LIONS OF THE SKY
Copyright © 2018 by Paco Chierici
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Braveship Books
www.braveshipbooks.com
Aura Libertatis Spirat
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Cover Design by Rossitsa Atanassova
Cover Photo by Charles “Wingnut” Wickware
Book layout by Alexandru Diaconescu
www.steadfast-typesetting.eu
ISBN-13: 978-1-64062-065-0
This novel is dedicated to the amazing individuals I served with for two decades in the United States Navy, the officers and enlisted men and women of the aviation community.
And to my incredible wife, Hillary, and my fantastic children, Bella and Zander, the loves of my life who inspire me every day to be the best version of myself.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Book One. The Gladiators
Chapter 1. 14 October
Chapter 2. 15 October
Chapter 3. 18 October
Chapter 4. 20 October
Chapter 5. 23 October
Chapter 6. 19 November
Chapter 7. 20 November
Chapter 8. 22 November
Chapter 9. 06 January
Chapter 10. 12 January
Chapter 11. 16 January
Chapter 12. 21 January
Chapter 13. 28 February
Chapter 14. 10 April
Chapter 15. 04 June
Chapter 16. 15 June
Chapter 17. 02 July
Chapter 18. 03 July
Chapter 19. 08 July
Chapter 20. 13 July
Chapter 21. 16 July
Book Two. The Blacklions
Chapter 1. 18 July
Chapter 2. 19 July
Chapter 3. 30 July
Chapter 4. 03 August
Chapter 5. 05 August
Chapter 6. 07 August
Chapter 7. 08 August
Chapter 8. 09 August
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
This book was just a lump of words until my editor breathed life into it. I will be forever grateful to the amazing, patient, and talented Nan Gatewood Satter.
Call Signs
I’ve stolen liberally from the rich collection of call signs I came across in my career. Though most of the call signs are real, they are attached to completely fictionalized characters. It was impossible to do better than the wicked creativity of naval aviators, so I borrowed instead.
Book One
- The Gladiators -
Chapter 1
14 October
South China Sea
The compact boat made its way silently through dozens of small islands barely visible in the inky night. The insignificant land masses that made up the rower’s obstacle course were not the sort of place humans visited for pleasure. There were no hotels, no resorts, no basic amenities such as water or shelter. Not a single romantic palm tree swayed in the hot, humid trade winds blowing just north of the equator. Notwithstanding these well-known deprivations, the man rowed purposefully, eager to reach his destination.
He dipped the oars with metronomic regularity, ignoring the outboard motor perched securely on the transom, raised and locked out of the water. He rowed hard, breathing deeply but evenly, a man used to such exertions and making very good time. Every few strokes he glanced over his shoulder, taking bearings from the glow of a low campfire on one of the larger of the tiny islands. In the last few meters, he rode a wave onto the beach and allowed the rigid inflatable craft to crunch quietly to a stop. He paused for a few moments, more to listen than to rest from his long trip. Once he was convinced his arrival had caused no more ripples than the waves themselves, he bent to gather the gear stowed in the footwell of his boat.
The black of his weapons and gear blended with the black of his clothing and the paint on his face. He was not particularly tall, but he was both agile and solid and with practiced precision he quickly assembled a QBZ-95 assault weapon made in the People’s Republic. Keeping an alert watch on his surroundings, he flipped open a sack and removed several banana clip magazines, each holding thirty rounds of 5.8mm Chinese-made munitions. He snapped a clip into the rifle and slid the bolt to chamber the first round. The rest of the clips went into deep pockets on his thighs. Then he reached into the sack and removed two bandoliers holding several packs of explosives. Methodically, he checked the batteries, wiring, and switches of each small pack before slinging a bandolier over each arm and then over his head—they crisscrossed his chest as if he were a bandito—careful not to snag them on the wicked six-inch blade strapped by his left shoulder, handle down for quick access. Finally, the commando was ready.
He moved carefully across the pebbles and thick layers of sea shells toward a scraggly concentration of huts on stilts surrounding the dying fire. These half-dozen clapboard houses were, he had been briefed, an attempt by the Vietnamese government to further their claim to the chain of islands. An attempt to put a human presence—an occupation of scientists—on this smear of coral to use as leverage in the political debates regarding the mineral rights below the shallow ocean floor.
The commando did not bother with his night vision goggles; the moonlight was more than sufficient for this operation. He paused behind a hut, listening to the prattle of the so-called scientists barking away in Vietnamese, scraping their chopsticks against the metal bowls as they finished the last of their dinner. He took note of the AK-47 machine guns leaning upright against each other like a little teepee near the fire, their oiled barrels joined together in a dark bouquet pointing at the night sky. Scientific equipment, no doubt.
Sticking to the shadows thrown by the huts, he moved from one flimsy building to the next. Beneath the raised floor of each structure, he attached an explosive pack with an adhesive patch. Once the pack was affixed, he flicked a switch on the fuse and watched for the dim red light to illuminate, announcing the explosive was ready to perform. He quickly reached the last of the half dozen huts.
As he waited for the final red arming light, the door to the outhouse four meters behind him bounced open and a man erupted, fanning his hand in front of his face, bellowing something that elicited a chuckle from his compatriots around the fire. The commando froze as the Vietnamese soldier carefully navigated the rickety steps of the outhouse, landing with a loud crunch on the bed of shells and rock.
The soldier raised his head and opened his mouth to shout more comedy, no doubt, when his eyes landed on the figure crouching by the hut. He stopped, mouth still open, momentarily paralyzed. Immediately the commando flung himself forward with his right arm extended toward the soldier and the man finally moved, his gaze lowered to his chest, where the blade was buried nearly to the hilt. The soldier expelled a terrible wail as his legs gave out beneath him and he toppled to the ground.
The soldiers around the campfire leapt to their feet, bowls that had been perched on knees clattering to the ground. They eyed each other nervously. Perhaps their jokester was offering another, more elaborate skit from the latrine? The commando watched their concern turn to panic as he, a vision from hell, rounded the corner
a moment later. He was a nightmare in black advancing toward them, flames spitting from the baffle at the end of his weapon. The AKs that had seemed so superfluous moments ago remained untouched, out of reach, as short, precise bursts cut the men down.
Two minutes later the commando was back at his boat. He checked an elaborate instrument on his left wrist, noting the time on the glowing green display. He tossed his weapon into the footwell, put both hands on the bow, and heaved the inflatable back into the sea. With the last kick of boot on shore he sent the boat past the low surf, spinning it 180 degrees. He clambered back to the transom, released the outboard, yanked the starter cord and twisted the throttle. The boat accelerated with a roar over the low chop like a rock skipping across a lake.
After a few minutes he cut the power, allowing the boat to slow and drift on the oil-dark sea. The silence lay heavy, unbroken by the small waves. Looking down at his wrist, he again noted the time then raised his gaze to the island he had just left. The sky lit up as nearly simultaneous incandescent charges rippled through the compound, causing him to squint as the pure white intensity of the explosions tore into the absolute blackness of the night. A beat later the concussive thunder rolled over him, now mixed with the panicked cries of startled birds. He faced away from the flames, took bearing, and twisted the throttle.
After ten minutes the fire on the island subsided, having consumed the remnants of the Vietnamese outpost. The commando continued his navigation using the device on his wrist. A full hour later, he once again cut his motor. He referenced his device, confirming time and position, and waited several more minutes, bobbing in the open ocean, not a spit of land within miles. Then he reached into the footwell and retrieved his weapon, slinging it over his shoulder to lie snug against his back. Working his way left and right, fore and aft, he used his knife to pierce each chamber of the boat repeatedly. Soon, with the rubber in tatters, the weight of the outboard tugged the remains of the craft from under his feet and down to the distant bottom. As the warm water reached his chest, he stretched his arms to tread.
Suddenly the ocean surface boiled with bubbles, and not ten meters away a glistening black diesel-electric submarine breeched like a beast rising slowly from the depths. The commando reached it quickly and vanished into the night.
Chapter 2
15 October
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Sam Richardson kicked the door open and burst into the bright afternoon sun, blinking away the smoky darkness of the Atlantis Gentleman’s Club. He left behind his buddies, his beer, and the smoking hot redheaded dancer in the few steps it took to cross the parking lot. It wasn’t just Chewie being a dumbass that made him leave. Or the fact he wasn’t much of a strip club guy to begin with. It was the day. An unsalvageably shitty day. And despite the best efforts of his friends, he was in a crap mood, because today was his birthday.
Across the lot he reached the only thing that could race him away from his dark funk right now. Just running his eyes over her put him in a better place. A 1966 427 Shelby AC Cobra, the deep blue of evening sky with two parallel white racing stripes running from hood to trunk like contrails. He unzipped his flight suit, wrestled out of the sleeves, and tied them around his waist; it was a perfect October day and the T-shirt would do just fine. The sun was shining, warming his arms and face as he folded himself into the classic convertible. It fired up instantly, feeling as good as it sounded, rumbling and gurgling as the valves and cylinders heated. He blipped the throttle, appreciating the throaty growl and letting the soothing sounds and vibrations work their way through his body.
The door to the Atlantis Club popped open and Chewie came running out. “Slammer, wait!” The other two, JT and Truck, were right behind, arms folded and watching but not speaking. They knew better.
He waved, slid the shifter into first, and eased the gas as he released the clutch. The big eight-cylinder tugged him forward like a mastiff on a leash. The tires bit the asphalt and it was on. He had a love affair with machines built for speed; always had. They called to him in a way that was sometimes unhealthy but they also set him free, and today was a perfect day for a little speed therapy.
The city of Virginia Beach is a horizontal, sprawling town, spreading out from the Navy base at its physical and economic center. To the east, growth is contained by the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean. To the immediate west lie the city of Norfolk and the largest naval base in the world. To the north, endless suburbia all the way to the District of Columbia and beyond.
But to the south, the crush of planned communities and townhouses thin quickly, replaced by farms growing alfalfa and tobacco, separated by protected waterways with old cement bridges and two-lane blacktop shaded by leaning willow trees. He paced himself through the dissipating traffic until finally the last commuter turned into a driveway and the road was his. He dropped his foot, smiling as the Cobra leapt forward with a deep growl. It was no fighter jet, but it still felt great. Different; more primitive and visceral. It had been his dad’s, bought for pennies after a wreck back in the ’80s, then lovingly rebuilt. When Sam—dubbed ‘Slammer’ back when he was a flight student—returned to Virginia Beach six years ago, after flight school, he’d kept it stowed it in the garage, too nervous to even take it into the driveway for fear of nicking the paint.
But his mother had convinced him to drive it every day, despite the fact that his father’s project had matured into a very valuable collector’s car. “This car was built to drive,” she said. “It’s not worth anything to you hidden in your garage. And besides, you fly sixty million-dollar planes.” He loved his mother, just a little more than the Cobra.
He worked the gears up and down as the curves came and went. His mind wanted to wander back to the Atlantis. Back to Truck and JT, and to why Chewie’s joke had set him off. Back further to the MiG kills and especially to ‘Robin’ Bateman’s death three years ago today. Happy fucking birthday.
But he was held in focus by the moment, by the speed, the soothing IV drip from the adrenal glands, the immediacy of the task—jam foot on gas till it is time to jam foot on brake till it is time to wrench wheel to the side, ease up on brake, and stomp on gas. Repeat.
Ever the fighter pilot, he kept up a proper scan, eyes moving, never focusing too long on any one gauge or bend in the road. Always looking for the next threat—debris or loose gravel, a hidden sheriff’s cruiser, or just some bozo who wanted to race. He glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted a canary yellow Corvette Z06 a few bends behind and gaining rapidly. He took a few more turns at a good clip. Fast, but not pushing it too hard. The Z06 gained steadily. Whoever was driving was pretty good and definitely looking to play.
His first instinct was to press a little harder on the gas, but then he backed off. It was his birthday, no need to push his luck. He was out to clear his head, not to spoil some punk’s afternoon. He’d let the guy pass. He eased up and pulled onto the sandy shoulder of the two-lane road. A cornfield bordered one side and a slow-moving creek the other, drifting steadily south across the North Carolina border into the Currituck Sound.
The Corvette blew by him in a flash, but as it passed he caught every detail as if in slow motion. The driver waved as the yellow blur streaked by. Not a taunting wave, but a “Howdy!” sort of salute. He caught a flash of white teeth and a smile, and a golden storm of hair billowing in the open cockpit of the convertible. That was one gorgeous girl. And he felt like an idiot sitting on the side of the road grinning as she flew away.
All 425 horses pulled at once as he popped the clutch and stomped the gas. He left two deep furrows in the roadside sand followed by elegant, parallel s-curves of black on the asphalt as his verve rose with his speed. His first instinct had been spot on; it was indeed a good day for a chase. Only now he was the pursuer.
She noticed him straight away and her pace quickened. “Not bad,” he breathed as he watched the Vette nip the apex of the next bend perfectly, kicking up a puff of sand. The Cobra, sporting racing susp
ension from the ’60s, was a little less graceful and the fat tires left a long, squealing streak of rubber as he powered through the same arcing turn.
He could see her flashing the occasional look in her rearview mirror. He could tell she was smiling even though the mirror framed only her eyes, and only for a moment. Despite himself, he smiled right back. He was working hard to keep up with this girl yet she had the confidence to monitor his progress. A drive had never been so full of promise.
He scanned ahead and smiled even more broadly, this time for his own benefit. Two turns into the future a green John Deere tractor puttered along in their lane. He had her now, she just didn’t know it yet. He let off the gas, opening a few feet of space between them. Acceleration room. The instant she spotted the lumbering farm equipment she would feather her throttle. Then, as she eased up, he’d gun his and wave while passing both her and the tractor in one swoop. He’d wait for her at the next crossroad. She seemed worth waiting for.
As they rounded the next bend he felt her slow slightly, just a touch. They were still one bend away from the tractor. He was almost disappointed; he’d misjudged her. For a moment he considered mashing the accelerator right away and dispatching her before they reached the tractor. Just in time he noticed what she’d clearly already processed: a semi coming from the opposite direction. No, two semis, separated by about a quarter mile, their shiny silver stacks belching black smoke as the truckers up-shifted. He closed the gap a bit, nestling himself up to the Vette’s tail, resigned to finding his next passing opportunity. There were worse places to be stuck; he could stare at that hint of a smile for a long time. It flashed back at him once, then again, alive and happy.
He was startled by the low roar of the 500 horsepower V-8 as the blonde stomped on her gas. Looking up he saw the first of the semis a hundred yards from merging with the tractor in their lane, closing the gap rapidly. The second truck kept its spacing, still trailing by a quarter mile. He watched and wondered for a beat, figuring angles and relative motion as the yellow sports car accelerated madly toward the back of the tractor just a few yards ahead of her. All the while the big rig semi barreled toward them in the opposite lane.
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