Red Sky Dawn
Copyright© 2026 by Pete Fox
Chapter 2
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Guadalcanal. In a muddy slit trench, Airman Kathy Wilkins watched delta-winged drones falling from the blood-red sky, as they dove with their explosive payloads, while cruise missiles streaked overhead. The ground shook with each hit. She held the other airman in her arms; both were hurt. They kissed. Wilkins was supposed to be going home today. Was this war? A Stinger missile streaked into the air. Two Chapter short story. Illustrated.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Fiction War Big Breasts Illustrated
December 8th – Det 1 – Airfield
D-0
Airman First Class (E-3) Wilkins did the unmilitary thing and volunteered for extra guard duty on her last night. Her lazy day plan had been a bust. Thoughts of spending an afternoon half-naked at the beach with Mai, drinking Australian beer, and swimming in the sea didn’t happen. Mai and her team were desperately trying to fix the radar. Kathy had a cheeseburger with her flight for dinner, where they shared a few stories about the last three months before going back to work or to their pod to catch up on sleep.
Angela had looked exhausted, not having slept much for the past 24 hours. The First Sergeant had announced a doubling of the number of people assigned to guard duty, working with a wingman now. Rinna had been paired with Angela for the 0200-0400 shift. That’s how she found herself standing next to the AN/MPQ-64 Sentinel radar near the east end of the runway. The trailer-mounted radar gave the detachment local coverage for flights, drones, and some missile types out to about 45 miles, she understood. If they had any defensive systems, it would be networked, but all they had were a couple of anti-drone guns and a single Stinger missile launcher with a few reloads; this was the rear, no threats except for the occasional alligator, sorry crocodiles.
The analog-digital face of her G-Shock read 0330, almost done. Tonight, their job was to keep an eye on the radar and scan the east side of the jungle perimeter. Between them, they had a bulky handheld thermal imager, used to detect heat signatures, and their flashlights. Like last night, the moon was waning from full. To the east, she could see the bright “Morning Star” of Venus low in the eastern pre-dawn sky.
They walked together, listening to the bugs, both fighting fatigue in the warm night air as they carried the extra weight of body armor and pistols, uncomfortable. A tent near the trailer, half the size of their GP Medium, housed the control terminal for the radar and an ice chest.
Airman (E-2) Woods got them both cold waters and sat in a camp chair outside the tent in the mud. Kathy put the thermal imager to her eye and pressed the button. Dense jungle with lots of heat signatures, the thing mostly useless. Nothing that looked human, she handed it to Rinna.
Fang had been unhappy with the message from “Uncle” she received at noon. She serviced the dead drop, retrieving the package and instructions. Not because she didn’t want to carry out another mission, but she didn’t have time to make a proper plan. The task went against her agent training. With the American base newly alerted, going back onto the base again so soon was risky. But the beacon had to be placed tonight, before morning, her orders from “Uncle” wrote. Fang was creative and made her plan.
The radio on Kathy’s belt came to life, “All stations, fire reported outside the front gate. Delta 2 respond,” said the dispatcher’s voice from the Security Forces office.
In the darkness, Wilkins and Woods looked at each other. The small café outside the main gate was the only thing there.
It was the movement, a dark shape passing between Venus and the radar that Kathy caught in her peripheral vision.
She stared into the darkness. Clouds had passed in front of the waning moon, the dark aluminum matting of the runway black against the jungle.
“Do you see movement out by the trailer?” Kathy asked her wingman.
Rinna stood, stared at the runway, and put the thermal imager up to her eye. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
Fang pulled the heat-damping cape along with her as she moved slowly toward the radar, her target, until she found the spot. Kneeling in the mud adjacent to the metal matting, she dug with a gardening trowel. The two sentries last she checked down the runway at the tent. She’d had no choice but to move now, despite the risk of detection, the clock ticking. Dressed in black, carrying a full-size Type 92 9mm pistol on her hip.
Kathy, remembering her dad’s lessons in stalking game, so didn’t go straight to the shape her eyes told her was by the radar. She hooked right, putting the moon behind her, approaching the figure from an angle, careful with her steps. Her M18 was in condition one, loaded with one in the chamber, safety on. Wilkins unholstered her pistol, holding it in front of her with one hand, her Surefire flashlight in her left, tritium night sights painting the figure. With her right thumb, she pressed down on the manual safety, ready to fire.
Fang heard movement behind her, a boot on gravel, the rustle of cloth. Her hearing tuned to the environment. She drew her pistol and spun as a white beam of light blinded her.
“Halt! Don’t move!” Kathy shouted at the person kneeling next to the radar. The bright beam of her flashlight centered on a figure dressed in black, hand raised, a split second of recognition, her - Lee, seeing the gun. The darkness exploded in flashes of light, quick, hard punches to her chest as Wilkins pulled the trigger, pistol pointed in the general direction. Not the controlled squeezes of the gun range, just pulling the trigger as fast as she could, loud flashes of light in her right hand, the flashlight fell from her left hand as she landed on her ass in the mud, the wind knocked out of her.
Fang had fired three shots at the beam of light, shielding her eyes with her other hand. The airman fired back, then stopped. The Agent advanced on the person who had fired on her, planning to finish them off.
Kathy lay there winded, she’d been shot, her pistol dropped in the mud next to her. She groped for the M18, her hand finding it in the mud. She wasn’t scared, just angry. She heard her dad Bob’s calm voice in her head, “Keep fighting, Kat, get up!”
The Agent was not a sentimental person, shooting the airman was part of the job. She never got the chance.
Wilkins watched a blurry shape slam into the woman standing over her, taking her to the ground.
Fang rolled with the heavy person who lay on top of her. Martial arts and ground fighting were part of her training. She pushed with her hips at the other sentry who was grabbing her throat. She struck them in the side of the head with her full-size pistol one, twice, three times, until she crawled out from under the airman, who lay still. Now she felt the pain, moisture on her side.
Kathy got to her feet, trying to make sense of the two people rolling around in the mud. She couldn’t shoot. She felt, then heard, the crack of the rifle rounds whiz by her head. Wilkins dropped flat.
Fang heard the shots. Free, she fired again in the direction of the first sentry and ran back the way she’d come. Her earpiece came to life, Mandarin. With the assistance of covering fire from the shooter, she followed “Uncle’s” instructions as she limped into the safety of the jungle.
Incoming pistol and rifle rounds cracked over her head as Wilkins low-crawled towards Rinna, as a long burst of machine gun fire and rifle rounds lanced into the jungle in the direction of the saboteur and shooter.
“Rinna!” Kathy yelled. Was she dead? She pointed her pistol at the jungle, in the direction the saboteur had gone, and pulled the trigger until she couldn’t.
The first person Kathy saw as she knelt over Rinna, confirming she had a pulse, was SSG Griffin, his compact HK416 rifle in his hands. The big Security Forces JLTV skidded to a stop next to them, pouring bursts of machine gun fire into the jungle until Griffin ordered them to stop. Fuck, it hurt her chest, the ceramic plates saving her life. Griffin examined Rinna from head to toe, professionally, his high level of medical training kicking in.
Wilkins looked at her pistol, the slide locked back empty, flares floating over the edge of the runway now. Fuck, Rinna saved her ass, then Griffin and the Security Force guys saved theirs.
“Hey,” Rinna said, a hand on Kathy’s arm. “I couldn’t shoot; both of you were too close, and it’s dark,” she said.
Within minutes, the detachment commander, Hayes, and First Shirt Lopez were on them. Ordering them to medical while they examined the gear left behind by the saboteur.
Lt Col Hayes stopped Kathy, “Good job, Wilkins, both of you!” he said as he turned to TSgt Everson, who was huffing, having run down the runway from the pods in his gym shorts and sandals. “Get them to medical, then question them. I want a report, fast.” He said.
Kathy’s world was spinning. What the fuck had just happened? She had to pee.
December 8th – USS John Paul Jones – Guam
D-0
From the bridge of the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer USS John Paul Jones, Junior Officer of the Deck (JOOD) Ensign (O-1) Brian Wilkins used German-made Steiner binoculars to scan the dark ocean in front of the ship, twilight on the horizon. The JPJ was on approach to Naval Base Guam and monitoring radio chatter from a US Coast Guard cutter that was trying to stop and board a Chinese-flagged container ship that had moved within the territorial waters (closer than 12 nautical miles from the baseline).
Ensign Wilkins lowered the binoculars for a moment, focusing on the 5-inch gun mount and the bow of the ship cutting through the waves. This morning, the ship’s Captain (CO), Commander Cole (O-5), had placed himself in the combat information center (CIC) behind and below him in the armored heart of the ship. Situational awareness was low due to jamming and other interference. They’d received flash reports from the 7th Fleet of increased PRC naval movements since last night along the eastern coast, opposite Taiwan.
Brian was just one of a dozen crew on the bridge at the very top of the forward section of the island superstructure, the location provided the crew with a panoramic view for navigation, offering 360-degree visibility for watch standers like him. He’d completed several weeks of training after graduating from the US Naval Academy in May, coming on board the JPJ in late September. Brian felt lucky to get a fighting ship, with a great skipper, with so few billets available for surface warfare officers, even on a 35-year-old ship like the JPJ.
The digital clock in front of him read 0510, with twilight breaking over the tall mountains of Guam to the east. The XO, Lieutenant Commander (O-4) McCain, a tall blonde Academy grad, stood behind him representing the CO in her blue at sea working uniform and JPJ ball cap, just like the rest of the crew. As they approached their destination, they monitored the Coast Guard radio traffic, the cutter’s skipper becoming increasingly direct in his instructions to allow boarding, the ship’s Aegis system networked with the National Security Cutter Defiant (WMSL-761).
As JOOD, his job was to assist the Officer of the Deck, who was in charge even as the XO observed ready to take over. It would take Brian eighteen months to earn his gold surface warfare pin, so he was very much observing and listening, trying to be helpful.
” ... we are taking heavy fire from the bridge...” the sudden broken radio report cut through the morning air like a lightning bolt. ” ... possible drone launches imminent...” The cutter Defiant reported. The Aegis data flowing to the CIC and the bridge, the XO frowning, talking via handset to the CO, no doubt.
WHEEEEEEEEEEE-OOOOOO — a continuous klaxon sound sent Brian’s heart rate into overdrive as he looked for his gear as the bridge lights flashed red. The battle stations alarm cut off after 10 seconds, the boatswain’s distinctive whistle first, then a calm voice over the 1MC speaker.
“General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands, man your battle stations! Set Condition 1 throughout the ship! This is not a drill. General Quarters!” The boatswain announced.
The ship’s crew had 3 to 5 minutes to set Condition 1. Ensign Wilkins stepped to the back of the bridge and the storage lockers. His personal PPE was in his stateroom, so he took spares as he was at his battle station here on the bridge. All around him movement, hatches were closed, and new people entered the bridge. Gloves, flash hood, and a blue-gray helmet—he snapped the chinstrap into place after he tucked the hood and put on his gloves. He checked his hands, a little shaky, he steadied up back at his station, lifting his binoculars.
They were still over 10 nautical miles from the Coast Guard ship. Everything was happening so fast, the crew set Condition 1 in 2:55 minutes. Ensign Wilkins looked to the OOD and XO, they were issuing orders, talking to the CIC. Brian saw smoke in the distance and a call came over the 1MC.
“Multiple missiles, bearing 045, range 40 miles, low altitude, heading toward Guam!” came the call. The ship was turning to port, slowing.
His heart was racing. He’d seen numerous videos of missiles being fired in anger and seen missiles fired in training. Heard the stories and lessons learned from the Red Sea battles versus the Houthis and Iran. Captain Cole and XO are both veterans of those fights, as were many of the top enlisted ratings in the CIC.
The Weapons Control Officer reported from CIC, repeated over the 1MC, “Aegis has solid tracks, recommend engage with SM-6!”
Captain Cole’s voice sounded calm and professional, from CIC, “Weapons free! Engage the missiles!”
This Block I ship carried 90 vertical launch cells with a variety of missile types. 29 cells in front of the bridge behind the 5-inch gun, and 61 amidships behind the bridge.
An alarm sounded, hatches popped as the CIC weapons team got to work. Brian watched as one after another, twelve SM-6 anti-air missiles flew into the early morning sky heading toward Guam, course corrected en route, trying to intercept, smoke and fire, smoke and fire—it was awesome, the might of this ship. Andersen AFB and Naval Base Guam the likely targets.
“Surface target Sierra-1, bearing 050, range 10 miles, hostile, engaging the cutter! Recommend shift to 5-inch gun!” said the Surface Warfare Officer in the CIC and repeated on 1MC. Brian focused his binoculars on the bearing where he saw smoke trails. The young sailors on either side of him were cool, collected, and doing their jobs. The XO moved to the front of the bridge with her binoculars up.
The USS John Paul Jones straightened up its course and increased speed to 30 knots. Predawn was breaking, and the clock read 0520.
Over the 1MC, Captain Cole: “Shift fire to surface target! 5-inch gun, engage!”
The Weapons/Gun Control team: “5-inch gun, surface target Sierra-1, load HE-VT, set fuse for contact. Ready!”
The Bridge/Gun Mount talker reported: “Gun manned and ready!” They had closed the distance to nine nautical miles, well within the gun’s range.
XO McCain could see the medium-sized container ship, smoke rising from its topside. She had the sound-powered phone to her ear, “Commence firing, ten rounds!” she said, message passed to CIC.
Through his binoculars in the early morning light, Ensign Wilkins could just make out bright flashes from guns on each vessel, the two ships still engaged in close-range combat. Brian watched the gun mount’s long 5-inch barrel reposition, then smoke and flame, rhythmic BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of the Mk 45 5-inch gun. On the bridge, the crew felt recoil, shell casings clattering onto the bow deck. A smattering of cheers from the bridge crew as reports came in of hits. The JPJ racing to close the range.
The large container ship was smoking, turning away. The white USCG cutter’s forward gun still raking the ship’s bridge with its 57mm Mk 110 main gun.
For Ensign Wilkins, this was his first combat. What the hell was happening out there? His parents would know soon, and understand what was happening. Brian could see smoke rising in the distance from the naval base.
CIC: “Sierra-1 is burning, launches have stopped. Recommend Harpoon.”
Captain Cole ordered a Harpoon missile be readied. The older Block I destroyers still carried them. With the Chinese ship turning away, slowly toward open water.
Captain Cole, “Weapons free on Sierra-1! Harpoon engage!”
Brian watched the gray Harpoon anti-ship missile skim the sea, a few feet above the ocean, homing in on the big 30,000-ton container ship. He steadied his heart rate, looked around the young men and women who made up this crew. Ensign Wilkins wanted to be nowhere else but here. A bright flash at the container ship’s waterline, a hit, at this range they couldn’t miss. More cheers from the bridge crew.
“Ensign Wilkins, I have a job for you,” the XO said from the other side of the bridge.
“Yes, ma’am,” Brian said, nearly coming to attention, midshipman formality hard to forget.
“The Defiant has reported that they have wounded and are requesting we take some on board,” she said.
Brian nodded, already thinking.
“Find Chief Mercado. I want you to oversee the transfer of their wounded. Use both RIBs, the CO is launching the bird for ASW. Make it fast,” said the XO, her hazel eyes watching him, assessing. They were at general quarters, so he didn’t salute, just turned and headed for the hatch and the ladder to the lower decks.
Chief Mercado was the Lead Boatswain in charge of the rigid inflatable boats. At the same time, Captain Cole was putting up the MH-60 Sea Hawk to patrol the immediate area for submarines and other threats. Ensign Wilkins would do his best and was glad he’d been given something useful to do.
December 8th – Det 1 – Medical
D-Day
Professional chaos is how Airman First Class Wilkins thought of the activity going on around her in the medical pod. That was the military she’d learned, from the outside looking in, chaos; the reality was a highly trained medical team carrying out an artfully coordinated treatment plan as she and Rinna were examined. In the middle of this, TSgt Everson, who had finally been handed a t-shirt, asked them questions, jotting down notes for his report in a borrowed notebook.
Kathy glanced at the other bed in the small medical pod, a place that usually handled sick call and minor injuries. Rinna had a cold pack on the side of her head, and a doctor was checking her injury. Most people came here for creams to treat jungle rashes and heat injuries, along with other tropical ailments such as malaria and dengue. She lay back, a paper medical gown over her chest, her damaged plate carrier, uniform blouse, and pistol belt in a corner.
A kind-looking Major in fatigues stopped at her bed. “Hi, I’m Doctor Philips. Let’s take a look at you,” he said. “Sergeant, if you wouldn’t mind stepping outside,” he told Everson.
Rinna had her eyes closed, a white bandage wrapped around her skull, stripped down to her muddy pants, boots off, a green paper gown covering her chest. A Master Sergeant (E-7) medic, Filipino by the look of her, was checking Woods’s vital signs.
With a “No problem, Sir, I got what I need. I’ll check on them later,” Everson said, backing out of the pod while making eye contact with Kathy. She nodded. “We’re good,” she said, even as she was starting to feel the pain in her chest. The doctor was talking.
“My specialty is tropical medicine. Normally, you would be in the capable hands of Master Sergeant Flores there. But I’m here TDY like you. I’m going to remove the gown and take a look,” he said, sticking the stethoscope in his ears.
The next few minutes felt awkward as he poked and prodded around her breasts; a big bruise was starting to form above the right. She winced when he palpated her ribs, her left floaters tender, another bruise. Using his hands, he checked her from head to toe.
“The abdomen concerns me. You were lucky that plate saved you from a serious wound. Flores will take some X-rays, and I’ll give you some meds for the pain and to help with the swelling. Light duty for you,” he said.
She understood she would have been dead. “I’m supposed to rotate out today,” she said. She hadn’t packed.
Doctor Philips nodded. “Even better,” he said.
“How’s Woods? Her head,” Kathy asked. Rinna had saved her ass and taken a beating.
Philips glanced at Rinna. “Probable concussion, but nothing appears broken. X-rays and we’ll keep her overnight for observation,” he said, handing Kathy a clean t-shirt in a plastic wrapper.
“Waaaah-oooooh-waaaah...” the siren sprang to life from near the operations section. The sound rising and falling, distinct. ” ... waaaah-oooooh-waaaah...” The eerie-sounding alarm caused them all to stop what they were doing.
Kathy cocked her head, her heart skipping a beat as she waited. Air raid siren? As a joke, Det maintenance had installed an old hand-cranked siren they’d found in town outside the Ops containers a few weeks ago.
From an outside loudspeaker and a Motorola radio in the medical pod: “Attention all personnel! FPCON Delta! FPCON Delta! Take shelter.”
Full lockdown, they had to seek shelter. MSgt Flores took charge, ordering the other two medics to grab their medical aid bags while she and Major Philips helped Kathy and Rinna to their feet.
“Incoming! Incoming! Take cover! Take cover! Possible inbound missiles or drones! 40 miles,” the next announcement, urgent.
Kathy hadn’t even put on the t-shirt yet. She grabbed her boots and pistol belt as MSgt Flores pointed out the open door. “The slit trench is over there, go!” she said, giving Wilkins a shove.
Naked from the waist up, holding her boots in one hand, her pistol belt in the other, she took the steps two at a time and jumped into the wet mud of the shoulder-wide trench. The slit trench was only about four feet deep and six feet long, dug by Navy Seabees with a backhoe when the camp was built three months ago, routine.
”30 miles, multiple vampires. Take cover! Take cover! Gator One is airborne, cleared to engage,” the voice over the public address said.
Kathy heard the updated warning as she watched a medic help Rinna down the steps, her big naked boobs bouncing, blouse in hand, half dressed like Kathy. Who was shooting at them and from where? Gator-One was the HH-60 Pave Hawk; it had two powerful door-mounted 7.62 miniguns and wouldn’t want to be caught on the ground.
Wilkins stood barefoot in the mushy muck, reaching up as Woods shuffled down the dirt ramp. “I got her!” she said, taking her hands. The medic tossed Wilkins’s plate carrier in the mud, then turned and ran back inside the medical pod.
“What’s happening?” Rinna was trying to slip her arms into her camouflage blouse, then gave up, just holding it in front of her chest, leaning against the mud wall.
Kathy put her arms protectively around her newbie, lying back, looking at the red sky as dawn broke over Guadalcanal, the high clouds were altostratus and caused the sky to burn red and orange as the sun rose. She took the cold pack from Rinna’s hand, pressing it to her wound, the pain of her own injury buried, she bit her lip.
”19 miles. All base personnel need to be in shelter. Fight the base! Stinger team cleared to engage,” Lt Col Hayes’ voice said over the speakers.