Sailor Moon:
Into the Great Wide Open -by Jack Ryan

Chapter 7
On Deck

USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74)
Two days later
0330 hours
        It had been over twenty-eight hours since Lieutenant Anderson last slept. She had been riding SEAD missions, striking at the SAMs and triple-A that threatened the Air Force B-52s on their bombing raids. So far, she must have destroyed over a dozen SA-2, -3, and -5 sites and destroyed as many more of the mobile SA-12, -16, and -19 vehicles.
        She would have probably kept on going, as sorties were being assigned at a fever pitch rate (half the carrier wing was off the boat at one time), but after a near collision in an aerial refueling link-up, Amy was ordered back on deck for a straight-eight rest. She had just now made a fair trap and was climbing out of her cockpit.
        Very nearby, the next strike package was being prepped to go. Already, four A-6 intruders were on the cats with another pair waiting. Two Tomcats were also waiting their turn and no fewer than four F/A-18s from the Wildcats were being prepped for suppression of enemy air defense.
        There was a rush of steam as Mercury took off her helmet. One of the Intruders was thrown headlong into the night, disappearing into the darkness soon after it left the deck. The thrust shield was lowered so that the bomber behind it might taxi into position. The second A-6 was sent skyward with another blast as the catapult crewman near the launch truck signaled a yellow shirt what to tell the pilot. The gear latch slid into place and the green shirt gave the go ahead.
        As the A-6 began to power up, the tow latch slid up out of place. One of the catapult crewmen noticed and rushed forward, hoping to fix it before the Intruder was dragged off the deck and hurled into the water.
        He got it, but was too close to the engine intake when he stood up. The suction of the spooled-up engine yanked him in like a rag doll.
        In a rush of activity, the pilot was ordered to throttle down the engine. He probably got the cue to do so more from the foreign object damage light coming on as the compressor blades processed the leather helmet and spat it out the exhaust pipe in a shower of yellow sparks.
        Without thinking, Amy burst into a run, covering the fifty feet to the Intruder's intake in seconds. The rest of the cat crew hadn't moved and were intending to once the engines were off. Amy couldn't wait that long. She reached in against the still sucking engines and noticed that the stunned seaman was floating not six inches from the blades, a utility loop in his pants caught on an air-bleed notch. She grabbed him and pulled him out against the hungry vacuum of jet engine. Blessedly, the pilot shut his engines off and Mercury fell to the deck with the seaman coming down on top of her.
        “You alright?” someone asked. Amy didn't answer, not sure who the question was aimed at. She realized the crewman she had just saved was hyperventilating and probably in shock. already, medical technicians were scrambling across the deck.
        “Hey,” she said, “you okay kid?”
        No older than twenty, he was exactly that. The fresh face, still blank, moved a little before he nodded. Then, in an attempt to look macho in front of a female, he said, “That was the wildest ride I ever had.”
        Mercury smirked and shook her head as he was suddenly drowned in medical personnel and dragged off to the sick bay. The A-6 that had made a damn good attempt to eat him was being towed to elevator two by a yellow utility vehicle called a Mule. Moments later, the strike package was in the air and deck life continued as normal.

        It was dark in her quarters as Amy collapsed into bed. Her two roommates were on duty and Serena was asleep in the bunk beneath her. Serena was trying to get some extra rest as of late, still recuperating from her ejection. She had pepper marks on her cheek from glass cuts and a fading black eye that was no longer black but a purplish shade of red or tan.
        The creaking from the bunk above her awakened the journalist and she called out Amy's name.
        “Yes, it's me.”
        “Haven't seen you in a while.” Serena commented.
        “I've been on duty for the past twenty-eight straight.” Amy said, “They just take my jet down for turn around of about an hour or so, strip her down, patch her up, load her and off I go.”
        “Sounds terrible.”
        “I could go longer.” Amy said, yawning, “But I almost bungled a mid-air refuelling, they're wiping the JP-8 off my canopy right now. Besides, the Ruskies have moved a few squadrons into the bases at Ozernobskij and Bolserek. And the Japanese are starting to conduct their own strikes. This could be over shortly.”
        “Oh.”
        Amy then thought of something that had been slipping her mind with the influx of duty. “Serena.”
        “Hmm?” she sounded tired. Maybe Amy shouldn't bother her. No, this couldn't wait any longer.
        “Something weird happened when I got into that dogfight the other day.”
        “What's that?”
        “I transformed.”
        “You what?!” Serena shot up from her bunk, now fully awake and aware.
        “I transformed into Sailor Mercury while I was fighting.”
        “Has this ever happened before?”
        “No, never.”
        Serena pondered this for a moment. She then remembered her press hop and what had happened then. “Maybe it happened because you were so excited and in danger. The other day, when I back seated in that Tomcat, my crescent moon symbol started glowing. I just glanced it fading when I saw my reflection, but I know it happened.”
        “But I thought it only happened to you when you were in extreme danger.”
        “Amy, I was in a fighter that was getting shot at with more than a little success.” Serena rebuked, “That does qualify as danger. And remember, your sigil started glowing when you had your head up against those computer monitors all those years ago, so you aren't immune to the reaction either.”
        “But still, it doesn't explain my total transformation.” Amy said.
        “Could you have called out your power-up instinctively?”
        “No.” Amy shook her head, “I’ve been in combat situations before. It's never happened.”
        “Has your sigil gone off?”
        “Not that I know of.”
        “Have you ever been under the same amount of stress you were in that battle?”
        “No.”
        “Then I'm willing to bet the transformation was caused directly by stress.” Serena concluded, “After all, we have been known to spontaneously transform before.”
        “When?” Amy asked, “I only remember you doing it, and even then, it was from Sailor Moon to Princess Serena or Neo-Queen Serenity or to some of the dozen other forms you've decided to become over the years.”
        “Maybe we should ask Luna.”
        “Fat chance!” Amy snorted, “The last thing I need is old Luna giving me a lecture about how I should have become a doctor like I always said I would.”
        “True.” Serena shrugged. “But does it hinder your ability to fight?”
        “No.” Amy replied, “In fact, it helps quite a bit.”
        “Then why worry about it?”
        “I don't know.” the aviator shrugged, “I guess because I'm worried someone will find out.”

Super Hornet 106
the next day. . .
        “Gunslinger 106, three-fourths mile, call the ball.”
        “Control, Super Hornet Ball, state nineteen point six.”
        “Roger ball, you are on glide slope and speed” In another minute, Mercury heard her tires shriek on the steel deck. She pushed forward full throttle in case of a hook failure, but the instant she heard the scrape of a snagged wire, she slowed to idle and waited to stop for what she thought must surely be an “OK-three” trap, for which she would receive a grade of perfect five. The F/A-18E glided to a halt and released the trap wire, which went reeling back along the deck. Amy then followed the yellow shirt directing her to a parking spot on the number-two elevator. She set her nose pointing out over the sea incase any of the twelve missiles she carried decided to misfire.
        As she performed her last-minute cool-down checks, the red-shirts were already removing ordinance from her Hornet and trucking it away, probably to be loaded on another fighter that was being prepped for CAP even as she had set down.
        Her combat air patrol with Dutch Robinson had gone uneventful. It seemed the chAir Force pukes were taking off some of the pressure. Even as she awoke this morning, word was going around that the Japanese were prepping landing forces on Shinshiri and a flight of the 337th TFW’s F-22s had knocked down four Tu-95s that had been making for the Japanese Self defense fleet. The Russians had apparently sent in the battle group attached to the Admiral Kuznetsov, their only conventional fixed wing carrier, and the Su-33s had also been making headway.
        She looked left at the aircraft next to her that was being prepared for a mission. It was an F-14D from VF-143, the World Famous Pukin’ Dogs. She would have taken no other notice except that the plane was painted quite a bit different than the Tomcat of the same squadron next to it. It was also a lot cleaner. The Griffin on the tail was painted royal blue instead of the more subdued dark gray. The leading edge of the tail was painted with a streak of the same shade of blue that widened into an upside-down triangle at the top. Just above the vomiting griffin was a red stripe with the word CAG written in gold.
        The CAG was the only officer on an aircraft carrier assigned one of each type of fighter, for he had to command the entire Air Wing, and flying a Hornet alone wouldn’t suffice for such a duty.
        As Mercury scrambled down, she noticed the Radar Intercept Officer, Lieutenant Commander Charles “Naked” Buck, doing his pre-flights. He looked down at Lieutenant Anderson and nodded. She gave a nod in return. Salute was not necessary.
        “Where's CAG?”
        “He'll be here soon.” Naked answered, “He's doing a last minute check of the VF-143 gripes list.”
        “I'm surprised he's even out of his office.” Amy remarked, “He's locked himself in there for the last three days.”
        “Ah, he's okay.” Buck shook his head, “He just needed time alone. You remember how he was after that Hornet went down last cruise.”
        Amy sighed. One of the F/A-18s from the Wildcats had gone down due to a hydraulic failure while the pilot was flathatting to show off his skill. At that altitude, he hadn't time to eject, or even think about ejecting.
        “So how are the rest of you FAGs holding up?” FAG = Fighter/Attack Guy.
        “We're okay.” Amy shrugged, “Sure as hell is good to be off the mud for a while, but my fun meter is pretty pegged.” The RIO laughed. Yeah, BarCAPs were boring. Moments later, Mercury followed her handler to the island where Dutch was still waiting. The Gunslinger XO gave her a light punch on the shoulder as she took her helmet off.
        “What took you so long, Merc? Thought I might have to send a search party.”
        “Oh, stuff it, dumbshit.” Amy snapped playfully. “Did you know CAG was going up again today?” she asked as they walked down the steel steps to O-3.
        “I wouldn't if I were him.” Robinson smirked, “Not so soon after loosing somebody. You know how he gets, all emotional and creepy. That man blames himself too much for everything. I wish he'd understand that that nugget is just dead 'cause he had his fangs out and was being careless.”
        “Stubborn as CAG is, he won't realize it until someone slaps him through his ass.”
        “I saw your trap.” Dutch changed the subject, “And damn it all if it wasn't beautiful. Girl got skill.”
        “Yeah, I know. Paddles didn't even breathe a word of correction to me on the way down. I can't wait to get to the Greenie Board and see my score.” The Greenie Board was the landing score board posted in the pilot's lounge for all to see. It showed the number and score of each pilot's trap plus a trap average for cruise and career. On it, everyone could tell who was a slacker and who was doing their job.
        As they entered the lounge, they noticed Wax Burnan playing pinball. Boy, had he ever cooled down since losing his ship. He was looking forward to a new plane and might even be assigned one soon. Apparently, one of the other aviators in his squadron had gone down with appendix problems this morning and Wax just might be the pilot assigned to fly in his place. Amy decided to find out.
        “Hey Wax, what's kicking?”
        “Hey, Mercury. Not much.” and he returned his eyes to the pinball game. “You know how Joxey went down with appendicitis this morning? Well, I got his jet for now. He'll be down the rest of this cruise.”
        “Score!”
        “Sierra-Hotel, baby.” Wax agreed, “I was there when it happened. We were in chow talking and he got this real funny look on his face. He stood up slowly, trying to get to a head before anything happened, but he power barfed right at the door.”
        “Yow.” Amy made a face. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Robinson checking the scoreboard.
        “Yeah.” Wax nodded, “I was behind him, helping him out the door. I saw it and it wasn't the right color of puke, y'know. On the way down to sick bay, he was talking about his stomach hurting. They checked him out and said he was no-go. So I talked XO into loaning me Joxey's Tomcat.”
        “Hey, Mercury.” Dutch called. His voice sounded concerned. Anderson and Burnan shared glances.
        “Yeah?”
        “You might want to come see this.”
        “What is it?” Mercury came close to the board traced her finger over to the latest landing score.
        “You might want to go see the paddles about that one. That can't be right.”
        “What the hell..?”
        “Now don't get all spooled up. It's just a mistake I'm sure.”
        “What the fucking hell..?” Mercury turned on her heel and stalked out the door.
        “Hey, don't be stupid.” Robinson followed. He had a mind to pull rank on Amy and order her not to do what he knew she would do, but he didn't. She was up the stairs and out on deck faster than a jack rabbit on Jim Bean. She paused for a trapping S-3 to roll to a stop before crossing the deck toward the optical landing sight. The white-shirted LSO was on the mouse with control, but told them to hold a second when he saw Amy approaching.
        “Now wait just a damn minute...” he held his hands up.
        Mercury cut him off. “What the fuck were you thinking!?” she snapped, making a grab for his jersey. “A fucking unsafe-two for that landing? That was a fucking varsity play for the goddamn deck! Everyone who saw it says it was a beauty mark!”
        “Look, I...”
        “If something was wrong on the way down, why the hell didn't you tell me?” Mercury growled, “That's what you're here for, isn't it? Landing safety? I had the goddamn three wire at a perfect one-thirty-five and sixteen. I came right down in the damn spaghetti clean and you give me an unsafe one!? What the hell?”
        “If you'd just shut up a second, I'd tell you.” the LSO snapped. “CAG ordered me to do it.”
        Amy's hands went to her hips. She glared at him. “CAG ordered you to give me a low score?”
        “That's what I'm saying, ma'am.” Mercury almost found his calling her ma'am amusing, seeing as how he outranked her. Then it hit her that he was being extremely patient with a junior officer who had just tried to attack him.
        She glanced sideways, noting that her aircraft had been taken to hanger and the CAG's jet was gone. “Well, shit.” she breathed. “I'm sorry, sir.” She didn't really mean it. The Paddles shrugged. She was forgiven. She excused herself and stalked away.
        Not a minute after she reached the island, a Tomcat that had been forced to wait several minutes longer than usual was finally released from marshal stacking. It faltered the first time down, but made the second try. The pilot, upset at having to wait, called up to control what had kept him up in the air and to remind them that a bird was supposed to be called out of marshal before it was below the amount of fuel required for three landing attempts.
        Upon realizing that his landing schedule was screwed up and that there were eight thirsty fighters late to arrive on deck, the Air Boss ordered an S-3B Viking with tanker pods in the air to make sure the last planes in the stack had enough go-juice to get back safely. This set back the launch of an E-2 Hawkeye radar plane several minutes after another had trapped, leaving the local airspace unstaked for a gap of time which an enemy could easily take advantage.
        After frantically rewriting his air tasking, the Air Boss called over to control as to why his planes were off schedule. He was told to hold while the request was sent down to the LSO. The report came back that he had been handling a situation with one of the aviators. When asked who, he had replied.
        Lieutenant Amy Anderson.

Tomcat 501. . .
        Muldoon's cat stroke had gone wonderful. It served to remind him that he had a duty to perform and he was not about to let that duty slide. He held his F-14D at an altitude of 21,000 feet, or angels 21. The sky was a blue sheet above broken by streaks of white cirrus. The ocean below was a solemn, beckoning shade of deep blue-black. The wind had picked up shortly after launch and the waves were capping white and probably spraying high. Behind him was the carrier group and a storm front rolling from the south. Ahead was the Great Wide Open.
        It was beautiful; breathtaking even.
        “Pukin’ Dogs, strike threat bearing zero-three-zero, one-two-five miles, angels 25.” Apparently, there was not forward air controller up. He brushed off the thought and commanded Naked to arm the Phoenixes and lock up a target.
        “Diamond, Pukin’ Dog 501, I have targets.” CAG reported, “Still outside range of the EW or TVIS. Contacts unknown at this time.”
        “Roger, one. You are cleared to close and establish threat/non-threat intentions.”
        “Wilco.” CAG replied. “Okay, Naked, you ready to close up?”
        “Sure thing boss.”
        “Pukin’ Dog 506, snuggle up and let's go.”
        “Roger.”
        CAG kicked in the burners and allowed the Tomcat to rush past Mach one. “CAG, I've got a pair of Tupolev 95s on the EW. Looks like there are possible Fulcrums shadowing the Bears, but at this distance...” Buck trailed off, Muldoon needed to hear no more.
        “Diamond, strike Bear, two ship. Possible Fulcrums in escort. No affiliation or intentions knows as yet.” The Stennis came back ok. “Naked, tell me when they’re in the tube range.”
        “They should be in a few seconds, CAG.”
        “Good.” Muldoon said, “Tell me how they're marked and what weapons if any. Just in case they're hostiles, lock 'em up. 506, hold your fire until we’ve got 'em IDed. I don't want to piss off our Russian allies.”
        “Captain, I've got a Bear on the TV. Looks like he's equipped for Kickbacks, sir. Showing stars on the tail.” So the rebels still haven't changed their markings. That must be making it tough for the Russian Air Force. “CAG, more contacts, two bear are actually four, still no definite on the MiGs, and two Sukhois, look like -33s, at cherubs five and climbing.”
        “Makes sense.” Muldoon said, “The Kuznetsov is in the area.” The Su-33 was basically a novelized Su-27 with canards, arresting hook, and shorter tail stinger that didn’t house the rear-firing gear. The -27 family of -30, -33, -34, -35, and -37 all looked about the same with an addition or two varying the types, but the basic airframe was the same.
        “Do you think those Bear are going for the Russkie carrier?”
        “Looks like it.”
        “Diamond, Pukin’ Dog. The bombers are headed for the Russian CVBG.”
        “Understood. Stand by for instructions.”
        “Standing by.” CAG returned. The wait for orders was excruciating, yet conveniently short.
        “Pukin’ Dog flight, you are weapons free. Good hunting.”
        “That's all I needed to hear.” And he turned his F-14 for the contacts. “Naked, get me the Russkie mother.” Buck did so, and the Kuznetsov came back asking the American jets for assistance, assuring the RIO that the Sukhoi-33s wouldn't fire upon them.
        “Okay, here we go.”
        “I got you a bear, sir.”
        “Thanks Buck, Pukin’ Dog 506, Phoenix on my mark.” Even as he gave the order, the hit percent was climbing as the range-to-target decreased. “aaaaaaaaaand, fox one!” There was a loud thunk as an AIM-54 dropped from its hardpoint on the belly of the F-14 before shooting upward and away.
        The missiles lofted nearly two miles above launch point, using the thinner air to increase speed and range. They flew on for nearly a minute before sloping downward at their targets. Muldoon's missile punched through the starboard side of the slim Tu-95 and was halfway out the other side before exploding, cutting the big bomber in half. The other went over the nose of the target fuselage before the proximity detonator set it off. Shrapnel sliced into the propellers of the port engines and riddled the cheek with holes. The pilot and navigator were killed instantly, and the gun-controller’s arm was severed to the elbow. Not equipped with ejection seats, the rest of the crew was killed when the ship hit the water.
        Not seconds later, the third Bear took an R-27/AA-10 ‘Alamo’ from one of the Su-33s in the nose. The entire fuselage fore of the wing struts was blown to scrap, and it too began a long descent seaward.
        It was shortly after this that the six MiG-29s decided to make themselves known. Two of them raced foreword for the Flankers. As one, they fired a pair of AA-12/R-77 ‘Adder.’ One Sukhoi escaped, the other wasn't so lucky, being consumed by fire.
        “CAG, confirmed Fulcrum. Definitely four, could be more. One just took down one of our Russkie buddies.”
        “Shit. Gimme one.” the target box appeared and Muldoon fired another Phoenix. The million dollar missile missed, but attracted the attention of the remaining four Fulcrums still shadowing the Tupolevs. In formation, they turned for the incoming Tomcats, blowers hot.
        “506, we got incoming. Get off one more shot at the bombers before engaging the Fulcrums.”
        “Wilco.”
        “Got you Bear four, sir.” And with that, Muldoon gave another fox one. The AIM-54 lofted away, and Naked selected his commander another target.
        The MiGs were bearing in at 30 nautical, too close for a Phoenix to have a good chance. Muldoon selected his AMRAAMs, a missile which was only recently added to the Tomcat’s carriable ordinance in place of the now phased out AIM-7 Sparrow semi-active missile. Unlike its predecessor, the Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile carried an active radar that allowed the fighter to engage multiple targets. The Sparrow required the pilot keep a lock on one until the missile contacted or missed.
        “Pukin’ Dog 501, Fox Three.” The missile streaked off the port underwing launch rail and homed in on the lead MiG-29. CAG knew that if the Russian fighters came too close, he would be forced into a dogfight with a plane much more maneuverable than his own. In spite of what Top Gun might have shown, the F-14D was an interceptor, NOT a dogfighter. The small Fulcrum could run rings around the monolithic Tomcat. The only hope was to keep ‘em distant.
        “Fulcrum three.” Naked called, having selected another bogey. Once again, Muldoon gave the cry for launch. He was out of AIM-120s now. It was a momentary relief when Two reported splash. The other pilot then launched his own pair of AMRAAMs as Muldoon’s first shot splashed. The other missed.
        After two had released his, the remaining MiG coming about again after avoidance, fired off an AA-11 ‘Archer.’ Muldoon turned over to burners, ordering Buck to keep track of the target as flares streamed from the rear of the Tomcat. The big jet rolled, wings at full sweep, and made a five-G break turn to port before slowly sliding starboard again. As the IR seeker approached, Muldoon broke again across the missile’s flight path. The frustrated munition flew on, self destructing seconds later.
        “Pukin’ Dog 506, fox two!” The Fulcrum shot past two, gun quiet, leaving the Sidewinder with open sky. As it did so, Muldoon got a decent look at its underbelly. There were only three of the six pylons loaded, all with Archers. Including the one that had already been fired, this MiG had carried only four IR homing missiles. The usual carry was four AA-12 and two AA-11. Yet he recollected only two of the planes ever having them, and they both had only used one.
        “Naked, they're in trouble.”
        “What do you mean, CAG?”
        “I think they're running out of ordinance. He didn't even shoot at two.” even as Muldoon said this, the MiG wheeled and began burning for home. Neither Tomcat pursued.
        As Buck reported in blue skies, CAG began thinking. As far as he knew, there were no factories on either of the rebel controlled islands. The four squadrons they had were equipped to send each plane out on twelve sorties, but thanks to the involvement of three different nations-- the US, UK, and Russia-- the amount of fuel and ordinance must be dwindling quickly, as must the number of planes. To his count, they had taken out seven of the twelve Su-27s, eight MiG-29s, four MiG-27s, ten of the Tu-95 bombers, and all of the Yak-41s the rebels operated. That left them with a total of twenty one aircraft of the sixty or so the carrier group had been up against, not to mention dozens of missiles, gallons of fuel, and entire belts of gun ammunition gone down with those destroyed planes.
        “Control, Pukin’ Dog 501, strike, inbound mother's.”

        “Oh shit! Oh shit!...”
        “Look, just calm down.”
        “...Shit! Geezus! Fuckohfuckohfuck!”
        “Claborne cool it, girl! You'll be okay.”
        Amy heard the commotion as she rounded the corner. CAG was due back on deck in a few minutes and she wanted the first shot at him. She rounded the corner to find Karen Claborne being carried by one of the other deck officers, with yet a third yellow shirt in tow. Karen's helmet was torn off, her sandy blonde hair spilling over the arm of her carrier. Her khaki uniform pants were torn along a huge bloody gash running down her leg. It was so deep Amy could see bare bone. Blood was smeared across her pant leg and draining heavily into her black shoes. There was a trail of red drops along the white tile.
        And she was screaming at the top of her lungs.
        “What happened?” Amy asked, frantic.
        “A trap line came loose too soon from an F-14. It snapped back right at her and scraped her leg. If she hadn't had the presence of mind to skip, she'd have lost the limb below the knee.”
        “Damn, it's deep. Looks like she's got a fracture. Can I help?”
        “Naw, we got it.” And Amy watched them tote her away, red running down the officer's sleeve.
        “What was that all about?” Serena asked, having just appeared around the corner with her notebook. Without waiting for an answer, her eyes were instantly drawn to the screaming girl and she ran after, seeing a scoop.
        When Amy reached flight deck level, she took the opportunity to peek out at the thick fog rolling in over the port stern quarter. It swirled away as an F/A-18 came down a little rough, snagged the three wire, and whizzed to a halt. As Mercury followed it with her eyes, she saw it pass the CAG's F-14 being towed to elevator number one.
        “He's back.” And with that, she charged up to flight control where Muldoon was certain to be.

        “Sundance 633, you are cleared for set down.”
        “Roger, flight control, Sundance 633 out.”

Meanwhile across the flight control room.
        “Wildcat 316, you are clear to drop marshal stack and line up. Estimated landing time: zero three. Time now: five four”
        “Copy control.”

        “Captain, sir?” Mercury called, “Can I talk to you a minute?” Muldoon looked up from the tactical table and glared at her a moment. He then turned back to the collected officers and told them he'd be back in a moment.
        “What is this about?”
        “I think you know what this is about, sir. That shitty-assed landing score you ordered the LSO to give me earlier.”
        “That.” Muldoon sighed. “C'mon, let’s go into my watch office.” And he opened the door. The two were silent until they reached the CAG’s on deck office. It was along Vultures Row with a good view of the landing zone. Amy could hardly see it though. The fog had come in suddenly and the deck was almost obscured. “About that poor trap score. I ordered that.”
        “I know that sir. Paddles told me.”
        “After you harassed him, I heard.”
        Amy was silent.
        “Do you know what kind of marshalling nightmare that caused?” Muldoon asked, not expecting an answer. “We're still trying to fix that mess you made! If it were anyone else, Anderson, I'd have their ass in a can!”
        “Are you saying you feel you owe me?”
        “I'm saying you're a dumbshit hothead who's developed a temper, according to your friend, Serena. I told the LSO to give you a bad score just to see your reaction. I knew you'd act irrationally, and I needed a case to point out when I told you. And yes, it will stay on your record.” he let that sink in a minute before continuing. “Anderson, you're a good officer and a great pilot. An incredible pilot, really. But there is one problem.”
        “I'm a woman.” Amy answered.
        “You're a woman.” CAG nodded, “You can't afford a to have a temper. You get watched closer than any other officer on this boat. The Navy is expecting you to fail, and they're looking for an excuse, any excuse, to get you out of the cockpit. A stunt like you pulled today could get even a male officer in deep shit with the brass.
        “You can't afford to be stupid, you understand? To be accepted as even an equal in this field, you have to be better than everyone else. You can't get away with mediocre or else you won't be seen as acceptable. You're the first woman to fly combat engagements. This is an experiment. You're the subject. You do poorly and you risk not only your career but the careers of every female combat pilot world wide. You read me, Anderson?”
        “Loud and clear, sir.”
        “Good. Now you understand why I've been harder on you. I like you, Anderson. You're a good officer. I don't want to see a good pilot get yanked because she happens to be an innie instead of an outie. Go ahead, don't stifle that giggle. It was supposed to be funny.”
        “All this time I thought it was because you resented what happened almost ten years ago.”
        “No.” Muldoon shook his head, “I'm rather thankful for it, actually. If it weren't for you jumping off that ship, risking your own life, Slobadan Milosovic would have more to brag about than a downed F-117. And I'd be dead fighting someone else's war. All the national embarrassment you caused being trapped on Big E was really rather funny. And it looks like that move came back to make you someone.”
        “I remember telling you I was going to be a doctor.” Amy smiled. She knew she had silently been given silent permission to speak freely.
        “I remember I snorted derisively at the idea of someone with as much spunk as you spending the rest of her life forcing a syringe into a whining kid's arm.”

        “Wildcat 316, three quarters of a mile. Call the ball.”
        “Control, Super Hornet Ball. State one point three one.” All the pilot could make out in front of him were the lights of the landing lane and the meatball. Thank God for the automatic landing system. Just as he could barely make out the deck beneath him, the fog swirled away from something in front of him. Before he could react, there was an SH-60 SeaHawk helicopter looming at his nose. With autopilot on, he could do nothing but watch as the chopper pilot tried desperately to turn out of the way.

        “Jesus Christ!” Anderson and Muldoon both shouted almost in unison when they heard the smash of metal on metal. The two officers looked out the window in time to see an F/A-18E, embedded in the side of a helicopter crash heavily on the deck and go skittering along the landing lane trailing fire.
        “Goddamit! We already had one accident today!” Muldoon shouted as he ran from his office to the flight ops.
        Mercury stayed behind, picking up Muldoon's phone. “This is Lieutenant Anderson, there has been an accident on the flight deck. Fire crews report to the flattop now!”

        “What the fuck happened?” Muldoon asked the senior watch officer in marshalling.
        “Apparently Lieutenant Bixby and Ensign Matterhorn gave landing clearance for two aircraft at the same time. Bix didn't understand my order to hold the Hornet to oh-one-three and misinterpreted to oh-oh-three.”
        “Bixby!”
        “Yes, Captain?”
        “What were your orders, as your heard them.”
        “Drop Wildcat 316 at oh-oh-three, sir.”
        “You sure?”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Was there no one down stairs calling the pattern full?”
        “No, sir.”
        “Why the hell not? Get me some mickeys!” Mickeys are the mouse-eared headset worn by deck crews. A pair was handed to the CAG and he pulled them on. “This is Captain Muldoon, I wanna speak to the LSO. Get him for me now!”
        “This is Lieutenant Commander Birrek.”
        “Birrek, where you aware you had two birds coming down at the same time?”
        “No, sir. I was aware only of the Hornet.”
        “Ok, hold on. Matterhorn!”
        “Sir?”
        “Did you inform Paddles of the chopper?”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Control claims you were told.” Muldoon returned his attention to Birrek.
        “If it came at the same time, sir, then the interference from one message negated the other. I didn't hear it.”
        “I understand, Birreck.”

        Amy was one of the many crewmembers who were helping with the rescue. So far, both of the chopper pilots had been pulled out, miraculously suffering only minor injuries. The bodies of the two crewmen on the chopper had also been recovered, and the pilot of the F/A-18 was unconscious in the cockpit. The fire was being kept at bay from the rescuing fireman.
        He was trying to work the cockpit hatch when the flames swept back toward him. All the hosing in the world couldn't stop them. The fireman retreated, wildly scrambling away from the heat.
        The rush of adrenaline was enough. Amy felt it this time, and frantically covered her forehead. The sigil burned her palm and she flinched momentarily. Without a second thought she ran back into the island superstructure and down the metal steps to O-3 level and her quarters. Serena was there tapping on her laptop, but the room was otherwise empty.
        “Amy, what's going on?”
        “There's a fire on deck! Have you been ignoring the fucking sirens?”
        “I figured there's nothing I could do about it.”
        “Hell yes, there's something you could do. Do you have your locket?”
        “No. I didn't think it was a good idea to be carrying the Silver Crystal with me.”
        “Damn!” and with that Amy dug through her foot locker for the Mercury Star Wand.
        “You're not gonna transform are you?”
        “I suppose that if I use my Aqua illusion, it will hold the flames off until I can rescue the pilot. Here it is.” She stood out in the middle of the room, calling the familiar words.
        “Mercury Star Power!”

        “Try to keep it away from the nose! We don't want the gun ammo to cook off!” Commander William Kruger, CO of the Stennis's firefighting squad, shouted. Thank God the fog was clearing, though slowly.
        “Yes, sir!” the man behind him replied, and they re-aimed the foam hose. The fire retreated from the foam, then spread around it and proceeded slowly toward the nose and the M-61 Vulcan gun belts.
        “Someone try to get the pilot out!”
        “Too hot. We can't reach him.”
        “Jesus, he's gonna die in there!”
        Just then, gliding down onto the nonskid decking, was a female figure in a white and blue leotard.
        “Sailor Mercury?!”
        “Stand Back, everyone!” she shouted in her accented voice. The fire crews did as she bid them, and as soon as they were clear, a drop of water splashed at her feet. She began twirling, drawing it upward to her raised hands. “Shine Aqua Illusion!” and she flung the water forward. it iced over the back and cobra hood of the Hornet. The fire, angered and surprised at the sudden cold, reeled back as if in disgust.
        Sailor Mercury walked forward through the curling flames and reached the cockpit. She found the canopy jettison handle, knelt, and on the count of three, pulled hard. The canopy Plexiglas was jolted into the air by the charges before crashing onto the deck next to the wreckage. The aqua belle reached in and slapped the emergency release on the seat restraint before dragging the pilot out and away from the twisted cocktail of F/A-18 and SH-60.
        Just as she lay him down and the medical crews started to surround him, the fire had melted through her ice and the ammunition began cooking off. Four hundred rounds went off like a cherry bomb in a trash can, and everyone lay flat on the deck as the deadly noise of black cats played across the wreckage, leaving small burns in the armored flight deck.
        As soon as the ammunition was depleted, Sailor Mercury stood up, and sent yet another Aqua Illusion at the fire. This one snuffed out the angry flames, leaving only a steaming, oily hulk to simmer in the retreating fog.
        Before anyone could say anything. Sailor Mercury sprinted for the edge of the deck, and leapt into the wall of white, disappearing into the fog. She allowed herself to fall until she was almost to the water before teleporting herself back to her quarters and quickly changing to her normal self.
        “Whoa!” Serena was stunned as the Scout popped into the room.
        “Serena, you have yourself a scoop. You wanna get it now, you better get up to the flight deck.”
        “What can I expect?” the journalist asked suspiciously.
        “One of the Sailor Scouts making an appearance and saving a multi-billion dollar aircraft carrier.”
        “Sounds interesting.” Serena grabbed her note book and pen. “Looks like I'm outie!”

Chapter 8 - Retaliation
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