombers sneaked down into the surface clutter. There was no need for him to get entangled in the fur-ball he knew was developing. As soon as the jamming stopped, everyone's radar cleared up. Graham in one of the fighters was first to report.

"Contact, dead ahead, twelve miles at angels 10."

The six Hornets quickly formed back into pairs, armed their HUD cameras and started a full power ascent to engage.

"Flight Leaders, no heroics, we only need to keep them busy for a short time." Graham heard the acknowledging clicks in her headset as she passed through seven thousand feet.

In the back seat of the lead Tomcat, the RIO watched the blips on his screen accelerate. In his slow southern drawl he reported to the pilot in front of him.

"Hey Jimbo, if those is A-6s I'll eat my shorts. They's comin' upstairs like a scalded cat."

Only a few seconds after he heard his RIO's report "Jimbo" watched the first pair of Hornets flash by at a combined speed in excess of eleven hundred miles per hour. Rolling his fighter into a right hand turn, he heard the RIO again.

"Don't wait supper for us Momma, this may take a spell."

Forty five miles to the southwest Gordon watched the volcanic coast rise from the ocean. Skimming the surface at barely a hundred feet her flight was about to enter the mouth of the harbour. There seemed to be a measure of irreverence involved in what they were doing. They had slowed considerably before entering, but even at their present speed of four hundred and ninety knots it was difficult to focus on anything closer than a quarter of a mile.

The Pearl Harbour Memorial shone white in the morning sun. She was just able to glimpse it over the tip of her left wing. Gordon had always wanted to visit this place. This wasn't entirely what she'd had in mind though. The whole flight was concentrating on the ships looming into view at the Naval Station. They had bounced up from one hundred feet to five hundred feet to target the ships that sat idle by the docks. Gordon had acquired a target and simulated firing when she heard Krysak cut loose on the radio.

"Nicols, BREAK LEFT BREAK LEFT."

Gordon swung her head around to see Nicols' plane rolling into a steep left hand turn, and behind her the silhouette of an Air Force F-16. Four of the attacking aircraft had made their assault already and the other five weren't far behind. Gordon switched to her internal fuel tank and swung the fighter around to look for more of the nimble fighters. One Falcon would never bounce a flight of nine Hornets. There had to be at least two of them. No matter what everyone in the Navy said, Gordon knew those low life dirt sucking amoebic Air Force trash weren't dumb.

Nicols had her hands full trying to shake the F-16 on her tail. The little General Dynamics fighter could turn on a dime and give you nine cents change. To fight in the horizontal with this guy was inviting disaster. She snapped her Hornet level and brought back the stick. The F-16 enjoyed a slight advantage in the thrust to weight ratio than the F/A-18 and could out climb it. She could use this to her advantage, but she would only get one crack at it. He was going to get his fight but not on his terms. The two fighters began their ascent with the Navy in the lead.

When she figured she had bled enough energy from herself to attain corner speed she hauled back the stick again. Straining under seven and a half Gs she watched as he shot past her. Releasing the back pressure, she brought the nose down again. Hauling the stick to the right she rolled into him. Sure enough there he was, served up like a turkey on Christmas Day. All that was left was to bring her guns to bear. The pipper chased the fighter across her HUD. When the two converged, she mashed the trigger and gunned him. Satisfied with her handy work, she rolled out level and scanned the sky around her. She spotted Moroki's fighter manoeuvring for a kill. Problem was it was Moroki who was going to get it. She had two Falcons glued firmly to her tail. They were stalking her like hyenas after a wounded animal. She would break away from one and the other would be on her. The radio came alive and Moroki's calm voice filled her headset.

"I got two of 'em cornered up here for anybody who's interested."

Nicols started to pursue the three. In her peripheral vision she spotted Gordon settle into her left hand wing position.

Below them, the Commander in Chief, Pacific watched in amazement as the members of the Black Widows plied their trade. He glanced at Kronlund and saw the appalled expression on his face. Wait until he found out who was doing this to him. He looked back to the sky. It appeared as though the show was just about over. Four of the Hornets were just mopping up the last of the F-16s and the rest were winging away to the southeast.

Graham's flight had been slugging it out toe to toe with the Tomcats from Barber's Point. Three of them had fallen prey to the big fighters so far. Graham radioed to the remainder of the flight.

"Knock it off. Lets get the hell out of here." They had gotten two of the F-14s during the fight but now the odds were against them at two to one. The Hornets broke off and dashed away toward the carrier.

On the way back to Barber point, the flight of Tomcats passed below the retreating Black Widows that had been in Pearl Harbour. Jimbo's RIO had them on radar. He reported again to his pilot.

"I ain't quite sure how they got behind us, but it appears they's related to that bunch we just scrapped with."

"What makes you say that Lt.?" asked the pilot.

"Cause they're comin' after us."

"Shit!" Jimbo exclaimed and rammed his engines to full power.

Gordon led the others down to make one high speed pass on the F-14s before they called it a day. Once they had scattered them all over the sky, they again pointed themselves toward the carrier.

Back aboard the carrier Alexander smiled when the dispatch from Kronlund reached him.

TO: U.S.S. Enterprise.

Five Star performance

Home 3 Visitors 6

My compliments to your attack pilots.

END OF MESSAGE

* * * * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

Who shoots at the midday sun

Though he be sure he shall never hit the mark

Yet as sure he is, he shall shoot higher

Than who aims at a bush

(Sir Philip Sidney, 1554-1586)

* * * * *

At 1900 hrs on December 7 the Enterprise was secured to the dock at Pearl Harbour. When the gangway was dropped the first person to cross it was Wayne Kronlund. He approached the OOD at the top of the walkway and returned his salute. Under his arm he carried a plain brown paper bag.

"Commodore Kronlund to see the Admiral."

After reviewing his credentials the OOD waved a seaman over and instructed him to lead the Commodore to Alexander's cabin. Once there Kronlund thanked the sailor and excused him. Knocking on the door, he had only a brief wait until it was opened to him. As soon as he laid eyes on the Admiral he thrust the brown bag at him.

"One bottle of jovial juice."

"Just what I like to see," grinned the Admiral, "a man who can take a beating."

Alexander gestured for Kronlund to enter.

"So why didn't you tell me you were sending Hornets? I've got some seriously pissed Tomcat drivers at Barber's Point."

Though Kronlund had suffered a defeat, it was a truly valuable learning experience for himself and his command. NEVER underestimate your enemy.

"They didn't do so bad against them. They got three of mine to two of yours."

Alexander left out the flight of Air Force F-16's that had fallen prey to the Black Widows.

"They aren't used to losing any of theirs," Kronlund answered.

"Well maybe they'll get a chance to even things up. We're going to leave that squadron here in Oahu."

"Jesus Admiral, from what I saw, I would think you'd want them aboard for where you're going."

"Maybe you would like to meet their Commanding Officer before you jump to any conclusions?" asked Alexander.

At this he picked up a telephone. In a moment he spoke with someone on the other end.

"This is Admiral Alexander. Send Commander Graham to my cabin on the double." After he had hung up, Kronlund spoke.

"Admiral Hall is here at Pearl. He asked me to tell you that your presence is required at Headquarters tomorrow at 0900. Something to do with the deployment of your air wing."

"Nice to see him out here taking a personal interest," replied Alexander.

"I tell you, the man isn't timid when it comes to dealing with the Bureaucrats. I think we're going to see some pleasant changes with him in charge."

A knock interrupted their conversation. Alexander crossed and opened the door. He turned to Kronlund as Graham entered and introduced her.

"Commodore Kronlund, may I present Commander Heather Graham. This is one of the ladies who so graciously relieved you of that cheap whiskey."

Kronlund stood and gripped her hand.

"Well I'll be goddamned, wait until I tell old Lambert over at Hickam that he got his butt kicked by a bunch of girls."

Alexander didn't hesitate.

"Might I remind you Commodore, that this same squadron of "Girls" spent the morning sorting Tomcats from your installation."

The three spent the next few minutes discussing the morning's exercise. At length, the Commodore stood and announced he needed to be moving along. He shook hands with the Admiral and Commander Graham.

"It has been a pleasure meeting you Commander. I look forward to seeing you again at the base."

Alexander watched for a reaction from Graham to this comment.

Graham smiled at Kronlund and answered. "I will definitely try to come by for a look before we ship out Commodore. Thank-you."

Kronlund shot Alexander an "Oh you haven't told her" look and excused himself.

"Commander, before you leave there is something you should know," Alexander said, closing the door behind him.

"Yes Sir?"

"Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with Admiral Hall. I expect it is in regard to the removal of this squadron from the Enterprise." He looked at Graham, though she didn't show her disappointment, he knew this was a tough pill for her to swallow.

"If it is any conciliation, you and your pilots have done a fine job over the last few days. You have without a doubt surprised me with your abilities. But you are aware that we are going to a potentially combative area and Navy policy doesn't allow women to serve in offensive roles."

With just the slightest hint of dejection in her voice she answered.

"Yes Sir. I understand. If you will excuse me now, I have duties to attend to."

On her way back to her cabin Graham was in misery. She had known from the beginning that they'd had only three weeks to show their wares aboard a warship. Had she kidded herself all along that they could waltz in after just twenty one days and take their rightful place as equals in the realm of the warrior? Or had the actions of a madman on the other side of the globe only brought the inevitable a few days early? She would withhold the bad news from her squadron for a short while. After all the difficulties they had overcome to get here, they deserved a few days to blow off some steam. She would carry the burden for them for now.

After going over the duty roster for her pilots, Commander Graham made up the list of personnel that were available to go on leave. As it turned out, most of them were not needed aboard for the next few days. They would only get one more short cruise to open water where they could launch and return to Hawaii. Completing this, she pulled each one's service record. It was very likely that the V/FA-47 would be disbanded. With what little influence she could muster, she would try to get her pilots decent postings. Some of them would wind up with desk jobs, others would get instructor billets. But all would have to suffer the disappointment that she herself was feeling.

They had soared where eagles feared to tread. There wasn't any other job in the military that would not be a letdown for them. Her anger at the injustice of what was happening seethed in her. When problems arose, usually they were specific and could be dealt with on an individual basis. Trying to change the present course of events was hopeless. There was no single person that could be convinced to allow them to stay aboard. What was carrying them toward their dissolution was a huge entity. From the highest echelons of Government to the men who swabbed the decks of Navy ships, the wave of discrimination threatened to sweep them over the side. Commander Graham could no longer stand by and watch. Nor could she change what was about to happen. With her duties complete she pulled a blank sheet of stationary from the drawer of her desk.

The Navy had spent a fortune training her to do what she did best, and then swept her in the corner. It went against her principles to do so, but she would take her talents elsewhere. With vengeful strokes, she composed her resignation. Years of devotion to duty had come to this. Her last act as a Commander would be to lead her squadron to Barber's Point.

Gordon entered the cabin that her and Nicols shared. Her roommate looked up from the technical manual she was studying.

"Did you find out if we get shore leave?"

Gordon threw the passes down on the bunk. "Yep. We are about to spend some fun filled days in Hawaii."

Nicols scooped them up to see how long they would be ashore. Seeing the number she commented.

"Graham must be in a good mood. We don't have to come aboard until just before we leave."

Gordon had recently met Commander Graham in the Ops room. "I don't think so. I just saw her and she was grumbling something about PMS."

Nicols' conjecture suggested disbelief. Graham would never mention something like that. She was Navy right to her toes.

"What?" she queried.

"Putting up with Men's Shit," laughed Gordon.

"Oh." This was acceptable. Nicols had witnessed Graham while dealing with people who looked down their nose at her.

The next morning at 0700 the dock was a bustle of activity. The roster had been compiled and all those taking shore leave were milling around arranging transport to various locations. For the most part, the pilots and RIOs were going to be able to stay ashore until departure. Roberts stood a short distance from the gang way with a group of pilots from the Gunfighters. In the ensuing discussion it was generally agreed that the first order of business was to find an open bar somewhere. Roberts, for lack of anything better to do, decided to tag along with them. They had corralled a number of taxies to transport them to oblivion, when some of the pilots from the Black Widows walked by. Pederson had to crawl over two of his ship mates to get to the same side of the cab that the women were on.

"Hey," he hollered, "you girls want to do something really special for Uncle Sam? Come handle our bags."

Anticipating Gordon's intentions as she veered toward the taxi, Nicols reached out and grabbed her by the arm.

"Don't bother Chelsea, you'll only encourage him."

Roberts had been ready to get in the front seat of the cab when he witnessed this. He spotted Nicols and saw the disgust in her face. He turned back to the cab. Pederson had settled back into the seat.

"Come on Roberts, we got things to do."

"Pederson, sometimes you are such an asshole I can't believe it. You guys go ahead. I'm gonna go do some sightseeing."

Roberts slammed the door and rapped the cab on the roof. As the taxi drove away he could hear Pederson telling his buddies how lucky the ladies were in Hawaii now that he was here. He looked around to find Nicols. Maybe if he apologized for Pederson she wouldn't paint him with the same brush. He spotted her in the window of a bus that was just pulling away. Their eyes met for an instant, and he received the same disgusted look from her.

"Damn," he thought, "I'm scum green, the same as that prize moron Pederson."

Alexander had arrived at Headquarters ten minutes early for his appointment with Admiral Hall. With him he carried a report on the Black Widow's performance aboard his ship. He had not deceived Graham when he told her they had done an excellent job. This squadron may well be the cornerstone for the Navy of the future. For now things would stay pretty much the same though. By the time he had been directed to the Admiral's temporary location he had to wait only a couple of moments. He was ushered into Hall's office. After the Ensign had left Hall asked.

"How would you like your coffee Lou?"

"God, by the way I feel this morning, just throw it in my face. I've been up half the night going over paperwork."

"I would be happy to trade places with you, Lou. Eight or nine trees a day go across my desk."

After a few moments of pleasantries they came right down to business.

"You know the President has gained a UN resolution giving Iraq until January 15 to get out of Dodge don't you?" Hall inquired.

"Yea, Navy Intel keeps us pretty well informed when were out there."

"You are going in to add a little volume to the Sabre rattling that is already going on. You're to provide air cover for shipping in the Gulf. There is already lots of hardware out there but if things heat up we're going to hit him with the big stick."

"What do you think the chances are of him backing down Doug?" asked Alexander.

"The best guess that our Military and Middle East Analysts can come up with is that they have no idea. He has already gone beyond any reasoning that would make a lick of sense. Whenever we thought he might throw in the towel he's just dug in his heels and thumbed his nose at us."

The two went on to discuss the deployment of the carrier group. It was all pretty standard as far as the Navy went. Load everybody up, sail half way around the world and then sit and wait for something to happen. Coming to the close of the meeting Alexander brought up the matter of the Black Widow Squadron. Hall went over Alexander's report pertaining to their performance while they were at sea. When he had finished reading he paused as if in concentration.

Alexander broke in. "How would you like the removal of the F/A-18s handled Doug and more important who am I getting to replace them?"

Hall looked him straight in the eye and answered. "I was watching them in the Harbour yesterday. They did a great job. And now, reading your report, I am satisfied my decision is a proper one. You will ship out with your present complement of aircraft. That includes the Black Widows."

Alexander only needed a second to comprehend what he had just heard. He launched himself out of his chair to the edge of Hall's desk.

"Has your cheese slipped off your cracker?" he boomed. "You can't send those women out there."

"I can send them out there," Hall retorted. "If the lead starts flying our job is to boot Hussein's ass out of Kuwait. You can't do it with a ship load of Tomcats. Your present complement is plenty for your own air defence. What we need in there are bombers."

The Tomcat was a dedicated air superiority fighter. Although it had the capability to haul a respectable load of ground attack ordinance, it didn't really have the avionics to be as effective as the Hornet.

"Maybe I do have enough F-14s for air defence. But I don't have enough to defend those Hornets over enemy territory. Over the last few days the Gunfighters have continuously slacked off when engaging the Black Widows. If we get into a shoot-out in the Gulf they are going to put themselves in unnecessary peril to protect them."

"Yesterday I watched those Hornets come through a flight of Air Force jets like shit through a tin goose. The only protection they need is from archaic attitudes like you're displaying right now." Hall's voice was becoming louder also.

"Do you think the general public is ready to see a woman being tortured by the enemy? You know the kinds of things those fanatical bastards have done to our regular pilots. How much more than that do you think they could do to a woman? The answer is A LOT."

When Hall spoke again his voice was calm. "We are blessed with living in a free country. To keep it free we have had to spill our blood. That is the price of freedom. Don't you think it hypocritical that we don't give all of our people, male and female, the right to defend that freedom? That is what freedom is. Now you have your orders and I am counting on your professionalism to carry them out. That will be all Vice Admiral Alexander."

Alexander rose and headed for the door. He opened it and turned to Hall.

"We have been sending our Fathers and Sons home in body bags for the last two hundred years. Are we that savage that we can't spare our Mothers and Daughters?" And then he was gone.

Hall sat at his desk considering his friends last comment. To date there were in excess of thirty thousand female troops in the region from all of the services. Was he wrong to send this squadron to join them? He reflected back to the show he had seen over Pearl Harbour yesterday. With that alloyed suit of armour wrapped around them, there was no discernible difference between them and the F-16s they were battling. His neck was on the line by ordering them in there. The President himself had questioned the wisdom of his recommendation. The American public would be the final judge. This brought back some lines from a poem written by a friend of his.

What price will you pay for your tyranny

Save for my freedom, I hold no possession so dear

That I may summon the fury of my country

And all those who abide here.

It was signed by Lt. Louis Alexander U.S.N.

Hall had known Alexander for many years. Long enough to know that if the man said it or wrote it he truly believed it. Although it was causing discomfort for his friend he was confident that Alexander's belief system would prevail and the final judgment of this experiment would be fair to all.

* * * * *

CHAPTER NINE

Two men look out through the same bars

One sees the mud, and one the stars

(Frederick Langbridge, 1849-1923)

* * * * *

Ron Nawrot wasn't on the list for leave until the next day. He had gained permission to leave the ship for a short while to call home. After four rings his wife answered.

"Hello Kathy, it's Ron."

"Yes."

Twenty five hundred miles didn't dissipate the iciness in her voice. "You know that we are going to the Gulf in a few days?"

"I know. That is the only thing in the news these days."

"Listen, I get a few days leave starting tomorrow. Would it be all right to send the girls some gifts from here?"

"Exactly where is here this time Ron?" she asked

"We're in Pearl for re-supply."

"Yes, you can send them." Then the tone of her voice changed ever so slightly. A trace of hopefulness could be detected. "Grumman called yesterday. They want you to contact them. They still want you to work for them."

"Yea, maybe when I get back I'll get hold of them."

"MAYBE. How many more birthdays and Christmases are you going to miss for our daughters? I have spent eight years waiting for you to come home. I won't allow our children to suffer through that. You and I can understand your absence. They are too young to know why their Daddy can't be home."

Ron could hear her voice breaking as she continued.

"They know that where you are going is dangerous though. Amanda wants to know if when you die over there, will you still come and visit her." Kathy was sobbing by this time. "If you can't come home for me Ron, at least do it for them. They don't deserve this." Then she hung up.

Ron stood listening to the deadness in the phone. In his heart he felt as empty as that electronic echo.

Roberts had spent the better part of the day poking around at the various tourist attractions. He wasn't too sure whether he cared for Hawaii. It seemed so impersonal. Everything was geared to mass process tourists. He was near the Pearl Memorial Ferry dock when he spotted Gordon and Nicols sitting on a bench. He strolled over to them to say hi. As he drew closer he noticed that his heart was thumping just a little bit faster.

"Have you two managed to take in all the sights yet?" he asked.

When they first noticed him their expressions were not that of welcome. Gordon never looked at him when she replied. "We've seen everything worth seeing. Are there any private fields around her where a person can rent a plane for skydiving?"

"I don't have the faintest idea. This is my first time here. Are you thinking of taking some lessons?"

"No, Lt. Nicols and I learned how when we were based at Miramar."

"You know, I've never understood why anyone would want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane." said Roberts.

"You've never jumped before?" Nicols butted in.

"No, only simulated ejections at fighter school."

"If we can find something do you want to come and try it?"

"I'd have to take lessons," Roberts answered. If there was a way to get out of this, he had to find it.

"That's okay we'll teach you. Right Lt. Gordon?"

No answer was forthcoming so Nicols jabbed her in the ribs and received a grudging affirmative.

"No, maybe some other time I wouldn't want to infringe on you."

"Really, it's no problem," Nicols shot back. She had correctly recognized the slight panic in his voice. "Unless you're chicken of course? That would be a problem."

Without a moment's hesitation Roberts' ego took over his ability to reason and he stuck his head in the noose.

"Of course I'm not chicken. Yea, okay. I'll try it."

The two women stood to leave.

"Meet us back here at 0800 tomorrow. We'll go find some chutes and a plane," Nicols told him.

After they had gone Roberts thumped his head against the nearest tree. Maybe if he was lucky a coconut would fall out and kill him before tomorrow. He was terrified of heights. After giving himself a short lecture on stupidity and its effect on the American male, he headed back to the carrier.

There are three things you should never do to a woman. You should never tell her she is fat, you should never lie to her and you should never shoot her down. Doing any one or a combination of these things will place you at grave risk. Nicols was quite pleased with herself. She knew that Roberts had some sort of phobia about skydiving. She saw it in his eyes. She didn't care if she had to look under every rock on this island. She would find an airplane to throw him out of. Chelsea had quit griping about it as soon as she was told the reason for inviting him.

It took them the better part of three hours, but they finally found a small charter company with everything they would need for tomorrow. After all was arranged the two went in search of a movie theatre that had Flight of the Intruder playing. It was great entertainment to watch how Hollywood messed up the reality of what they did.

Alexander had left the meeting with Hall that morning deeply troubled. His beliefs were at conflict with one another. Also he felt that Hall may have interpreted his questioning of his actions as a transgression between their friendship and duty. Had it been the President himself sitting behind that desk, Alexander knew that his reaction would have been the same. A lifetime of following orders had not prepared him for this. The Navy had never, up until now demanded anything from him that he could not morally justify. His day had been spent in solitude, grappling with his feelings. In the end he was left with only one avenue. He picked up the telephone.

"Is Commander Graham still aboard?" He glanced to the picture of his wife while he listened to the reply.

"Well then find out. If she is not aboard, locate her and get her in here."

Hanging up the receiver, Alexander reached out to hold the photograph. How he longed to be with her right now. Since their first day together she had been able to lift the shadows from his darkest fears. And now, twenty four years later, he still sought her counsel.

After half an hour of searching, the seaman that had been sent to locate Graham found her sitting in the cockpit of her fighter. The hangar bay was almost deserted. Graham heard his approach but kept her eyes fixed on some point on the ceiling.

"Commander?"

"Yes."

"The Admiral would like to see you."

"Thank-you, I'll be right there."

The sailor started to walk away. After a few steps he turned back to see that Graham hadn't moved. "You okay Ma'am?"

"Yea I'm fine." She started to pull herself out of the cockpit. He walked back to the fighter as she descended the ladder. Coming off the bottom rung she felt his hands on her elbow and back, helping her to the ground.

"That wasn't necessary seaman. I've been getting out of this plane for a while now on my own."

"My apologies Ma'am, I've had manners for a long time. Old habits die hard."

She looked into his young face, and was met with a friendly smile. "What do you think of us being here?" she asked him. Somehow she knew his answer would be an honest one.

"You got as much right as anyone else to be here. Why, do you think you don't?" he replied.

"Sometimes I wonder."

"Well, don't give up. Sometimes the pain is worth the gain. Ask my great grandpa." A stark white grin flashed across his ebony face. He had started to walk away again.

"Seaman."

He stopped and looked back.

"Thank-you."

"My pleasure Ma'am."

She watched him recede across the hangar deck. Just before he walked out of sight behind a fighter he lapsed into a Michael Jackson moon walk and she heard his voice resound clearly across the bay.

"Lift dem bales, tote dat barge, fly dem fighters."

On her way to the Admiral's cabin Graham wore a smile. Her squadron may have lost the battle but the war was far from over.

Nawrot's shift had just ended. He had the guts of a Tomcat's fuel pump spread all over the bench in front of him. Normally he would tidy it up, but not today. He left it for tomorrow and headed for the dining room. He hadn't eaten all day and it was starting to catch up to him. Once his tray was loaded down with food he went to find a seat. Roberts was sitting alone at a table. Ron went over.

"Mind if I join you Commander?"

Roberts absently waved a hand in the air. After a few moments of silence, save for Nawrot's munching, Roberts asked for his opinion.

"My opinion on what?" said Nawrot through a mouthful of carrots.

Roberts told him all that had happened that day. He knew Ron had been giving him a rough time about Nicols, but he needed to talk to someone. When he had finished his story he anticipated some form of heckling from the Plane Captain. Scanning the man's face however, he saw a seriousness uncommon to Nawrot.

"You want to know what I would do Commander?"

"Yea, I guess."

"I would go out there tomorrow and jump out of that airplane without a goddamn parachute if that is what she wanted. Because let me tell you something. There is not a thing on the face of this planet that is worth giving up all that a good woman can do for you. It has taken me eight years to come to that conclusion and I'm pretty sure I'm just a tad late in realizing it for it to do me any good. You want my advice Commander. Do you what you have to for the most part, but don't ever get so high and mighty to think that a woman can't bring you down."

Nawrot dug into his food again. He seemed in a far away place all of a sudden. Roberts stood for a moment trying to think of something to say before leaving. All that he could come up with was an uneasy silence.

Graham watched Alexander pace apprehensively across his cabin. When he turned to speak, his expression was one of petulance.

"Commander, it seems I was premature this morning with my assumptions. The Navy has decided to send you and your command to the Gulf."

These last words rolled off his tongue like some vile form of malady. The good news made Graham's heart skip, but the delivery infuriated her. She had had enough of this man's bullish demeanour. Admiral or not, he was about to get a piece of her mind.

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"Granted." he replied.

"Admiral, since I joined the Navy I've had to put up with ridicule, sexism and insults. I thought the fact that you were an Admiral would have put you above all of that. Is every new squadron on your boat put through hell or is this a special performance for us?" Graham poised for his answer, ready to persecute. When Alexander answered, his voice was hard.

"This ship is an instrument of war. Everyone says its purpose is to maintain the peace, but the truth is we pack enough fire power to take over a lot of small countries all by ourselves. In battle, over enemy territory you have to believe in what you're doing. Every Tom, Dick and Abdul from the other side has one goal. And that is to shoot your sorry ass out of the sky. If they get their hands on you, getting shot down is the easy part. This is a very serious game Commander. You can't just press a button and yell Uncle. They won't let you, they want you dead. Do you understand?"

With just a little less of her previous zeal, Graham answered "Yes Sir, but . . ."

"But what Commander? But I treat you unfairly? But I don't bend over backwards to make concessions for your squadron? What we do for the most part is float around and play pretend war with each other. It's fun, it's challenging and it is nothing like the stark horror of the real thing. I've been there; I've seen it and it will haunt me everyday for the rest of my life. Are you prepared for that?"

Graham was starting to get an idea of what Alexander's objections were to the presence of women on his boat. The old softy didn't want to see such fragile delicate beings put in peril. All the sharpness that had got her this far in a man's domain was focused in her answer.

"Sir, with all due respect, I totally disagree with your sentiment. Myself and my command are fully aware of the risks. We've trained beside what you call regular pilots and for the most part we have come out on top. We aren't any smarter but we are aptly motivated. Just to hold our own we have to be better because we are fighting the male ego as well as the man. If the Iraqi Air Force chooses, my squadron and I intend to become the largest distributors of MIG parts in the Middle East."

This last comment from Graham was more than even Alexander could take. Although still apprehensive about a woman's role in the scheme of combat, he shook his head in submission and offered his hand to Graham.

"Welcome to the U.S.S. Enterprise. And Commander, if I ever see a display of insubordination like I have just witnessed again, you are going to be one sorry fighter pilot."

Blushing from the stern warning, she offered an apology.

"I'm sorry Sir. But it has been difficult."

Feeling no sympathy for her he replied.

"I suggest you learn to control yourself, because it gets a lot harder."

After Graham had left, Alexander was again alone with his thoughts. For the life of him he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very familiar about her. He had finished up some of the work he had been doing and turned in. Their time in port was short and much had to be done. A good night's sleep would help. In that short period between cognizance and repose the mind will sometimes afford its owner with deep insight to the troubles that plague it. Alexander's mind did just that on this night. It told him that he had just met the female version of himself from twenty years ago and that she could handle the responsibilities placed on her. He fell asleep with a smile; she certainly had the mouth for it.

At 0600 the next morning, Roberts sat in the dining room trying to choke back a less than hearty breakfast. He noticed that his tea cup was developing white caps when he brought it to his lips. He quickly set it back down on the table. He'd had butterflies before. These ones however seemed to be terminal. He looked around him at the others in the room. His eyes came to rest on a sailor leaning back enjoying a cigarette. Maybe he should try that. He was convinced he was going to be a smudge on the Hawaiian greenery long before cancer could get him. Roberts doubted that anything could deepen his depression right now. All of a sudden Pederson sat down and poked him in the shoulder.

"Get lucky last night Roberts?"

Thus proving the theory that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.

"Go away Pederson."

"Is that anyway to treat your guardian angel?" referring to his job of being Roberts' wingman.

"A guardian angel I would be nice to right now, you on the other hand would be better described as a hemorrhoid gone amuck?"

"We're going to the beach today with some ladies we met last night. Would you care to join in the escapade?"

Roberts had to hand it to him, he could take an insult right between the eyes and it didn't even faze him.

"No thanks Pederson, I have my own escapade planned for the day. If things go as I expect this should be goodbye." Roberts got up and left Pederson in wonderment. Having made his way off the ship he walked across the dock and turned to look at the carrier. Maybe he was being a touch pessimistic, but he hoped to see the old girl again.

Walking across the flight deck, Nawrot was on his way to find some Christmas presents for his girls. He wanted to buy something for Kathy also but he didn't know if it would be appropriate. It amazed him that she had been so vindictive and yet he still cared. He stopped for a moment to watch a damage control party scurrying across the deck toward some mock disaster. For all the Enterprise was, she was a demanding ship and required constant attention to keep her healthy. The prominence of this to his own situation was lost on him for the moment though. Halfway down the gangway Nawrot was stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't know how or why but there at the bottom of the walkway stood Kathy. He hurried to the end. Dropping his sea bag to the ground he put his hands on her shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" His voice betrayed the bewilderment he felt.

"Ron, I'm tired of phone calls and lawyers and letters. We need to talk about everything before either one of us can go on."

"My god Hon . . . Kathy you must have traveled all night to get here. Where are the girls?"

"After I talked on the phone to you yesterday I took them to my mother's. She told me it was useless to come out here. Is it?"

Nawrot wasn't sure what the purpose of her presence was so he dodged the question.

"You look exhausted; let's go get you something to eat and a place to get some rest. Then we can talk."

He was accused of being absent most of the time but he had been around enough to know not to upset her when she was tired. As they walked away to find a cab Ron had to suppress the reflex to take her hand.

Roberts had reached the Memorial to meet Nicols and Gordon. In spite of the early hour, the clear sky and warm breeze promised a beautiful day. He loitered beside the same bench he had met them at the day before. Checking his watch he saw he had arrived a little bit early. Roberts took the few minutes he had to think about how he continually got himself into these fixes. He wasn't the devil may care type, in fact other than his sense of humour his demeanour was laced with common sense. Throughout his childhood his father had taught him to meet adversity head on and to back down only if he thought he was wrong. Could this be one of those times when he should back off? When Nicols and Gordon appeared, all doubt vanished. This was the first time he had seen Nicols dressed in anything but a flight suit or uniform. Looking at the femininity she unmasked in civilian dress it was hard to believe she could slam a thirty thousand pound plane around the sky at near Mach two. He'd had a stereotype picture of female military pilots in his mind until now. These two closing on his 2 o'clock were as far from that image as they could get. As they approached he rose from the bench to greet them. Looking Kristen squarely in the eyes he delivered a sincere smile.

"You look lovely this morning." His impending doom was forgotten for the moment.

Nicols averted her eyes and bashfully accepted the compliment. She had a score to settle with this character but his greeting seemed to disconcert her.

Gordon was taking all of this in. With her own good looks she had seen her share of men trying to schmooze her. But Roberts seemed like a pane of glass right now. What she saw was not a wolf anticipating the kill. Roberts was truly enchanted with her friend. How quaint, she thought and then abruptly snapped him back to reality.

"We got a plane, we got some 'chutes and we've got a couple of hours to kill. You ready Roberts?" She overlaid the word kill with a wicked grin.

"Huh, oh yea . . . yea I'm ready."

"We rented a Jeep yesterday. It's right over there." said Nicols pointing to the parking lot.

"Great, let's go." Roberts grabbed his overnight bag and headed toward the proffered direction.

Walking a few steps behind, Gordon nudged Nicols and whispered, "He's kind of cute without a Tomcat strapped to his ass isn't he?"

Nicols jokingly nudged her back and answered, "You bet."

Gordon drove the Jeep to the airfield. By the time they arrived Roberts was a convert for seat-belt laws. She drove with a reckless abandon for anybody or anything in her path. He noticed that even Nicols had a firm handhold on the windshield post. They pulled onto the small airstrip. Roberts looked around for the plane that would be taking them up. All he could see was a few two seat Cessna 152's and an old 182 with no doors that had seen better days. Quite possibly the airplane they were using was out on a flight right now. Gordon and Nicols had gotten out of the Jeep and walked around behind.

He turned and asked, "Where's the training centre?"

They exchanged knowing smiles and then Nicols came around the side of the vehicle. "If you'll follow me, I'll escort you there now."

He hopped over the side of the Jeep.

"Lead the way Lieutenant."

She turned and started to walk toward the back of the Jeep with Roberts following obediently behind. He wasn't really paying attention and when she abruptly stopped at the rear he almost ran into her.

"Welcome to the Oahu School of Sky Diving. Commander Roberts, I would like to present your instructor for today. Lt. Chelsea Gordon, if you please."

Gordon came forward and with a wry grin grabbed him by the arm. "If you'll step this way Sir." She took two steps and reached her hand out to rest on the top of the Jeep's back-end. "To begin with, we will have a half hour of intensive training on our jump tower here. Followed by fundamentals of the parachute and what to do should it fail to work. I estimate we should be able to toss you out of that plane over there within two and a half hours." She jerked a thumb toward the 182 he had mentally condemned a few moments ago.

Roberts knew for sure now that he was in deep shit. He looked over to Nicols hoping for salvation. Her eyes were sparkling. It was evident to him that she found this all very entertaining.

After tumbling from the back of the Jeep for close to forty five minutes Roberts finally was able to hit the ground and roll to the satisfaction of Gordon. At this point Nicols produced a parachute from somewhere. Two hours later he was strapped into the harness and walking toward the airplane. Nicols had unpacked his chute to show him how it worked, and of course some things that would prevent it from working. While she was re-packing it for him he realized his life was in her hands right now. He had only met her short while ago, and now he had to trust her explicitly. She walked a few steps ahead of him and didn't show the slightest concern for what she was about to do.

Nearing the airplane he told himself, "The government said she's okay, who am I to argue."

They met their pilot at the plane. After he had loaded everyone he hauled himself into the left seat; actually he only seat and started to buckle up. Roberts was sitting on the floor beside him.

He looked over at the older man and asked, "Aren't you going to pre-flight this thing?"

The pilot turned his head and spat the remainder of his cigar through the missing door. Without turning back he answered, "Hell son, why would I do that? If I knew what's wrong with 'er I'd be scared to fly 'er. You got to treat 'em like a woman. Pay any attention to 'em and they just cost you money."

With that he turned the key with no results. He slammed his palm against the panel cowling hard enough to make the gauges jump. Again he turned the key and the engine sputtered to life.

After what seemed an exceedingly long take-off roll the small four-seater struggled off the runway and began to climb. The pilot hollered at Roberts over the drone of the aircraft.

"I don't know what's wrong with you kids these days."

"Why is that?" yelled back Roberts.

"What would make a sane person jump out of a perfectly good airplane?"

The engine coughed and a puff of black smoke slipped along the fuselage. Looking straight ahead Roberts answered above the roar.

"FEAR!"

They neared the drop zone at four thousand feet. The pilot signalled to the two in the back to get ready. Gordon moved up beside Roberts and got him to the door. As she hooked up his static line she noticed the way he was hanging onto the door frame. Getting him out of this airplane was going to be like stuffing a cat in a toilet. Roberts poked his head out and looked to the landscape below. A wave of nausea swept over him and he pulled his head back in. Gordon was hunched over beside him. She raised a hand and gently shook his shoulder.

In a sympathetic yell, she asked "Are you scared?"

He relaxed his death grip on the door and nodded an affirmative to her.

"Good, 'cause this is dangerous." Then with all her might she shoved him out the door.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TEN

Whether they give or refuse

Women are glad to have been asked

(Ovid, 43 B.C.-18 A.D.)

* * * * *

Nawrot and his estranged wife had taken a cab and directed it along Kalakaua Avenue. This was where the highest concentration of hotels could be found. Because of the closeness of Christmas he was concerned that he wouldn't be able to find a vacancy Kathy sat next to him and he could see that she was nearing total exhaustion. He had asked the driver for a recommendation, but he turned out to be no help at all. After having him stop at several hotels to check for a room, they crossed Kaiulani Avenue. Nawrot spotted the Hyatt Regency. He directed the driver to drop them at the door. Even if they didn't have a room they could grab something to eat and then phone around to locate something. Kathy had only a small overnight bag, attesting to the haste she had made the decision to come here in. He paid the driver and grabbed their meagre collection of luggage. At the desk he inquired about rooms.

"I'm sorry Sir but I believe we are all booked up. Let me just check." With a few strokes on a keyboard the clerk found what he was looking for. After a moment of studying the screen, he came back to the desk.

"We have had a family reunion cancellation, it seems several have come available."

Nawrot immediately threw his credit card on the desk. "We'll take two; one of them the nicest you have available."

Kathy started to protest in the background. "Ron, this is too expensive. Let's go see if we can find something else."

His normal reaction to this would have been to listen to her. She did this without fail. She would scrimp and save and go the extra mile to make sure she didn't add any undue burden to those she cared about. Most times at her own expense. Something told him that if he listened today it would only be another nail in his coffin.

"No Kath, it's probably our last time together, we don't need to spend it in a dive."

Kathy was surprised at her own reaction to this. She realized her objections were from habit. Since they had been married she had gotten used to second best. Today she wouldn't give up what she wanted in consideration of others. For eight years she had given to this man. She had spent countless nights alone. She had raised her children alone. Her happiness and dreams had been put on the back shelf to give him what made him happy. In return she had asked for nothing. She still loved him dearly, but she would no longer be a mistress to the Navy. Even the little toy aircraft carrier he had given to Amanda sent her into a silent fury. If he wanted to spend his life playing with real ones, he would do it alone. When she had boarded the American Airlines 747 at LAX she'd had no idea what drew her there. Now, standing here with the emotional caldron smouldering inside her she understood. Before she left, he would know why their marriage had to end.

Graham spent the morning composing a letter to Margaret Heriot. She wrote all that had been happening since their departure from San Diego. She also took special care to thank her for all she had done. Heriot had been instrumental in getting them aboard a carrier. Now fate would give them their final exam. After mailing it she went in search of a Duty Officer. She left word that her pilots were to obtain the necessary personal effects for an extended tour. No one had any idea how long it would be before they returned. Although far from the first women to serve in the military, they were making history. For the first time the United states was going to recognize their right to fight. During the civil War, thousands of women on both sides served as nurses, usually without pay.

Hundreds fought, disguised as men. Others were spies. During the First World War women could sign up for the first time. By the time World War Two came around, a manpower shortage caused the services to assign women tasks that men had performed. They were trained to fill the gaps left in the support services. In all 350,000 women answered their country's call to arms. Most of them in the Women's Army Corps. They were tending the wounded in Korea under battle conditions a mere five days after the first troops landed. Since the first settlers had arrived in the new land, women had been ready to stand beside their countrymen to defend it. Now, a mere two hundred years later they would be given that privilege. After getting all the duties of command taken care of, she left the ship to enjoy Oahu and some of the things it had to offer.

Roberts floated down to the lush green landscape. He had only managed to force his eyes open for brief altitude checks. Hitting the ground he tumbled onto his side and became entangled in the parachute's rigging. To his surprise he hadn't landed any harder than he had when jumping off the back of the Jeep. He was concentrating on freeing himself from the lines when a rectangular shadow silently passed over him. Looking up he saw Nicols at about four hundred feet, banking her square chute for a final approach on him. She came closer and pulled down hard on the steering toggles. Gracefully the chute flared out and set her down gently not more than ten feet from where Roberts sat. With the forward speed gone the multicoloured chute melted to the ground. Nicols snapped the quick releases and walked away as though she had just stepped off an escalator at J.C. Penny's. She came forward and stood over Roberts.

"That wasn't so bad now was it?"

Now free of the tangle he attempted to stand. His legs succumbed to the tension of his four thousand foot descent. Nicols could see his distress and reached out a hand to steady him.

"You're scared of heights aren't you?" she understated. She was actually feeling pity for him.

"Absolutely terrified. I don't even like being this tall." he admitted to her.

"Then what in God's name are you doing flying fighters?" To the logical mind of Nicols, this was quite perplexing.

"When I'm flying I've got a couple of Pratt and Whitney turbofans to protect me from the evils of gravity. Not a few square feet of nylon to cover my body when I hit the ground." He was starting to calm down a bit.

"Would you like to go up and try it again?" Nicols knew the answer before she asked the question.

"The next airplane I jump out of is going to have to be on fire." he shot back.

Gordon had approached him from behind. He spun around to see her standing there with her ever present grin.

"God Damn Roberts, you looked like an epileptic star fish when you went out that door." At this comment she suddenly broke down into involuntary laughter.

"You think you're pretty funny don't you Gordon?" He wasn't impressed with the underhanded way she had introduced him to skydiving.

She placed her hand on his shoulder with her other hand across her stomach. "What do you say we all go get a drink to celebrate your induction to the world of the practicing lunatic?" She was now bringing herself under control.

After what he had been through, a stiff drink would be just the thing right now.

"You're on. But you walk out front where I can see you and you're not driving."

Gordon readily agreed. They had humbled the fabled Tomcat driver. That was enough for one day.

Alexander sat behind his desk sifting through his daily influx of mail. Stopping halfway through the pile he picked up an envelope personally addressed to him. Recognizing the fluid pen strokes he immediately shoved the other mail to the side. As always, a letter from his wife took precedence over all others. Freeing it from the envelope, the outside world ceased to exist for the next few minutes.

December 3, 1990

My Dearest Louis,

Doug Hall called today and told me that you were being ordered into the Gulf.

Alexander glanced up to the date on the letter. That damn Hall, he thought. My wife knew before I did.

You had told me about your new squadron so I asked if they would be shipping out with you. He said that if their fitness reports were satisfactory there was a very good chance of it. Louis, I watched you and cried for you when you came home from Vietnam. When they finally erected the Memorial in Washington, I accompanied you and saw the tears when you found Paul's name. I can only imagine the prison that was placed around you from your experience. A lot of the men who went there were drafted into service and a lot of them didn't want to be there. You joined voluntarily. Out of patriotism and a desire to stand for what is right, you willingly went through hell. And do you know something my love? I know that you would not hesitate to do it again even knowing the consequences. The women that are on your ship are there for the same reasons. They have no desire to become Hollywood heroes or martyrs. They want to help and then they want to come home, just like you did. If the worst happens and you have to lead them into battle, please remember that they are there because they want to be. And should any of them give their lives, they will be honoured as would any soldier who died in the line of duty. They won't be remembered as non-combatant casualties. They will be remembered as brave young Americans who chose not to stand by while the less fortunate were oppressed by others. Don't treat them differently, because they are not. I never thought I would see you going off to battle again and I pray this will blow over. Regardless of the outcome I am here waiting for you.

Go with my love

Annette

Alexander read to the bottom of the letter. Most others would have missed it, but there at the bottom of the page was one small water stain. He knew where it had come from. She was upset because he was going off again. She would never mention it to him. Instead she dealt with everyone else's difficulties and silenced her own. When the sword had again been sheathed; she would talk about her own feelings. Not before then. He carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. From his right hand desk drawer he withdrew a velvet box and tucked the letter in with every other letter she had ever written from the day they had met. Closing the drawer, he heard a knock.

"Enter." He made the transition from the loving husband to Vice Admiral instantaneously.

The messenger poked his head through the door and reported to Alexander. "Sir, there are a bunch of reporters down on the dock and they want to talk to you."

"What in the hell do they want?"

"They didn't say, Sir."

Alexander grabbed his hat on the way out the door. "Well let's go find out."

Alexander reached the bottom of the gangway and was, without delay set upon by the members of the press. He had expected a somewhat smaller group but to his annoyance they included the Honolulu Advertiser, The Honolulu Star and camera crews from ABC and NBC.

"I am Vice Admiral Louis Alexander. How may I help you?"

A Hawaiian woman was the first to speak. "Sir, at approximately seven o'clock on December 7th a large group of military aircraft disrupted traffic at Oahu International Airport.Can you comment on the activities the Navy was conducting to cause this disruption."

"Yes Ma'am, it was a training exercise and was cleared with Barber's Point Naval Station beforehand. At no point was there any risk to civilian aircraft."

"I assumed that Sir. We are here because we've had an unconfirmed report that the pilots in that exercise were women." The reporter pushed.

"That is correct; the squadron that participated is entirely staffed by women."

"We also understand your carrier has been ordered into the Gulf. Will that squadron be serving with you at that location?"

Alexander did not want the Black Widows to turn into a freak show for the press. Hoping to get them out of here he answered.

"I am not at liberty to discuss the complement aboard this carrier. If you have any further questions please direct them to the department of the Navy. Now if you will excuse me I have work to do."

Margo Akamye lingered on as the other reporters began to disperse. It had been her that overheard the Air Force pilots discussing their encounter with, as they had put it, "those Molly Pitchers" from the Navy.

Molly Pitchers was the nickname bestowed upon women in the Revolutionary War. It attested to their duty as water carriers. To Margo; a woman going to serve in the Gulf was nothing new. The media on the Mainland had already flogged that story for all it was worth. A fighter bomber squadron; women taking the fight to the enemy; was newsworthy though. Their deployment would change the military forever. She would get nowhere dealing with the bureaucrats at Naval Headquarters. She had to find one of those pilots. There were a number of places in Oahu where pilots went to blow off steam. She would just spend the next couple of evenings hanging out at one of them.

As luck would have it, the Hyatt Regency was where Roberts chose to pull in for a drink. The three sat in the lounge and made small talk about different things. Although all were thinking about it, their upcoming assignment was carefully avoided. They just sat and let the tensions of their profession dissolve like the ice in the glasses before them. Gordon watched Roberts with amusement. He was trying so hard to make a good impression on Nicols that it was comical.

Suddenly he jumped out of his seat and headed toward the lobby. When he returned he had Plane Captain Nawrot in tow. He had glimpsed him through the door, and decided a familiar face would dissipate his anxiety. The two women heard Nawrot's protests to the invitation to join them as they approached.

"No, really Commander, I have to go Christmas shopping for my girls."

"Come on Nawrot, it won't kill you to sit for a few minutes." Roberts persisted.

Gordon rose from her seat and greeted the Plane Captain. She had been wondering how to get away and leave Nicols and Roberts alone.

"If the man has things to do, we shouldn't keep him from it. In fact Plane Captain, I have a few things I would like to get for some people back home. Would you mind if I joined you?"

"No, not at all."

Maybe with a woman's help he could come up with some suitable gifts for his family. He'd guessed correctly that Kathy might be tired of his usual aviation related paraphernalia.

At Nawrot's acceptance, Nicols tensed up. That damn Gordon was going to leave her here alone with Roberts.

Roberts was pleased with the outcome. Gordon was nice enough, but he felt like he was under a microscope when she was around. After they had left he sat down to face Nicols.

"Can I get you another drink?" he asked

Nicols stared at him warily for a moment. An image of him spread-eagled in midair flashed through her mind. A small chortle escaped and her eyes watered as she brought a hand up to cover the drink that had tried to come out her nose.

Roberts was wearing a dumb smile. He stretched his arm toward her palm out. "What! . . . What!"

After a few hours of battling the crowds in different stores, Nawrot and Gordon agreed that maybe a carrier wasn't so packed after all. They had managed to find some great gifts for Nawrot's daughters, and at Gordon's encouragement, something for his wife. He wasn't much for sharing his personal problems, but she had gotten enough information from him to know what was going on. He was away from home too much; his wife didn't like it and he was too stubborn to quit. Reasonable enough excuse to get a divorce. Right? Wrong.

Gordon's parents had ended their marriage for much the same reasons. She had never felt she was a product of a broken home, just an unnecessarily divided one. It was nearing five o'clock by the time they arrived back at Nawrot's hotel. Gordon helped him carry his packages to his room. He thanked her for her assistance and escorted her to the door. They walked out into the hall just as Kathy opened her door on the opposite side.

"Ron?"

He directed his attention to his wife. "Kathy, I'd like you to meet Lt. Chelsea Gordon. She's one of the new pilots from the ship." Without meaning to, he physically moved Gordon to present her.

It was clear to Kathy by his openness that this wasn't what it may have looked like at first glance.

Gordon extended her hand to Kathy.

"I'm pleased to meet you Mrs. Nawrot. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to run. Ron told me he had a special place in mind to take you for dinner. I wouldn't want to keep you from it."

Nawrot watched her recede down the hall. "Now why the hell did she say that?" he thought.

"So where is this special place we're going for dinner? I'm hungry." Kathy asked.

"Uh . . . um, it's a surprise. Just let me change and I'll be right back." Once back in his room Nawrot grabbed the phone and called the front desk for a restaurant recommendation. Then he quickly donned his dress uniform. It had the occasional wrinkle but it would have to do. Satisfied that he had done his best under the circumstances, he joined his wife in the lobby within fifteen minutes. Approaching her from behind, it struck him that eight years and two children hadn't taken from her beauty at all. If anything; she was far more beautiful now than the day he had married her. He stopped beside her and offered his arm.

"Shall we?"

"By all means." she answered.

Gordon arrived at her hotel to find Nicols hadn't returned yet. They had chosen the Miramar at Waikiki; not for the name, but because it was less expensive than those that were closer to the ocean. She flopped down on the bed to watch television and soon dozed off. After an indeterminate amount of time she awoke to the sound of the shower running. Looking over to the clock on the nightstand she saw it was after eight P.M. The shower stopped and Nicols came from the bathroom in a new housecoat, towelling her long dark hair. Gordon sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"How did your date with Roberts go Kristen?"

Nicols stopped for a moment and looked at Gordon. "It wasn't a date." she replied too quickly.

Gordon tapped the clock. "I left you around noon. A couple of hours is having a drink together. This is definitely a date."

"Chelsea, if you must know we went and did a little shopping together."

Gordon appraised Nicols' new house coat. "That is a fine robe you bought, but don't tell me it took you eight hours to find it."

Nicols grabbed a sheet of hotel stationary from the dresser and pretended to read from the blank page.

"13:30 departed Hyatt Regency. 14:10 entered shopping mall. 17:25 stopped for dinner. 19:00 short walk. 19:45 dropped Roberts at the Outrigger East Hotel. 20:00 arrived at my hotel." She flipped the paper over her shoulder. "Any more questions?"

"Yeah, how was your date with Roberts?"

"We had fun, and he's taking me out for dinner and dancing tomorrow night."

"Did he apologize for shooting you down?"

Nicols flashed her own version of a wicked grin. "No, but he will."

* * * * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Difficult things take a long time

The impossible takes a little longer

(Anonymous)

* * * * *

Nawrot and his wife had taken the short taxi ride from their hotel to La Mer restaurant at the Halekulani Hotel. He hadn't thought to phone for a reservation but luckily they were taken straight to a table that overlooked the beachfront. After a meal that could only be described as exquisite, they sat nursing a cocktail.

"Do you want to talk now?" he asked.

Kathy sat for a moment before answering. "I don't even know where to begin, Ron."

Ron looked across the table at her "We have gotten into some pretty serious arguments and we've said things to each other that aren't that easy to forget . . ."

Kathy cut him off in mid-sentence. "Ron, arguments have never hurt us before. We have them and go on with life. That hasn't changed."

"What's the problem then? Whatever it is I'm sure we can work it out. Think of Amanda and Jessica."

"I am thinking of them. That's why I'm doing this."

"Is taking their Father away from them is thinking of them?"

"The Navy has already done that. They can't grow up seeing their Mother unhappy all of the time. You've chosen the Navy. Now I want my freedom to pursue my own happiness. You'll always be their Dad, but I have needs too."

"Do you still love me?" he asked

Her eyes were glossy with sadness when she answered. "I have loved you since high school Ron. I just don't have the strength to anymore."

"Is there anything I can do to change your mind?"

"Yes . . . Yes, you can come home with me and stay there."

She withdrew a letter from her purse and handed it to him. He read the communication from Grumman. There it was in black and white. A job offer and salary three times what he made now.

Nawrot sat in silence formulating his thoughts. He had spent eight years aboard different carriers. This time they were being sent to a potential war zone. If throughout that eight years there was any time when he simply couldn't abandon the Navy, this was it.

"When we come home from the Gulf I'll look into going to work for Grumman."

Kathy had expected this answer. He had made his choice, and though it meant the end of their marriage she was relieved that it was over.

"You've been saying that for the last two years and quite frankly I don't believe you anymore. When I get home I'm going through with our divorce."

They rode back to the hotel in silence. As far as Kathy was concerned, all had been said and done. Nawrot was desperately trying to think of way to save a ray of hope that they could work it out.

He accompanied her to her hotel room door.

"When are you flying home?"

"I was planning to leave tomorrow."

"Kath, we've never been to Hawaii before. Do you think you could stay and spend this one last leave with me?"

She hesitated briefly with her answer. "I suppose I could, but it won't change anything."

"I know." he said turning to go to his own room. He stopped and faced her again. "Thank-you Kath."

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. She had just given him another two days of her life to change his mind. "But," she promised herself, "this was the last time."

Across the hall Nawrot closed his own door and threw his hat across the room. He had just bought himself two days to change her mind. He knew it was his last chance.

The carrier and her support vessels continued to lay in supplies for their upcoming extended tour. One aspect of the operation was more pronounced this time. The armourers had various bombs and missiles spread across the deck. Each was being carefully checked. Should they be required to use them, they would perform without fail. Captain Williams stood taking all of this in from Vulture's Row. Laid out in front of him were more explosives than had been dropped on this harbour forty nine years before. The men that were working on them were of the new generation Navy. They performed their task with computers and microchips. Many had grown up staring mindlessly into video screens, laying waste to computer generated villains. The wonder of technology would now enable them to deliver these neat packages of destruction to a real life villain.

Williams wondered if any of them had the slightest idea of the terror these docile canisters held. He wasn't sure if he knew himself. He had been in command of the Enterprise for eighteen months now. His fighters and bombers had always returned from their missions. Very soon that could change and there was nothing he could do to stop it. For a brief instant he longed to be in the past. A past where survival depended on hard work, not on your computer being a millisecond faster than an enemy's. Across the flight deck he spied a number of men laughing. Their group dissipated to reveal the object of their merriment. Four Maverick optically guided bombs sat sporting a neon pink paint job. No doubt in honour of the Hornets that would carry them. Williams shook his head. It was still a game to them. That too would change. War had a way of bringing maturity to boys.And in this case; girls as well. They had seven more days in port before they shipped out. Williams knew that once at sea, the Admiral would demand their best, to prepare for the worst.

Roberts arrived at the Miramar at Waikiki at precisely 1800 to pick Nicols up for their date. Actually he had arrived fifteen minutes early, which he had spent in the rented Mustang convertible out in the parking lot. His entire day had been devoted to getting ready. His Navy whites had been cleaned and pressed to perfection. His fingers were sore from hand polishing his rank insignia and metal accessories. As he arrived at her door he examined himself once more. Satisfied that all was in order he tucked his hat beneath his arm and knocked. Immediately the door was flung open and he was greeted by Gordon. She swiftly gave him the once over.

"You look like you just fell out of a recruiting poster, Commander Roberts."

His face flushed a little at her comment. Without taking her eyes off him she called over her shoulder.

"Kristen, your young man has arrived." She wrinkled her nose and said to Roberts. "She'll be right with you."

Focusing past Gordon, he saw Kristen step around the corner. He had been taken by her good looks the first time he met her, but it didn't prepare him for this. Though he suspected she would look good in a flour sack, the outfit she had on seemed to be made specifically for her. She squeezed by Gordon into the hallway.

"I'm ready." she announced.

"Have fun you two." said Gordon, crossing her arms and leaning against the open doorway.

Thank-you Lieutenant." replied Roberts, walking to catch up to Nicols. Half way down the hall Gordon called out to them. They stopped and turned toward her. Both were wondering what kind of crack she was going to come out with now. As they stood side by side she appraised them.

"You two look great." she said finally, and went back inside the room.

"She's kind of unpredictable, isn't she?" commented Roberts.

"Yes." agreed Nicols. "But you get used to it after a while."

She followed a half step behind while he led the way to the car. Being Navy herself, she could appreciate the trouble he had gone to with his uniform. She suspected it had been altered as well. Uniforms from the shelf definitely didn't fit like that. In her experience the Quartermaster had two sizes. Too big and too small. Reaching the parking lot, he escorted her to the passenger side of the car and opened her door. This mildly surprised her, for it didn't fit the macho image she had gotten used to in the service.

"How did you know I liked convertibles?" she questioned when he had settled into the driver's seat.

"Doesn't everybody?" He withheld the fact that he had phoned all over Honolulu to find this one.

He pulled out onto Kuhio Avenue and headed southeast. With the top down and pressing on the accelerator a little harder than necessary he asked "What do you feel like having for dinner tonight Lieutenant; French, Chinese, seafood?"

"Seafood sounds good, and please I'm not in uniform, call me Kristen."

Without warning he glanced over his shoulder and made a U-turn to head in the opposite direction.

"Seafood it is, Kristen."

Nicols unconsciously checked her seat belt and returned his smile. Twenty minutes later they pulled into the parking lot near the IIikai Marina. The restaurant he had chosen was The Chart House. Expecting to have to wait for a table, Nicols was amused when he announced their arrival to the headwaiter.

"Roberts, party of two."

The man quickly skimmed down a list before him and looked up. "Of course Commander, please follow me. Your table is ready."

Nicols knew that their reservations would be given to someone else in at least three other restaurants.

The evening was warm with just a hint of a breeze to flutter the palm leaves and waft the smell of the ocean across their table. A waiter glided toward them to impart the choices of cuisine. As the twilight closed over the open air dinner, Roberts and Nicols buried themselves in conversation. Roberts lost track of time. He sat listening to Kristen answer his queries about her and couldn't recall a time when he had been happier. Nicols was enjoying the attention being showered upon her. At length a waiter approached.

"Would the Gentleman care for the check?"

Roberts glanced at his watch. It was already past ten thirty. "My gosh, we've spent the whole evening here." He took the check from the waiter and retrieved some bills from his breast pocket to pay it."

As they stood awaiting the delivery of his car by the valet service Roberts asked "Would you still like to go out dancing somewhere Kristen?"

"No I don't think so."

Roberts' dejected expression was immediate.

"It's getting late," she continued. "I'm free tomorrow night though."

They drove back to the hotel without talking much. Not far from their destination Nicols asked what had been on both of their minds all night long.

"Braidon?"

"Yes."

"Are you . . . Are you worried about where they're sending us?"

He took his eyes off the road long enough to see that she appeared troubled. "Pardon my language, but I think the sonofabitch is bluffing," he answered.

"I hope you're right."

The remainder of the trip passed in silence. He escorted Kristen to her door and bid her a good night. Inside her room she found Gordon still awake.

"You're home early, how'd it go?".

Nicols gave a forced smile and answered, "We had a wonderful time, we're going out again tomorrow night." She didn't say anything about the shadow of war that had ruined it for her.

Four blocks away, at the Hyatt Regency, Nawrot sat in the lounge staring blankly at a wall. He had arisen early and taken his wife around the island to see the different attractions. Just an hour ago she had returned to her room. He had done his best to act normally and enjoy himself. Their upcoming separation only made it uncomfortable for both of them. Nawrot would comment about something they could do when he got home and he was met with silence from Kathy. Eight years of marriage changes the manner in which a couple speaks to each other.

At first, when dating, they'll talk about themselves and ask questions about each other. As the relationship progresses the conversation turns toward each one's hopes and dreams for the future. After marriage they will talk about children and houses and careers. Then the children come along and they turn their energy to their proper upbringing. And so it goes for the length of the partnership. One thing is constant in this natural chain of events. Always they are planning for the future. As long as there is hope for a tomorrow, each day is a beginning. Should that be removed, communication breaks down and they no longer have any common ground to share.

"How do you overcome something like that?" he asked himself. He had until four P.M. tomorrow to find out. Setting his empty glass on the table, he returned to his room. Picking up a pen he began to write, possibly he could coax a new beginning for them onto the paper in front of him.

Gordon watched Nicols model the third outfit in this store alone.

"Why don't you just buy them all?" she asked. They had spent the previous morning shopping for the clothes she'd worn to dinner with Roberts.

"What if he doesn't want to do anything with me after tonight? Then I'm stuck with a load of clothes I can't use." Nicols liked clothes as much as any other person, but military life prevented her from owning a large wardrobe. Besides that, they had only brought the bare necessities aboard with them. A social life had been the last thing on her mind.

"Haven't you been paying attention to the way he looks at you? I'd venture a guess that your calendar is full until we leave port."

"You aren't feeling left out are you, Chelsea?"

"No, I got hold of Lt. Moroki last night while you were out. She heard about some club where the pilots hang out and she wants to go argue with them."

This was a fringe benefit to the liking of Gordon. A male pilot could only push a disagreement so far before it turned into a brawl. It was sort of like going to the zoo and teasing the alligators. There was a whole lot of jaw snapping but not much risk.

Satisfied with her selection, Nicols changed and paid the clerk.

"Do you want to go find something now, Chelsea?"

"No, I think I'll just wear my uniform tonight." She had found that even though she could explain the complexities of a night ground attack, her male counterparts sometimes needed to see her bars and wings as proof that possibly she knew what she was talking about.

Kathy sat in her room fuming. She had seen her husband for breakfast and then he had left her. He said he had to go to the Navy's office for something. Checking the time she saw there was only an hour left until she had to catch her plane. Angrily she started to throw her clothes into her bag. It had been a mistake to think she could change him. His beloved airplanes would always come first. The nerve of him to ask her to stay and then leave her in the hotel all day infuriated her. Picking up the telephone, she called down to the desk for a taxi. It crossed her mind to leave him a note, but she discarded the idea as quickly as it had come. He had used up all of his chances. Her lawyer would deal with it now. Hoisting her bag to her shoulder, she checked the room to be sure she had gotten everything. In the corner were some brightly wrapped packages. She gathered these in her arms also. There wasn't any need to deprive the kids because of the problems they had.

Nawrot's taxi pulled up behind another in front of the hotel. It had taken much longer at headquarters than he'd anticipated. To his dismay he saw Kathy getting into the back seat. Throwing a ten over the seat to the driver, he leapt out and dove into the lead cab. As they pulled away she glared at him.

"So nice you could make it Ron. Are you sure your precious Navy can spare you for this?"

"Look Kath, I had to . . ."

"Save your breath Ron. I've had it."

"But . . ."

"No buts. If you want to come to the airport, do so, but leave me alone."

Hoping she would cool off, he sat back and shut up for the trip to Oahu International. They arrived at the airline's gate with very little time to spare. Flashing her boarding pass to the man at the American desk, she walked straight through the security screen. Ron followed her through, setting the metal detectors off in the process. As two security guards converged on him he grabbed his wife by the arm to stop her. She whirled around and slapped him across the face.

"I told you to leave me alone."Tears were streaming down her face.

Nawrot thrust a manila envelope at her and with a tear in his eye he told her "I love you Kath."

She watched the security team detain him and escort him away. No doubt he was going to have some explaining to do. Since this Gulf thing had started, airport security was tough. He wouldn't have much trouble. The Navy would get him out.

The silver 747 gained momentum down the runway. Attaining flying speed it broke free of the runway. At the same instant it broke Kathy Nawrot's heart. She sat numbly staring at the seat back in front of her. She had fought as hard as she could have for her husband, and now she was scared.

It took over forty five minutes for Nawrot to explain his unwelcome intrusion at the airport. After making a couple of phone calls to the Navy, the Airport Authority allowed him to leave. He was given a stern warning about his actions due to present tensions abroad. "I have my own tensions due to a broad," he thought glumly. His sense of humour was still intact he noticed. With just tonight left of his leave he decided to go to one of the clubs to drown his sorrows. If only he could have gotten back to the hotel an hour earlier things would have been different.

Captain William's sat thinking for a moment. He had just gotten a call from the shore patrol about one of the men on this ship. It seemed a Plane Captain Nawrot was at the Oahu Airport raising a ruckus. The name sounded indistinctly familiar; but to keep track of fifty five hundred men was an impossibility. Because of the unclear acquaintance with the name, he decided to pull his fitness report. Perhaps he had been in trouble before. If so, by keeping a close eye on him, any future disturbances might be parried.

Laying down the folder, Williams had come up with no reason to suspect that the incident was anything but an isolated one. The Plane Captain had served aboard four different carriers including this one. Each move had been to a higher posting. His Commanding Officers had all given him glowing reports. His knack to keep complex equipment serviceable was something of a legend in the maintenance circles. By the look of it, if he couldn't fix it, it probably needed replacing anyway. In other words there was nothing to worry about. Williams promptly forgot about it and went about his business.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

The heart has its reasons

Which the mind knows nothing of

(Blaise Pascal, 1623-1662)

* * * * *

Thirty four thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean Kathy sat staring at the envelope Ron had given her. Her curiosity finally won and she opened it up. Shaking the contents out, she saw the letter in her husband's handwriting. She could see no harm in it. It was probably the same song and dance as always. Sceptically she began to read.

Dear Kath,

Please understand that I love you. You are the only woman who has ever been in my life. You are the only woman I ever want in my life. The Navy is not more important to me than my wife and family, but since just before we were married; it is all I have ever known. I can only imagine the loneliness that has driven you to the actions you have been taking. The loneliness of a ship is dimmed by it. At least aboard ship I have my work to occupy my time away from you. You have done a wonderful job with our daughters without my help. Every time I come home I see how much they have grown and how polite and happy they seem. When I go to sea, you have always put on a happy face for me. For eight years you have put your needs aside to give me mine. This upcoming cruise is the last time I will serve aboard a carrier, or any other ship. I have uprooted you and moved you across the country to follow my dream. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you have given me. I beg you to let me serve my country just this one more time. I know you need me there, but I'm needed here also. You don't have to answer right away. Take as long as you need to think about it. Should you decide you still want me, you can send the papers that I have enclosed with my letter. Somebody famous once said "I regret I have only one life to give." I regret only that I have not given more of my one life to you.

I love you.

Ron

The tears started to trickle from her eyes as she inspected the remaining contents of the envelope. There she found, addressed to the proper department, his resignation from the Navy. In another group of papers was a copy of his service record. Attached to it, a letter to the Grumman Test Facility in California accepting their offer of employment. The tears were falling freely now.

A flight attendant approached her with a worried look and asked "Are you all right Ma'am?"

Kathy looked up and gripped the papers on her lap.

"Yes . . . Yes, everything is just fine." In her mind she thought of her husband and where he was going. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed silently. "Please God; don't take him from me now."

Gordon and Moroki entered Annabelle's discotheque situated atop the IIikai Hotel. It was still early in the evening; nevertheless it wasn't going to be long before it was filled to capacity. They hadn't been seated fifteen minutes before a man wearing the uniform of the United States Air Force approach the table. Gordon scrutinized him and noted the Falcon patch on his shoulder.

"Would you ladies allow me to buy you a drink?" he asked

Moroki glanced at Gordon, who lightly nodded an affirmative.

Sitting down, he looked across the room and waved a hand at an as yet unseen companion.

"We said you could join us for a drink, not your whole squadron." Gordon voiced.

"Ah, he's a nice guy. You'll like him."

"We're not sure if we like you yet."

Another Officer showed up at the table, Air Force One stood to introduce Air Force Two.

"This is Captain Ken Northcott, and I'm Captain Randy Bursey." He looked expectantly at the two women. "And you are?"

Gordon gestured a hand at herself, "I'm Lt. Chelsea Gordon and this is Lt. Susan Moroki. You can call us Lieutenant for short."

Once seated, a waiter was summoned to retrieve drinks.

"What squadron are you with?" inquired Moroki.

With a feeble attempt at modesty Bursey answered, "We fly F-16s out of Hickam Field."

"Oh really," Gordon acted impressed, "Were you in on that training exercise with the Navy the other day?"

Northcott's eyes lit up. Here was a chance to wow these COD pilots with some real flying.

"Yea, we were in on that, we had a flight over the harbour."

"Tell us what happened." Moroki leaned forward on the table to encourage him.

"Well . . ." he brought his hands up in the usual pilot fashion to describe a dogfight and launched into his version of events.

A Hawaiian woman seated herself at the next table. The waiter took her order of a ginger ale and left her. She sat examining the crowd around her. With her eyes attending the crowd, her ears caught the objective of her inquisition. Snapping her head around, her search came to a close. To her delight, there sat two Navy pilots with wings blazoned above their pockets. She listened intently to be sure they were from the carrier. One of the mean was describing the events of the exercise.

"And before this Hornet broke from me, my wingman here . . ."

Gordon broke in. By his description of events he had definitely been there, past that point, his account was totally fiction.

"Your wingman was in no position to do anything. He was too busy trying to save his ass from two Navy fighters. At which I might add, he was miserably unsuccessful." Now it was Moroki's turn.

"And then the Hornet you were chasing did a break to flush you out in front. If you would have lead turned and controlled your overtake you wouldn't have gotten gunned down like a mangy dog." This accurate rendition took the two men totally unawares.

"Did you two get to read the report somehow?" asked Bursey.

"It is such a small world Captain. We wrote the report. It was us that shot your little airplanes from the wild blue." Moroki then provided some details to remove any doubt.

"Then it's true about that squadron from the Navy."Bursey could see his chances of a romantic rendezvous slipping away quickly.

"The VF/A-47 Black Widows, at your service, Captains."

Having embarrassed themselves enough Bursey, downed his drink and skidded his chair back from the table.

"If you ladies will excuse us, we have to get back to the base. We have an early alert." On cue Northcott rose to join him.

"Pleasure making your acquaintance." he announced, and the two beat a hasty retreat.

Gordon and Moroki raised their glasses to each other to toast their performance. Lowering her drink, Moroki wiped her mouth and snickered.

"Did you see his face when I called him a mangy dog? I bet if I was a man he'd have planted me."

"You never know. If we carry this equal rights thing far enough, maybe he will." Gordon's comment sent them into another round of laughter.

Over the top of her glass Lt. Moroki noticed a woman standing in front of their table staring at them and nudged her partner. Gordon looked around them for an obvious reason for the solicitation.

"May we help you?" Moroki asked, setting her glass down.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with the two Officers from the Air Force. It was quite impressive how you got rid of them." She didn't mean the conversation in the club. She wanted to hear about the display over the harbour.

"Would you mind if I joined you for a while?" the Hawaiian woman requested.

"I suppose not, as long you don't start telling us fighter pilot stories." Moroki lifted her drink and flopped back into the plush chair she occupied.

"I'm Margo Akamye from the Honolulu Star." She extended her hand

Leaning forward, Chelsea gripped her hand."We don't care if you're President Bush, as long as you're buying the drinks."

They all had a chuckle over this.

I'm obviously not President Bush and I was hoping you would tell me a few fighter pilot stories. I'll buy all night if you like."

Nawrot placed the empty glass back on the bar and motioned the waiter to bring him another. For a while the alcohol had taken the jagged edge from his despair. Like most people who drink to forget, he soon went beyond the euphoric side effect and became even more despondent. He had just lost his marriage, he was thousands of miles from home and the panic of being helpless to do anything about it was rapidly overtaking him. Gazing around the bar, he noted a lady sitting by herself. Hungry for some relief from the loneliness, he approached her table.

"Mind if I join you Ma'am."

She looked up from the table and appraised her unexpected visitor. Confident that he appeared decent enough, she consented to his request. As Nawrot sat down it was not lost on him that the woman was decidedly attractive. The conversation started out with their names and a brief explanation for each one's presence at this particular time. Gradually, with the help of a few drinks Nawrot started to tell stories of his childhood. They in themselves were not spectacular. But when laced with his brand of humour, he soon had her laughing so hard her eyes were watering. The evening wore on and each became more comfortable with the other. When she had started to ask more personal questions, he had eagerly withdrawn his wallet to display his children. Noticing a faded portrait of Kathy, she inquired about her. He gave her the Reader's Digest version of what had happened to their marriage. This satisfied her curiosity. Just after midnight the woman stood to leave.

"I've had a little too much to drink. I think it's time to go back to my hotel." She looked at Nawrot appreciatively and asked, "Would you care to join me?"

He stood and was suddenly aware of the amount he'd had to drink. With slurred words he gave his answer.

"Where did you learn to dance to those old songs like that?" Nicols asked her date.

"I grew up on a farm in Washington. All we had to do for excitement was crash wedding dances."

Roberts and Nicols had been in the club for three hours now and had danced for two and a half of them. When an older song or jive would come on, he would drag her to her feet. Then one of the new ones would play and he would clumsily bob around the dance floor trying to keep up with her. Nicols' taste in music leaned toward the current hits on the radio, and Roberts' was more at ease with the older tried and true tunes. This only added to their enjoyment. Between the two of them they danced to just about everything. Ambling back to their table she asked more about his roots.

"Well, I was born and raised on a farm just outside Colville. Then after high school I went to MIT for a while."

"What made you decide to join the Navy?" she inquired of him.

"I started to take flying lessons at one of the flying clubs near Cambridge. My instructor was an ex-navy pilot, and the owner of the club. Anyway after about ten lessons he told me I was wasting my time at MIT."

"Let me guess. He told you about the glory and self satisfaction in serving God and Country. Right?"

He smiled at her. "No, I don't think that would have done it. What he did, was take me over to a locked hangar and showed me an old T-28D Trojan he had adopted from somewhere." Without thinking about the company he was in, Robert's blurted out "Now there is a real tits machine." he caught himself and turned red in the face.

"You don't see those every day." she observed. She never gave his comment a second thought. She had heard enough pilots to get her used to their unusual way of describing things.

"You get to go for a ride in them even less. He pulled it out of the hangar and took me for the ride of my life."

She could see the excitement in his expression as he mentally relived his first taste of military flying.

"After about fifteen minutes of trying to make me sick, he hung it on the prop and stalled it. He pulled off the power, then he just let go of everything and said, "You got it."

Nicols could imagine what it would be like for a low time student to be faced with that. "So what did you do?"

"I put it into a spin and just about killed us."

The story had seemed so . . . so American up until he blurted out that he'd screwed up. Giggling at the thought of some terrified young student out of control in a plane like that, she asked."What was it that made you join then?"

"I couldn't get over the power that plane had and I wanted it more than anything in the world after that."

"Are you ever sorry for your decision?"

"No, I've never had anything but flying." He winked at her and added, "Up until now."

She gave him a shy smile.

"What about you? What got you into this racket?"

"You want the truth or something interesting?" she asked

"I'll settle for the truth."

She looked around the room to be sure they weren't being overheard and whispered in his ear. He rolled his eyes back in his head and commented. "Typical woman."

You Ain't Nothin' but a Hound Dog blared over the speaker system. He grabbed her hand and they returned to the dance floor laughing with each other, hand in hand.

Whirling around the room he watched her approvingly. "What a thing to join the Navy for." He hypothesized, "Spiffy uniforms."

Margo Akamye had been writing furiously trying to catch the essence of what her interviewees where saying. Gordon and Moroki had been quite candid in answering her questions. She had to stop them on occasion and get them to translate into English the fighter-ese creeping into the conversation. As a writer it was her job to convey what she heard to her readers. Listening to these women she wondered if she could do that with just mere words. How could she explain things she herself didn't understand? Running down the list of questions on her pad she had come to the last two. She directed the first of these to Lt. Moroki.

"What motivated you to join the services Lieutenant?"

Moroki thought for a few moments about her answer. About her Father's objections to her pursuit of this profession and the argument she had used to convince him. With her high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes, the ancestral link between her and the Hawaiian reporter was evident. Her answer differed not at all from the statement she had made to her father five years ago.

"This country took in my family and allowed them the freedom to work and be happy. They did that shortly after we had been at war with each other. I'm grateful for all the United States has done for my family and thousands of others from Japan. I joined because I would like to repay in some small way the generosity we have enjoyed."

Her next question was directed at both women.

"You may be going to war. What does that feel like?"

Sitting before her were two young women with their whole lives ahead of them. Both highly educated and evidently competent to operate a thirty five million dollar weapons system in a hostile climate. Their answers were immediate, identical and honest.

"We're scared and if anyone tells you different, they're lying."

Nawrot cautiously opened one bloodshot eye to check the time. 0600. He had two hours to get ready and get back to the carrier. Hefting himself up on one elbow, he spotted his wedding ring laying in the ashtray. Through the residue of the alcohol he recollected the events of last night. He whirled around to be sure he had done what he thought he'd done. The sudden movement set off an earthquake in his head. Ignoring the pain, he slumped back down on the bed and let the relief wash over him. When the woman had made her offer he had told her.

"You are a very beautiful woman, and I am honoured." He then held up his left hand to reveal his wedding band. "But I still love my wife and I can't betray her even now."

After the woman had left, he had returned to his hotel. Sitting down on the bed, he removed the ring and sadly put it in the ashtray. Then he laid back and cried himself to sleep. His intent the night before had been only to get some respite from the hurt. He sat up again and slipped the ring back on his finger.

"I'll take it off some day." He thought, "But not today."

* * * * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I disapprove of what you say

But I will defend to the death

Your right to say it

(Voltaire, 1694-1778)

* * * * *

Alexander sipped his morning coffee and flipped to page two of the Honolulu Star. Scanning the page he noticed a picture of a Hornet fighter. Like all pilots presented with a picture of an aircraft, he searched for the story that would accompany it. At the end of the column he drew a deep breath and expelled an exasperated sigh. He picked up the telephone receiver.

"Get Commander Graham in here." he barked

Several minutes later a knock came on his door and Graham entered.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

Alexander handed her the newspaper and poked his finger at the article indicating her to read it. Finishing up she handed the paper back to him.

"Sir, I had no idea. I . . ." He raised a hand to silence her.

"I'm not upset with your pilots Commander. I'm concerned about the way that reporter has written the story."

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"I mean that she has made your squadron out to be a bunch of inexperienced pilots frsh out of training. And look at the closing quote. They are scared by their own admission."

Seeing his point Graham nodded her head. "Would you like me to contact this," she cocked her head to see the reporters name on the desk. "Margo Akamye and have a few words with her?".

He thought for a moment. With the sudden purpose of a workable idea he raised himself from the corner of the desk and strode around the other side.

"No Commander. Unfortunately public opinion can be formed by the media and its style of presentation. What we have here is a story that makes the Black Widows out to be some meek little band of aviators whom the Navy is going to sacrifice should a war erupt over there."

"So you are going to try and get a retraction written about the story."

"A retraction won't do it. That story is probably all over the States this morning. If the public is going to have an opinion, I believe it is our duty to give them a good one. Report back here in an hour."

Raising her wrist to check the time she dismissed herself.

After she left, he again picked up the telephone."Get hold of Commodore Kronlund over at Barber's Point and then see if you can locate a reporter from the Honolulu Star, a Margo Akamye."

Gordon grudgingly opened her eyes to the prodding of Nicols. "Why are you doing this to me?" she complained.

"Come on Chelsea, we have to go to the mall."

"Go away, I'm sick of shopping." She rolled over and observed her friend. "You know, I think I liked you better when you hated him."

Gordon swung her feet to the floor and sat up. So far the fight to keep her eyes open, was a draw. "What do you need to buy today to impress your man?"

"He's not my man. I just enjoy his company."

Gordon checked the clock. 0800. Then she checked her friend. 10. "She definitely has a lock on this guy." she thought. "What are you doing today?"

"We're going to go snorkelling. I need a swimsuit.

"Okay, give me half an hour to get ready. Gordon rose from the bed and headed for the washroom, stubbing her toe along the way.

Nicols sat impatiently waiting, entertained by the series of complaints about early risers emanating from the shower.

Graham met Alexander on the hour as requested.

"I've lined up a couple of Hornets over at Barber's Point. Get hold of one of your pilots for a short hop from there tomorrow morning."

"You want us to put on a little air show for our reporter friend?" questioned Graham.

"In a way. She's on her way out there right now for orientation. The plane you'll be flying is a two-seater. Take her upstairs and give her something to write about."

Graham stood with a smile. "Yes Sir." Issuing a salute she asked, "Anything special required?"

With a wily smirk he answered. "No, just make sure she isn't unconscious for the whole flight."

Gordon climbed the gangway to the carrier. She had to come aboard to get her flight gear for a 10:00 hop at Barber's Point. This was two mornings in a row that her sleep had been cut short. After Nicols had filled her shopping list, she didn't see her for the rest of the day. Graham had contacted her yesterday afternoon about today's PR flight. At 0600 this morning Gordon had been ready to leave the hotel room. She had paused to see Nicols sleeping peacefully. Quietly she had set the alarm clock for 0615 and left the room.

"If I can't sleep, nobody can." she thought

Forty five minutes after arriving at the boat, Gordon met her Commanding Officer on the flight deck. Both headed down to the dock where a Navy car waited to take them to Barber's Point N.A.S .

Margo Akamye awaited the arrival of the Black Widow pilots nervously. It had seemed a wonderful idea yesterday when Admiral Alexander had contacted her and invited her to take a flight. When she had arrived at the Navy installation for orientation she began to have doubts. It had consisted mostly of ejection procedure. In spite of the constant assurance that the event was unlikely, the instructor's preoccupation with bailing out had disturbed her. Finally the door opened and the pilots she would be riding with entered. She recognized Gordon and greeted her by name.

Graham raised an eyebrow and turned to Gordon. "So you're the one. I guess it's fitting that you're in on this."

Gordon swallowed and answered. "My apologies, Ma'am. I didn't see any harm at the time."

Graham smiled and looked at the reporter. "No harm done Lieutenant. We'll just take your friend here for a short ride and show her the workings of a jet fighter."

Margo had been given a flight suit off the rack and it hung on her like a sack. She noticed the way the others fit and commented.

"Oh." answered Graham, "when we go to fighter training they fit them for us."

At the flight line the pilots started going over the Hornets that they were borrowing, answering her questions as they went along. Coming around the nose of the fighter she pointed to the nacelle in front of the cockpit. "What does that do Commander?"

Graham followed her finger to see what she was pointing at.

"That kills people." she said coldly.

Margo spotted the black powder burns around the opening and realized it housed the fighter's cannon. With pre-flight completed, they strapped into the aircraft. Margo was put in the back seat of Graham's plane. The canopy cut them off from the outside world and the two communicated through the internal communication system. The reporter was impressed with the professionalism of these pilots. She could hear them calmly chattering to the tower for clearance.

The two Hornets smoothly accelerated down the length of the runway and eased into the air. Banking into a gentle left turn, Margo glanced to the right to see Gordon's fighter matching their moves as if attached by some invisible thread. Graham's voice came through the ICS and distracted her attention from Gordon.

"We're going to climb to 15,000 feet and head out over the Lualualei Naval Reservation."

Margo started to relax. These ominous looking machines were actually quite pleasant to ride in. She turned her head to the right to check on Gordon. Greeted by nothing but empty sky, she looked up, down and left to no avail.

"Where did Lt. Gordon go?" She queried of Graham.

"She went on ahead. We'll meet her when we get there."

Presently the Hornet levelled off. Margo looked around the cockpit at the different screens and gauges. She recognized the airspeed box on the HUD from her lesson the day before. The numbers hovered around 400 knots. Looking at the ground 15000 feet below she had no sensation of the speed they were going.

Graham's calm voice broke the silence. "Here comes Lt. Gordon now."

Looking forward around her pilot for the other aircraft, her heart went to her toes. There it was coming straight at them. Barely able to turn her head fast enough to keep her eyes on it, Gordon's fighter sizzled past them. Turning to the front again, Gordon's voice ripped through her headset.

"FIGHT'S ON!"

Instinctively Margo grabbed the holy shit handle in front of her. As Graham bent the fighter into a bat-turn to pursue Gordon, Margo Akamye's stomach suddenly abandoned her. The next five minutes were sheer terror for her as the two fighters chased each other around the sky, one trying to get an advantage on the other. All the while Graham's calm voice filled her helmet with a commentary of events. After what seemed like an eternity, Graham hung the Hornet upside down, pulled off the throttle and popped the boards. Suffering from speed sickness Margo didn't even comprehend the significance of Gordon's voice calling "FOX TWO." She had successfully locked onto Graham and called a missile shot. She welcomed the next radio call from her pilot.

"Okay, Knock it off. You got me."

The fighter rolled level and through the nausea she was able to see Gordon's fighter link up on the right hand wing. For the entire flight back to Barber's Point, Margo's eyes never left the other Hornet.

Finally standing on the ground again, Margo was aware of the sweat that had drenched her. Shaking still from her flight, she watched Gordon approach. She walked with a bounce in her step and was flipping her helmet in the air like a basketball. Nothing about her condition would indicate the strain she had put herself through only a few moments ago.

"What do you think of ACM?" Gordon asked her.

"What is ACM, Lieutenant?" Margo hadn't heard the term until now.

"Air Combat Manoeuvring."

"It was the experience of a lifetime and if it never happens again it will be too soon."

Gordon grinned, "Yeah, you do look a little green." Then she added "The only reason I won was Commander Graham wasn't flying at her full abilities. If she had, you would have been passed out for the whole flight."

This bit of information was a surprise to Margo. How could anyone possibly function beyond what she had just experienced? After taking a few pictures of the aircraft and their pilots the reporter bid them goodbye.

On the trip back to Honolulu Graham told her subordinate, "You're getting harder to beat Lieutenant."

"Thank-you Ma'am. So are you." Gordon was pleased with the compliment.

Two days later Alexander again sat reading through the morning paper. Today he didn't need to turn the page to find what he was looking for. A quarter page photograph of one of his pilots dominated the front page. The facsimile of Lt. Gordon nonchalantly leaning against a Hornet in her flight suit, was followed by the headline:

WANTED

By the Iraqi Air Force

The article that followed continued the headline.

The elusive Black Widow. Approach with utmost caution. The suspect is heavily armed and will react with extreme violence when provoked.

As a follow up story from an article written by myself two days ago I am pleased to bring you the ladies of the Navy's newest addition. My thanks to the Flag Officer aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise, Vice Admiral Louis Alexander, who arranged a flight with two Officer's from the Black Widows for me. Commander Graham, the Commanding Officer of this squadron and Lt. Chelsea Gordon took me aloft yesterday to demonstrate their flying skills . After lulling me into a false sense of security by mimicking an airliner with their fighters, they threw down the gauntlet to each other and showed me a world where only the strongest survive. Although sick from the fury of the engagement, at no time did I feel that I was not in capable hands. That a machine can sustain the abuse of air combat is, without a doubt remarkable. That a human being can function in this environment is overwhelming. With five years of writing experience, I can't hope to convey to you the gut wrenching reality of today's knights in gull grey armour. I can only send out a warning to those that would challenge their superiority, who ever you are. May God have mercy on you, for the Black Widow knows not the word.

"Kind of melodramatic." thought Alexander, but it did convey the message he was looking for. These pilots were professionals and could handle themselves. Now only if he could start believing it himself.

Nawrot returned to his bunk clutching a manila envelope. Mail call was now over. Just one piece of mail had found its way to him. He knew who it was from and was apprehensive about the contents. After being sure that he was alone, he slowly opened the envelope and spilled the contents out onto the small desk. A picture frame clattered out face down. He picked it up and turned it over to look at it. A picture from eight months ago greeted him. It was a family portrait of himself, his wife and his daughters. A yellow ribbon adorned the frame and held fast to it was a small yellow post-it note. His heart leapt as he read it.

"Do what must be done and come home. We're waiting for you and we love you."

After sitting for a few moments to digest his good fortune, he grabbed a paper and pen. For the next two hours he wrote to his high-school sweetheart and predicted their future. A future together, at home.

Gordon sat at the edge of the bed. For the last two days she'd only had fleeting encounters with Nicols. All of her time had been spent with Roberts. She came in late at night and left early in the morning. They had to return to the ship tomorrow and tonight would be the last bit of privacy they would enjoy for who knew how long. Nicols rushed around the room, getting ready for another outing with Roberts. Gordon could see that Nicols was troubled by something. The way she picked things up and threw them down again was a sure sign that her friend was preoccupied.

"What's wrong with you Kristen?"

The reply was immediate and abrupt.

"Nothing." With her answer she tossed a blouse she was holding onto the floor. Gordon scrutinized her for another moment.

"Kristen, you shit your friends and I'll shit mine but let's not shit each other. Now. What the hell is bothering you?"

Gordon had called in a code of honour between warriors. An unwritten contract existed between them and every other fighter pilot. If you have a problem, you had damn well better share it, because their lives depended on it. Nicols seated herself on the bed across from Gordon.

"I don't know what to do. Roberts has treated me like a queen for the past few days. In another line of work, I would probably fall for him like a ton of bricks. I know he thinks the world of me but tomorrow when we go aboard the boat, everything we've done has to be suspended."

"Have you slept with him?"

Nicols raised her eyebrows. "No! He's been a perfect gentleman. He hasn't so much as hinted at it."

"What's the problem then?" implored Gordon.

"How do I tell him that everything is on hold?"

"The same way fighter pilots have been saying it for the last fifty years."

"And what is that?"

"Till next time." Gordon answered.

Shortly after midnight Roberts stood at the door of Nicols' hotel room. They had spent the entire evening talking again. He stood looking at her with an anxiety he'd never known before. He had searched all of his life for the feelings he had for her. Now for both of them the choice had come. He reached out to her and took her hands in his. Looking into her eyes he saw the reason for her enrolment in the Navy. His lips curled up in a sad smile. Uniforms had nothing to do with why she was here. Standing hand in hand they stared longingly at each other. Releasing her fingers from his, he cupped her chin in his hands. This was his only opportunity to show her. With just the slightest hesitation, their lips met. In the slow gentle passion of the moment, Roberts' search was over.

Releasing her he whispered. "Aloha au ia oe Kristen"

"What does that mean?" she whispered, gripping his hand to stop him from leaving.

"I'll tell you when we get back." He squeezed her hands again quickly and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Good night Kristen."

Roberts remained awake for a lengthy time after returning to his hotel. He thought about the woman he had spent most of his time with for the last several days. He had seen the yearning in her eyes for acceptance. He didn't understand why such a beautiful woman would need to be so dependent on what other people's conception of her was. He remembered the pleading look she had given him when they'd first met. He had publicly ridiculed her, as was natural for your peers in this profession. But she couldn't take the slightest hint of negativity from others. Had Roberts known her background he might have understood.

Nicols also remained awake this last evening ashore. The day she had met Roberts, although he was acting like a child, she'd seen it. The way he looked at her. The same way her dad had looked at her mother. She thought about what had happened, on the carrier and in the air. He looked at her with approval but his actions denied it. And now there were the last few days. His attentiveness to her looks, her feelings, her happiness. She wanted to explore it more, to see if she could trust him. Now it had to be shut off. Just like that day twelve years ago when she had shut her father out. Sleep evaded her for most of the night, but when it came, so her visitors did. As she slipped out of the real world, her dreams took over and she journeyed back to relive her childhood memories.

On November 18, 1978 Kristen met her father at the door of their apartment building. She followed him up the three flights of stairs eagerly. Her whole day had been spent cleaning the small two bedroom flat they rented. She had proudly placed the flowers she had been given by the florist down the street in the centre of the table. She remembered how her mother had done it . . . how long ago. It must have been six years now. After her mother had died, the florist had remembered her and gave her the blossoms he hadn't sold before they could no longer be called fresh. Whenever she was feeling less than good about her self she would stop by his store. He would tell her how much she looked like her mother. And how sorry he was that he didn't have any flowers in the store as pretty as she, but he would always give her something. This day however, she had told him about her father's upcoming promotion at the docks. He'd gone to the back and returned with twelve of the most beautiful white roses she had ever seen. The same ones her mother would buy on a special occasion. She watched her Dad enthusiastically when he entered the kitchen. He sat at the table and stared vacantly at the buds. Without warning he had raised a hand and knocked them to the floor.

"Don't ever bring flowers in this house again." he'd roared.

Once again her efforts to please him had been shattered. Later in her room, she held her mother's picture close to her heart. It seemed her only solace since she had died was when her dad would tell her how much they looked alike. If only she could prove to him that she could be as good as her mother was. At thirteen it was a formidable undertaking. Her father's face, contorted in grief faded from the dream and was replaced by that of her mother as she was eighteen years ago. Kristen's sleep became more restful as the image of her mother stroked her forehead, telling her that everything would be all right.

* * * * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ye shall hear of wars

And rumours of wars

(Bible, King James Version)

* * * * *

The next morning found the naval dock in a tizzy. Most arrived with shipmates or by themselves. A few came with new found loves that they had met while in port. They would linger over their good-byes, kissing and vowing to return. Some would meet again, but most were only paying lip service. To hint at a false future seemed more acceptable to them than the truth of a brief encounter. Some onlookers stood by just to see the people who were going to sail halfway around the world to uphold democracy. Alexander and Williams stood on the wings of the bridge watching the crew return.

"They seem a little more solemn than usual, Sir." observed the Captain.

"They have good reason. This is the closest most of them have been to a war."

Williams turned to the Admiral. "We have a more than even chance of getting into the shit over there don't we, Sir?"

"I'm not a politician. I have no idea what is going to happen."

"What if we do?" pushed Williams.

"Then I have every intention of giving them the full benefit of this group's capabilities." Alexander's answer was laced with determination.

Williams knew the Admiral mostly by reputation. Taking in the man before him he thought "If that crazy sonofabitch in Iraq is going to dance with this bear, he'd better be a Goddamn grizzly."

Graham hadn't had much to do with her counterpart from the gunfighters during their time on board. She knew that once out of port they would be put through their paces until the ship reached the Persian Gulf. She recalled Alexander's observation from the last pre-flight briefing they'd had before reaching Hawaii. The words still rang in her ears.

"The Gunfighters have continuously slacked off when engaging the black Widows."

This was construed as a personal insult to Graham. She sat beside the island, waiting. Finally she located Roberts walking across the flight deck. Standing, she took a moment to brush the bunches out of her khaki uniform pants.

"Commander Roberts." she called out and strode toward him.

He stopped to look around for the source of his summons. Graham walked up to him and saluted. Returning it he wondered about the need for this formality.

"May I speak with you a moment?" she asked.

"Certainly." he replied

"The Admiral has witnessed that your fighter pilots are not flying at their full potential when in mock combat with my pilots."

Roberts looked at her quizzically for a moment.

"We have been a little easy on you to get you familiar with the way we do things." he admitted.

"Commander, we are about to go to a potentially combative zone. I would appreciate it in the future if you were to forget the fact that we are women. You are only harming us with your chivalry."

He crossed his arms and assessed his correlative pilot. "You want us to pull out all the stops when we're in the air?"

"Yes. It would be appreciated."

He reached out his hand to seal her request. "Remember, you asked for it, Commander."

She reached out and grasped his hand firmly. They walked away toward the island side by side. Both glimpsed out of the corner of their eye, a Tomcat and a Hornet sitting on the deck with all the covers in place. Though both pilots had hundreds of hours in the air, their respective fighters sent a shiver up their spine. The giant birds of prey reminded them of a hooded falcon sitting on the arm of its handler. Maybe this time Uncle Sam would pull the hood off and let them do what they were trained to do. Neither of them could conceive of defeat. Their training had been successful. They were arrogant, they were confident and they were among the finest fighter pilots in the world.

Nicols sat in her quarters and watched Gordon loading newspapers into her locker.

"Why do you have all those papers Chelsea?"

Gordon looked at her incredulously and threw another paper on the growing pile. "Haven't you read a paper since you went ashore?"

"Uh, no . . . I've been a little busy."

Gordon grabbed a paper from the pile and threw it to her. With a smile she spoke while Nicols unfolded it to see the front page.

"Unlike you, I have been keeping track of world events and the impact of those events on our own situation."

Nicols stared at the photograph of Gordon. "So what's happening over there, Chelsea?"

"Myself, and some of my friends are going to go and kick his ass if he doesn't brighten up."

"Pretty big talk for someone who can't even dress herself."

Gordon went over to look at the picture. "What do you mean?"

Nicols pointed to her black flying boot resting on the airplane's nose gear. "Your boot is untied."

Gordon grabbed the paper from her and hit her with it. Nicols laughed trying to get away from the flogging she was getting with the newspaper.

"I can see the telegram now. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gordon. We are sorry to inform you that, had your daughter been able to tie her shoelaces . . ." She stopped suddenly. The seriousness of where they were going hit home. This was the real thing.

Alexander called a meeting with all of the Senior Officers and section heads aboard the carrier. At 1857 hrs. on December 16, they sat in the meeting room awaiting his arrival. At precisely 1900 he entered the room and began the speech he had planned.

"Gentlemen." he commenced.

A gentle cough reached his ears and he looked up to see Commander Graham with her hand at her mouth to clear her throat.

"My apologies. Ladies and Gentlemen." he started over. This was going to be hard to get used to.

"At 0700 tomorrow morning we have orders to set sail for the Persian Gulf. I expect that we will be sent off with at least a small amount of fanfare. I want a formal dress complement on the flight deck at 0630. That includes the Marine detachment."

He looked to the Marine Major in command and received an affirmative nod.

"We have been chosen to carry our flag to Hussein's front door. This ship is only one of many. I expect we can do it in finer style than any of the others, no disrespect intended to the other battle groups participating."

Looking around him at his subordinates he was sure that, if asked who the toughest battle group on the planet was, their answer would be unanimous.

"Upon reaching open waters it will take about forty five minutes to come abeam of Barber's Point. At that time I expect this ship and her escorts to be ready for combat. This degree of readiness will be maintained until we are told to stand down by the President. All ready aircraft are to be armed with live ordnance. Until we get there and get a handle on the home team, keep them ready for anything. Now, go and share this with the rest of the ship. And keep in mind that I'm a sore loser."

The Iraqi leadership was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. Alexander had just cocked the trigger and he wouldn't waver if he were told to pull it.

At 0630 the morning of December 17, a seventy two year old man stood on the docks along with a scattering of people. He had been here forty nine years ago when the Enterprise had sailed from Pearl. He could see the twin canted rudders of a Tomcat over the lip of the ship's flight deck. He fondly remembered his own Grumman Cat from 1941. He had been aboard when this proud ship's forebears had sailed to challenge the Japanese. As a fleet defence aircraft pilot, he and his Wildcat fighter had seen action in most of the major battles in the Pacific. Last night he had uncovered his old uniform from the trunk where he kept his life's treasures. It had taken until two o'clock this morning to alter it.

The line handlers were busy with preparations to get underway. The gang plank would be raised last and the ship would be ready to leave. Alexander again stood on the bridge with Captain Williams.

"Admiral, come and have a look at this."

Alexander walked over to where Williams was peering out the window. "What is it Captain?"

Lining up on what Williams was pointing at, he saw the old man standing by himself. He grabbed a set of binoculars from the ledge before him and looked closer at the lone figure. Recognizing the campaign ribbons on his chest he turned and summoned a Junior Officer. Scribbling on a note pad he ripped it off and handed it to the Ensign."Get that down to the Marines on the double."

The old man's attention was caught by the powerful voice booming out from above.

"COMPANY, PRESENT ARMS."

He looked up to see eight Marines in parade dress on the flight deck overhead, rifles at the ready. One of them with his ceremonial Sabre drawn.

"READY." The rifle's bolts slammed shut.

He dropped his eyes to the empty sleeve that was pinned to his uniform.

"AIM." Seven M-16 rifles were pointed skyward.

Gazing up again, he brought a shaking right hand to his head.

"FIRE." The guns reported in unison.

The old man held his salute in gratitude to whoever was giving him this honour. The order to fire was repeated twice more. His eyes were misted over and he watched the marine detail drop their rifles to their side. The detail then turned toward him. Each young Marine's eyes met his and as one, they returned his salute. He stood rigidly and saw the giant ship start to sway away from the dock. He had served her well nearly five decades ago and she had remembered him.

Margaret Heriot sat in her Washington office. The Washington Post was on her desk and the headline announced the latest U.S. warship to be dispatched to the Middle East. Included in the story was a short note about the squadron she had used her influence to help. She was now angry with herself for doing so. Her sole purpose for working so hard to attain her position in the Senate had been to avert what was happening. She glanced at her watch. At this moment, fifteen young ladies were sailing eastward toward God knew what. The hardest thing to accept was her vote when the President had indicated that he wanted to use force. Without hesitation she had approved, and the cost, the lives of how many of her countrymen. She knew when she had cast her ballot, that she had only one option. She vividly remembered when Hitler had ravaged Europe. What would Britain have done if the world had stood idly on the sidelines? They would have succumbed to his totalitarianism. This was no different, a demented dictator was attempting to hold the world hostage and he had to be stopped. The price would be heavy, but not nearly so should he be allowed to go unchecked. She took the old photograph of her son out of her wallet and caressed it. She had been so bitter at the policy makers when he had been taken from her. Now she was the one who was taking from others.

"Please forgive me Bobby." she whispered.

Moroki sat in the cockpit of her aircraft reading a novel. Owing to Alexander's orders of combat readiness at all times, she had been there for two hours now. Two Gunfighters' Tomcats and two Black Widow Hornets were armed, fuelled and manned around the clock. At the first sign of trouble they would be airborne within three minutes. In another two hours she could stand down and another four fighters would take their place. The ship was eighteen hours out of port and the gung ho attitude of the boat was starting to settle into more of a "Just get the job done." routine.

Every half hour or so Moroki would run her fingers over the switches to be sure everything was ready for a launch. The book she was reading was at an unusually interesting part and she had all her attention devoted to it. Suddenly her radio brought her back to the ship. The scramble order against an as yet unknown threat sent the adrenaline rushing through her body. She tossed the now forgotten novel into the map case in the side of the cockpit. A deck hand that was rushing around jerking the canvas covers and arming pins off of the plane climbed up the folding ladder to arm her ejection seat. Spotting the book in the map case, he grabbed it.

"I'll hang onto this for you Ma'am." she heard him yell and then he disappeared over the edge.

Her canopy started to come down and the right turbine reached ignition RPM. She advanced the throttle to provide fuel and ignition and quickly scanned the readouts and gauges to ensure a proper start sequence for the left engine. She checked over her shoulder to be sure the blast deflector was raised. Her check list only took seconds. Bringing her engines up to speed she briefly glanced at the Hornet beside her in the waist catapult. She managed a satisfied smile and nudged her fighter into afterburner a second before the fire belched from her wingor's exhaust. Swivelling her head once more she received a thumbs up from the armourer. Looking to the other side she threw the Cat Officer the high sign. She was ready to go. Coming off the end of the deck, she called up the data link from the carrier on the right CRT to find out where they were supposed to go. Taking up heading she accelerated toward the threat indicated on her screen. Half a mile away she could see the other Hornet that had accompanied her into the air. Fifty miles from the carrier, word came that it had been a drill. Before their turn was complete, spikes appeared in the HUD. For just an instant, they had let their guard down. The two Tomcats had launched behind them and sneaked up undetected to within missile range. Graham was definitely going to give them a reaming for this. She lit the pipes and pulled up before the Tomcat could lock her up. At thirty thousand feet Moroki came out of burner and looked around to find the fighter that was after her.

Pederson had closed on the Hornet in the climb. No longer able to use missiles he switched to guns. Confident that he could bring his plane into firing position, he kept a steady five G strain on the controls, following her right turn. The pipper in his HUD was almost on the Hornet. Smiling he tightened his grip on the trigger, preparing to fire.

"This is too easy." he thought to himself. The pipper found the hornet and sat rigidly on its shape. Pederson withheld firing, instead choosing to enjoy the moment briefly. These women were no match for him.

Moroki dashed his moment on the rocks and broke her fighter to the left. Coming out of her five G right turn she tore into an eight G left. Holding it for a brief moment she brought it to the right again with the same bone crushing force. Lt. Commander Pederson hadn't been able to react fast enough and over flew his opponent. He knew the forces being dealt to Moroki when he heard her call. The strained words came over his radio as if the speaker were being pinned down by a slab of granite on her chest.

"GUNS GUNS GUNS."

On the way back to the carrier Pederson vowed to be more aggressive with these pilots. In the back of his mind he didn't know if it would do any good. They were good pilots and did not hesitate to use the awesome capabilities of the aircraft they flew. Pederson himself was a graduate of Fighter Weapons School. He'd flown against the Hornet several times. Although it was a contest to nail them, he'd always been able to hold his own. Now they were being flown by people on a mission and the Tomcat didn't seem a match for them.

When again her fighter sat silent on the deck of the carrier, Moroki stared forlornly at the armourer that had pillaged her book. Checking the title he stuffed it under his jacket and casually walked away. She threw her head against the backrest and banged her fists on the side of the cockpit.

"Goddamn. Why does everything always happen to me?" she yelled.

After quickly checking for someone to retrieve it for her, her gaze came to rest on the Tomcat that had tried to shoot her. The RIO had seen the whole performance and had his head thrown back in laughter. Moroki threw him the bird just as the pilot looked over at her.

He clicked the ICS. "What's her problem?" he asked his partner.

"I think she likes you Pederson." chuckled the guy in the back.

"I'd hate to be on the sharp end of that Goddamn fighter of hers if she hated me."

Nawrot entered the briefing room. He had been told to meet the captain here. Williams was there already, waiting for him. He motioned toward a chair in front of him.

"Have a seat Plane Captain."

Nawrot sat, wondering why the Captain wanted to see him.

"We just had some paperwork come aboard for you, Plane Captain."

Nawrot knew at once what this meeting was going to be about.

"I've pulled your service record." continued the Captain, "The Navy doesn't like to lose people with your talents."

"I'm sorry Sir, but I have a family to take care of and they need me at home."

It suddenly struck the Captain why the name was familiar.

"You were going through a divorce if I remember correctly."

"Yes Sir." he answered.

"And I also recall you had some trouble recently at the Oahu International."

Nawrot blushed slightly. "Yes Sir."

"So I can assume that incident and your resignation are all tied into your marital troubles."

"Uh, yes Sir."

It was the Captain's job to dangle a carrot in front of those who would be leaving. The Navy spent massive sums of money to train these people and did a lot to try and retain them. He thought for a moment. He needed something to offer this man.

"Would things get straightened out if I was to approve a compassionate leave right now? You would be home by tomorrow afternoon."

The notion was only entertained for a split second before it was answered. "No, I don't believe so Sir." It would be wonderful to see her, but when he went home he was staying there.

Williams had one more trick up his sleeve. He wouldn't know the outcome immediately but it was worth a shot.

"Plane Captain, the Black Widow Squadron needs a Maintenance Chief. Would you like that spot for this cruise? In light of your record chances are a promotion will come with it."

It didn't take long for him to accept this offer. It would be nice to have the experience under his belt. "Of course Sir. Thank-you."

The two men stood and saluted each other.

"That will be all Plane Captain. Thank-you." Williams had got him to nibble at the hook. Now only time would tell if the bait would make him bite.

Nawrot went off in search of the maintenance personnel he was now in charge of.

Nicols walked along the corridor leading from the makeshift locker room that had been set up for them. She had a notepad balanced against her hip and was looking down at it as she walked. It contained the latest weather information she would require if she had to launch. The pre-flight briefing had been short and to the point. If they had to go up they were to assume that whatever they met was hostile. The rules of engagement were still the same though. An aircraft had to be visually identified and commit a hostile act. In other words, do not fire unless fired upon. This seemed like a contradiction of sorts to Nicols and all the other pilots. If it looks like a snake, moves like a snake and sounds like a snake, chances are it is a snake. But the essence of democracy ruled that the snake had to try and bite you before you killed it. The world was becoming a confusing place to be in. Though her father had brought her up with strong moral values, they seemed to be out of date in today's society. It seemed that just about everyone had ulterior motives. No longer could a person assume that what they saw was what they got. And to protect yourself from this phenomenon, you had to become what the adversary was. The more she thought about it the less sense it all made to her. Even Roberts who seemed so open and honest with her was going to have difficulty getting through this barrier. At length, when she was in the cockpit of her fighter she was able to forget everything and concentrate on being ready to launch. Once prepared she sat and waited. The sound of the wind and water were soothing as the ship brushed through the black night.

"It's going to be tough to stay awake through four hours of this." she thought.

Roberts was leaving the galley when he met Nawrot. In his hands he carried two steaming cups of coffee and tucked under his arm were some pastries in a bag. They exchanged a hello in the corridor in passing. A second after they had met, Nawrot stopped and called out to Roberts.

"Hey, Commander."

Roberts stopped in his tracks and turned to the Plane Captain.

"You're heading in the wrong direction."

"What do you mean?" Roberts replied.

"Lt. Nicols just went on duty in the alert aircraft."

"And what makes you think I'm looking for Nicols?"

Nawrot looked at the cups that were starting to burn Roberts' fingers.

"You don't like coffee Commander."

Roberts displayed a grin. He'd been caught.

"You got me Plane Captain."

"How are you two doing Commander Roberts?" Nawrot was genuinely interested in how the two were getting along.

Roberts appraised him for a moment before speaking. They had formed the bond that pilots and Plane Captains share, during the previous cruise. The joking and insults were always there but they were actually quite close to each other. Roberts would fly the aircraft and, upon return tell Nawrot what a piece of junk it was. In turn, Nawrot would work on the aircraft, chew the Commander out for breaking it and the cycle would repeat itself. It was a common malady among pilots and the people who maintained their airplanes. But beneath the bantering was forged a deep respect for one another.

"I can't remember when I've wanted a cruise to end so badly. I keep getting this foreboding feeling that something is going to go wrong." Roberts set the cups down on the floor and blew on his fingers.

"You feel like you're missing out on something?"

"Yeah, maybe that's it. I've never had something to go home to before." Roberts justified his feelings with this statement. That had to be it. You don't miss something you never had.

"You're one of the few that has ever got to bring your lady on board for a tour Commander. Count yourself lucky."

"I don't know if I'm lucky. It's hard to see her every day and keep my feelings in check." Roberts recalled seeing her with a group of pilots and having to refrain from being too familiar with her.

"Hey Commander, you still get to see her every day. That's a damn sight better than spending four months looking at a picture." Nawrot was also ready for this cruise to end before it started.

"I suppose you're right. My coffee is getting cold, I'd better get moving." He picked the cups up and prepared to leave.

"She's in the left main catapult. And tell her that if she breaks that airplane there will be hell to pay."

"Jesus Christ, don't you ever take a break from your whining." Roberts jumped at the opportunity to harangue the aircraft mechanic.

"Hey boy, pilots is pilots. Men, women, don't matter. You've all got one thing in common. You could screw up an anvil if the blacksmith would let you near it."

* * * * *

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Friendship often ends in love

But love in friendship, never

(Charles Caleb Colton, 1780-1832)

* * * * *

Two and a half hours later, Roberts reached out his hand and patted Nicols on top of her helmet. When he had first arrived with her coffee and pastries she had seemed grateful for his presence. He handed her the cup and bag containing the donuts. Her appreciation immediately turned to complaining. The portion of coffee he hadn't spilled on the way up was cold and the donuts were flat as pancakes from holding them under his arm. Roberts sat on the LEX that extended under the cockpit of the F/A-18 and wished he would have dressed warmer. The wind over the deck was cold from the darkness and endless water that surrounded them. Nicols dutifully ate and drank the cold and mutilated offerings he had brought her. Both suffered their respective hardships in silence, rapt with the pleasure of the other's company. Though neither knew it, they had started a ritual. A bonding with each other, not in romance but in the loneliness and uncertainty of trying times. They shared their past lives with each other in bits and pieces. Each feeling out the worthiness of the other to be entrusted with the ideals and beliefs of a lifetime. It would be another sixteen days until they reached the Gulf. Their own mortality, while they didn't realize it, was forcing them along a path that in other times they might not have chosen. Each was looking for someone. They had found it in each other. A relationship that would be solidified by a nightly visit to the other. Always in view of their peers they would form a friendship that could withstand the hardships of a lifetime.

"You keep a watch out while I go get some Z's." Roberts playfully nudged her helmet.

"Good night Braidon. Are you going to try and poison me tomorrow night?"

Recognizing the invitation he replied that he would be there. With his parting, the nightly ritual began.

Life aboard the carrier was not as boring as usual for the pilots. Every day there were more and more launches. The Squadron Commanders had been told to get everyone ready for the worst. They saw to it that each air crew was allotted time in the sky to sharpen their skills. When the people who would be in the air over hostile territory were not flying, the marines taught them desert survival techniques. When they were not learning survival, they pored over maps of the Middle East. When this wasn't taking place, they were doing something else to prepare them for the task at hand. The list of training seemed endless. Aircraft identification, capabilities, armament, markings, bases, tactics. Classes on Arab customs and procedures should any of them unwillingly drop in on the Iraqis. The gym facilities on the ship were in constant use. No facet of preparedness was left to chance. The maintenance personnel went over each aircraft with a fine tooth comb. The ship's damage control parties could be seen continually executing the suppression of one mock disaster or another. The crews that erected the barrier on the deck to recover a disabled aircraft worked feverishly to beat their own record. Aircraft would launch without a set destination. Once clear of the group's radar, they would sneak down to wave level and try to bounce the escorts that accompanied the Enterprise. Without fail the radar operators would catch them, but sometimes too late to do anything about it. The supply vessel shipped its commodities to the warships without decreasing speed. For the entire trip to the Gulf Alexander demanded these things and more. He had no intention of losing any of his command due to unrefined procedures. He carefully honed the sharp end of his stick in preparation to use it.

On a day while there was a lull in the action, Gordon and Nawrot hung over the rail at the stern of the ship. They argued back and forth periodically about pilots and mechanics and why the other was the lowest form of life on the planet. For all intents and purposes what they were doing however, was relaxing. They were both looking at the destroyer, U.S.S. Stark holding her position 2000 yards off the stern. Suddenly the sleek little warship thrashed the water to foam at its stern, heeled over and took off in an obvious hurry. They watched while it zigzagged back and forth, like a dog sniffing out a coon. In short order it stopped the regular pattern of search and started to turn erratically.

"What the hell are they doing?" asked Gordon.

"My best guess is that they just treed themselves a sub."

Nawrot knew very well what they were doing. He had seen these small warships at work in the past. Before anyone volunteered for sub duty they should be made to go for a short cruise on one of these relentless little juggernauts. Nawrot guessed that should they do that, there would be a serious manpower shortage in the silent service. The only thing left to wonder about was whether they had caught a Russian or one of their own. In answer to his curiosity the water's surface started to boil close to the destroyer and the black ominous shape of a conning tower emerged. Gordon stared in wonder.

"Whose is it?" she asked. She couldn't see any identifying mark to give an observer any indication of its nationality.

"It's one of ours." Nawrot hadn't hesitated at all before supplying the answer.

She gazed at it for a few more moments trying to see what had clued him to its origin. Finally she gave up.

"Okay, how can you tell it belongs to us?" she asked.

"It has paint on most of it. The Russian subs look like rust buckets."

"Oh."

The submarine show was suddenly boring. It just floated along beside the destroyer like some big black log for a few moments and then it sunk from sight. She thought about the men below the water's surface.

"Why would anyone want to serve on one of those things?" she thought.

She was certain that she was much safer blasting through the sky at 1200 miles per hour strapped to enough fuel and explosives to put her into orbit. There was just no explaining some people's motives.

"Well I must be going." Nawrot reported.

"What's the rush Plane Captain? We haven't broken any of your airplanes today."

"I got the boys putting hairdryer outlets in them. I have to go inspect them." The sarcasm in his voice was a sure sign to Gordon that she was being accepted as an equal by this man. He hadn't gotten too far and she called out to him.

"Hey, Plane Captain."

He stopped and looked back at her.

"What do you call a man that's lost ninety five percent of his intelligence?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"A widower."

Nawrot walked away shaking his head. He'd actually had some hope for this squadron. If he put some thought into it he could probably rig her ejection seat to go off when she started her airplane. A wide grin came across his face in visualizing her landing in the ship's wake with a mighty splash. He was taking a liking to this pilot. She exuded a friendliness and sense of humour that he had gotten used to while dealing with Commander Roberts. Although he was the Maintenance Chief for this squadron now, he'd taken a personal interest in caring for her aircraft. He sometimes had to work extra hours to accommodate the task, but what the hell. There wasn't much else for him to do when he was off duty. Plane Captain Nawrot had sort of adopted Lt. Gordon. It was his job to see that her aircraft was the best it possibly could be. That it would never let her down so to speak.

Five days out of port King Neptune reared his mighty head and demanded the homage deserved him by those who had never before crossed that border into the other hemisphere. The Task group was approaching the Equator. For decades, those that had traversed this mythical line were required by the laws of the sea to give tribute to the Almighty Ruler of the world's waters. Those that had crossed before were exempt. The ranking individuals among them were bestowed with the duty of ensuring that the tradition was upheld. All fifteen of the Black Widow Squadron stood before the chosen one. Along with a scattering of deck hands and engineering personnel they were about to be inaugurated to the world of the professional Seaman. Or in this case, Sea person.

Commander Roberts looked down from his throne at his lowly subjects with utter contempt. The bomb crates he graced with his exalted presence had been modified with offerings from those that had passed before.

The recipients of this honour looked up to him and thought, "He's sitting on a pile of garbage."

He heard laughter from the crowd and searched for the source. No one would show disrespect for this ceremony and be allowed to escape the consequences. To his dismay he found the cause of the laughter. Lt. Nicols stood beside Gordon, pointing at him and jesting about how ridiculous he looked. At first he thought he might just ignore it but his peers stood around him. He couldn't show mercy in front of those that had chosen him to perform these rites.

He turned to his henchmen and passed his wishes onto them. They quickly went forth into the crowd to retrieve Nicols. When they grabbed her to bring her forward she willingly followed. Once standing in front of Roberts her face still displayed amusement at the event.

Fighting to keep a straight face, Roberts' eyes fell upon her.

"And what gives you the right to scoff at these proceedings?" His voice boomed across the flight deck with the assistance of a megaphone.

Nicols looked around at all the people watching her and started to become slightly uncomfortable. "I was just telling . . ." she started and Roberts cut her off.

"SILENCE SCOUNDREL." he screamed through the amplifier.

All of his cronies were bobbing their heads in approval of his method of dealing with this person.

Nicols watched them conferring with each other in amazement. These blockheads were serious. After a few moments the men broke from their huddle.

"We have conducted a tribunal to determine a suitable punishment for your wanton indignity."

He pointed over toward where the elevator to handle aircraft was. The elevator was in the lowered position and a man with a black hood was standing beside a long plank that extended over the edge of the flight deck. Thoughtfully they had erected handrails on either side of it to ensure no one met their demise prematurely. The two men who had singled out Nicols from the crowd, again restrained her and a third started to place blindfold over her eyes. Roberts stood atop his perch and officially sentenced her through the megaphone.

Again Roberts' voise boomed across the flight deck "Hear Ye, Hear Ye. For sins committed against the Kingdom of Neptune, we, as advocates for his majesty do hereby condemn Lt. Kristen Nicols to walk the plank. King Neptune shall embrace this lost soul and at that time rule upon her ultimate fate."

The two men led her away, this time a little less willingly. She was escorted to the plank and the man with the black hood carried out the sentence. Nicols walked out on the plank, she was sure that this would end at any second. Until she stepped into nothingness and was falling through the air. It was at this point that she realized what maniacs she had chosen to share a profession with.

The remainder of the group watched Nicols disappear over the edge of the flight deck in shock. Some let out a gasp and were immediately detained by the court. Each and every one was brought forth, sentenced for some infraction and tossed over the side of the ship. As each one was committed to walk the plank it became more difficult for the court to find a punishable offence. This was not much of a problem. The court would just change the rules to suit until even breathing was punishable.

Alexander and Williams stood on Vulture's Row. The whole operation had taken just over an hour. When they'd been approached for permission to hold King Neptune's Court, they had agreed to it on the condition it be kept to less than two hours. This was due to the requirement of combat readiness at all times. The Hornet pilots were all required to attend the initiation, therefore four Tomcats sat in the catapults instead of two.

"Quite an ingenious lot we have here." Williams referred to the plank they had erected.

The elevator had been lowered about twenty feet and below the plank they had constructed a pool for the unfortunates to land in.

"They probably thought they'd actually been thrown overboard." laughed Alexander. He had suffered this humility himself many years ago.

Nicols hit the pool and instinctively started to tread water.

"That goddamn Roberts." she thought, tugging at her blindfold. "If I live through this I'm going to kill him.

A second before she got the blindfold off, her foot touched the bottom. Perplexed, she stood up to her neck in the water. The blindfold came off and she was greeted with cheering and laughter from a multitude of men surrounding the pool. They quickly urged her out of the water to make way for the next victim. For the next twenty minutes she sat with the men around the pool and watched. Her anger dissipated with each splash. It was hilarious to watch each person fall into the water with varying degrees of indignity. Some fell silently, others not so. Gordon was screaming at the top of her lungs and kept at it until she got her blindfold off. When the last person had been dunked, the elevator began to rise. Roberts stood beside the plank in his ceremonial robes. It stopped a couple of feet below the flight deck. He raised his hands in the air to silence everyone, and then he welcomed all of the wet people as devoted subjects of His Majesty, King Neptune.

The ship ploughed forth with single minded determination. To reach the Persian Gulf and demonstrate to a nation that their cause was wrong and hopeless. Each day the news would reach the ship on the latest developments in the negotiations to reach a peaceful settlement. And each day the ship drew closer to war. All those aboard were appalled, first at the lengths that their government was going to avoid a confrontation. Secondly at the arrogance of the Iraqi's total contempt to these offers. There was no anti-Iraq propaganda circulating around the carrier. Only a devout desire for them to reach some kind of settlement before the unthinkable would become a reality. How could a single man, who ruled a nation ignorant to his motives, command an entire population to commit genocide? The answer was simple and self explanatory. He did just that, ruled through ignorance. His people had no idea of the massive force that was descending upon them. He seemed willing to put his subjects through inconceivable hardship to appease his burning desire to be a martyr. To be a martyr is commendable, or so the philosophy of the Middle East went. It showed a great devotion to beliefs and morals. To the people aboard the Enterprise and to the Western world, to damn a nation in the name of martyrdom was selfish and criminal. The Iraqi people, from all factions, had nothing to show for the great wealth that lay beneath the shifting sands. Small Kurd children had no conception that death could rain from the sky. They were not aware that such a terrible thing existed. Only the privileged and the decision makers in Baghdad made preparations to weather the coming onslaught. Even the vast majority of the Iraqi military was not aware of the formidable force being amassed to oppose them. They peered around them at the tanks and airplanes that their leader had purchased with the wealth derived from the technology and know how of the approaching enemy. To see them in their rank and file they were impressive indeed. Hundreds of tanks and aircraft sat poised, ready to fight the Heathens from the West. Like any nation who has gone to war with aggression as its prime directive, they believed that they would prevail. They could not understand that they had been lied to for all of their short careers. That the people who had made their weapons were experts in their use. Some did. And should it happen, many of those that understood would not fight.

* * * * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows

Like harmony in music, there is a dark

Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles

Discordant elements, makes them cling together

In one society

(William Wordsworth, 1770-1850)

* * * * *

The Honolulu Star reporter looked around her at the solemn young faces accompanying her on her flight. The carrier onboard delivery aircraft she had hitched a ride on did not lend itself to passenger comfort. She was elated when her editor had told her that he had received approval from the Navy to follow the story of the Black Widows. This would look good on her resume. Not many people could add war correspondent to their list of journalistic talents after only five years in the field. Now after three hours of bumping along in what amounted to a flying torture chamber her exhilaration was starting to wane. She hadn't noticed the earlier slight reduction in the drone of the engines. The pilot had done a long slow descent to the carrier. She became acutely aware when the aircraft banked at a steep angle to begin its final approach on the Enterprise. She looked out the window across from her and saw nothing but ocean a few hundred feet below them. She longed for the padded comfort of the Company Citation, the executive jet that had flown her to Wake Island. The C-2 Greyhound flew much slower than the jets, but its approach and landing speed did not differ all that much. Margo turned her head to peep out the porthole. The deck of the carrier suddenly appeared beneath them and a split second later the aircraft snagged an arresting wire. They had told her before takeoff that carrier landings were a bit unsettling. The roar of the turbo props and the abrupt deceleration seemed to fit the description. The only other person aboard that appeared to notice was the man beside her. He threw up his arms a second to late to stop her helmet from bopping him on the nose. Wiping a spot of blood away he looked at her with disfavour. His manner suggested that she was the only person in the world that had never landed aboard a carrier before.

Margo stepped out of the airplane to the deck with her small suitcase in hand. A deck crewman came running up to her and grabbed it away from her.

"Follow me." he shouted above the roar of the COD's engines. Without waiting for an acknowledgment he started to jog away. Margo trailed behind obediently. Once inside the ship away from the noise and the wind of the flight deck, the man stopped and turned to face her.

"The Admiral wants to see you immediately. As soon as you're done with him I'll escort you to your quarters."

The sailor did an about face and began to lead her through what seemed an eternal maze of snakes and ladders. At some point in the journey, he handed Andrea's small case of belongings off to another crew member. He rattled of some ship board location to the other man and they continued on their way.

Alexander sat behind his desk and viewed his guest disapprovingly. The reporter could not tell whether his distaste was professional or personal. She would have liked to have dug up a little background information on him, but she had left in such a hurry she barely had time to pack.

"What is this story you are writing that is so important that the Navy sees fit to place you aboard my carrier?" asked Alexander.

That bloody Hall was starting to get on his nerves. First he threw a squadron of women aboard and now he was playing host to civilians.

"Your carrier is making history. For the first time women are going to be allowed into combat. I think that the public should be kept informed on their progression."

This answer never brought any change to his expression.

"You can expect myself and those in my command to co-operate with you only because we have been ordered to by people higher up the food chain than me. However, do not get in the way. The rules on this ship are "I make the rules" That includes everything you write goes across my desk for approval before it is wired off this ship. Understood?"

Margo did not agree with the censorship, but it was his boat. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.

"Understood." she responded.

Alexander stood and walked over to the door to beckon the man who had delivered her to his cabin.

"Show Miss Akamye to her quarters. She will have to bunk with one of the Black Widow pilots."

He then returned to his work, he did not look up as they left. Through the unspoken farewell it was understood that she was expected to stay out of his way.

Lt. Moroki entered her cabin to find she had a new bunk mate. She recognized her at once as the woman that had interviewed her and Lt. Gordon in Hawaii.

"This is quite a surprise. How did you manage to get aboard?"

Moroki was curious. It was no easy task to get permission to come aboard a warship. This was especially difficult when that warship was heading for trouble.

"I'm not too sure how my boss got the okay. I think he knows Admiral Hall from somewhere."

Her guess was quite right. Her editor and Admiral Hall had met each other and become friends when they were on assignment in Washington.

Lt. Moroki appraised Andrea for a moment. She could see that she was a bit overwhelmed at her sudden injection onto an aircraft carrier. Moroki understood this feeling as she had very recently felt the same way.

"Have you had a tour from anyone yet?"

"No, I just landed a little while ago and then I had to get the once over from your Flag Officer."

Before Moroki could offer her services for tour guide a deafening hiss swept over the room.

"What in the hell was that?" Margo seemed to cringe from the din.

"Oh, they just launched an aircraft. We have the good fortune of bunking under one of the forward catapults." The Lieutenant didn't sound concerned about it.

"How do you sleep?"

"After a while you don't even notice it. Would you like to have a look around now?"

"Yes. Is what I'm wearing okay?"

Moroki looked her over. The pantsuit she had on was acceptable for traipsing through the passages but the high heels had to go.

For the next few hours Margo was led through the honeycomb like interior of the ship. She made a mental note to blaze a trail for herself whenever she went anywhere. It would be extremely easy to become hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of passageways. The decor aboard the ship was not what she had expected. Most of the keepsakes that were displayed by the crew were reminiscent of homes and families back home. The pornographic centrefolds she thought would be typical were strangely absent. The crew's quarters were modest and cramped. Privacy was a thing to be treasured if found. Each involvement with this squadron impressed her even more. She could see that their desire to serve their country was put above any personal comfort. She also realized that in this capacity the men and women did not contrast. They were met with the occasional sideways glance by the men they encountered along the way. The reaction to them by the male population aboard suggested general acceptance. Somewhat slow in coming but acceptance nonetheless.

On Christmas Eve Roberts sat outside Nicols' cockpit. She had been on alert for two hours now and he had been here for half of it.

"Did you get anything from home at mail call?" she asked.

"Yeah, Mom sends me a care package every year that I'm away from home. I think if she could be aboard with me it would make her happy."

Nicols sat silently for a few moments.

"Are you close to your parents?"

"As close as I can be, it's hard to be away all the time and keep in close touch with them."

Nicols thought of her own father back in the States. She hadn't seen him for six months now. Her own mail call hadn't brought so much as a card from him. She was just a little jealous of Roberts' family. From their conversations she had learned much about his upbringing and home life. It was distinctly different from hers. His had been a home full of love and respect. Hers was laced with resentment. To this day her father had never remarried. She'd never understood why he couldn't let go of her mother and carry on with life. He had provided her with a good home but there had always been an undercurrent of bitterness.

A subconscious need to be close to something swept over her. Without thinking or even realizing she had done it, she brought a gloved hand up and placed it on top of Roberts'. For the next half hour they sat without speaking. Occasionally he could feel her squeeze his hand. He was sure beyond any doubt that he was in love with this woman. Out of the darkness he heard her softly whisper.

"You are a very lucky man."

He looked at her sitting in the cockpit and turned his palm up to enfold her hand.

"Yes, I am." Whatever the barrier she had erected around herself, he would get through it.

Gordon walked past the pilot's ready room. Through the door could be heard the soft strums of a guitar and a male voice singing Christmas carols. She quietly opened the door and squeezed inside to see who it was. To her amazement, there sat Pederson, alone in the room, facing away from the door with a guitar across his lap. Oblivious to her presence he continued with his lyrics. In a voice that would do any church choir justice, his version of Silent Night brought a tear to Gordon's eye. His voice trailed off serenely and a deft lick across the twelve strings ended the song. He sat bolt upright to the unexpected burst of applause from Gordon. He whipped around, blushing. Since this was a side of him that didn't fit his self-proclaimed image of lady-killer, it was kindred to being caught with his pants down.

"Where did you learn to play like that?" she inquired.

He stood and began to put the Ovation guitar into its case.

"I, uh, taught myself." he answered uncomfortably.

"No, don't stop. Play something else."

He tried to decline the request but Gordon was insistent and he finally gave in. It was almost comical to watch the transformation in him. He was without a doubt one of the most obnoxious, conceited men she had ever met. But with the first stroke across the instrument's strings he would close his eyes and become an artist with untold feeling. His voice rose and fell to the melody, trying desperately to share with an audience, his own love of the songs he sang. Gordon had left the door partially open and as people came within hearing range of the music, they would migrate toward it. Before too much time had passed there were close to twenty pilots and service personnel jammed into the room. At some point, someone joined in singing, and like a contagious infection, the other voices were taken up. In the true spirit of Christmas, men and women stood together and sang of praise and thanks to Christ. The closeness of the carrier was forcing a bond between the men and women that no one recognized.

Graham had come along and heard the choir coming from the ready room. Just before she reached the entrance, the vibration and whoosh of an aircraft launching distracted her. She stopped briefly to listen for the launch she knew would follow. The catapult's shuttle roared over her head a second time. She turned to proceed for CIC at once. Alexander was running them ragged, but she doubted he would launch an exercise on Christmas Eve. This was probably the real thing.

The OOD in charge of this evening's radar watch stood behind a technician with arms folded. For the past hour they had painted a target on the fringe of the radar's limits. It would bounce on and off the screen at regular intervals. For the past ten minutes however, it had been a solid contact heading directly for them.

Graham came up beside him and viewed the radar's image. The revolving line swept over the dots on the screen and rearranged them a bit closer to each other with each pass. She could hear another technician prattling off intercept co-ordinates to the outbound fighters. The carrier would point them in the right direction until their own radar came within range of the contact. Then they would make the intercept on their own. Not totally familiar with the larger screens and symbols on the CIC radar, she asked the Officer for details.

"Single contact, 38,000 feet inbound at 385 knots." his answer was concise and entirely devoid of speculation.

Far from the carrier,Nicols gently added pressure to the stick and rudder controls of the Hornet, following an invisible path laid out by the ship's air controllers. Swinging her head, she checked the position of her wing man. She could make out the shape of his Tomcat easily in the light of the moon. They climbed through the night sky and levelled out at 42,000 feet. At one hundred and fifty miles from the target, the F-14's RIO broke the silence. His powerful AWG-9 radar had painted the intruder on the screen in front of him. Nicols eased off her power and dropped back behind the other fighter. Until her own shorter range radar picked up the contact she would follow on his wing. At forty miles she had a clear image of it on her radar as well. The fighters started to spread out and turn. They would sweep around and intercept from behind. Though still not in visual contact with the unidentified aircraft, as a matter of course the Navy pilots flipped the toggle to enable the Sidewinder missiles each carried. The Bogey had made no threatening moves so far, but if it did, it wouldn't get a second chance. At thirty miles the Tomcat RIO radioed to his pilot and to Nicols.

"He's a big one."

Sounding totally bored the pilot came back to him.

"Maybe it's Santa and his eight tiny reindeer."

"Nah, couldn't be. I don't think Santa's sleigh is equipped with jammers."

Nicols heard this and checked the CRT. The clear blip had been replaced by jam strobes and several false targets.

"You still got him?" she radioed to the Tomcat.

"Yeah, just barely. He's turning." a slight pause followed while the RIO did some figuring.

"Turn left to heading 281."

The radar aboard the F-14, with a little twiddling from its operator had managed to burn through the jamming signal. The two U.S. fighter jets continued on toward their target.

From five miles away Nicols finally made out the navigation lights of the contact. She keyed the comm switch to report.

"I got him. Five miles at one o'clock."

"My, what good eyes you have. What is it?" The other pilot still hadn't seen it.

"It sure isn't Santa. We have ourselves a genuine Russian Bear." The spike on her screen was accompanied by a code letter designation. She had identified him by the radar signature he had started to emit.

Graham, still in CIC smirked to herself. She could hear the slightest hint of excitement in Nicols' voice on the radio. It was her first time out with the boys from the other side and no doubt she was nervous. The OOD spoke to the radio operator, who in turn relayed his instructions to the fighters.

"Intercept and escort him away from the carrier group."

"Roger Enterprise." crackled across the miles from the intercept pilots.

"Since you seen him first, you make him go away." the Tomcat driver instructed Nicols.

She adjusted her power and started to descend on the Soviet bomber. Flying up along side of it she matched speed and altitude. Maintaining station slightly ahead and to the left of the Russian aircraft, she began to rock her wings and flash her navigation lights off and on. To her annoyance, the Russians totally ignored her and kept flying straight and level. She performed the intercept ritual again and started a gentle turn for them to follow. But again the bomber held fast to its course. She switched her radio to the international distress frequency and radioed to them.

"Soviet TU-95 flight. You are instructed to alter heading and follow me."

The Soviet crew was delighted with the feminine voice coming from their radio. This was a welcome addition to the boring series of reconnaissance flights they had been on for the last month. Now they had something to report when they went back to their base. The Americans had women minding the store while the men were off bullying the Arabs.

Nicols switched her radio back to talk to the other fighter.

"They aren't listening." she announced

"Come up here and ride shotgun. We'll show you how it's done."

She ascended to join the Tomcat. On acquiring her station on his wing she radioed again.

"Okay Hotshots. He's all yours."

"First you have to get their attention."

The RIO in the Tomcat punched a button on his console. In less than a heartbeat the Sidewinder hanging from his left wing stanchion sniffed out the heat source from the bomber's engines. Another button focused his radar and locked up the target.

Aboard the Russian Bear, the distinct warning of a missile lock screeched in their ears. Most of those present had experienced this at one point or other, but it still scared the hell out of them. At this range there was not a very big chance of evading a missile.

"Now that we have his attention we go down there and explain it to him."

The big fighter swooped down on its prey. Nicols stayed above and behind to observe. As the Tomcat approached the bigger aircraft it began to turn into it. The bomber held course until she was sure they would collide. Without reluctance the fighter crept closer. At last the Russians lost their nerve and began to turn away. Her radio broke loose with a string of Russian. She didn't understand a word of it but the tone was definitely rude. When the radio fell silent she switched frequencies and keyed her mike.

"Merry Christmas, assholes."

Nicols took a slight ribbing from the two man fighter crew that had accompanied her during the flight back to the carrier. She was learning very quickly to ignore their jokes. To legitimize their comments with a response in any form would only encourage more of the same. She chose instead to concentrate on the task of landing aboard, at night, with live ordnance.

Graham had removed herself from CIC and was now in the Carrier Air Traffic Control Centre, known to those aboard by virtue of its long name, as CATCC. The Carrier Approach Controller paid no attention to her. Instead he skilfully performed his duties. She stood quietly and listened to the events unfolding before her.

"Number one, two oh six, all down, clear deck." he spoke to a man on the deck with the Landing Systems Officer.

The first aircraft in line to come aboard was Nicols' Hornet, side number two zero six. Her flaps and hook were confirmed down and the deck was clear to receive her.

"Two oh six, on line, slightly right, one mile, call the ball." The controller requested her to confirm visual contact with the optical landing aid she was using for her approach. Graham heard Nicols' voice over the speaker in CATCC.

"Two oh six, centre ball, five point three." She had corrected her glide path and reported ball and carrier lights in sight. Fuel remaining five thousand three hundred pounds. Another voice broke from the speaker.

"No wing lights. Sir, check wing lights."

Immediately the controller radioed to Nicols.

"Two oh six, check external lights on please."

Quarter of a mile behind the ship the red and green wing-tip lights blinked on. The slight distraction was enough to throw her off her approach. The fighter materialized out of the blackness and touched down just beyond the last wire. The landing crews watched her light the pipes and roar back off into the night. The CATCC controller spoke into the mike.

"Two oh six, pick it up on heading two five niner, climb to angels one point two."

Nicols climbed to twelve hundred feet and entered the downwind leg of the landing pattern again and listened to the controller.

"Number one, three oh three, all down, clear deck." The Tomcat was now on final. Over the speaker Graham heard someone from the deck.

"An F-14, he'll show that broad how to park a plane."

Seconds later the Tomcat slammed into the deck at full power. Its elevators flapping like some big prehistoric bird.

Nicols made her approach again. Landing aboard a carrier at night is one of the most difficult tricks in aviation. It is the eye of the needle through which all must pass. With sweating palms she manipulated the throttles and stick to bring her craft across the threshold at a precise height and speed. The fact that she was even here attempting this manoeuvre spoke volumes for her flying ability. The Hornet caught the number two wire and came to a stop. After deplaning she headed into the ship to change and shower. Roberts stopped her along the way.

"How was your flight?" he asked.

"Routine, I guess."

"I heard you had a little trouble convincing the Russians to go away." He had been given the report from the other crew as soon as they had landed.

"Yeah, I don't think they took me seriously." she flushed at her reply.

"Don't worry about it. They just do that to piss us off."

He pulled a small package from his pocket.

"It's Christmas and I'd like you to have this."

She took it from him and inspected it. The wrapping on it was done rather crudely. A length of tape totally encircled it to hold the frayed edges of the paper in place. She looked up and down the passage to see if anyone was around. Seeing no one she turned to him.

"Thank-you." leaning over she gave him a light kiss on the cheek.

"Merry Christmas Kristen."

After he had left she found a quiet corner with no one around to bother her. She peeled through the layers of tape and paper to unveil a small box from a jeweller's. Opening the lid she immediately recognized the content for what it was. Fighter pilots are a superstitious lot and many of them carry a small keepsake for luck. She picked up the necklace and admired the delicate gold four leaf clover hanging from it. Turning it over in her hand she noted that the back had been intricately engraved. To read the tiny words she had to hold it close. She couldn't pronounce it but she recognized it as something he had said to her just before leaving Hawaii. "Aloha au ia oe." Without delay she placed it around her neck along with her dog tags. She still didn't know what the translation was for the saying on it. Possibly there was someone on board that may be able to tell her. She put it to the back of her mind. She knew that it was something nice regardless.

Several thousand miles away, Captain Abdul Karriem pulled back the stick of his MIG 29 Fulcrum. The new technology Russian built fighter eased into the air with all of the grace that Western aircraft had. With his five squadron mates he climbed to 20,000 feet. The ground controllers that would guide his flight kept up the steady stream of data that would enable them to set course for their target. For days now the Coalition of Nations that opposed their leader had been patrolling the edge of Iraqi airspace. The mission they were on was a simple one. Charge toward the enemy and make him nervous. The move would serve two purposes. One, was to psyche out the adversary. Their orders required that for them to fire, they had to be attacked. To sit helplessly and wait while the threat loomed closer put a tremendous strain on them. Two, if the enemy pilots lost their nerve and fired first, it would be an important propaganda coup. To paint the U.S. led Coalition as war mongering aggressors would add authenticity to Iraq's claims to the world. The six aircraft took up position on each other and awaited final instructions from ground control. Momentarily they received the intercept coordinates. With all weapon systems activated they dashed away toward the fighters on the edge of their airspace. Crashing through the sound barrier, it would only take them five minutes to cover the seventy miles.

Major Dave Rodgers completed his turn away from the Kuwaiti border. Along with three other aircraft, he patrolled a twenty mile stretch of sky along the coast of Kuwait. Their job was to intercept any threat to shipping in the Gulf. Settling on to the outbound leg of the pattern they flew, his attention was caught by a British accent on his radio.

"Canada Dry, H.M.S. Kent." The Kent was one of Britain's contributions to the radar picket line that kept a persistent surveillance on the actions of the Iraqi Air Force. Major Rodgers keyed his mike and acknowledged the call. Relaxing his grip on the switch he awaited the answer.

"Canada Dry, we have multiple contacts lifting off from Basra. ETA five minutes. Turn left to new heading 259 degrees and climb to angels 22 for intercept."

The Major and his wingman swung their craft around to meet the oncoming MIGs. Pivoting around through 020 degrees, his search radar located the bandits in its peripheral boundaries. Processing the information on his screen took only seconds. During multinational exercises the Canadian pilots had, without fail sent their adversaries away with the feeling they had been skinny dipping in a blender. The four CF/A-18 fighters of the Canadian Forces Desert Cats Squadron fanned out and prepared to defend themselves and the ships in their charge.

Captain Abdul Karriem watched closely for what he knew would be coming. The four blips on his radar screen were Hornet fighters, eight miles ahead and two thousand feet above him. His threat board warned him of the missiles that were locked on and tracking them. He led his flight ahead for another few seconds, hoping to entice a launch from the Canadians. When they were only five miles from each other, seconds away at the speed they travelled, he banked away to head back to base.

Rodgers watched the MIGs turn and head back to base. With his finger over the trigger to launch his missiles, he continued toward them. They had been at this for days now and he yearned to take a shot at them. The radio broke his contemplation.

"Canada Dry. You are entering hostile airspace. Turn right to new heading 015, I repeat, you are entering hostile airspace come right to heading 015."

The Kent radio operator's voice was filled with concern.

Snapping the fighter to the right, the Canadian pilot headed back to resume his patrol. The tension eased a little bit after the French accented radio call from his wingman.

"Ah, what a Christmas gift for Saddam, eh. Fulcrum Flambé."

"More like baked chicken." Rodgers shot back into the radio.

None of them had come close enough to see the six green, white and red Iranian flags decorating the side of Arab's MIG. Battles from a seven year conflict that he had survived and others had not. But then, he had never met the Desert Cats. Had he?

* * * * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Not in the clamour of the crowded street

Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng

But in ourselves are triumph and defeat

(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882)

* * * * *

Christmas came and went aboard the Enterprise. Those with families back home pored over letters, gifts and cards from home. Others were satisfied with the generic brand of mail from their countrymen. Hundreds of letters arrived aboard from children in schools across the country. Someone in the States had started an Adopt a Soldier campaign and the results were phenomenal. Some of the children's letters were wreathed with concern for the safety of the men and women. These letters were typically from little girls. The letters from the boys were more GI Joe type pep talks. They seemed to be more concerned with the high tech equipment than the people who would be in the line of fire operating it. Still, they were letters from home and they served to keep moral high. It was nice that they were being thought of by young people who didn't even know them.

Each day news of the Gulf crisis would come, and each day those aboard became more resigned to the fact that they quite possibly would have to carry out the warnings from their Commander in Chief. Although not as severe as for those already stationed in the Gulf, the tension aboard the carrier was starting to mount. It would only be another nine days until they arrived in the region. Another twenty-one until they might be at war. The Enterprise was ready, willing and able. But like all instruments of war, everyone hoped they wouldn't have to use her.

Alexander occupied his time with keeping track of the combat readiness of his troops. The reports that advanced across his desk continually showed improvement. The availability of aircraft for missions hovered at a satisfying ninety-five percent. The launch times had improved to the point that any gains now were measured in a few seconds. The fighters would dual one another to a stand still while in the air. He'd had to dress Roberts and Graham down a couple of times for the intensity they had their pilots fighting each other with. The Hornet pilots were sending the Gunfighters home with a bloody nose with ever increasing regularity. Damage control was performing to the point of being the envy of any ship in the Navy. In spite of all the radiant reports he knew that he had a ship full of rookies. None of them, with the exception of a few Marines, had experienced real combat. During the heat of battle, duties had to be carried out by instinct. Decisions were not made by mulling them over, there wasn't time for that. If the proper actions were not natural reflex, then the person performing them was doomed. His reputation for being a hard ass had preceded him aboard. His section heads were finding it to be true first hand. With every glowing report, he demanded more. There would be no reprieve until he was safely on his way back home with all of his command.

On January Third, the Enterprise and her escorts neared the Strait of Hormuz from the Gulf of Oman. Now that she had arrived, the Chief of Operations for the Persian Gulf had to find a place for her. The U.S.S. Ranger and Midway were on station already and the Enterprise would share their duties with them. The three carriers had to operate in what amounted to an oversize lake. The Persian Gulf was only five hundred miles long and two hundred miles at its widest point. It reminded Alexander of the Gulf of Tonkin. A little larger perhaps, but no less claustrophobic for a ship of this size. At 1530 on January Third, 1991, the U.S.S. Enterprise took up her post. The ship's crew set to the task at hand. They would keep a halo of fighters and support craft aloft, twenty-four hours a day, for as long as necessary. The first of hundreds of flights rose from her deck and accelerated toward Kuwait. The gravity of this first flight was not lost on those who flew it. Commander Graham levelled her fighter at 18,000 feet and looked around her. In stacked formation she could see the three other Hornets from her squadron.

"Now here is a page for your history books." she thought happily.

The United States, in times of conflict had always fielded its best. That still rang true, but among the best on this occasion were the ladies of the VF/A-47 Black Widows.

Nawrot poked his head out from between the twin tails of Lt. Krysak's fighter to see who had beckoned him. The female voice put him on the defensive instantly. He had never seen a bunch of pilots like these. It didn't seem to matter what time of the day or night he was working, there was always one of them down here checking on him and his engineers. Of late he had been telling Commander Graham to them to get out of his hair. It looked as though he would need to invite them to get lost on an individual basis however.

"What can I do for you?" he called out.

The woman walked out from beneath the tail of the fighter and looked up at him. It was strange that he didn't recognize her. He was sure he had met all of the pilots from this squadron.

"Plane Captain, I'm Margo Akamye. I'm a reporter, here to do a story on the Black Widows. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"

Stepping around the left rudder he leaned down to grip the edge of the aileron of the plane. Rolling forward, he somersaulted from his perch and dropped to the ground.

"I don't know if I can tell you much but," he reached out for her hand to shake it, "ask away."

She produced a tape recorder from somewhere.

"Is there a place we can go and talk?" her voice was almost drowned out by the whine of an air wrench.

He turned toward a row of windows at the side of the hangar bay and motioned her to follow. Once inside he closed the noise out and offered her a chair in the tiny office. She cast a glance around her at the mountain of manuals, discarded Styrofoam cups and wrenches that occupied every nook and cranny in the room. She was going to comment on the disorganization when a sailor barged into the room.

"Sir, I need the specs to calibrate the hydraulic control link on one of the Hornets."

Without pausing, Nawrot went directly to a pile on the desk and from halfway down, jerked out a sheaf of paper. He flipped through it to the appropriate page and handed it to the man.

"Whose bird are you working on?" he asked.

"Lt. Moroki's, Sir."

"Tweak up the sensitivity on it, she doesn't like any slop in the controls."

"Don't I know. She just finished giving me a lecture on it."

Taking the text from Nawrot, the sailor politely nodded to the reporter and returned to the hangar.

"Now," he took a chair and faced the reporter, "is it Miss?" Akamye bent her head in confirmation. "Miss Akamye, how can I be of service?"

"Well, for starters. What do you think of these women being aboard?"

His reply put her on the defensive.

"They're a pain in the ass." he answered honestly.

"This is going to be some interview." she thought as she formulated her next question.

On the eighth day of patrolling in the Gulf, Alexander waited impatiently in the pilot's ready room. An hour earlier he had been summoned to CIC by the OOD. When he'd entered the room the officer set upon him with some very disturbing news. The combat air patrol they'd launched earlier had, without authorization, chased a flight of Iraqi fighters clear across Kuwait to the Iraq border. Before they arrived back aboard, Headquarters had been on the horn demanding an explanation. It was clearly pointed out to him by the man in charge, that if it happened again somebody was going to hang. The door cracked open to allow the offending pilots and their Superior Officers to enter. The group consisted of Commander Graham, Commander Roberts and two pilots from each of their respective squadrons. In a calm voice Alexander began the inquiry.

"Tell me just what the hell happened up there." He paced up and down in front of them waiting for a reply. Hesitantly Pederson spoke up.

"Sir, for the last eight days the Iraqi Air Force has been intercepting our patrols. Today they came within gun range and forced us to take defensive action."

Alexander stopped pacing and stuck his face up to Pederson's.

"And what was this defensive action that you took, Lt. Commander?"

"We . . . uh. We . . ."

"WE WHAT, Lt. Commander?" bawled Alexander.

The colour drained from Pederson's face and he stared straight ahead.

"We chased them back to their own airspace, Sir."

"In other words, you pursued them to the Kuwait border."

"No Sir. We followed them all the way to Iraq's border."

Alexander resumed his pacing.

"We are here because Iraq has invaded Kuwait. Until we are given orders to go in there and remove them, Kuwait is their airspace. Who initiated this, this defensive action?" he again stopped in front of Pederson.

"DID YOU Lt. Commander?"

Pederson physically leaned back from the intensity of, not the question, but the menacing force with which it was delivered. Pederson shifted his eyes to the side nervously. In his peripheral vision Moroki's face seemed cast in stone. Quickly he made the decision to protect her from the wrath of the Admiral. As soon as he opened his mouth to accept responsibility for their wayward flight, Moroki cut him off.

"Lt. Commander Pederson had nothing to do with it, Sir."

Alexander whirled around to challenge the meek voice.

"Sir, I initiated the flight over Kuwait to pursue the enemy." Lt. Moroki stood poker straight and admitted her guilt.

Alexander did not miss a beat. It was obvious that she was ready to take her lumps. The well being of her colleagues was important to her however. Deciding to capitalize on this loyalty, he turned back to Pederson and his wingman.

"Is this true?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And why did you follow her?"

"To provide cover, Sir."

"At any time did you try to discourage the pursuit?" Alexander seemed poised, ready to strike.

"No, Sir." Pederson resigned himself to the inevitable. Moroki had put his ass in the wringer and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"If you ever pull a stunt like this again, you had better hope that you get shot down over enemy territory. Because if I get my hands on you I'll bust you so far down the Goddamn chain of command you'll think you're a groundhog. Do I make myself clear?"

The two Tomcat pilots reported in unison.

"SIR, YES SIR."

"Now, the four of you. Get out of my sight and I don't want to see you again."

The pilots filed out of the room, leaving Roberts and Graham behind to receive their chewing out. Out in the passageway, Moroki walked ahead of Pederson. She stopped and turned to him.

"What a grouch."

Pederson gave her an amazed look and shook his head at her.

"Shut up Moroki."

The door shut behind the rogue pilots and Alexander turned his attention to the Commanding Officers of their squadrons. Roberts and Graham braced themselves for the bawling out they were about to get. They gave each other a confused glance when he spoke in a calm voice.

"You two have got yourselves some ambitious people working for you."

His pacing had stopped and he stood at ease in front of the commanders.

"Sir?" Roberts gave a quizzical gesture.

"Yes, I know I chewed them out but if I was up there I would have done the same thing. Moroki's actions were not well thought out; she should have stopped at the Kuwait border. Don't discipline her, in seven days she may need all the cockiness she has to get by."

"What about Lt. Commander Pederson, Sir?" Roberts inquired.

"Oh, I just dented his pride a little. If he wouldn't have followed her in there I would have Court Martialed him on the spot. Just tighten up the reigns on them a bit. We won't run from a fight but I would just as soon not be the one to start it. Also keep in mind that shit runs downhill and you two are at the bottom looking up. Dismissed."

With a salute, the two left the room. His talk with them had been almost fatherly. It was evident nevertheless, that he ruled with an iron fist.

Margo stood on Vulture's Row watching what amounted to the changing of the guard. Four aircraft had just been launched and now, fifteen minutes later, four were preparing to land. It was only a couple of more days until they reached the UN deadline. She had visited the deck several times since her arrival and it had always been busy. She thought about the story she was attempting to write about the people around her. In the beginning it was to be exclusively about the female pilots on board, and the hardships she assumed they would suffer at the hands of the Navy's male population. Most of the interviews she had conducted suggested that she had been wrong. The meeting with Nawrot was a perfect example. At first his stance implied a genuine dislike for the women of this squadron. After an hour her conclusions were entirely reversed. His statement that they were a pain in the ass was true. To a Plane Captain in the Navy, the fact that you are a pilot automatically earns this distinction. Margo's education covered a broad spectrum. One of the subjects she had dabbled in at the University of Hawaii, had been psychology. She recognized the displaced fondness when he spoke of his precious airplanes. In a male dominated world it would be sacrilegious to show fondness for the pilot. The only reason she was able to see it was because the pilot was now a woman. To show concern for a woman was acceptable. Years of habit still tried to hide it though. She came away from the meeting with a new respect for the people that served aboard these ships. They did their absolute best to safeguard the well being of those that depended on their labour. These machines were designed to fly in a hostile climate and defend themselves. If an aircraft ever went down from mechanical failure she knew that Nawrot and all those that shared his profession would blame themselves for eternity. Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a pilot she hadn't met yet.

"You must be the reporter I heard was aboard?"

Margo stretched out her hand in greeting and introduced herself.

"Margo Akamye. And you are?"

"Lt. Kristen Nicols."

Nicols had heard about this woman a few days before. When she found out that she was Hawaiian it became an obsession to meet her. Standing here facing her she thought briefly about shoving her four leaf clover at her and asking for a translation of the inscription. Fighting back the urge, she satisfied herself with small talk. Every time that she had been on alert, Roberts had spent at least a little bit of time sitting talking to her. And every time she had asked him what it meant, to no avail. His answer had always been the same.

"I'll tell you when we get back."

At last the conversation reached a point where she could bring her question forward without seeming too conspicuous.

"Are you nervous about the deadline coming up?" inquired the reporter.

Nicols thought about it for a moment. Yes. She was terrified.

"No. I've got my trusty amulet to keep me safe." She pulled the small charm from beneath her tunic to show it off.

Margo took it in her hand and inspected it.

"It must mean a lot to you." she stated.

"Why do you say that?"

Well, it says "I love you" on the back.

Nicols gently tucked it back under her top.

"Yes. It was given to me by someone very special."

Margo couldn't be sure but this appeared to upset her a bit.

"An old love?" she asked

"I hope so." Nicols quietly answered.

She leaned over the rail and thought how nice it would be to have someone that could be known as an old love. Old because they had spent a lifetime together. She wanted desperately to have a love like her Mother and Father had. But she did not want to spend her life in misery when that love went away.

The tension aboard the U.S. ships was palpable on January 15. The UN deadline had been reached and exceeded. One hundred and seventy five warships and almost twenty three hundred aircraft had been assembled to deal with the Iraqis. All aboard the Enterprise waited with growing nervousness. They realized that only a miracle would stop the impending storm.

Alexander had the ship ready to launch an attack at any time. The pilots had been briefed and re-briefed to keep them prepared. Support personnel went over munitions and aircraft again and again looking for some missed flaw that could hamper their performance. Everyone was kept as active as possible while they awaited the order to attack.

At 1250 AM local time on January 17, 1991, the allied forces carried out their warnings to the Iraqi Government. Most of the pilots from the squadrons aboard the Enterprise stood on deck. Five miles away, the United State's Battleship, Wisconsin split the black night. Tomahawk cruise missiles sprang from her deck in fiery splendour. From the aircraft carrier it was a beautiful sight to see. The battleship bathed in the glow from the missile's plumes. With the first flash, the hopes of peace vanished. Gordon stood beside her friend Lt. Nicols. With her legs feeling weak she did not deem herself qualified to be here. The adrenaline rush she had expected when this moment came was only a hollow ache in the pit of her stomach. Nicols leaned on the rail and put her head in her hands. A tear streamed down her cheek, invisible in the pitch dark night. Only a few feet away some of the Gunfighter pilots watched the attack being launched. In a few minutes, somewhere beyond the horizon, people were going to perish. One of the pilots looked on. He had no quarrel with these people.

"Why." he whispered in a faltering voice, echoing the question of all those who now had to fight.

The pilots filed out of the ready room. The private feelings they had experienced watching the Wisconsin unleash her weapons a few hours before had been suppressed. They slapped each other on the back and vocalized their invincibility like players before a big game. Thoughts of mortality were absent as they prepared to launch. Pederson trailed behind Moroki on the way to the flight deck.

"Hey Moroki, wait up." Pederson double timed toward her. She stopped to wait for him.

"What do you want?"

"You get to go to Baghdad tonight. Aren't you happy?"

"Look Pederson, if you're still pissed about getting in trouble because of me, I'm sorry."

He had been on her case quite a bit for the last few days about the little side trip they had made.

"No, that's okay. I wanted to see if you would mind having a coffee with me when we get back?"

She had heard some of the stories about him carrying on with the ladies in port.

"I'll think about it." she said and moved away. A few more feet down the passage she stopped again.

"Yeah, I'll have a coffee with you when we get back. After all you did stay on my wing all the way to Iraq. It's the least I can do."

Pederson smiled to himself. Every time he saw the Lieutenant, he liked her a little bit more.

Alexander was present in CIC, watching the aircraft plotters mimic the actions on the deck with model aircraft. They were the men who planned what plane would launch in what order. Their instructions were relayed to the men who actually moved the aircraft about the deck. With each confirmation of a launch, the plotter would remove that aircraft from his board and move another into place. Thirty years ago, the Enterprise had made history. She was the first ever nuclear powered super carrier. Since that time her name had graced the media many times because of her actions and capabilities. It seemed that the big ship was destined to be a celebrity for her entire service life. In a few minutes she would change history again. She was being given the distinction of sending women into combat for the first time. The foreboding Alexander had in anticipation of this moment was still there, but it was there for all of the pilots under his command. As each warplane disappeared into the blackness he silently wished them luck. The number of models on the plotting table quickly diminished and Alexander turned his attention to the radar and radio consoles.

Nawrot leaned over the cockpit of Gordon's fighter. He had checked the HARM missiles that hung from her wings and now as a last precaution he was checking the pilot. He reached around to be sure the safety pins had been removed from the ejection seat. Satisfied that all was well he bonked her on the helmet.

"Have a nice trip Darlin'." he tried to yell above the din around them.

Gordon never looked up from her own preparations, but with a free hand she stuck her arm out and gave him a thumbs up. Nawrot dropped from sight over the lip of the cockpit and stowed the boarding ladder away under the LEX. While the fighter taxied he raced around under the plane checking everything again. It entered the box at the catapult and stopped. Nawrot ran to the side and confirmed to Gordon that she was ready. She acknowledged him and turned her attention to the CAT Officer. She was on her own now. She slammed the throttles into afterburner and hauled back on the pole. Next stop Baghdad. The CAT Officers did their pirouette on the deck. The steam driven catapults hissed mightily under the load of the heavily laden jets. Reaching the limit of their travel, history changed. Armed to the teeth, the weaker sex winged their way to take their rightful place among the gentry of fighter pilots.

The flight of Hornets remained silent. Since they had launched, they could hear the chatter from aircraft that were already over the target. The graphic descriptions coming over the radio were laced with excitement and urgency. Stacked above them were the A-6 Intruders and Tomcats from the carrier. The Black Widows' job was Surface to Air Missile suppression. Better known as a Wild Weasel mission. Once over the target they would go down and lure the SAM batteries to activate their radar. At that point they could discourage the missile system operator by launching their HARM anti-radiation missiles, which home on the radar emissions. This mission had two advantages. If the enemy used their radar the HARMs could find and destroy them. If they didn't use it, they couldn't track the incoming bombers. Either way it was an effective method of dealing with the threat. While they handled the SAM installations, the Intruders would make bombing runs on the main target. The F-14s would orbit above to provide cover against enemy fighters. The one big disadvantage was that Wild Weasel pilots typically had a short life span. From miles away they saw the glow of Baghdad. Shafts of red light clawed the sky, trying to destroy the waves of bombers that were pounding the city. None of them had ever seen anything that could compare. In a few seconds they would be right in the middle of it. At the order from Commander Graham, the Black Widows armed their missiles and plunged out of the darkness to pave a path for the Intruders.

* * * * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I gave my life for freedom

This I know

For those who bade me fight

Had told me so

(William Norman Ewer, 1885-1976)

* * * * *

Krysak paid close attention to the CRT screen in her cockpit. On her wing another Hornet was only a shadow in the darkness. Suddenly the CRT came alive and displayed a radar installation that was active. Pointing her nose to the source of the emissions she hurriedly attempted to loon to it. At last she had a firm lock and dispatched a HARM. The fourteen foot long missile dropped from the rail of Krysak's F/A-18. Its rocket motor ignited to propel it toward the target at over fourteen hundred miles per hour.

Five miles away the Iraqi radar operator painted the two Hornets on his console. Feeding the co-ordinates to the SA-6 missile took only milliseconds. The SAM streaked skyward toward Krysak and her wingman. He never got to see the fruits of his labour, for the HARM from Krysak's fighter found him first.

Lt. Moroki was aware of the urgency in Krysak's voice as she called the inbound missile to her attention. She broke her fighter to the right to try and evade. With her night vision gone from the flash of Krysak's missile, she could not see to dodge the threat. The jet fighter stood on its right wing and changed directions faster than even its designers could have hoped for. Moroki snapped it into a 600 degree per second roll and lit the pipes. Her head grazed the side of the canopy from the recklessness of her flying. Fire blazed from the Hornets tail in answer to her frantic demand for speed and a cloud of chaff flowed behind her aircraft. Stopping the roll, she hauled into a nine G bat-turn to the left, her Hornet fighter's engines screaming in defiance. Lt. Moroki felt no fear or regret. She did her best to turn inside the missile that was homing on her craft. She had done everything possible to deceive it, to no avail. Her last thought as the Iraqi projectile slammed home was one of gratitude. Of having had the privilege to be here. Her reason for joining had been to give something back. At 0413 on January 17, 1991, Lt. Moroki paid for the freedom that she loved so much. The Black Widows were now bloodied. The first of their number had died fighting courageously right to the end.

Krysak had stayed flying straight. The smaller radar return from the head-on fighter made it a secondary choice to go after. The SA-6 instead chose the larger return of Moroki's turning aircraft. Krysak became physically ill as she watched one of her comrades disappear in a brilliant flash of fire. She never stayed to look for a parachute. She knew there would not be one. Their task completed, the Hornets formed back together at the rally point. Graham radioed for her pilots to check in. Each click of the radio brought relief to the squadron, until after Krysak reported in. All of the pilots waited apprehensively for the last click that would never come.

After landing, Graham rushed over to where Lt. Krysak stood. She leaned against the nose gear of her fighter, her head hung in shock and disbelief.

"What happened out there Lieutenant?"

Her voice was hopeful. Maybe Lt. Moroki had bailed out. Krysak looked to her Commander without expression.

"Ma'am. Moroki took a direct hit from a SAM. She's gone."

That was it. No anger in her voice, just a spiritless sickening statement.

"She's gone."

They had fought a long and arduous campaign to attain the right to be here. They had made the first of the long line of sacrifices to come. Now the Black Widows were granted membership to the house of the warrior.

Graham sat alone in her quarters. While waiting to de-brief in the ready room, the others had filed past her in silence. Some cast rueful glances toward her. Pederson had said nothing when he stopped in front of her. He just reached out and squeezed her shoulder. As if he too shared her loss. She was so wound up with the loss of one of her pilots that she never saw the sadness in his eyes. Pederson had flown with the escorts on this mission. Guarding the sky above them had not been adequate. He felt robbed that she had been taken by something that he was helpless to prevent.

The consequence of command weighed severely on Graham. Alexander had expressed sorrow for her loss during the synopsis of the mission. It all seemed so surreal. One of her crew was gone, yet the madness that took her was to continue. There was no pause to mourn her loss. The paper on her small desk awaited her pen strokes. For just the right thing for its intended recipients to read of their daughter. She had worked so hard to be here, yet right at this moment she would pay any price not to. What had given her the liberty to lead these women to their fate? If not for her, Lt. Moroki would be safe at some obscure base in the States. She was filled with regret and doubt. A knock sounded on her door.

"May I come in?" the Admiral stood with his hat in his hand.

"Yes." she motioned to the chair she'd been occupying. "Please, have a seat."

He took the offered chair. On the desk he saw the blank paper. Gesturing toward it, he asked.

"Lt. Moroki's parents?"

Graham nodded her head mutely.

"I've had to write some of those in my time." Alexander spoke softly. The gruffness he usually exhibited was not present.

"What do you say to someone who has just lost their daughter?" Her query was more of a plea for help.

"What . . .," Alexander closed his eyes and brought a hand to his brow in contemplation. "if you were able to, would you tell your parents had it been you?" he looked expectantly at the struggling woman.

Graham thought only a moment before answering.

"I would tell them that I loved them. That they had given me the most important thing in my life. The opportunity to do what I wanted. To always remember me." her train of thought continued in this direction.

"Commander Graham. Anyone could have brought your squadron aboard my ship. The fact that it was you is not relevant. These people would have been here sooner or later. Now is when they need you. You are the one they are going to look to for strength. I've watched you since you've been aboard and know you have what it takes. The only thing that can stop you is yourself. What you are going through right now is universal among people who lead others. Don't let your doubts get the best of you."

"Thank-you, Sir."

"Commander, one more thing."

She looked up to him; her features had taken on a different look. She seemed older now. Wiser.

"I have disagreed with your presence here from the beginning. It is not because I don't think you have a right. It's because I know what can happen. Women have been excused from this insanity and I can't understand why they would willingly subject themselves to it."

The Admiral rose to excuse himself. The last part of his talk had almost been an apology. He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. From his silence she heard his pity. After he had left Graham picked up her pen and began to write. The words came easier now. They were no less devastating to her, but they did come. As she wrote she thought of the Admiral. He had been such a pain in the neck when they had first come aboard. Now . . . now he was something else. Someone to listen to and take guidance from. Someone with countless experiences to draw strength from. She dropped her pen to the desk. Someone to lean on. Graham left her cabin to find Alexander. She desperately needed someone to talk to right now and he more than anyone understood what she was feeling.

Over the next couple of days the missions increased in abundance. A steady stream of fighters and bombers traversed the deck of the ship. Day and night the aircraft journeyed over Iraq. The expected opposition from the Iraqi Air Force had not materialized as yet. Regardless of the lack of opposition from the Iraqis, the frequency of the missions was taking its toll on the flight crews that flew them.

Nicols paused in the passage to tighten a strap on her flight suit.

"Anybody ever tell you how good you look in those speed jeans?"

She raised her head to find Commander Roberts eyeing her with adoration. His compliment referred to the G-suit she wore over her flight coveralls.

"You should get some rest. I think your eyes are worn out."

He appeared tired. They were all tired but the Commander and his squadron were run to the point of total exhaustion. They not only provided cover for the Intruder Squadron, they were committed to guard the Hornets when flying ground attack.

"Not right now. We have to come along and baby-sit you girls while you're down rearranging the sand." he joked.

Today they would be patrolling over the desert looking for mobile SCUD missile launchers.

"I always wondered why there were two of you in a Tomcat. It gives you someone to talk to while everybody else is working."

So far the Gunfighters had not been met with any resistance. All of the bomber pilots made a point of rubbing it in. Nicols and Roberts continued to banter back and forth on the way to their airplanes.

"Happy hunting, Kristen."

Roberts bade her a farewell before they parted ways to board their aircraft. She paused and watched him recede across the deck toward his aircraft. He was so kind to her. He'd sat and listened to her doubts and fears for hours since they'd left Hawaii with never a word of complaint or ridicule. She craved to get this over with so she could be closer to him. For now it would have to wait. Putting her thoughts to the back of her mind, she meticulously went over her aircraft.

Nicols scanned her instruments, then the sky around her, then her instruments again. The ritual hadn't ceased since takeoff. Around her were five other F/A-18s and six Tomcats for fighter support. The coast of Kuwait passed below and the Tomcat Squadron lagged behind. From a mile aft and three thousand feet above they would keep an umbrella over the Hornets. The twelve Navy aircraft crossed into Iraq fifty miles to the south of Basra.After a brief radio exchange from their flight controllers the flight banked slightly to the right. A reconnaissance aircraft had reported a number of mobile SCUD launchers. The co-ordinates were supplied to them via the data link and programmed into the navigation systems. Hopefully they would still be there when they arrived. Two minutes from the intended target, the Hornets began to drop from the sky and fan out. Stretched across a three mile front, they proceeded to comb the barren landscape at fifteen hundred feet.

The Gunfighters held their vigil above the Hornets: their radar sweeping the sky at intermittent altitudes looking for the enemy. Below them, they could see the bombers flitting over the ground. Pederson's RIO abruptly broke forth on the radio.

"I got Bogeys inbound."

"Bearing and speed?" Roberts demanded at once.

"Bearing 085, closure 600 knots. They're low, about two thousand feet."

"They're going after the Black Widows. Let them get under us and we'll bounce them."

Roberts watched his command form into pairs. His own RIO was feeding him information as he swung the fighter around and prepared to attack.

"They just went ballistic. ETA now three and a half minutes."

Roberts radioed to the F/A-18s and warned them of the incoming fighters.

"You'll have to keep them busy," Graham answered. "We've found our missile launchers."

Abdul Karriem directed his craft toward the enemy bombers. They were clearly outlined on his radar. The flight of Tomcats was now within visual range. It was tempting to climb up and engage them but his orders were clear. Destroy the bombers. Ignoring the threat above them for now, the eight MIG Fulcrums bored on.

Roberts pulled back on the controls to bring the Tomcat into firing position. The heat seeking Sidewinder growled its approval when the hot engine of the enemy fighter registered on its argon cooled sensor. The words MISSILE LOCK flashed in his HUD and he stroked the trigger. A shaft of smoke sprung forth from beneath his wing and flew with pinpoint accuracy to its intended victim. He watched the missile fly up the exhaust of the MIG. It almost seemed to pause before the airplane erupted in a ball of fire. Two of the other Tomcats had launched their heat seekers as well. The first flew past its target and slammed into the ground. The resulting explosion confused the second and it too flew wild into the ground. The battle was moving dangerously close to the preoccupied bombers.

Gordon concentrated on her approach to the fleeing missile launcher. When they said mobile they weren't kidding. It was remarkable how fast those things could go. A solid line bisected the HUD and terminated on the launcher.

"Say your prayers, boys. I'm the woman your Momma warned you about." she laughed out loud.

She could hear a warning to her from one of the others. Something about a MIG on her tail. The launcher was almost where she wanted it.

"Another second and . . ."

The bombs fell from the racks and she kicked the rudder hard left. At five hundred knots and two hundred feet above the ground she dispatched the mobile launcher. She had held her course just a second longer than was allowed. An AA-11 air to air missile from one of the MIGs flew up beside her. Had she turned a half second sooner the missile would have missed her completely. The missile's small control surfaces flexed to their limit to follow her into her seven G turn. It closed the aircraft enough to detect her presence. The proximity fuse activated the warhead and showered the right side of her plane with shrapnel.

The intense pain in her leg was instantaneous and almost more than she could bear. Through the cracked visor of her helmet she was cognizant of the fire warning light blinking on her right engine. Reaching out to push the fire retardant button she was vaguely aware of the red fluid covering her arm. She tried vainly to flip the guard up to expose the button. For some reason her damaged arm would not do her bidding. Gordon let go of the stick with her other hand and reached for the button again. This time she was successful and several pounds of fire retardant discharged into the right engine bay. The second she had let go of the stick the wounded fighter dropped the right wing. She had no idea how badly she was damaged but she would try and nurse it out to the Gulf before she bailed out. She had no desire to become a guest of Saddam's. The fighter responded slowly as she hauled the right wing up and turned toward home. Limping along on one engine, she reluctantly left her squadron to fight.

Two Tomcats set upon the pilot that had taken a shot at Gordon. The Iraqi fighter jinked to the right and crossed the line of fire from the lead Tomcat's wingman. The cannon shells ripped across his canopy and he spun out of control into the ground. The fight was spreading out over a wider area with each passing second. The Hornets were finished with the missile launchers and began to form into sections with the Gunfighters. Some of the Iraqi pilots were starting to lose their nerve and began to retreat. The Americans didn't intend to let them off so easily. Their withdrawal was hampered by the pursuing Navy fighters. The men of the Gunfighter squadron gave no thought to the gender of the Hornet pilots. They were just damn glad to have them there.

Pederson had been separated from his wingman in the heat of the moment. Linking up on Commander Graham's wing, they cornered one of the Fulcrums. All doubts of the Black Widow's abilities vanished as he followed her into a turn that threatened to snap his wings off. The Fulcrum flipped over on its back and tried to make her overshoot. She'd anticipated his move and revolved with him. The Iraqi fighter started to come wings level as it rolled out of its dive. Before the pilot could regain orientation from the tight high G turns he'd made to evade, Graham dispatched the wing from his fuselage with a Sidewinder. He had barely ejected and she was already searching the sky for more victims. Her light-hearted quip on the radio didn't disguise the seriousness that she did her duty with.

"This is more fun than shooting Tomcats off a fence post."

Pederson was city born and raised and didn't quite get it but he was sure it was some sort of a bumpkin slur against his airplane. Racing through five hundred and fifty knots the two fighters lit the pipes and headed upstairs to go hunting.

Nicols watched over her shoulder as she pulled up from her target. From the corner of her eye she could see the enemy trying to get a lock on her. He was about a half a mile behind and slightly right. To her dismay, the warning tone screeched in her ear and she saw the missile detach itself from his wing. Without taking her eyes from it, she deployed flares and countermanded the aircraft to try and out turn it. The AA-11 missile was not thrown off by the manoeuvre and continued toward her. She had done all she could to evade and now just watched in awe. At what seemed to be the moment before it would hit her, the massive silhouette of a Gunfighters Tomcat appeared behind her and blocked it from view.

Roberts had the throttles to the fire wall when he dashed in behind the Hornet fighter. He had seen the enemy launch and in a split second decision attempted to throw the missile off track with a high speed pass in front of it. He almost pulled it off. The missile's tracking device acquired the stronger return from the Tomcat's glowing afterburners and endeavoured to turn after it. Only slightly successful, it exploded behind the rapidly moving aircraft. The thin skin of the plane did nothing to slow down the shrapnel from the blast. It entered the engine compartment on the left and turned the precision machined turbine blades to scrap in an instant. The ravaged engine flung pieces of itself into the one beside it, destroying it as well. Roberts had his hands full inside the disabled aircraftinstantley. Both turbofans were just so much excess weight. The vibration that had momentarily threatened to rip the plane apart had stopped. For all of its technology, Roberts was now flying what amounted to a forty million dollar glider. Instinctively he used his excess airspeed to gain altitude. Going through the emergency shut down procedures he wondered how he was going to get himself and his back-seater out of this scrape.

Abdul Karriem pulled up from his prey. He had received a compelling call for assistance from a member of his flight and was now rushing to his aid. He could paint an American flag on his MIG 29. It had amazed him when the Tomcat that had flown in front of his missile and been hit. For a brief instant he had been perturbed that the pilot had ruined the shot on the Hornet. This was not long lived. A kill was a kill. He thought about engaging the Hornet but his comrade's call for help was filled with urgency. Perhaps when he arrived to assist he would earn himself another American flag.

Nicols flew alongside the damaged Tomcat. She was aware that he had no power. She was also aware of whose plane it was. Painted plainly on the nose was the number 200. Holding down the mike button she called out to him.

"Braidon, eject, eject for God's sake."

Roberts' situation was not good. After repeated calls over the ICS to his RIO he'd not received an answer. He had the capability to blast them both free of the aircraft, but he didn't know if the back-seater's condition could take the abuse of an ejection. The airplane was sluggish in the controls but considering, he figured he could make a forced landing. He recognized Nicols voice over the radio.

"Sorry," he tried to sound at ease. "I got myself a wounded cheezie in the back. We're goin' to land this thing nice and smooth so I can take care of him."

Nicols remained along side. She knew it would be pointless to try and talk him out of it. There was no way he would let his RIO come to harm if he could help it. Her radio burst forth again.

"Besides, I told you in Hawaii that I wouldn't jump out of another plane unless it was on fire. You see any smoke?"

A sad smile crept over her lips and she keyed her mike.

"No, you're not on fire."

Passing through three thousand feet she could see the Tomcat's pivoted wings sweeping forward for landing.

"Kristen, remember what I was going to tell you when I got back? Can I tell you now?"

She began to configure her aircraft for slow flight to stay alongside as long as possible.

"I already know Braidon. The reporter aboard ship told me."

"Damn reporters can't keep quiet about anything."

He let go of the button and hoped for her to say it back to him.

Nicols choked back the tears. She wanted desperately to tell him. She thought of her father's years of misery and spoke into her mike.

All he heard from her was "Good luck Commander."

As his flaps reached the full down position he popped the boards at the tail of the plane. With full flap and speed brakes on, she was no longer able to stay with him. He watched her pull ahead from his sinking aircraft and keyed his mike one more time.

"Aloha au ia oe, Kristen."

Letting go of the com button he pulled the stick toward him to flare the fighter for landing.

* * * * *

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Heav'n has no rage,

Like love to hatred turn'd

Nor Hell a fury,

Like a woman scorn'd

(William Congreve 1670-1729)

* * * * *

From a half mile away Nicols witnessed the Tomcat plough a trench through the sand and lurch to a stop.

Atop the shimmering heat of the desert floor, the lone Black Widow circled the final resting place of Commander Roberts' F-14. No sign of life from the wreckage served to appease her sorrow. High above, a twinkle of sun bounced from the canopy of a MIG 29. A muffled scream of anguish escaped from the edges of Nicols' oxygen mask. Despite the Side Winder missiles adorning the outer wing stations, through misted eyes she selected her weapon of choice, the Vulcan cannon. Missiles were far too impersonal for what she was about to do. She would be witness to the fate of her opponent. Turning to pass over the wreckage again, she ignited her afterburners and accelerated through the sound barrier. Tears fell from her eyes like pebbles as she wrapped her aircraft into a seven G pull-up. A halo of white mist enveloped her fighter as her drop tanks were blown off her wings and a thunderclap announced her challenge. Prepared for battle, she mounted the desert sky astride a fire breathing Hornet to avenge her comrade. With the pain in her heart she realized, her love.

Alexander listened to the controllers talking with the incoming aircraft. Though the voices were professionally calm, they did not hide the terrifying trauma they were dealing with.

"Two oh eight, Joker is not responding. Report please."

Gordon had been on the controller's radar since she crossed the coast. Despite the carrier's repeated attempts to contact her, her radio remained silent.

Krysak's voice was easily heard throughout the room. Everything had fallen deathly quiet since the injured aircraft had begun to draw closer to the carrier. At last the rest of the flight had caught up and they could get some information on the problem.

"Carrier Control. I've looked her over. Damage is extensive on the right side. Starts below the canopy and spreads back to the ailerons. Right intake is totally gone. Hook and gear are down but the right main does not appear to be locked."

The controller gave a worried look to the man beside him. This bird was in no shape to come aboard. He glanced out the window to the deck and saw that the Sea Hawk rescue chopper was lifting off.

"Two oh eight. Her radio is obviously out. Signal her to eject. Rescue is airborne. I repeat, rescue is airborne."

"Wait one." was the terse reply.

The strain in Krysak's next call was emphatic.

"Control. I don't think she can eject. I have her in sight, she seems to be disoriented and she's having some trouble keeping the right wing up."

The controller was now faced with one of the hardest decisions he would ever have to make. This one pilot could possibly kill several men if she came aboard in her condition. He was within his sphere of authority to take actions to prevent her landing. He reached out to make the call but Alexander's voice boomed across the room and stopped him.

"How far out is she?"

A radar operator glanced quickly at his screen.

"Uh, ten miles, Sir. One hundred and fifty knots closure."

"Rig the barrier and bring her aboard."

Williams had been listening to everything from the bridge. Anticipating the request he knew would be coming, he shouted an order to the Helmsman.

"Flank speed, NOW."

"Aye Aye, Sir."

The inbound aircraft was well above landing speed and wasn't likely to slow down. She would need all the wind he could give her across the deck. The big ship responded with agonizing slowness to the urgent request for more speed.

The controller turned to the Admiral.

"Sir, we have nine inbound aircraft that can land. What if she fouls the deck?"

There was no mistaking the intensity and determination in his answer.

"DO IT!" he roared "They can eject, she can't."

Without delay the controller turned and hit a button in front of him. His voice echoed across the deck along with the emergency klaxon.

"RIG BARRIER. RIG BARRIER. INBOUND ETA IS THREE MINUTES."

From all corners of the deck men dashed to the task of rigging the nylon webbing across the landing path of the inbound plane. The controller shook his head. Either this man would be given a medal for trying to save one pilot, or locked up for ditching nine perfectly good airplanes. But an order was an order. He knew all responsibility rested on Alexander regardless of the outcome.

Gordon advanced toward the carrier on instinct alone. Her Nomex flight suit was torn away to reveal a six inch gash on the inside of her thigh. Shrapnel from the missile had entered the cockpit and totally ruined her day. The pain she experienced earlier when it had happened was starting to subside. With her judgment impaired from loss of blood she mistakenly took this to be a good thing. She saw the carrier through a tunnel of blackness. Half heartedly she checked her displays and giggled to herself. The computerized systems aboard the Hornet had been incessantly warning her of the peril that her aircraft was in. Bitchin' Betty had been nagging at the wounded pilot about everything from airspeed to altitude since she'd been hit. Her brain no longer categorized information according to importance. The computerized female voice was becoming an echoing whisper from a cavern of darkness. Nawrot was going to be so pissed at her for breaking his airplane. The only thing she recognized as important was that her right wing was low. The threshold of the ship passed below her and with her last bit of strength she hauled the stick to the left and booted in full left rudder. The effort brought back the intense pain in her leg. The agony from the wound and loss of blood hurtled her past the limits of endurance. Gordon slumped over in her seat, unconscious.

The Hornet hit the deck beyond the arresting wires. Gordon's last efforts at bringing it aboard had only been partially successful. The right wing remained low and the aircraft yawed to the left. On contact, the right gear collapsed, dropping the wing onto the deck. Like a piece of cardboard it folded itself underneath the airplane, showering sparks into the exposed fuel tanks. Still traveling at eighty knots the crumpled airplane left a trail of fire and debris until it slammed into the barrier.

Nawrot sprinted toward the wreckage from the side of the island. The flames instantly caught up to the now stationary aircraft and started to consume it. Ignoring the intense heat, he ran up to the cockpit and punched the rescue toggles to blast the canopy free. Reaching inside, he gripped Gordon's neck to check for a pulse. Feeling nothing, he had a fleeting thought of his family. He wanted so much to go home to them. His decision made, he tugged at the limp pilot's harness. He couldn't allow her to go like this. The flames licked at his back and the aircraft shook under his feet from the deck truck that had begun to push the inferno over the side.

Alexander and the rest of CATCC stared in horror at the scene below them. No one on deck had seen the man run up to the plane. He was now totally out of sight from the smoke and fire. The wreckage was unapproachable. From the vantage point on the deck there was nothing to indicate that the pilot could have possibly survived. Trained to deal with such emergencies, the damage control personnel had begun to dispose of the wreckage before it hampered the ship's safety. Each foot that the deck truck pushed the aircraft closer to the edge of the flight deck drove another stake into Alexander's heart. His impromptu decision to bring the aircraft aboard had cost two lives instead of one. Not able to watch any longer he hung his head in his hands.

A cheer from the people around him brought his attention back to look out the window again. The aircraft dropped from sight over the edge of the flight deck and the smoke started to clear. Staggering away from the side of the ship, the man managed a few steps before collapsing. In his arms he held the unmoving Hornet pilot. Transfixed by the sight, he couldn't tear his eyes away. Emergency medical teams rushed toward the pair. One of them knelt down to the pilot and put his face close to her. He straightened up and began to pump on her chest while another gave her mouth-to-mouth. Another man was trying to care for the rescuer and was being waved toward the inert form of Gordon by a charred arm. The two were quickly lost from sight as more people arrived with emergency equipment and stretchers. Alexander silently prayed to God to spare the lives of these two soldiers. From some corner of the room he heard the controller talking.

"Number one, two oh eight, all down, clear deck."

He was bringing the rest of the flight home.

Abdul searched the sky around him for the Hornet he had been duelling for the last three minutes. Every time he thought he had it, it pulled some erratic manoeuvre and dropped from his firing envelope. He had no idea how the enemy aircraft withstood the strain being dealt to it by the pilot. Never before had he battled a foe that flew with such a burning desire to be victorious. He had managed to squeeze off a few shots, but not enough to deter the pilot from fighting to the death. Checking over his shoulder he caught a glimmer of the American's aircraft stalking him yet again from out of the sun. He turned the Fulcrum at its limit to try and evade but the enemy stayed firmly on his tail. The Iraqi pilot eased off his turn for just a split second. The prolonged forces of gravity were closing in on him. His vision was starting to narrow and the giddy feeling of unconsciousness followed.

Nicols' G-suit squeezed her legs and torso. Grunting as if in child birth, she fought to keep the blood from leaving her brain. With agonizing slowness the MIG and the pipper before her eyes began to converge. The Fulcrum finally submitted to her dogged determination. The pipper on the HUD superimposed the silhouette of the Soviet built fighter. The two hung together in space, neither wavering from the other. The human being in Nicols ceased to exist for that moment. She was no longer a person, but a piece of hardware from the US military that had been programmed to destroy its enemies. With a twitch of her finger she sent five hundred and forty rounds of steel and explosives toward her antagonist.

The cannon fire rent Abdul's airplane as if it were tissue paper. With fire and engine warning lights ablaze, its usefulness was now over. Although still on the fringes of blackout, his training and experience told him what to do. He reached above his head and pulled on the loud handles.

Nicols followed the doomed fighter. The pilot blasted himself free of the wreckage and she swept out into a wide left turn. Bringing her plane around for another look, she settled onto her heading and dropped the nose a few degrees. There, centred in the HUD, her enemy floated helplessly toward the ground. The line between right and wrong had always been clear to Nicols. A good upbringing and common sense had brought her unerringly to this point. Now, with nothing but rage left to guide her, she stepped across to the other side. Lt. J.G Kristen Nicols condemned herself and her quarry. Once again she commanded her cannon t perform its abhorrent deed. Releasing the trigger she banked away toward the carrier.

The blood soaked Iraqi pilot rocked gently under the parachute's canopy from the violence of her passage. He couldn't have known that her guns had tried to end his life, but fallen on empty chambers. He looked up at the sky to praise Allah, for he was certain he had met the angel of death, and that fate had spared him.

Already miles away, Nicols sat unfeeling in her fighter. The one person who she could talk to and trust had been left behind, lifeless in a foreign desert. Everything she had been was now gone. She was privy to a hideous secret and she would carry it to her grave. Without remorse she had attempted to senselessly murder another human being. Nicols had been met with and forced to understand the deplorable reality of war.

There had been so much confusion over the target and on board the carrier that the two missing aircraft were a secondary consideration. The last aircraft from the flight slid down on final.

"Where are the others?"

Alexander was hovering over the radar technician again.

He searched his screen for the absent fighters. Other than an Air Force E-3 Sentry EWAC and a flight of British Tornadoes, the screen was blank.

"No sign of them, Sir."

Alexander's heart sunk again. No matter how long he was in this business he would never get used to this.

"Wait. I have a single contact coming over the coast."

The radar operator was able to distinguish it by the IFF beacon it was emitting. The IFF was a variation of the civilian transponder. It radiated a signal that identified the aircraft as friend. The lack of a signal identified it as foe.

"It's one of ours."

While the controller prepared to bring the late arrival on board, the radio in the room came to life with the voice of Nicols.

"Enterprise Control, two oh six, inbound for landing."

The controller perused a list beside him and identified the aircraft.

"Two oh six, come right to heading 146, number one." he turned to the Admiral. "It's Lt. Nicols, Sir.

Nicols brought her craft in line with the carrier and descended toward it.

"Number one, two oh six, all down, clear deck."

The fighter followed the glide slope beam.

"Two oh six, on line, call the ball."

"Two oh six, centre ball, point eight."

Without fail since Lt. Nicols had come aboard she had always taken at least two tries to land. The controllers had always joked about it before. Today it was no laughing matter. She had only eight hundred pounds of fuel. If she didn't get it right the first time there were no prizes for second place. The added stress of what her squadron had just been through was also a concern. Her concentration may have been affected. All of the recovery personnel watched her approach with mounting tension. The Seahawk rescue chopper stood off about half a mile ready to drop swimmers if the worst were to happen.

The Hornet loomed over the deck and its engines suddenly screamed as it strained at full power against the third arresting cable. Lt. Nicols took her place among the elite. It had been a textbook landing.

Margo Akamye looked on from Vulture's Row. She was out of breath from the hurried excursion from CATCC to her present location. The last fighter rolled to a stop and lifted the canopy. The pilot didn't make a move to deplane. From her perch she could see the black cordite burns around the fighter's cannon. Testimony of the pilot's embroilment in battle. The reporter raised her camera and telephoto lens to bring it to bear on the aircraft's cockpit. Through the lens she saw her, her head thrown back against the ejection seat. Her features contorted from some terrible thing and the tears streaming down her face. It was a private moment for the pilot, a moment that no one could understand. Margo pushed the shutter button to capture her suffering. It was a moment that would be shared with the world.

Alexander read over the action report for the second time. The debriefing had provided him with some dismal information. Commander Roberts and his Radar Intercept Officer were added to the list of those that had been killed in action. The rescue teams that had flown out to his downed aircraft had not even bothered to land. The report they had submitted confirmed that there were no survivors. The Tomcat had been burned beyond recognition. Piecing everything together, he had come up with a list of names. A list of names that would be honoured with medals. It seemed such a feeble effort for the sacrifices they had made. Alexander was tired. Not from his twenty-three years of service, but from the carnage he had witnessed. The fatherless children, the grief stricken families, the inconceivable burden on those who had to stand in the line of fire. What right did mankind have to inflict these injustices on himself? None, was the only response he could come up with.

Nawrot hovered over the hospital bed. The medical personnel in the infirmary had given up on him. Their attempts to get him to lie down had been useless. With his arms and neck swathed in bandages he had stayed beside Lt. Gordon. The tubes and monitors that had been here earlier were now gone. When they had brought her to sick bay her body was nearly devoid of blood. The quick work of the EMTs on deck had very probably saved her. Almost eighteen hours after the crash, Nawrot's heart nearly jumped out of his throat. Gordon's eyes fluttered open and with some effort she focused on the Plane Captain. She stared at him for a while, trying to remember what had happened. Her only recollection was of another Hornet beside her wing. It seemed to be flying in fog. She spoke at last.

"What happened to you?" she asked Nawrot.

He held up his bandaged arms.

"I got too close to a barbecue."

He laid a hand across her forehead and stroked it.

"You get some more rest. I'll come and talk to you later."

After he had gone back to his own section of the sick bay, she called the doctor over.

"When can I get out of here?" she asked weakly.

The man checked a chart on his clipboard.

"You have a concussion, your left shoulder is dislocated, you have thirty two stitches in your leg and you are still weak from loss of blood."

"Yeah, but when do I get out of here?"

He shook his head at her.

"You'll be here for a day or two yet."

The war continued without regard for the action aboard the Enterprise. The sacrifices and suffering were not a consideration in the big picture. The pilots continued to fly their missions and the reporter continued to compile her story. Commander Graham was now seeing her command through experienced eyes. They had been green pilots when they had come aboard. Now, in such a short period they were seasoned combat veterans. They flew without complaint and acted out their anxieties with the same disregard for behaviour that their male counterparts exhibited. All except Lt. Nicols. Her flying ability since the death of Commander Roberts had been flawless. She exuded a quiet confidence that Graham had never seen before. The war was now in the final phases. The Iraqi air force had been effectively obliterated from the sky.They now flew across the desert with virtual impunity and their flights had reverted to those of ground troop support. Nicols continued to deliver her destruction to the enemy with what seemed a vengeance. Graham found that it was disconcerting to talk to her. Her eyes seemed to look right past the exterior of the individual and burn into their soul. She spent her free time alone. Though ne'er a word was spoken, at some hellish moment, Nicols had withdrawn herself from the human race.

Nawrot, against the advice of the ship's medical personnel, had been back on duty within three days of Gordon's crash. The burns sustained in the fire still bothered him, but his brown deck jacket had shielded him from the bulk of the flames. Several people had stopped by sick bay and told him he was lucky to be alive. Everyone in the hangars had heard of the heroic action he had taken to save the Hornet pilot. They kept coming by while he was trying to work and giving him a smack on the back in congratulations. It mildly annoyed him. He had not done anything that the rest of them would not do. Or so he thought.

Within a week, Gordon too, was back on modified duty. Until her leg healed completely she was not allowed back to flight status. Instead her duties were restricted to administrative tasks. One day while in the mess hall, she had overheard a couple of men from carrier control talking.

"Did you see that airplane burn. That guy that ran up to it must have been nuts."

"If that would have been me," announced the other, "she would have been toast. There's no way in hell I'd have gone near that mess. Why the hell did you bring her aboard in the first place?"

"It was the Admiral. As soon as he heard we had a crippled bird coming in, he was up in control like an old mother hen. Nine goddamn airplanes waiting to land and he decides to be a hero."

Up to now Gordon had not heard a totally accurate account of her arrival from that last mission. No one told her that her crash had jeopardized the lives of so many. She stood from the table and hurried away to find Plane Captain Nawrot. First to thank him for what he had done, and then to give him an ass chewing for hiding it.

Enroute to the hangar deck, Gordon saw her friend sitting alone in their cabin. The door was open just enough to see her seated on the side of her bunk. Of late, Nicols had been aloof from her squadron mates. Gordon knew of the loss of Commander Roberts. The effect that it was having on Lt. Nicols was a surprise to her though. She wasn't aware that Nicols had become so close to him. Quietly she slipped into the cabin. Nicols never looked up at her. She slowly rubbed the little gold clover that hung from her neck.

"Are you all right Kristen?" she asked after standing silently for several moments.

Still not raising her eyes from the floor, Kristen answered in a cold voice.

"They're giving me a medal for taking out that MIG."

"From the action report I'd say that you deserve one."

Gordon had never seen her so despondent before.

"Do you know that he tried to break off twice? Twice I could have let him go. But I just kept going after him like some bloodthirsty savage."

She was now looking up to Gordon from the edge of the bed.

"I wanted to kill him and I couldn't stop myself."

She hung her head in her hands and continued.

"What have I turned into? In society they would lock me away for what I've done and they're giving me a Goddamn medal."

Her body was now shaking from the sobs. Gordon moved closer and knelt down beside her. She couldn't think of anything to say that would make the pain go away. Even had she known the details that had been left out of the report, there was no way she could cushion the torment. Gently she wrapped her arm around Nicols' neck and just held her. Gordon had suffered in a different way from the weapons of war. Her wounds would heal and only leave a visible scar on her leg. Holding Nicols, she silently thanked the Lord for being so merciful to her. There was not anything in the world that could heal her friend.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWENTY

I leave you

Hoping that the lamp of liberty will burn in your bosoms

Until there shall no longer be doubt

That all men are created equal

(Abraham Lincoln, 1809-1865)

* * * * *

Lt. Boyce of the U.S. Marines 1st Recon peered over the edge of his foxhole. Across the small dune he saw a puff of smoke from the enemy mortar.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, throwing himself back down against the bank of the two man hole.

His radio operator sat huddled on the other side, his eyes wide with fear. It seemed only a short time ago he had been at home with his parents, drinking eggnog and opening Christmas gifts. The memory of that time at home had been replaced by the immediate concern for his safety. The Iraqi ground forces they had been sent out to reconnoitre had spotted their small squad. Now they were hopelessly pinned down by the mortar fire falling down around their ears.

"We're gonna have to call for air support." the Lieutenant declared.

"Get on the horn to H.Q. and see if they got any planes in the area."

The young Corporal spoke rapidly into his field radio. After a moment he relayed the answer to his Squadron Commander.

"H.Q. says they have a couple of Hornets from the Enterprise that can be here in 09 mikes."

To the Lieutenant nine minutes seemed like an eternity. He yelled across to the other soldiers that were dug in around him.

"Navy's gonna be along in nine mikes. Lay down suppression fire until they get here."

Almost immediately the chatter of M-16 rifle fire answered his order. After a few more minutes the radio gave relief to the corporal. He ducked into the hole and set his rifle aside to answer. Through his fear he smiled and handed the receiver to the lieutenant.

"Some lady wants to talk to you, Sir." Taking the hand set from him, the Lieutenant spoke with restrained authority to the person on the radio.

"This is Foxtrot Romeo October. Ma'am please keep the radio clear. We have inbound air support."

There was just a tinge of malevolence in the female voice when it answered.

"Foxtrot Romeo October, IP is one point five mikes. Recommend you pop smoke."

Still not entirely at ease with the voice on the radio, the lieutenant fumbled to grab a smoke grenade. Activating it, he rolled it over the lip of his foxhole.

"Uh . . . Smoke is green, confirm green smoke." the young Officer reported into the radio.

"We confirm green smoke."

"Enemy position is four five zero yards, bearing 084 degrees."

Two hundred feet above them, the grey Navy fighters hustled past at just under six hundred knots. Several of the Marines poked their heads out of the holes to monitor the progress of the two Hornets. Once over the enemy position they banked to the right. The white vapour flowed from the tips of their wings and brushed an arc through the sky as they turned to set up their bombing run. One of the grunts was wondering why they had made no noise in passing when the rumble from the jets washed over the ground.

The radio operator had been peeking over the edge of the excavation. Suddenly he stood bolt upright and brought his rifle to his shoulder. A split second before the Lieutenant grabbed him to haul him back down, the M-16 bucked in his hands. With a fistful of the radio man's sand camouflaged battle dress, the Lt. looked in the direction of his aim. An Iraqi soldier crumpled to the ground, dropping the SA-7 Grail hand held missile launcher in the sand. Seconds later the two Hornets pulled up from their target and went into burner. In the wake of their advance, the sand boiled from the CBUs that had dropped from under their wings. With the mortars silenced, the recon patrol could now move.

"And to whom do we owe the pleasure?" the Lieutenant inquired of the radio.

Looking toward the sky, he could see the aircraft quickly fading from sight.

"Lieutenants Krysak and Nicols, V/FA-47 Black Widows. If you're satisfied tell your friends. If not, go to hell."

Giving an acknowledging click, Lt. Boyce returned the handset to his radioman. The indurated voice on the radio sent a shiver down his spine. In all his life he had never heard a woman's voice so cold and unfeeling. After sweeping through the enemy position a Sergeant commented on the pilots that had bailed them out.

"For Navy scum, those boys were pretty good. Look at this."

He held up the twisted remnants of a mortar tube.

"They dropped those eggs right in the basket."

The radioman walked up to him.

"Those "boys" were women Sarge."

The Corporal kept walking with the Sergeant now in tow.

"Nah. It couldn't be." he complained.

In his mind he conjured up a mental picture of a woman that could lay waste such as this. The image was not a nice one. There was no way his ex-wife could have been in one of those birds.

Six weeks after it had begun, the order to stop the offensive came from above. The threat posed by Iraq was nullified. The once powerful military now ran in the face of its opponents. Hordes of infantry threw themselves at the mercy of the Allies. Iraqi combat aircraft sought sanctuary in Iran, rather than face the ire of the coalition fighters.

Margo Akamye stood in front of the Admiral. He had wanted to see her story before it left the ship. He concluded the last paragraph and looked up at her.

"You spent seven weeks writing this?" he asked.

He was clearly disappointed.

"There wasn't as much to write about as I thought there would be."

"What you have here you could have gotten from the Navy's Media Services."

He felt sorry for her. If she continued to write stories like this one, she wasn't going to get far with her career.

"I'm sorry you're disappointed. I can try and touch it up a bit if you like."

There was a COD leaving for Saudi Arabia in an hour. Alexander had every intention of making sure she was on it.

"No this is fine. If you're happy with it so am I. Besides, who am I, a writer critic?"

He rose to shake her hand and bid her goodbye.

She took the offered hand and returned the gesture warmly.

"No." she thought to herself." You are much more than that, sir."

Margo took her leave of the Admiral and returned to her quarters. She sat in the tiny room for a moment and took a last look. She had made a friend here. And had lost her. Her small bag didn't contain much in the way of personal effects. It contained volumes in the way of personal lives. The lap top computer in it held over eighty pages of text. Along with the ten rolls of film it represented the terrible, along with the wondrous things she had seen here. Margo crumpled up the article she had shown to the Admiral and tossed it in the garbage. Eight hours later she was aboard a Boeing 767 to London.

Margaret Heriot walked slowly across the cold ground. Stopping at her destination, she laid down a wreath of flowers on the freshly turned earth. She had been here four weeks before to attend the funeral of Lt. Susan Moroki. Thanks to the efforts of the Red Cross, her remains had been recovered and returned to the States. The parents of the deceased pilot had clung to each other and sobbed silently. The Honour Guard lowered the casket into the ground while the shattering finality of the bugler's rendition of taps echoed across the surrounding landscape. Moroki's mother accepted the flag from the Navy Officer. She heard the words he spoke. They meant well, but meant nothing. At the end, her weeping was lost in the peal from a flight of Navy Hornets. The four fighters came in low. Just before the edge of the cemetery, the lead aircraft broke away and climbed into the clouds. From somewhere in the mist above, the din of a thunderclap flowed across the cemetery as the now invisible fighter crossed the barrier. The three that remained continued on their original course. With one of their number now missing, they forged ahead. These people had traded their only daughter for a flag. There was nothing anyone could say to them that could make it seem right. The honour of the missing man formation that flew overhead could in no way ease their sorrow. Heriot knew this from experience.

She straightened from her kneeling position and stared at the grave.

"One of yours Ma'am?"

She turned to see a stranger standing behind her, a kind but mournful expression on his face. No doubt he was here grieving for a loved one as well. She looked back at Moroki's grave, and then to where her own son was buried. Across the rows of identical white crosses of Arlington Cemetery, she knew exactly which was her son's.

"Not one of them."

Her voice cracked ever so slightly with the pain she was feeling and she arced her arm around the countless crosses.

"All of them."

The Honolulu Star reporter waited impatiently outside the office of Time Magazine's chief editor. The story she had come out with, no matter how she tried, could not be condensed enough for a newspaper. With her own editor's blessing she now sat waiting to see if it was good enough for a weekly publication. His secretary picked up the telephone and after a brief conversation, told Akamye she could go into his office.

Without getting up from his desk he motioned her to take a seat.

"You were actually there?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir. Right from the beginning."

"This is one hell of an article you've written. We would like to run it."

She tried to hide her excitement at the news. From the stack of photos she had submitted with it, he withdrew one and flipped it across the desk.

"We are going to run that on the cover. Any objections?"

Margo gave the photograph a glance.

"No, I think that one is perfect." she immediately agreed.

Not only was she going to be published in Time Magazine, her first story was a cover.

"Good, we have that settled. Now, one more thing." he punched the intercom button on the telephone. "Joan, did you get that call through?"

"Yes, he's on the line now."

After a few clicks, Margo heard her boss' voice over the speaker phone from Hawaii.

"What the hell do you want? It's four in the morning."

"Ed, I have your reporter in my office and I'm going to offer her a job."

"Why would she want to work for you?" came the sleepy reply.

The editor pushed the hold button.

"What do you make a year over there?" he asked her.

"Uh," about twenty three thousand a year." she blurted out.

"Good, we'll double it. Do you want a job?"

Margo rapidly nodded her head in acceptance.

Taking the phone off hold, he told her old boss with a smile, "She claims you make her work too hard."

"Fine, now let me get some sleep."

The telephone went dead and the editor stood to shake her hand.

"Welcome to Time Magazine Miss Akamye.

The Enterprise sailed into her home port twenty one days after the cease-fire was announced. She had done her job. Now it was up to the politicians to sort out the mess left behind. On her deck, the ship's crew stood proudly in dress uniform. Alexander took in the display of her arrival from the bridge. Captain Williams was barking orders to the helm to bring her alongside the dock. Line handlers had already shot the pilot lines to shore. The thick hawsers started to creep toward the bow and stern as Williams called "All stop." Gently, the aircraft carrier snuggled up to the dock, held fast by the big ropes. The Captain turned to Alexander.

"Ship is secure. Permission to lower gangway?"

"Permission granted." Alexander saluted in acknowledgment to the formality. He then reached out and took the Captain's hand.

"Well done Captain Williams." he referred to the ship's operation while at sea.

"Thank-you, Sir."

Alexander left the bridge to receive Admiral Hall at the gangway. Striding across the deck, he could see the relief in the young faces of the crew. The ship itself had not been threatened while at war, but the constant tension had taken its toll. Arriving at the gangway, he could hear the Military Bands below. He wondered what they had done so differently this time. People abounded on the dock to welcome them home. He saw no protesters as he had twenty one years ago. Admiral Hall approached from below. The Ensign on duty at the gangway piped him aboard and the two men left for Alexander's cabin.

Loved ones waited impatiently for the crew to disembark. A sailor would walk down the plank and look about for his family. From the roiling mass of people, a person or group would burst forth to engulf him.

Plane Captain Nawrot and Lt. Gordon left the ship together. Kathy Nawrot and her two girls stood back and watched the two say goodbye. The oldest girl tugged at her.

"Mommy why is Daddy hugging that lady?"

"I don't know Sweetheart." she answered.

Her husband walked over to them and almost fell when the girls wrapped themselves around his legs. Immobilized by their embrace, he reached out for his wife. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. The red scars from his burns were evident to her. In one of his letters he had mentioned that he had helped pull a wounded pilot from a plane. She raised her head to look at him. He was looking across the dock at the receding figure of Lieutenant Gordon. Kathy cast a glance over to her and saw the slight limp. His letter had been unclear as to just what part he had played in the crash. Standing here holding him she knew it was much more than he would ever admit. This was the reason she'd been alone for eight years. On his chest he wore a Purple Heart and a Navy Cross. In his heart he had served his country. They walked away, arm in arm. He paused and turned around to look at the ship. She seemed to be beckoning him to come back to her. Kathy could see the longing in his eyes. He squeezed her shoulder and told her in a faltering voice.

"Let's go home Kath."

She had won.

Admiral Hall threw the Time Magazine across the desk to Alexander.

"Have you seen this?" he asked.

Alexander picked it up. A telephoto shot of Lt. Nicols looked back at him with spiritless eyes from the cockpit of her Hornet. Her tear stained face told the world of the hate she fostered. The power of the photo was enhanced by the caption "Forgive Us Our Trespasses."

Alexander began to flip hastily through the magazine to find the article. He spotted the author's name at the beginning.Margo Akamye. He should have known. Ignoring his Commanding Officer, he began to read

"Aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise, a squadron of pilots struggle to make a point. A point that is based on our country's promise of equality for all. They are not a minority. They constitute over half of the population of the United States. For two hundred years they have expressed their wishes. At last they have been allowed to prove themselves. For the first time, the military has allowed women to serve in combat as an offensive entity.

They have fought long and hard for the right to be here. To stand beside their countrymen and defend all that we have to be thankful for. For days now I have watched them board their aircraft. Each flight is proceeded with strained humour and morbid jokes. I have come to know each of this squadron by name, and when the ship turns to retrieve them after the mission, I pray that I won't strike another new found friend from my list. When they all return, there is unspoken rejoicing. They are jovial and invincible. But when the bell tolls for an aircraft and pilot that will never return, there is silence. With each mission, even the successful ones, these young people become more distant, harder. The experiences they witness age them beyond their years. To live in constant danger requires a special breed. It is my opinion that this breed of person does not exist. The military has balked at women in the service in a combat environment for reasons of morality.

These are my observations. When the call goes out for a mission, men and women alike stand to carry out the orders. There is no shirking duty by either. Over the target, both risk their lives to protect the other. They all fly with the same level of skill and determination. They all depend on each other. When they return there is no difference in the activities they choose to hold the stress in check. If one of them does not return, they comfort each other. I have witnessed a member of the Black Widows in uncontrollable grief for the loss of one of her comrades. Holding her was a pilot from the al male Gunfighters Squadron Two days later the same thing happened. Only it was a man from the Gunfighters who was sobbing for his wingman, and holding him was one of the ladies from the Black Widows. If the military should hold anyone exempt from the insanity of war, it should exempt the human race. The families of these brave young people do not have more grief for a lost daughter than for a lost son. They know only that their flesh and blood has been forfeited.

When asked if they would rather be somewhere else, the answer is yes, from both squadrons. They all want to be safe and they all grasp at anything to give them that sense of security. From good luck charms to prayer. There is no difference between the men and the women. They all laugh. They all cry. And they all die."

The article continued for several more pages. Scattered throughout were photographs of different scenes aboard the ship. She had been one busy little reporter while she was on board. Two photos caught his eye and held it for a moment. A pall of smoke rose from the deck of the ship, all but obscuring the mangled fighter. Beside it there was a shot of himself sitting in CATCC with his head hung in shock. Underneath the caption read, "Thanks to the efforts of this man and one other, the pilot of this aircraft is alive and well."

He couldn't remember her being anywhere near him when the crash took place. Alexander looked up from what he had read so far.

"What do you think?" Hall asked him.

"This is definitely not what she showed me when she left the ship."

"That's not what I meant. What do you think of women serving in combat?"

Alexander pondered his answer. He thought about all he had seen since they had come aboard. Personally he would rather see them safe at home. At length he was left with only one reply. An honest one.

"They are among the finest pilots I have ever had the pleasure of serving with. It was an honour to have had them aboard my ship."

Hall gave him a sly grin.

"Are you willing to stand in front of a Congressional Committee and say that?"

Suddenly Alexander knew why he had been chosen to take this squadron out for their test drive. Admiral Hall needed someone who would stand in front of the big boys and not flinch.

"What if I'm not?" Alexander teased.

"Then I'll book you on the Oprah Winfrey Show." Hall looked serious.

"You wouldn't consider just a court-martial?"

"They convene in two weeks. Here's the time and location." Hall passed him a paper.

"Now, I would like to see Commander Graham. Where is she?"

Alexander picked up the phone to summon her.

"She's probably trying on one of my uniforms." he jested.

Lt. Nicols read the headline in the morning newspaper. Iraq had agreed to release the prisoners of war. She thought bitterly of the Iraqi leader that had been allowed to remain in power. The destruction he had wrought in his country was secondary to the devastation his actions had brought to her. She now understood what her father had gone through when her mother had been taken from them. Picking up the telephone, she dialled his number. Possibly, making peace with him would help to lessen her grief. On the fourth ring he answered.

"Dad. Can I come over? I need to see you."

He had been waiting for her call. He reached out to touch her picture on the cover of the magazine. For the last twenty years he had closed himself off to her. Buried in his own suffering, he'd failed to see the damage it was causing his daughter. From the Time picture he saw that she needed him now more than ever.

Yes, I know Princess. I'll be waiting." he answered.

The guard fumbled with the keys, trying to find the proper one to unlock the cell. Swinging the door open, he barked at the occupants to follow him. In halting English, he told them of their release. The Iraqi's manner was no longer one of contempt. As the prisoners filed past him, one stopped and stared disgustedly at him. With his Radar Intercept Officer supported on his arm, Commander Roberts held his gaze for a moment, and then spat in his face before he moved away. He had been locked in isolation since they had pulled him, unconscious from his downed aircraft. His refusal to give them a statement of his crimes against Iraq had resulted in numerous beatings from this man. Only yesterday they had put him in with the others. He was ecstatic when he had found his RIO. Though the man had been badly wounded from the missile's shrapnel, he had remained conscious until their capture. He told him about the Hornet that had circled them and engaged the MIG. Roberts listened intently to his account of the dogfight between the two jets.

"I'll tell you," he stated. "I've never seen anybody turn and burn a fighter around the sky like that. She went up there at the speed of heat and got into a knife fight that would make your balls shrivel up.

Roberts wondered what had given rise to the warrior that lived within shy little Kristen Nicols. From his RIO's description of the dogfight, it couldn't have been her. Yet he knew it was. Her's had been the only aircraft around when he'd gone down.

"Why didn't you answer when I called on the ICS?" Roberts inquired.

"I didn't hear anything. It must have been damaged when we got hit."

He then told him about their capture and the Iraqis burning their aircraft.

"They pulled you out and loaded you on the back of a truck. Up until today I thought you were dead."

Roberts cast him a grin.

"No such luck."

After a prolonged argument with the Ensign on duty at the Navy Department's Records Division, Roberts finally managed to get Nicols' home address. It had taken close to a week to get home from overseas. His repeated calls to the Navy to get her number had been fruitless. Finally he had appealed to the man's compassionate side and told him how Lt. Nicols had saved him. Although the version was a total fabrication the man gladly gave out her information. Now at last he stood in front of her door. With his hand shaking from anticipation he knocked.

Nicols opened her door and looked at her visitor. It took a second for his face to register from across the bouquet of white roses he held in front of him. Suddenly the colour drained from her face and a great sadness was cleansed from her soul. The despair that had filled her eyes since that day over the Iraqi wasteland was washed away in a flood of tears. She threw herself at him and crushed the flowers he had brought for her. Closing his eyes, he held her close for what seemed an eternity. The barrier that she had put between them melted away in their embrace. When her sobs had finally subsided, he took her face between his palms and kissed her.

"I'll never leave you again."

She looked at him and the tears filled her eyes again.

"I love you." she wept.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE

* * * * *

CHAPTER I

This is not the end.

It is not even the beginning of the end

But it is perhaps

The end of the beginning

(Sir Winston Churchill, 1874-1965)

* * * * *

"There, that ought to do it." Nawrot straightened up from the canopy of Grumman's latest attack aircraft. Looking across the sleek lines of the fighter/bomber, it reminded him of something from a science fiction show. The intakes rose smoothly from atop of what loosely was termed a fuselage. Just inside he could see the movable intake cones that enabled it to attain the Mach three plus speed it was capable of. At the rear of the craft, the exhaust exited through rectangular ducts. In low speed manoeuvring the exhaust could be vectored to enhance the craft's turning capabilities. They were coming close to the final phases of testing. Hopefully they would be able to go into production in another six weeks. The airplane had performed beautifully. Short of one small glitch that was keeping it from going into production. What was causing all of the hold-ups was the special transponder that had been installed. It seemed that it would cut out after a sustained high speed dash. This tended to unnerve the team of operators that were charged with tracking it; for without the transponder it was invisible on radar. Only when the weapons bay was open was it detectable and even then with great difficulty. A chase plane pilot likened it to trying to lock onto a sea gull at 2100 miles per hour. This ability to vanish from radar and be seen only when it bared its teeth earned it the name "Cheshire." Thus keeping Grumman's tradition of naming its planes after members of the cat family.

"Well, Mr. Fixit. Is it going to work this time?"

The test pilot stood on the ground, waiting to take it up and test Nawrot's theory. According to him; the heat from the friction created in high speed flight would migrate through the skin of the aircraft into the electrical conduit and bake the diodes that lived there. The engineers had wanted to strip it down and reroute the conduit at the bargain basement price of a quarter million dollars. Nawrot had convinced them to let him try a slightly cheaper method of dealing with it. He had gotten a pre-formed piece of plaster pipe insulation and wrapped the wayward conduit.

"If you can manage to keep it in the air long enough, I'm sure it will."

He jumped from the boarding ladder and stood back to allow the pilot access. After walking around the aircraft to give it one last cursory inspection he retreated. From the shade of the hangar he listened for any flaws when the engines started. It always amazed him at how quiet it was. He stood and watched until it was airborne. Looking at his watch, he rushed off to find a telephone. They'd been invited out for dinner this evening and he had to tell Kathy that he may be a little late. If this worked he would have to stay behind for an hour to rub it in the engineering department's face.

* * * * *

CHAPTER II

Everything is funny

As long as it is happening to someone else

(Will Rogers, 1879-1935)

* * * * *

Lt. Commander Gordon gently nudged the rudder pedal of her F/A-18. Less than a foot off her right wing the Hornet she flew beside started to roll. Lightly she played with the controls and rolled around with him. Not once did she have more than twelve inches of sky between her and her wing man. No sooner was the roll complete than she looked ahead and saw three more aircraft streaking toward her. Just when it looked as though they would collide she booted the left rudder and took off at a forty-five degree angle. Her finger came down on the trigger and smoke billowed from beneath her plane.

Below them, 20,000 people cheered as the Navy's Blue Angels scribed a horizontal spoke across the sky. This was her third air show since she had become a member of the team. The flying was as challenging as any she had ever done. Even in combat the level of concentration required was no more intense. More enjoyable however, was when they landed and signed autographs. Little boys would look at her and screw up their faces.

"What was a dumb old girl doing flying one of these?"

Small girls would stare at her in admiration. She had no doubt that she had already caused some anxiety for the odd parent. Young girls, that, up until now had wanted to be a model or a nurse would walk away tugging at their father's leg.

"Daddy, Daddy. Can I be a fighter pilot when I grow up?"

The icing on the cake was the respect that was bestowed upon her by the other members of the team. She was good enough to be here and that was good enough for them. Other than the occasional blonde joke, they had never hinted that she didn't belong. She had taken care of that too. When she had walked into this morning's pre-flight briefing, the Commanding Officer took one look at her and spit his coffee all over the table.The room erupted in laughter when he roared at her.

"What's this? The Navy version of artificial intelligence."

Maybe the jet black dye job hadn't been a good idea after all.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III

I'm not denying that women are foolish

God Almighty made them to match the men

(George Eliot, 1819-1880)

* * * * *

Nawrot followed his host into the living room and took a seat. Kathy looked at him lovingly.

"While you two sit here and swill your beers, I'll go help in the kitchen."

After she had left, Roberts leaned over the table and asked,

"Did your haywire patch job hold up in Engineering?"

Nawrot looked at him incredulously.

"That plane is top secret. You aren't supposed to know anything about it."

From the doorway he heard.

"Sorry Ron. I tell him everything."

He looked over and smiled at the Grumman test pilot.

"I've been telling the designers for the last two years that putting a cockpit in those things is a waste of time, but they just don't listen.

"You love us and you know it."

Kristen Roberts whirled around and went back into the kitchen.

"Kind of lippy isn't she?" Nawrot observed.

Braidon set his beer down on the coffee table.

"Yeah. She's been that way ever since the doctor told her she was pregnant."

The news hit Ron like a bombshell. He leapt out of his chair.

"What the hell are you doing letting her fly that damn thing?" he exclaimed.

"Relax, she says everything is low level and straight. The doctor says flying won't hurt the baby this early in the pregnancy."

"Does the doctor know that gadget does Mach three?" inquired Nawrot excitedly.

Roberts turned pale. This was the first time he had heard of the speed the Cheshire was capable of. He headed off toward the kitchen.

"Kristen. Can I have a word with you in private please?"

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV

Youth will be served

Every dog has his day

And mine has been a fine one

(George Borrow, 1803-1881)

* * * * *

Alexander stared across the moonlit harbour. For the last twenty minutes he hadn't said a word. He felt his wife's hands on the back of his neck.

"Would you feel better if we cut the mast off and made a big flat top on it?"

He smiled, imagining the forty four foot sloop they had bought last year with an angled flight deck on it.

"You miss it don't you?" she said.

He turned to her, the kindness in her eyes was evident, as always.

"Sometimes. I think I miss the people more than anything."

"Is there something you would like to do? Something to relieve the boredom?"

Even in retirement she continued to give. He thought of all his years in the Navy. At times he had wondered where he found the strength to bear his burdens. He reached over his shoulder and held the answer in his hands.

"No, I just want to get old and senile with you."

Annette chuckled. Her husband was many things, but romantic wasn't one of them.

"You made a difference Lou."

"I hope for the better."

Although Admiral Hall was the one who had ordered the Black Widows aboard his ship, the credit was given to Alexander. He was the one who stood in front of Congress and made them see just how capable these pilots were. The bleeding hearts tried their best to put a stop to it. Their efforts were futile in the face of the facts. The facts provided at such great expense by the pilots from his ship. One Senator had stood and played down the role of the Black Widows. His efforts were short lived, for Senator Heriot came forth and set his political career back ten years. She pointed out that he had a son who, when called to serve in Vietnam, had chosen to run. What gave him any right to stand in judgment of the sacrifices of others? His denial was given the Coup De Grace when she inquired about bank drafts sent by the Senator to a bank in Toronto, Ontario. He had sat back down, squirming uncomfortably under the stare of Vice Admiral Alexander. There was no helicopter to whisk him away from the contempt as there had been in 1969 when he had first met this man.

In the aftermath, Alexander was given the distinction of being the one who put Ladies washrooms on the U.S. Fleet. He could never remember that Time Magazine reporter's name, but he was sure that her intense coverage of the story had something to do with it.

* * * * *

CHAPTER V

Better by far you should forget

And smile

Than you should remember

And be sad

(Christina Georgina Rossetti, 1830-1894)

* * * * *

Approaching 34,000 feet, the L-1011 wide body levelled off and took up a heading for Gander, Newfoundland. Behind it, the smog shrouded city of New York faded in the distance. The Captain entered the latest wind information into the auto-pilot and activated it. Looking at his watch he mentally calculated their arrival time at Heathrow Airport in London. The New York Air Traffic Control Tower came on the radio.

"Delta Heavy, Flight 649. Maintain angels 340. Switch to 127.9 for Gander Control."

He keyed the microphone and while scanning the gauges answered.

"New York Control, Delta 649 Heavy, switching to 127.9. Have a nice day."

The pilot released the comm switch and received a click from New York in acknowledgment.

"Nicely done Captain."

He turned to the co-pilot seated beside him.

"I'm glad you approve. You can land when we get to England."

Flying this thing was like driving a cement truck. He missed the power of the Tomcats he had served on for five years. After the gulf War, even that became a bore. In search of something to keep him occupied, he had resigned and hired on with Delta Airlines. It had its moments but it too was quickly loosing the prestige or whatever it was he was looking for. Picking up a receiver he spoke to a flight attendant in the back.

"Lauren, would you send someone up here with coffee for the crew please?"

The flight attendant had flown with him on several occasions.

"As long as you keep your hands to yourself Captain Pederson. I'm running out of girls that are willing to go into a cockpit with you in it."

His self bestowed image had accompanied him to his job as an airline Captain. He wasn't near as bad as she made him out to be though. He had asked the occasional flight attendant on a date, and had been turned down for most of them. Five minutes later the cabin door opened and a woman entered with a tray. Pederson sat and stared at her the whole time.

"Are you okay Captain?" she asked finally.

His gaze was starting to make her uncomfortable.

He broke his eyes from her.

"Yes. I'm fine. You just remind me of someone I used to know."

She stood for a moment and watched him stare out the cockpit's windshield. For some reason he looked lonely and dejected. She turned to leave, and then on impulse turned and said to him.

"Captain. I've never been to London before. Would you mind taking me around to see some of the sights?"

In the reflection of the glass he could see her almond eyes and long dark hair. Her resemblance to Lt. Moroki had shocked him when she entered the cabin. Without looking away from the wind-screen he smiled and answered.

"Yes. I would be delighted." Maybe driving a cement truck wasn't so bad after all.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI

A journey of a thousand miles

Must begin with a single step

(Lao-tze, 550 B.C.)

* * * * *

Captain Graham surveyed the airfield at N.A.S. Pensacola. Fighters had been landing at intervals for the last half hour. The last in this class of candidates for Navy Fighter Weapons School would be on the ground in another few minutes. Across the tarmac she could see the line of aircraft that the instructors flew. One of the dividends of command was that no one got to use your airplane. She had gotten her F-16 right off the line at the factory. It stood out from the rest with the mean looking spider of the Black Widows painted on the tail. Even more humbling to the students she flew against were the three Iraqi flags neatly painted under the cockpit. She used the lithe fighter to play the aggressor role for the students. Once in awhile some jet jockey from the fleet was able to get the best of her. These occasions were few and far between however. At some point her nickname had become that of her old squadron. She got up and walked to the outer office.

"What have we got this time?" she asked the Ensign.

"In total, sixteen pilots from the carriers Ranger, Forrestal, Carl Vinson and Nimitz."

"How many of those are women?" she probed further.

"Uh, seven Ma'am."

She smiled at the number. Things were as they should be.

She grabbed a folder off the desk and headed down to meet them.

"Let's go kick their asses."

The Ensign followed obediently. This woman was a hard case if he'd ever seen one.

Graham thumbed through the list of pilots. She stopped on a name she recognized. Lt. Dankow. She read further into the file of her former student. Dankow had been serving with the Wolf Pack Squadron aboard the U.S.S. Carl Vinson. She had nine hundred and eighty-seven hours of time on the Tomcat and was a bit of a hot shot. She smiled as she continued to walk toward the briefing room. The next six weeks of flying should shape up to be interesting. Although there were many women coming through the Top Gun course, she always noticed that her ex-students were more than a handful.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII

To see the world in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour

(William Blake, 1757-1827)

* * * * *

Kristen took a deep breath and strained. Her efforts were coming close to making her pass out. Roberts stood beside her and wiped the sweat from her brow with a cool cloth. They had been in the delivery room for two hours now and his wife was starting to tire. At last the doctor held their newborn infant in his hands. Holding her out to Roberts for inspection, the doctor joked.

"You've got a girl. And she doesn't look the worse for her two little test flights with her Mother."

In spite of her exhaustion, Kristen cringed. She doubted that she would ever live that down. Roberts took the tiny girl from the doctor and held her for a moment. She was the most beautiful thing he had seen since her Mother. Reluctantly, he gave her to Kristen. Sitting looking at the two of them, he was the happiest man alive at that moment.

She had shared with him since their marriage; the awful thing she had done after he'd been shot down. How could she ever redeem herself she'd asked him? Though in her anger,the attempt was made to take a life, circumstances had not allowed her to carry through. Despite the sins that she blamed herself for, she now held her redemption in her arms.

"How very lucky you are." he thought.

"Men are destined to be life takers. We'll never know the joy of creating it, as you.

# # # # #

GLOSSARY

* * * * *

ACM: Air Combat Manoeuvring, dog fighting.

ADF: Automatic Direction Finder.

Afterburner: Raw fuel injected and ignited behind the jet engine to increase thrust.

Angels: Altitude.

Ball: Optical landing device to assist the pilot when lining up the aircraft for landing aboard the carrier.

Bandit: Dogfight adversary. Positively identified as a bad guy.

Bat-turn: A tight high G change of heading.

Bitchin' Betty: Computerized audible warning system aboard the F/A-18. Given its name due to the female tone of the voice.

Boards: Speed brakes on an aircraft. Deployed to create extra drag.

Bolter: Unsuccessful landing in which the aircraft fails to engage the arresting cable.

Box: A metal channel used to position the nose wheel for hook-up and launch.

Buddy packs: External fuel cells attached to a A-6 Intruder to accommodate in-flight refuelling.

CAG: Commander, Air Group.

Catapult: Steam powered device used to accelerate aircraft to flying speed.

CATCC: Carrier Air Traffic Control Centre.

CBU: Cluster Bomb Unit. Especially effective weapon on a battlefield.

CIC: Combat Information Centre.

CINCPAC: Commander in Chief; Pacific.

CO: Commanding Officer.

COD: Carrier Onboard Delivery Aircraft.

Comm: Communication.

CRT: Cathode ray tube. There are three of these screens in the cockpit of an F/A-18 Hornet.

Elevator: Movable section of the carrier's deck. Used to transport aircraft between the flight deck and the hangar bay.

ECM: Electronic Countermeasures.

EMCON: Emission Control. Controlling electronic emissions to avoid detection.

EMT: Emergency Medical Technician.

ETA: Estimated Time of Arrival.

EWAC: Early Warning Aircraft.

Fox One, Two, Three: Radio call to announce a missile launch.

Sparrow, Sidewinder, Phoenix respectively.

G-load: One G equals normal gravity. A pilot in a four G turn will experience forces four times the weight of gravity.

G-suit: Flight suit that uses compressed air pressure on a pilot's lower body to offset the effects of G-load.

G.M.T.: Greenwich Mean Time.

HUD: Heads Up Display. Provides critical information to the pilot without the need to look down at the instruments.

Hummer: Any ingenious machine-plane, car, weapon, whose actual name can't be recalled.

ICS: Internal Communication System

IP: Initial Point.

IFF: Radio beacon, identifies an aircraft as friend or foe.

Island: Portion off the carrier's superstructure that protrudes above the flight deck.

LEX: Leading Edge Extensions along the side of a Hornet fighter.

LSO: Landing Systems Officer.

Loud Handle: Lever or grip that fires the ejection seat.

MACH: Speed of sound.

MET Office: Meteorology. Weather Office aboard the ship.

Mikes: Minutes

NAVCOMM: Navigation and communication gear aboard an aircraft.

OOD: Officer of the Deck, Ranking Officer on duty.

Pole: Control stick.

Pipper: Targeting Cursor in the HUD of an aircraft.

PR: Public Relations.

RIO: Radar Intercept Officer. Backseater in a Tomcat fighter.

SAM: Surface to Air Missile.

Speed jeans: G-suit.

TACAN: Tactical Air Navigation. Radio Beacon that provides distance and bearing information.

Tits machine: A good righteous airplane. This is a nostalgic term referring to birds gone by.

Trap: Successful landing aboard a carrier.

U.S.S.: United States Ship.

VOR: Navigation aid, transmitting VHF navigation signals 360 degrees in azimuth oriented from magnetic north.

Vultures Row: Observation deck located on the island of the carrier.

END

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