Chapter 163: Quick Reaction Force

The flight deck of the USS Gerald R. Ford was alive with the roar of twin-spool turbofans.

Fifty miles off the coast of Port Solis, the massive nuclear carrier sliced through the dark swells of the western sea. Sea spray misted across the four-and-a-half-acre steel deck, where yellow-shirted flight directors and green-shirted catapult crews hurried beneath the gray sky.

On Catapult One, Two, and Three, three sleek, matte-gray shapes were hooked to the electromagnetic shuttles.

F-35C Lightning IIs.

Their internal weapon bays were closed flush against their composite skin, carrying satellite-guided JDAMs and precision-strike munitions. The stealth coatings caught the dim ocean light, showing no external pylons, no drag, and zero radar profile.

Inside the cockpit of lead jet Viper Zero-One, Lieutenant Commander Nathan "Ghost" Cross pulled down his visor. The Helmet Mounted Display System flashed to life, projecting glowing green numbers directly in front of his eyes. Airspeed, altitude, pitch ladder, and tactical data links floated across his vision.

Through his earpiece, the voice of Primary Flight Control cut through the low hiss of the cockpit’s oxygen supply.

"Tower to Viper Flight," the air controller spoke from high up in the island superstructure. "Strike package is green across the board. You are cleared for launch sequence. Mission profile: priority quick-reaction strike. Target coordinates uploaded from Reaper One-One splashdown data. Target designation: Hostile Alpha."

Cross pushed his throttle forward against the stop, checking his engine readouts. "Viper One copies. Board is green. EMALS pressure nominal. Flight of three ready on the track."

In Viper Zero-Two, Lieutenant Marcus "Riptide" Briggs locked his harness tight. His right hand squeezed the side-stick controller. "Viper Two ready."

On Catapult Three, Lieutenant Elena "Valkyrie" Cole confirmed her heads-up checklist. "Viper Three, set and ready."

"Viper Flight, Tower," the radio crackled. "Wind over the deck thirty-two knots. You are cleared for launch. Punch it, lead."

On the catwalk, the shooter touched the steel deck with two gloved fingers, then swung his arm forward.

THUD-WHIRRR!

The electromagnetic catapult fired with an explosive burst of electrical power.

Cross’s jet slammed forward, pinning him into the back of his ejection seat as forty thousand pounds of stealth fighter accelerated from zero to one hundred and sixty knots in two seconds. The nose cleared the edge of the bow, dipped slightly over the ocean foam, and caught the rising air.

Cross pulled back on the stick. "Viper One airborne. Gear up."

Two seconds later, the second catapult fired.

WHIRRR!

Briggs shot into the gray sky, banking smoothly to form on Cross’s right wing. "Viper Two airborne, clean release."

A heartbeat later, Cole rocketed off Catapult Three, her afterburner glowing faint orange against the ocean haze. "Viper Three airborne. Formed up on trail."

The three stealth fighters tucked their landing gear into the smooth fuselage, leveling off as they climbed rapidly through five thousand feet.

"Tower to Viper Lead," the carrier’s controller transmitted, passing control to the ship’s radar center. "Switch to Strike Control, frequency Victor-Six. Good hunting out there."

"Switching Victor-Six. Viper One out." Cross flipped a rotary switch on his left console. "Strike Control, Viper Flight checking in. Climbing through Angels fifteen, heading zero-eight-five inbound to coastline."

"Viper Flight, Strike Control has you loud and clear," a deep voice responded from the carrier’s combat direction center. "Radar contact confirmed. You have a straight corridor over Port Solis. Command reports Reaper One-One was downed by a high-velocity projectile from ground level. Last known coordinates: Sector Bravo-Four, northwest clearing in the Ironwood Basin."

"Copy that, Strike," Cross said, his voice flat and controlled. "Any friendly assets on the ground in Bravo-Four?"

"Negative, Viper One. All friendly callsigns are restricted to the coastal perimeter and Port Solis proper. Everything east of the Dragonspine ridge is weapons free. Target is confirmed high-value hostile. The local asset identified as Viona."

"Understood. Flight, push throttles to military power," Cross commanded over the tactical frequency. "Maintain combat spread. Angels twenty-five."

"Two copies," Briggs answered.

"Three copies," Cole chimed in.

The three F-35s tore through the cloud deck. Below them, the coastal city of Port Solis shrank into a cluster of stone blocks surrounded by the blue ocean. Ahead of them rose the jagged, snowy spines of the Dragonspine Mountains.

Inside Cross’s helmet, the data link automatically tied all three aircraft into a shared network. The sensor fusion computer combined radar, electro-optical tracking, and electronic emissions into a single picture.

"Viper Lead, I’m painting the valley now," Briggs reported, his voice calm despite the jet screaming across the sky at over six hundred miles per hour. "Optical sensor is through the haze. I see the river bend. Smoke is still rising from the coordinates where the drone went down."

"I see it," Cross said, adjusting the targeting pod on his main glass touchscreen.

The screen zoomed into the Ironwood Basin. Even through the dense black trees, the thermal footprint of the Hellfire crater was still glowing hot white. Beside the scorched earth, two faint heat signatures stood near the water’s edge.

"Strike Control, Viper One has visual on the impact zone," Cross transmitted. "I have two warm targets near the crater. One matches previous visual profiles: white gown, localized energy anomaly."

"Viper One, Strike," the carrier replied immediately. "Confirm target identity. If it’s Viona, eliminate with extreme prejudice. Drop from standoff."

"Solid copy," Cross said. He toggled the flight channel. "Flight, listen up. We’re not dropping down into small-arms or magical range. The drone took a hit from twenty thousand feet. We drop four GBU-31 JDAMs from Angels twenty-eight, pickle on my mark, and turn home."

"Two is locked on coordinates," Briggs confirmed. "Bay doors ready to cycle."

"Three is locked," Cole added. "Target coordinates confirmed: November-Victor four-four-seven, eight-one-two."

"Master arm on," Cross said, clicking the switch.

On his helmet visor, the green aiming circle drifted directly over the clearing in the forest. A digital countdown timer started running.

Time to release: fifteen seconds.

"Hold formation," Cross said. "Keep your eyes on the threat receiver. If she throws anything glowing into the sky, break hard and deploy flares."

Ten seconds.

Below them, the dark canopy of the Ironwood Basin looked small and harmless from five miles up. The river cut through the rocks like a thin gray thread.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

"Viper Flight, pickle, pickle, pickle," Cross called out, pressing the weapon release button on his stick.

Inside the belly of each F-35, the hydraulic bay doors snapped open into the rushing wind.

Four two-thousand-pound satellite-guided bombs dropped from the internal racks, falling clear of the airframes before the heavy doors snapped shut, preserving the jets’ stealth profile.

The three fighters immediately banked hard left, pulling four Gs as their wings caught the thin mountain air, turning back toward the western horizon.

"Bombs away," Cross radioed to the carrier. "Viper Flight is egressing west, Angels twenty-eight. Weapons time of flight is forty-five seconds."

"Strike copies, Viper Lead," the ship responded, tension evident in the controller’s voice. "Keep that camera locked on the target. Let’s see if she can swat four thousand pounds of steel."

Behind the climbing jets, the four heavy bombs fell in silence, their tail fins adjusting constantly as GPS signals guided them straight toward the clearing below.