March 23rd, 2003
The sky was peaceful. The sun shone down over the tropics, casting what could both be called a scorching heat or a pleasant warmth, depending on your point of view. A flock of birds rose, hunting for food across the Caribbean Sea beneath them. Then the noise filled the air. The birds looked up as one, then suddenly scattered.
The three F-99 Mercury Multi-Role jet fighter-bombers screeched through at almost the speed of sound, moving for the Cuban coast up ahead. They were moving in a V-formation, obviously expecting something to happen.
"Richard, you locked and loaded?" Asked Thomas Lee Robertson.
"Sure thing, buddy." Richard Jackson responded.
"James?" Lee continued checking his flight's readiness.
"Ready to wrestle a shark!" The other pilot responded. Lee smiled. That was just like James White. He was the man who was always ready and willing. He was just the man that the recruiters wanted, even if the drillers back at Jonesboro Academy had ridden him harder then the others in his class. That was because he had potential.
Lee pulled the nose of his Mercury up a bit, climbing high into the clear sky. Before him lay Cuba. Before him lay the enemy. "God damn all the bastards." he snarled. Two of his nephews had died on 9/11.
"The Cuban terrorists?" Jackson commented. "Yeah, damn the lot of them. My mother was in the Trade Center when it went up. She escaped, but most of her friends didn't. Damn the bastards to fucking hell."
"My sister died in the attack." White said. "That's why I joined. I plan to kill as many of those lousy fuckers as I can for her."
"Well then, let's do this!" Lee said with conviction. He pulled up the nose of the jet a bit more, then flipped the cover off one of the two buttons on top of his joystick. "Armed." he said. His wingmen quickly followed suit.
They soared out from above the water into Cuba, passing over a chain of mountains before dipping into a valley. They shot along, coming up fast on the target zone. "Remember," Lee said, "The Marines go in right after us. Don't screw this one up."
"Worry about screwin' it up your own self." Jackson said amiably. "I sure as hell won't." He was likely right. Jackson was probably the best pilot in the wing.
The target zone flashed up. A series of tents and wooden huts had been erected across a small Cuban valley. Gathered around them were whole hosts of Cuban men holding Russian-manufactured AK-series weaponry. Of course, Lee didn't notice so much detail. He was focused on making sure all the numbers aligned just right on his attack run.
One of the Cubans looked up and noticed him. It was too late. Each of the planes dropped four glide bombs as they screamed over the Cuban camp. The warheads exploded violently, sending men, pieces of huts and pieces of men flying across the area. Great clouds of smoke filled the air behind Lee. The pilot laughed. "That's what you get when you screw with the -"
"Lee! Missile Launch!" Jackson interrupted his commander.
Lee shoved the stick into a dizzying turn, circling to come out several thousand feet lower then he had been. He looked in horror to see two missiles streaking up after his wingmen.
"Jackson! White! BREAK!" he screamed.
Break they did. White shot upward, releasing flares. The missile veered off, slamming into one of the Cuban mountains.
Jackson twisted his plane left, then right, then released flares. It was dizzying to watch as he executed a barrel roll immediately afterward.
It wasn't enough. Lee watched the missile hit his friend's plane. The entire wing snapped off, spinning away behind him. Flames poured from the severed stump of his wing, leaving a trail of black smoke behind him. The stricken jet spun crazily for a moment before slamming into the ground and exploding in a massive ball of fire.
Jackson had never bailed out.
Lee watched, completely numb to the very fiber of his being. White was too. The two pilots said nothing as they flew back out to sea. Finally, as the carrier Robert E. Lee became visible they both began to speak at once. Neither one stopped. Grief poured from them in that one moment.
Then they landed on the carrier. After their two planes were stowed and they informed Captain Richards what had happened, they went down below decks. They had been told that they wouldn't go up on any missions tomorrow. And that they would be listed as present in the next morning's role call. That was clearly an invitation to go get drunk and sleep it off.
It seemed to be the instant they arrived in the lounge and sat down with a bottle of whiskey that another man appeared. "Gentlemen, I require a word."
Lee sized him up. Clean uniform, Intelligence badge, Naval Air Wing insignia, Purple Heart, Venezuela, Panama and Columbia service medals. His response was then "Have a seat." instead of "Fuck off."
The man took a seat, then handed White a photo. "Do you know what that is?"
White stared for a moment. Then he passed the picture to Lee, saying "Yeah, I do - that's an American Stinger anti-air missile launcher."
It depicted a Marine holding a battered Stinger launcher gingerly, with some oddly familiar geography in the backgound. Lee was regretting that second glass of whiskey. He would be thinking clearly without it.
"Do you know where that photo was taken?" the officer asked.
"How should we?" Lee demanded.
"Very well, lieutenant. That photo was taken in the terrorist camp you just hit earlier today."
Lee knew he was staring. He couldn't help it. "You mean that's the damn thing that killed Jackson?"
"It is highly probable."
"But how? Why would the USA supply Cuban terrorists?"
"I don't know - but I feel sure my superiors will be investigating soon. We thought we got all the US's gunrunners before this whole mess began, but evidently we were wrong." the officer stood. "Gentlemen, this is disturbing news, and since it involves you I wanted to share it with you personally."
Lee stared again. Not a bad guy after all, he though. "Can I ask your name, sir?" There. He'd called the officer sir.
"Jake Featherston II. My grandfather had the name before me." His eyes glinted mischievously. "Most people call me 'Jackie' though. That's what my pa wanted to call me." Featherston's smile vanished. "He died on 9/11."
"I'm sorry." Lee said. "I lost both of my nephews."
"I lost my sister." White added sadly.
Featherston nodded to the two pilots. "The bombing of the Charleston Trade Center is what brought us onto the world stage against terrorism. We have to keep going. And I'll tell you now - If Richmond finds out that the USA is supplying Cuban terrorists right here in our backyard, there will be a war or the Confederate States of America will have new leadership next election, no doubt. And if we find out the USA was helping the terrorists with 9/11 - well, if there isn't a war then the people of the CSA will impeach their president so fast his eyes will cross."
The CSS Robert E. Lee pushed on through the Caribbean.
The sky was peaceful. The sun shone down over the tropics, casting what could both be called a scorching heat or a pleasant warmth, depending on your point of view. A flock of birds rose, hunting for food across the Caribbean Sea beneath them. Then the noise filled the air. The birds looked up as one, then suddenly scattered.
The three F-99 Mercury Multi-Role jet fighter-bombers screeched through at almost the speed of sound, moving for the Cuban coast up ahead. They were moving in a V-formation, obviously expecting something to happen.
"Richard, you locked and loaded?" Asked Thomas Lee Robertson.
"Sure thing, buddy." Richard Jackson responded.
"James?" Lee continued checking his flight's readiness.
"Ready to wrestle a shark!" The other pilot responded. Lee smiled. That was just like James White. He was the man who was always ready and willing. He was just the man that the recruiters wanted, even if the drillers back at Jonesboro Academy had ridden him harder then the others in his class. That was because he had potential.
Lee pulled the nose of his Mercury up a bit, climbing high into the clear sky. Before him lay Cuba. Before him lay the enemy. "God damn all the bastards." he snarled. Two of his nephews had died on 9/11.
"The Cuban terrorists?" Jackson commented. "Yeah, damn the lot of them. My mother was in the Trade Center when it went up. She escaped, but most of her friends didn't. Damn the bastards to fucking hell."
"My sister died in the attack." White said. "That's why I joined. I plan to kill as many of those lousy fuckers as I can for her."
"Well then, let's do this!" Lee said with conviction. He pulled up the nose of the jet a bit more, then flipped the cover off one of the two buttons on top of his joystick. "Armed." he said. His wingmen quickly followed suit.
They soared out from above the water into Cuba, passing over a chain of mountains before dipping into a valley. They shot along, coming up fast on the target zone. "Remember," Lee said, "The Marines go in right after us. Don't screw this one up."
"Worry about screwin' it up your own self." Jackson said amiably. "I sure as hell won't." He was likely right. Jackson was probably the best pilot in the wing.
The target zone flashed up. A series of tents and wooden huts had been erected across a small Cuban valley. Gathered around them were whole hosts of Cuban men holding Russian-manufactured AK-series weaponry. Of course, Lee didn't notice so much detail. He was focused on making sure all the numbers aligned just right on his attack run.
One of the Cubans looked up and noticed him. It was too late. Each of the planes dropped four glide bombs as they screamed over the Cuban camp. The warheads exploded violently, sending men, pieces of huts and pieces of men flying across the area. Great clouds of smoke filled the air behind Lee. The pilot laughed. "That's what you get when you screw with the -"
"Lee! Missile Launch!" Jackson interrupted his commander.
Lee shoved the stick into a dizzying turn, circling to come out several thousand feet lower then he had been. He looked in horror to see two missiles streaking up after his wingmen.
"Jackson! White! BREAK!" he screamed.
Break they did. White shot upward, releasing flares. The missile veered off, slamming into one of the Cuban mountains.
Jackson twisted his plane left, then right, then released flares. It was dizzying to watch as he executed a barrel roll immediately afterward.
It wasn't enough. Lee watched the missile hit his friend's plane. The entire wing snapped off, spinning away behind him. Flames poured from the severed stump of his wing, leaving a trail of black smoke behind him. The stricken jet spun crazily for a moment before slamming into the ground and exploding in a massive ball of fire.
Jackson had never bailed out.
Lee watched, completely numb to the very fiber of his being. White was too. The two pilots said nothing as they flew back out to sea. Finally, as the carrier Robert E. Lee became visible they both began to speak at once. Neither one stopped. Grief poured from them in that one moment.
Then they landed on the carrier. After their two planes were stowed and they informed Captain Richards what had happened, they went down below decks. They had been told that they wouldn't go up on any missions tomorrow. And that they would be listed as present in the next morning's role call. That was clearly an invitation to go get drunk and sleep it off.
It seemed to be the instant they arrived in the lounge and sat down with a bottle of whiskey that another man appeared. "Gentlemen, I require a word."
Lee sized him up. Clean uniform, Intelligence badge, Naval Air Wing insignia, Purple Heart, Venezuela, Panama and Columbia service medals. His response was then "Have a seat." instead of "Fuck off."
The man took a seat, then handed White a photo. "Do you know what that is?"
White stared for a moment. Then he passed the picture to Lee, saying "Yeah, I do - that's an American Stinger anti-air missile launcher."
It depicted a Marine holding a battered Stinger launcher gingerly, with some oddly familiar geography in the backgound. Lee was regretting that second glass of whiskey. He would be thinking clearly without it.
"Do you know where that photo was taken?" the officer asked.
"How should we?" Lee demanded.
"Very well, lieutenant. That photo was taken in the terrorist camp you just hit earlier today."
Lee knew he was staring. He couldn't help it. "You mean that's the damn thing that killed Jackson?"
"It is highly probable."
"But how? Why would the USA supply Cuban terrorists?"
"I don't know - but I feel sure my superiors will be investigating soon. We thought we got all the US's gunrunners before this whole mess began, but evidently we were wrong." the officer stood. "Gentlemen, this is disturbing news, and since it involves you I wanted to share it with you personally."
Lee stared again. Not a bad guy after all, he though. "Can I ask your name, sir?" There. He'd called the officer sir.
"Jake Featherston II. My grandfather had the name before me." His eyes glinted mischievously. "Most people call me 'Jackie' though. That's what my pa wanted to call me." Featherston's smile vanished. "He died on 9/11."
"I'm sorry." Lee said. "I lost both of my nephews."
"I lost my sister." White added sadly.
Featherston nodded to the two pilots. "The bombing of the Charleston Trade Center is what brought us onto the world stage against terrorism. We have to keep going. And I'll tell you now - If Richmond finds out that the USA is supplying Cuban terrorists right here in our backyard, there will be a war or the Confederate States of America will have new leadership next election, no doubt. And if we find out the USA was helping the terrorists with 9/11 - well, if there isn't a war then the people of the CSA will impeach their president so fast his eyes will cross."
The CSS Robert E. Lee pushed on through the Caribbean.
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