Phantom Fighters

Chapter Two: Fumble Farm

June 22, 1968

Mornings on the USS Hornet were business as usual for Crowe, even after a late night disturbance. Him and his wizzo always joined their wingmen for a cup of coffee and to watch the sun rise.
"What I wouldn't give to fly into that." Crowe motioned with his cup towards the spectacular view.
"What I wouldn't give to watch you fly into the sun. Then I'd be Snakebite One." Johnny 'Flatspin' Yetter joshed.
"I'd feel sorry for you. The restrictions, paper work." Crowe whistled.
"Know who I feel sorry for? The ALERT birds." Bluebird took a sip of his coffee. "Sittin' there, not to launch unless there's an attack on the carrier."
"As if that's ever going to happen." Brandon 'Deadstick' Langon snorted. "The Gomers may be stupid, but they ain't that stupid."
"Exactly." Crowe finished his coffee with a gulp and stood. "Time to find out which bullshit target we have to attack today that has no strategic value whatsoever."

An hour later the squadron was assembled in the briefing room.
"Listen up! I'm only going over this once!" The briefer yelled. "You will be attacking an enemy camp and supply line. You will proceed to checkpoint Alpha" (He pointed to a spot on the map perpendicular to the target) "and continue to Bravo, then attack the target."
"Excuse me, but I have an easier plan." Bluebird yelled. "We fly right to the fucking thing, we dodge all the SAMs and save fuel."
"We cannot breach the no-fly zones, Flight Lieutenant Olympus! Have we not made ourselves clear with that fact?"
"No offence sir, but every damn plan was crosseyed and limp-dicked from the beginning!" Flatspin yelled. "We go all over the fucking map for an hour to attack one thing that we could've got in a minute! Who are we trying to please with these restrictions?"
"The president of the United States has authorized these zones." The briefer's face was becoming red with rage.
"Is he here? Does he have to fly through SAMs just to bomb a suspected enemy resupply line? Does anyone in that Fumble Farm know what the hell is going on down here?" The briefer slapped his docket onto the table.
"You listen here. Even I can see that these are bullshit orders, but what am I supposed to do? Lift the restrictions?"
"For a start, yeah!" Flatspin sat back in his chair. "Then find the pencil-necked assholes that made this and string 'em up for the Gomers!"
"You don't know how much I wish I could." The briefer looked at the map and mumbled to himself. "You know what? Fuck these." He drew a straight line towards the target. "Bomb those bastards to hell."
"Aye aye, sir!"

Crowe carefully turned on his Phantom's left engine, then the right. The whine soon built to a loud grumble.
"Two napalm, locked and loaded, and two Sidewinders." Bluebird flashed a thumbs up to a cat (catapult) officer and checked his massive Magnum revolver.
"I don't know who'd be more of a threat: the Gomers, or you with that thing." Crowe said over the intercom as they rolled into position on the cat.
"The safety's off, you chicken." Bluebird placed the gun back into his custom holster. Crowe watched the cat officers for his signal. When he saw it he cranked the engines up to Full
Military Power and waited for the gut wrenching tug of the catapult.
"Here we go!" Crowe screamed over the engines as the Phantom was blasted out over the water. The F-4 dipped low, kicking up a slight rooster tail on the water before climbing to the specified altitude.
"That'll wake you up better than coffee!" The adrenaline made Crowe giddy, despite the countless launches he'd had before.
"I'll say!"