After marking the group, they continued down to Maug, only 20 miles further. Beyond it was Asuncion Island, another dormant and uninhabited volcanic cone. Once they scoured these two islands for contacts, they would return to Hancock.
Maug was three islands, jagged rims covered in green, moss-like vegetation that formed a bowl-shaped bay one mile wide. They had to get close to it to inspect the rocky coves for contacts that might be sheltered from radar and even FLIR returns. Staying off the radio, Weed signaled Killer to take trail on him as he led them down.
Weed saw two small vessels lashed alongside each other in the middle of the bay, fishing boats of 60–70 feet with characteristic Asian lines. He imaged them from outside the cone in a lazy circle flown at a high airspeed. Heavy surf pounded against the black lava outcroppings covered in thin foliage, but the water in the bay was serene. The fishermen were taking a break, and they could be Japanese or Guamanian — or Chinese. Lookout needed Weed to make another pass, closer, to get a better image, and through data link, they conveyed the message.
Keeping knots up, Weed took them closer as they recorded images on their FLIRs. He saw infrared images of humans, in no hurry, moving around on deck. Then, Weed’s heart jumped to his throat. A flash and plume blossomed from the rocky shoreline.
“Weed, break left! Missile at your left ten!” Killer called.
Weed snatched the jet up and left, then overbanked down as he held five g’s, throwing out chaff and flares. The missile appeared to be a shoulder-fired SAM, the type he had seen before in Iraq, and the plume led from the rocky shore. The missile was now to the right of Weed’s nose, and he reversed in a nose-high rolling pull that made the missile overshoot. Maneuvering in this manner bled airspeed to a dangerous level. In frantic fear, Weed crammed the throttles into burner as he looked about for other plumes.
“Break right! Got another one at your three! Chaff! Flares!” Killer cried out.
Weed broke into it, unloaded for a count as his thumb ejected expendables by reflex, and picked up the missile coming down on him. He was now low to the water inside the cone and had only one way to go — up. His hard pull up bled most of his airspeed, and he deselected afterburner in a last-ditch effort to save himself, his thumb moving in furious motion to expend anything and everything from his chaff buckets. The second missile could not hack the turn and went stupid. Weed plugged the burners back in and rolled inverted, pulling down to the water before rolling again to level off above the waves and get fast. He aimed for a small channel between the islands to escape. At the moment, Killer had better situational awareness.
“I’ve got a boat along the shoreline, the one that fired at you! Engaging!”
“Roger!” Weed answered and twisted his head to check on the other boats in the bay, still lashed together.
Killer armed up and locked his IR Maverick on the boat. The outline was that of a small fisherman, about 40 feet, so small that his missile-seeker head locked up the whole boat. His thumb mashed down on the pickle switch, and the missile came off with a dull roar and sped away to its target. He pulled off right as he watched the FLIR display, and detected small arms fire. The missile did not waver as it slammed into the boat, anchored less than 50 yards from the beach, blowing it apart and killing its four crewmen.
Weed flicked his MASTER ARM switch to ARM as he selected Maverick. The boats were still in the middle of the bay, but one had cast off from the other. Oh, no you don’t, buddy!
Weed extended to build airspeed, called his intention to Killer, and, gritting his teeth, pulled into the bay with a bag of knots and a live missile, looking for something to kill.
He chose the boat that was moving away and accelerating and put his seeker head on it. The boat was big enough for him to lock on its bridge superstructure, and, once he solved the launch parameters, he mashed down on the pickle.
The Maverick howled away toward its target. In a graceful right turn, it tracked the vessel before exploding on the superstructure, and setting the boat on fire. Shrapnel from the blast sprayed the waters around it and peppered its mate.
“Killer, let’s drop an LGB on each. I’ve got the smoker.”
“Roger, I’ve got the other. I can be there in thirty seconds at angels five,” Killer answered.
“Roger, I’ll wait at angels seven,” Weed replied, climbing, tracking, and slewing on the burning boat that was now dead in the water.
Like big cats circling their helpless prey, the two Rhinos stayed outside the rim of Maug Island and took their turns, with Killer in first. He overbanked down, watching his FLIR display as he held his aiming diamond on the stack of the boat. When his solution counted down he pressed the pickle and felt 500 pounds come off his jet. He checked away 20 degrees, keeping his FLIR diamond on target. The FLIR image rotated, and soon a white dash zipped across the screen.
The laser-guided bomb blew the trawler apart. As a white concentric shock wave emanated from the boat, fragments were blown high into the air and rained down on the burning boat next to it, only 100 yards off. As Killer’s bomb detonated, Weed was in, and, seconds later, the bomb came off with a lurch. With deft fingertip movements, Weed tracked the vessel and waited. His LGB exploded on the bow, and the broken hull convulsed in white water churned up by frag and shock force. Once the smoke cleared, Weed’s vessel was in its stern-high death plunge, and soon both halves of Killer’s boat sank into the now turbulent waters of Maug’s desolate bay.
With three smoke columns behind them, the two aviators safed their switches, rendezvoused, made their report to Lookout, and turned for Hancock. Weed pumped his fists in the air as Killer nodded his approval next to him. Sure it was fish in a barrel, but they shot first. Dumb fucks, he thought, taking a low probability shot at them while trapped in a narrow bay. It felt good to fight back, to exact revenge, and while he could respect the loss of human life, he couldn’t help reliving with satisfaction his attacks over and over on the transit back.
Just before he began his descent to the ship, Lookout sent him a message on tactical text.
YOUR TARGETS WERE WHITE TRAFFIC 3RD PARTY NATIONALS
Weed was stunned and blinked at the display in disbelief. No! This can’t be! They shot at us. He typed back.
VERIFY BLUE ON WHITE?
Within seconds, he got his answer.
AFFIRM
Weed began to tremble. How? They were all together, and one fired…
One fired, and cold dread crept over Weed. The one that fired two MANPADS at him from along the shoreline was clearly enemy. The other two lashed together in the bay… maybe not! They hadn’t fired, they had never fought back, and, in his haste, Weed may have reacted before considering.
No! Yes!
Weed flicked off his mask and gulped air in an effort to steady himself. He was the Deputy Air Wing Commander, and blue-on-white was a cardinal sin. He would recommend to Flip that any pilot guilty of such an act be reprimanded. But he was the culprit this time, and he knew the incident, and his part in it, would be world news by lunchtime. Japanese, they must have been Japanese, he thought. But they were right next to what must have been a Chinese fisherman…