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

Chapter 8
Retaliation

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Va
Next day. . .
            In a place not well known for having a rumor mill, the CIA headquarters was flooded with a rumor that Sailor Mercury had aided in putting out a fire on the USS John C. Stennis. The only one that knew the rumor was true was Greg Masters.
        It made him smile to know that Amy had donned her Sailor garb once again to fight danger and save lives. He missed her, and hoped she would return safely. Maybe when her cruise was in, he would fly out to San Diego to see her.
        Right now, he was in the analysis lab, looking at the latest set of satellite flyovers. These had been taken not five minutes ago and where already on his desk awaiting viewing, lending support to the fact that the CIA worked quickly.
        He set the first photo under his magnifying glass. It was the latest picture of the Shinshiri air base. The damage was substantial. All three runways were cratered and pockmarked. The hardened aircraft shelters were smashed and several planes on the tarmac were in flames. He briefly wondered if Amy had been flying the strike package that hit this one.
        The next one was of the Japanese landing site. Dead bodies and shattered Russian Rebel tanks and armored vehicles littered the battlefield near the beach.
        The third picture was of the missile site that had prompted his call to the president almost a month earlier. However, instead of the maintenance trucks on the road now, there were four Ural-4320 transport trucks parked near the first four silos. One of them had a large crate next to it with the nuclear flower on the side.
        “Oh shit!” and he blindly reached for the STU-6.

USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74)
        The CAG looked at the group he had handpicked for this mission. They were all good pilots. The best on the ship, on paper at least. Two of them were now aces, having reached five kills, five of them were within one, and the rest could conceivably reach the ace mark by the time the mission was over.
        Or they might fail and die in a white flash of fission.
        Either way, they had to go through with this.
        They knew this mission was important. Captain Raulstone and Admiral Tarkington were standing near Muldoon, waiting to add their words.
        Still hesitant, CAG gave one more head count. His eyes fell over Lieutenant Burnan, with the look on his face that said he was both ready to listen and ready to shout jokes should the need arise. Robinson, notepad on his knee, was all business. Anderson had on her contemplative poker face. And the rest of the pilots and air crews where ready and waiting.
        “Fifteen minutes ago, Satellite Intelligence discovered a number of trucks near the nuclear sites on the island of Urup. These trucks are apparently installing the warheads to several SS-18 intercontinental ballistic missiles. We are assuming that the rebels intend to use these weapons. “As you know, the SS-18 and its navalised version could conceivably reach anywhere within a nine-thousand mile range. So we don't know where they are going. Unfortunately, they have forty eight of these missiles in six sites like this, and the Air Force decided not to ready any of our ICBMs in case this should happen.
        “The good news is that the sites are within a twenty mile radius and the missile doors are open. And because they must install the warheads on these missiles, it will take them at least an hour to have all of the missiles ready for launch. Conceivably, we could drop a B-61 tactical nuclear warhead here...” he pointed on an overhead photo, “to take all the missiles out at once.
        “I have chosen each of you for your uncommon skill and velour. I know that I can trust you to face this with courage. I will now turn the briefing over to Captain Raulstone.”
        The boat's commander stepped up to the podium. “It's been a long time since I've given one of these.” and there were some uncomfortable chuckles around the room. “The plan is this: Captain Muldoon will be leading the strike package of twenty-four aircraft. There will be twelve F-14s from VF-143 flying TarCAP. The rest of the strike craft will be F/A-18Es from VF-105. The CAG will be flying among these. He will be loaded with one B-61 tactical nuclear gravity bomb. Lieutenant Commander Robinson, your flight will provide close in cover for the CAG as he makes his attack. The remainder of the Hornets will be loaded with Mavericks and HARM missiles to make sure all surface to air missile sites that present a threat to the strike package are eliminated. After CAG plants his mushroom, all aircraft will egress and return to the Reb.
        “We have informed other nations of our intent to use nuclear weapons, but we can not wait for their replies.”
        The Captain paused a minute, then sighed heavily. “Alright, let's make it official because we have lots of witnesses here. Captain, Muldoon, a nuclear power is threatening the United States of America. Do I have your authorization to employ nuclear weapons in her defense?”
        The CAG stood silent for a moment, contemplating. He did not want to seem too hasty in confirming Raulstone's question. He almost didn't want to go forward with the mission. Get someone else to do it! But then he thought about the pilots, all the good pilots, that this operation had taken. All the kids that were dead trying to remove a stubborn rebel force from an island that wasn't theirs, and suddenly he was sure. “Captain Raulstone, in defense of the United States of America and the interests of her allies, I so authorize the use of nuclear force.”

Andrews AFB,
Camp Springs, Maryland
            The modified 747-200 was already hot on runway 1L of the Andrews Air Force Base complex. It was stark white with a blue stripe along the fuselage. Atop the upper deck was an antennae dome allowing the aircraft to communicate with every nuclear facility, whether based on land, in the air, or in the ocean. A bump on her nose hid an aerial re-fuelling probe that would aid in keeping the jet aloft for up to three days. Aside from the tail number and the bold letters “United States of America” on the fuselage, she was unmarked. This was an E-4B, the National Emergency Airborne Command Post. Kneecap, the Doomsday Plane.
        She was awaiting her final passengers now, to be arriving by a helicopter designated Marine One. These were the Joint Chiefs, the National Security Advisor, the Secretary of Defense, and the President.
        Not far away, on the tarmac, the specially painted VH-3 was settling down on pad one. An airman opened the door and Two Secret Service Agents preceded Admiral Jeremy Boort, Chief of Staff Dan Dorfeld, and President Jack Shepherd. Another two agents followed before the remainder of the necessary staff and family climbed out. Surprisingly, Representative Mina Aino brought up the rear.
        Mina had been meeting with the President about the furiously annoying HB-803 when they had been called to Andrews to board the NEACP immediately.
        By some stupid custom, the president and staff was packed into a limo for the short ride over to the plane before boarding.
        Minutes after arrival, the E-4 was making a ten-degree positive emergency climb to five-five thousand feet.

Super Hornet 106. . .
        Once again, the sky was clear. There were white puffy cumulous clouds spread around the sky like melted marshmallows around a blue countertop. The flight of twenty four aircraft where stacked in multiple diamond formations, four ships to a diamond, and those shaped within a larger diamond around the central group of F/A-18s. They decreased in altitude from upper right to lower left of the formation. Each one was loaded for bear.
        “Wax?”
        “Yes, CAG?”
        “You brought your Red Hot Chili Pepper tape? You promised you'd bring it if we ever had to do this.”
        “Lemme see. Yessuh! Yessuh! Got it right here!” And he slid the tape in. Soon, the first bars of “Give It Away Now” were being relayed to every aircraft on the strike package.
        Mercury couldn't help but smile. In spite of what they were about to undertake, the aircrews remained outwardly sanguine. Dutch had told her not to worry. He could sense that the rebels wouldn't be foolish enough to risk bringing down the wraith of the globe by shooting a few missiles to stave off their own inevitable destruction. She hoped he was right.
        Her mission was to provide support for Captain Muldoon as he made his attack run. She, Dutch, and Commander “Duke” Hasely were in diamond slot around the CAG. It was a good way to keep him protected, but sure as hell tipped of any enemies that might need to bulls eye the primary target.
        “This is Spyglass to all ships, contact bandit. There are lots of 'em bearing zero-three-zero, eighty miles.”

Langley, VA. . .
        “This is Greg Masters down in SatLint. When's the next SQ-19 making a flyover of the missile fields on Urup.”
        “Should be about thirty minutes.”
        “Is that direct over?”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Could you possibly manoeuver it to where we have a forty-five degree deflection?”
        “Yes. I can do that.”
        “Alright. Do it.” Greg hung up the phone. He had a hunch about those arming trucks. The picture had been taken right when those men were opening the warhead cases. Something told him that they were not actually arming the missiles, but something else.
        He had thirty minutes to find out. He picked up the phone again and called 2302, the group that was monitoring the Stennis strike package.
        “How are they doing?”
        “Strike package ETA approximately five-five minutes.”
        “Do we have a direct line to the carrier?”
        “Lemme check...” Greg heard him repeat the question to his superior, but he knew the answer already. “No, but the Pentagon does.”
        “Get us a direct comm link with the carrier, okay.”
        “That'll have to go through the DO's offi...”
        “Screw the DO. I might need this now.”
        The other man was silent for a while. Finally, he sighed a “yes, sir.” and Greg hung up. “Amy, something bad is about to happen. We're about to make a horrendous mistake.”

Super Hornet 106. . .
        “Pukin’ Dog 512, fox one!”
        “Pukin’ Dog 535, fox one!”
        “Puking Dog 503, fox one!”
        The F-14s were about a mile ahead of them, and Amy could see the AIM-54C Phoenix missiles dropping from the bellies of the big ‘cats and lighting up like a dozen candles racing away at various targets. They had contacts on Su-27 Flankers, MiG-29 Fulcrums and a surprise group of MiG-31 Foxbats. The Foxbats were unwelcome, as their R-33 missiles (NATO call sign: AA-9 Amos), though less reliable, had a longer range than the Phoenixes that the Tomcats carried. Several of the American planes were already in evasive manoeuvers trying to defeat the missiles.
        There were three or four splash reports, but with the twenty or so contacts they had, that was not enough to make a dent. The bandits were closing now, and were within the minimum range of the Phoenix. Time to switch to AMRAAMs.
        “Ok, everyone, pick a target.” CAG ordered. Amy looked forward at his plane. There were two huge football shaped objects on either wing. One was the B-61 tactical nuclear warhead, a bomb which could clear-cut 20 square miles in a flash. The other form was the aerodynamic ballast used to balance the weight of the nuke.
        Mercury put a cursor over an as yet unselected target and clicked. “Gunslinger 106 has target.” The RT began scrolling down from 33.6 nautical and the MiG-29 was soon within range.
        “Gunslinger 109, fox three!”
        “Gunslinger 112, Fox three!”
        “Pukin’ Dog 504, fox three!”
        “Gunslinger 106, fox three!”
        And on came the reports of AMRAAM launches. what must have been almost twenty of the missiles shot forward, twisting away to locate their targets. As her missile neared the Fulcrum, the indicator went blank. For a second, Amy though she had him. It was this time that the spoof indicator decided to inform her otherwise. “Damn!”
        “Gunslinger 109 is engaged defensive Alamo.”
        “Gunslinger 103 is engaged defensive Alamo.”
        “Pukin’ Dog 506 is engaged defensive Archer.”
        “Gunslinger 112 is down. He's got a good chute.”
        “Pukin’ Dog 515, I'm engaged defensive Adder.”
        Mercury looked around her as a dozen airplanes peeled away, dropping countermeasures. White trails of smoke raced in, some continuing on, some not. Three planes were hit. Two went down, and the third reported he was going to try to limp back home.
        Amy found that she was suddenly alone with Muldoon.
        “Gunslinger 103 is down.” Dutch reported, “No chute.” That report meant that Dutch was now her squadron commander, and second in command of the operation. “Spyglass, this is gonna be a furball. Gunslinger 106, you go on with the CAG.”
        “But...”
        “No buts, Anderson.” he only called her that when he meant it. “We're all tied up back here! You're the only one with your hands empty!”
        “Aye, sir.” Amy said in her accented voice, and pulled a little closer to the CAG's jet.
        “Looks like it's you and me from here.”

Langley, VA
        “Greg Masters, Sat room.”
        “Yeah?”
        “We have a live feed on those missile sites.”
        “Tell me.”
        “Doors open, trucks gone. No birds sir.”
        “What?”
        “There are no missiles in the...”
        “I heard you the first time. No firings?”
        “Negative, sir.”
        “You sure?”
        “Yes, sir. I'm positive.”
        “Tell Deputy Director Horner. The president needs to hear this, and quickly.” and Greg hung up. “What’s the ETA of that strike package?”
        “Sixteen minutes mark.”

Air Force One (E-4B)
        “Mr. President. There's a call for you from Langley.”
        “Patch it through.” Shepherd picked up the phone. “Hello.”
        “Mr. President, it's Horner. Mr. Masters discovered that the missile silos are empty. No launches. The strike is a ruse, sir.”
        “Are you sure?”
        “Yes, Mr. President.”
        “Thanks, Chuck. Now all we need to do is call those planes back. Somebody get me the Stennis!”
        “I've got the carrier now, sir.”
        “Mr. President.” Admiral Tarkington answered, “it would be an honor to speak to you were the circumstances different.”
        “I know that admiral.” Shepherd acknowledged. “I need you to call back the strike package. There is no danger of a nuclear strike. Silos are empty and no launches have been detected.”
        “Yes, sir. I can do that. I hate to put my Commander-in-Chief on hold but...”
        “That's perfectly alright.”
        There was a long silence. During which POTUS ordered the ballistic missile submarines Ohio and Mississippi to stand down from nuclear alert. He had placed them on launch stand-bye in case his use of nuclear weapons had angered China into launching her own ICBMs. He also ordered the standing-down of any land-based missiles that had been warmed up in the past hour.
        “Mr. President, this is Admiral Tarkington.”
        “Go ahead.”
        “I've got some bad news. The weapon carrier, Captain Muldoon, is refusing to turn around. We have thirteen minutes until he reaches his target.”
        “Patch me through to him.”
        Another moment of silence, then he was cued that he was on the air with the CAG. “Captain Muldoon, this is President Shepherd. I'm ordering you to abort your mission and return to base.”
        “I can't...I can't do that, Mr. President.” Muldoon replied, “These Russkie bastards killed some of my best pilots. Some of my kids are dead because of these assholes. Hell, a US carrier is at the bottom of the sea because of them. They deserve this.”
        “Do you know what will happen if you drop that bomb with those silos empty?” Shepherd asked. “Other nations will see us as the aggressors. At least we'll be shunned by our allies. At worst, there will be a nuclear holocaust which could end all life on this planet. You turn that damn jet around and go home!”
        “I'm sorry sir. They deserve that they'll get.” and the line went silent.
        “Admiral Boort, get someone in the strike package to shoot him down.”
        “There's only one other plane close enough. A hornet designated Gunslinger 106. The pilot's been ignorant of the radio transmissions thus far.”
        “Give me a direct feed. I want to talk to that pilot myself.”
        “You're through sir.”
        “Hello? Gunslinger 106?” Shepherd asked.
        The reply came slow. It was obvious that there was a delay in the satellite feed. “Yes, who is this?” an accented female voice came back. For a moment, all Shepherd could think was “a girl? what the hell is a girl doing in a fighter?” but he responded. “This is the President of the United States. Who is this?”
        “President? Bullshit. This is some rebel trick.”
        “This is President Jack Shepherd, pilot. Now you listen to me.”
        “Yeah, right, and I'm the Moon Princess. Really, you should go find some shelter till it's over.”
        The line went silent, but stayed open. Shepherd flashed back to Admiral Tarkington on the Stennis. “Admiral, it's the president. Who is in Gunslinger 106?”
        “Ummm... Lieutenant Amy Anderson, sir.”
        “Amy Anderson?”
        “Yes, Mr. President.”
        “Thank you.” and hence again switched his feed to Hornet 106. “Lieutenant Anderson, this is President Jack Shepherd.”
        “How did you learn my name?”
        “I got it from Admiral Tarkington on board the Stennis.”
        “It is you! Oh, Mr. President I'm so sorry for how I acted...”
        “It's alright, Lieutenant. You need to listen to me. You have eleven minutes before you're on target. Those missile silos are empty and Muldoon is refusing to turn around. I need you to stop him. Can you do that?”
        “Yes.” she said, nervously, “I...I can do it.”
        “Good.” Shepherd replied. “Godspeed, Lieutenant.”
        “Thank you, sir.”
        With that, Shepherd hung up. He shared a long stare with Mina Aino. “I just ordered one of my fighter pilots to shoot down her commanding officer. I feel awful. I wonder how she feels.”
        Mina sighed and sat down next to  her former college professor. “I know Amy Anderson. And I'm sure she feels confused, a little afraid, and probably very reluctant. But she'll come through for us. She's come through for me many times, and she was feeling butterflies then. I'm sure this time will be no different.”

Super Hornet 106. . .
        “Gunslinger 106 to Gunslinger 101. Don't you think we should follow orders to abort?”
        “So they got to you, did they Mercury?” Muldoon answered, “Don't let them fool you. What we're doing here is right. You remember what happened to Dodger. You were there. These rebels murdered him with those cheap shot rear-arc missiles. You remember losing a tomcat crew that same mission. Your friend, Mrs. Hendrix. They almost killed her too. Doesn't that make you angry?”
        “It doesn't make me angry enough to drop a nuclear weapon on someone.” Anderson replied as she switched to her Sidewinders.
        “I've seen them kill too many already. I'm sure the Japanese and the Russians will be glad this is over.”
        “If you don't stop, I'll have to shoot you down, sir. I don't want to do that.” No reply. She said nothing. Instead, she got right behind him. The grinding tone of the searching IR seekers went shrill. She was only ashamed her fifth kill had to be her own commanding officer. “Gunslinger 106, fox two.” The AIM-9X streaked from the launch rail. Immediately six flares exploded from the aft of CAG’s Hornet and he went into a hard break turn. The missile missed, but Amy went twisting after him and soon found herself in a vertical scissors. Muldoon, with his nuclear load, was much less aerodynamic and therefore slightly slower. Anderson was soon out ahead of him.
        “Don't try to dogfight with me, girl.” Muldoon warned, “I've been at this way too long and I have much more experience than you do. I'll give you three chances to go home. Three strikes and you're out. You got that? This will be strike one.”
        Amy listened a second longer to see if he'd say anything more. Then, in reply, she rolled over and executed a perfect split-S before wheeling her F/A-18E around in a hard 7 G turn. She stomped on the rudder pedal, twisting the jet sideways before throwing the stick forward and slipping the nose “down” along the horizon before yanking back up again and rolling level. The CAG shot out from behind her at a 90 degree angle to her fighter and continued straight. She came around to his aft and just as she had lined up a shot, he went vertical with his blowers on. She chased after him, when he performed what had recently been labelled the Cunningham Maneuver, shoving his engines to idle and popping his speed brakes. Amy overshot him and found him once again on her six o’clock.
        “Damn it!” she cursed. Strike two. As the two Navy jets levelled out, Amy began working out a plan. As she was thinking, she felt the familiar glow coming from her forehead. She looked down, watching the flight suit melt away and the liquid energy ribbons wrap about her to solidify into her sailor suit. For a second, she was astonished that she could fly in the high-heeled boots and gloves. What if she lost this little fight? What if she had to eject? What would they say when they rescued Sailor Mercury instead of Lieutenant Amy Elizabeth Anderson? They would know. Her dog tags were still around her neck to identify her. Everyone would know who Sailor Mercury was, and then they would add two and two to get the identities of all five Sailor Scouts.
        “Too late to worry about it now, Ams.” she said to herself. She looked in her right rear-view mirror to see the CAG still back there. Well, here goes nothing.
        She slammed her throttle forward, adding some port rudder to her hard left turn. The G-meter instantly went up to nine and she felt her sailor suit squeezing at her to keep her conscious. It must have adapted to her current situation. But she could only think about that briefly as tunnel vision began to set in and her aircraft, due to a lack of lift, began to depart the turn with a beeping warning. Next, she twisted over, still not in precise control of her jet and put her throttle back to idle, popping her boards, and yanking the stick back for a post-stall loop, a manoeuvre in-which the nose of the airplane seems to stay in place while the rest of the fuselage circles around it like a clock arm. Next came an inversion roll and a short series of vertical yo-yos before she slammed the stick left and back twisting the F/A-18 into an odd flat roll before she hauled back on the stick again.
        Amy did not know where she was going, but if she didn't then it would be impossible for Muldoon to figure out. She feint-rolled left before coming back right and then rolling down into a twisting stall dive. She added engine power and yanked hard, sending the Hornet into another impossibly hard turn. She didn’t have the energy for the turn, and the fighter shakily departed in a stall and lost control. The Hornet became a rock literally falling out of the sky. She could move the control surfaces, but with no air moving over them, they could not change the vector of the plane.
        She was a target, as was emphasized to her when CAG's fighter appeared in her rear-view mirrors. “Well, that was quick.” she said as she watched him gain position. “Surprise, surprise.” And the nose of Muldoon's aircraft lit up as the M-61 spat shells.

Air Force One (E-4B)
        “We're losing Gunslinger 106's signal.” Shepherd and Mina heard over the open line. “She's losing altitude.” There was a semblance of horror at those words. The radar officer on the E-2C that was reporting them didn't seem shaken, and that made them all the more spooky. “That's it. We've lost her in the ground clutter. No emergency beacon, no chute.”
        Shepherd sat there for a moment, waiting for the impossible report that the pilot was okay. He looked up, mouth open, at Mina Aino, who stood next to his chair in stony silence, her blue eyes closed.
        “Mina, I'm sorry.” he said. She didn't answer. Instead, she turned and walked away. He watched her disappear around the corner. He could console her later. Right now he needed to act. “Someone call Beijing. I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

Super Hornet 101. . .
        Muldoon was five minutes from target. He was not sure what he would do after dropping his bomb. After the drop, he might gain some altitude and head westward. Maybe, if he went slow and conserved his fuel, he might be able to make a run to China, or at least drop in the sea near a Chinese warship. He certainly couldn't go back to the carrier. He would be arrested, and he didn't want that.
        They just didn't realize what he was doing for them. He was ridding them of a despicable enemy and providing revenge for the families of the young men who had lost their lives trying to remove the Russian rebels from these two islands. The Japanese would understand. They would be able to see his accomplishment in the weakness of the rebel line. The Russian nationals would understand in that they would have to fight a lot less hard to regain control of their own share of the islands. And the world would know that the US would not tolerate any attacks on its allies.
        He was strengthening America's position in the global community. No one would dare kill an American citizen now! They could walk the earth freely and any one that harms an American anytime anywhere will be destroyed with the full fury of the American resolve.
        He checked his HUD. Beyond the green digital symbols, he could see the nearest of the missile fields just barely pock marking the soil. He would be dropping in a ring of such silos. Right in the middle of a bulls eye.
        Muldoon reached over and armed the B-61 tactical bomb, and set the bomb and ballast to drop at the same time. Next, he set his primary MFD to FLIR, so that he could drop accurately. He slowed his throttle to fifty percent and set the F/A-18 into a very shallow dive. On his HUD, he could see the Continuously Computed Impact Point slowly moving toward the release mark.
        As he prepared to release his payload, a beeping warning went of. After a moment of startled thought, he realized it was the IR indicator. He quickly toggled his EW on the primary MFD. There was a small blip there labeled 18E.
        What the hell?
        The missile warning indicator went off just as he turned his head to look back at the battered Super Hornet and the trail of smoke coming of its wingtip. He started turning and reached to drop a flare, but by the time his hand reached the countermeasures console, the missile was already upon him.

Super Hornet 106. . .
        Sailor Mercury watched from the now blank HUD as an AIM-9X missile shot off the rail on a plume of smoke. It began winding like the snake it was named after. As the missile approached her target rolled left to make a break turn and the missile looked as if it were about to overshoot.
        For an instant, Amy panicked. This was her last IR seeking missile. Without her Radar working, the AIM-120Cs on her wing pylons were just three-hundred pound weights. And since her HUD had malfunctioned, she had no gun peeper to see where her gun was shooting, so the Vulcan was also useless. She could only pray to Mary that this worked.
        As if in answer, the missile twisted almost ninety degrees toward the target and dove for it. The resulting explosion was incredible. The 9X had been accelerating and must have been pulling nearly twenty Gs. The Hornet had been pulling another six in the opposite direction. The two objects came together, and the Sidewinder slammed through the Super Hornet with such force that it had pocked out the other side before exploding, sending white smoke and shrapnel one way and the forward fuselage the other.
        Mercury rolled sideways to see if anything came out of the cockpit. Nothing did, and it was a false hope seeing how the explosion had ripped everything to shreds. CAG was dead.
        The aqua belle let out the breath she just realized she had been holding. This was far from over. She had a long way home. As she looked around her cockpit, it was like Christmas morning. Every light was lit up, almost every screen that could be blank was blank, and every instrument broken. The audio warning switch had malfunctioned, so “bitchin’ betty” could not be turned off, and she droned on warnings about the left engine failure, the leaking hydraulic fluid, the targeting computer malfunction, and a dozen other things that were all garbled together with alarms and beeps into confusing nonsense.
        “This is Gunslinger 106, is anyone out there?”
        Nothing. Not even static.
        “This is Gunslinger 106 to any allied aircraft, do you read me?”
        Still nothing.
        For a second, Mercury kept flying straight and level, pressing on the wound in her side, trying to control the bleeding. She tapped her earring and the VR visor materialized over her face. Using her computer, she tapped in a command and a simple scrolling compass appeared on the upper edge of the visor. Following that, she turned her battered fighter in the opposite direction, headed for home.

USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74)
        Captain Doug Raulstone stood in Vulture's Row, watching with a pair of binoculars as the strike package was landing. An F-14 had just made a clean trap in spite of damage to one of its vertical rudders. As he peered closer, he could see several bullet holes and realized the big interceptor was bleeding engine coolant.
        “Sir!” the Air Boss stopped an saluted.
        “How many do we have in?”
        “Twelve of the twenty remaining. All downed air crews accounted for.”
        “Any word from Muldoon or Anderson?”
        “None, sir.” the other officer answered, “Anderson was last seen losing altitude off the coast of Urup.”
        “Get an angel to her last known position.”
        “Yes, sir.”

Air Force One (E-4B)
        “Mister President, only a few of China's nuclear forces are on alert.” Chinese Prime Minister Dong Houquan replied. “And none of them are pointed at the United States. The readied missiles were aimed at the Kuril Islands in case your attempt to stop the rebels failed.”
        “I see. I am sorry for the confusion, Mr. Prime Minister.”
        “Do not worry, Mr. President. In the same case, I would have acted in a similar fashion, and I am sure you would have done the same as I did where you in my situation.”
        “That is quite a possibility, Mr. Prime Minister.” Shepherd answered with a smile.
        “Still, I am glad that the rebels had no nuclear weapons. Had they been able to fire, this crisis would be far more terrible and tragic.”
        “I will agree to that. That is why I am committed to halting the proliferation of nuclear arms, especially to undeveloped countries and fanatics.”
        “I appreciate your goal, as the Chinese seek to do the same. Nuclear power is not a privilege but a grave responsibility. Perhaps we can work together toward our mutual goal.”
        “That would be a rather inviting idea, as our nations have been at odds in the past few months.”
        “Yes. Truly we, like the Japanese and Russians, are also the victims of a misunderstanding. There were not orders sent to our planes to attack your carrier. The surviving pilot was properly reprimanded for threatening national security. If you wish, you may confirm this through your intelligence sources.”
        “Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister.”
        “You are most welcome, Mr. President.”
        “It would be wonderful if we could continue this conversation in person.”
        “I wholeheartedly agree. Perhaps there would be some empty time in our busy schedules to meet and further discuss these propositions.”
        “I would greatly appreciate that.”

Super Hornet 106. . .
        She was out over water now. The blue Pacific Ocean was sliding slowly below her aircraft as mercury flew on at an undeterminable speed and altitude. She was slowly losing control of the plane, as she hydraulic levels were edging downward. Also, yet another warning was added to the list the computer was wailing out. There was compressor damage to her only remaining engine. Apparently she had taken shrapnel from the explosion. There was nothing she could do but fly home for as long as possible.
        “I wonder if my ejection seat works?” she said aloud. She was not willing to try it yet, as she was not close enough to the carrier to matter and besides, she was still Sailor Mercury. Without her wand, she couldn't reverse the transformation. The only way was for her adrenaline to wear off, but with everything going as it was, she wouldn't be of this hormone high for a while.
        She had also lost more blood. This wound needed stitches. Her right side and part of her skirt was now stained rusty red, and she could do little for it. All she could do was let her Sailor uniform work on the gash in her side where a 20mm bullet from CAG's Vulcan had nearly missed running her through.
        She had to go a little further. She had to get as close as she possibly could to her ship. Every mile she made was more of a chance of her being rescued.
        Mercury kept her hands on the throttle and stick, watching the horizon and her last remaining MFD in case anything should change.
        Suddenly, there was a horrible high-pitched grinding from behind her. The sound got louder and more shrill, forcing the aqua belle to wince in annoyed pain. The computer added the new problem to the list. “Right Engine Fire. Right Engine Fire.” Frantically, Mercury yanked the extinguisher control. There was no whisper of carbon dioxide. The extinguishers were gone too.
        “Time to go, old friend.” she said to the fighter. She reached back and yanked the ejection loops. The canopy disappeared above her and she was suddenly rocketed upward, blood draining from her head and blacking her out. The seat then dropped away, leaving her unconscious form in freefall.
        As she fell, her tiara stone began to glow, and her costume dilapidated into blue ribbons before winding back up and disappearing. The sigil on her forehead winked out. She was normal again.
        She fell head first for the better part of a mile before the altimeter in her parachute ordered the apparatus to open. First, the primary chute flailed away, dragging out the main cloth and opening it in the breeze. Amy was rightened and her fall slowed. Several minutes later, she was dunked into the Pacific Ocean.

SeaHawk 882...
        “Angel One to mother. We're over Gunslinger four's last known position.” the pilot of the SH-60 helicopter reported. “Mercury's either in the drink or somewhere else.”
        “Negative.” the reply came back from Johnny Reb. “We're receiving no emergency signals.”
        “Alright. We're coming home. Angel One out.”

USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74). . .
                    “Nothing?” Dutch Robinson asked. Admiral Tarkington had promoted him to acting Commander Air Group the instant he set down on the deck, bumping him up two ranks to Captain. He had been designated by Muldoon as fourth in line for the CAG position before the mission. All three above him were now missing in action.
        And so was Mercury.
        Right now, he needed Amy Anderson to be alive more than any of those nights he had longed to see his wife and children. On this ship, Anderson had become his best friend, and his most trusted squadron mate. If she where only alive.
        The ATC officer shook his head in reply to Dutch's question. “No, sir. There's no sign of her. I'm sorry sir.”
        “I am too.” Dutch shook his head. He really didn't want to have to write this letter. He had met Amy's mother before and really didn't want to break the news to her. Maybe he shouldn't write a letter. That was so impersonal. No, he would fold and deliver the flag himself. It was not a job for some unknown officer to show up at her door and tell her without saying a word that her daughter was dead, not this time. It would be someone who had known her. It had to be someone that Mrs. Anderson could trust was telling the truth when he said Amy had died heroically, serving her nation to the best of her ability and not giving up an ounce.
        “Umm... wait a minute.” the young man said. “I'm picking up a signal. It's an emergency transponder code compatible with US Navy coding. Still trying to... okay, got it. One hundred forty-four nautical bearing zero-two-zero from mother.”
        “Inform the chopper!” Dutch shouted. It probably wasn't Amy. It was way off of where she had supposedly gone down and not come up again. Still, they might as well check it out.

Seahawk 882
ten minutes later. . .
            “Okay, everybody, eyes open.” The three men scanned the water below the chopper. Finally, one of them found something.
        “There! I see a helmet.”
        “Is it attached to something?”
        “Yep! That's her.”
        “Mother, Angel One, we have located the little lady and are prepping for pick up.”

Epilogue - In The Basement
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