Chapter 3: Defeated, Dominated, and Delighted

I had been the top of my class at the academy and number one in flight school. At only age 27, I had become a Flight Leader the previous month. It wasn’t a record, but close. Partly since my first name was Magda, I’d been awarded the callsign “Dagger” and my flight’s radio handle was “Knife”. After lunch I walked to the squadron commander’s briefing on the strike missions we would fly that night. We would be on the bleeding edge, the first to attack when we got within range of Ostnordia’s main Air Force base.

Our carrier constantly had a pair of fighters and an anti-sub chopper airborne for immediate defense, which kept the maintenance teams quite busy. Just to have three aircraft aloft; we needed nine more undergoing maintenance, refueling, or replenishment. I saw several maintenance techs walking past in the corridor when the Commander came in.

As he started his speech, the entire town-sized ship shuddered, and we heard a large explosion aft. A loud bell dinged repeatedly and a voice announced through a speaker, “General quarters! General quarters! Damage control team one report to deck six, frame one oh four, port side!” I was glad to know that area was dry food storage, instead of anything vital.

My people and I ran to the flight ready room. I was climbing a ladder and nearly fell as there was another explosion and the ship shook again. The Captain’s voice announced, “All ASW aircraft prep for immediate launch! Begin anti-sub zigzags! Launch countermeasures!”

I commanded one of the strike-fighter squadron’s three flights of eight planes. I figured our squadron would be fourth in the launch sequence. Once the ASW helicopters and patrol bombers launched, next up would be the electronic warfare group with their huge radar plane, two EW planes, and a pair of fighters to escort them. Next would be the fighter squadron. I estimated we’d have at least 15 minutes to get ready.

I called, “Ten-hut!” as the Admiral walked into the ready room. He told us, “As you were. We’ve been hit by three torpedoes. I’m giving you new targets and ordering strikes immediately.”

He gave the other two flights their orders and they ran out. He spoke to us last. “I want Knife flight to take out the Ostnord submarine base. It’s 400 kilometers, but anti-air defenses should be light. We don’t have time for full recon or detailed planning. Here are the photos we have.” He set them on the table and we quickly studied them.

“Take out this munitions bunker, the drydocks here, and these fuel tanks. The prime target is the headquarters building here. Destroy it first, then hit it again to be sure. If you’re lucky enough to see enemy ships or subs, sink the sons-of-bitches.” There was another explosion and another alarm went off. The admiral picked up a phone and ordered, “Strike squadron launches once the EW squadron is up. Their Air Force is pathetic, so defensive fighters can wait. I want some payback!”

We ran to our planes and got ready. By the time we were on the flight deck and our first jet was being hooked up for catapult launch, the ship was listing to port, tilting about five degrees to the left. I thought the deck was usually farther above the waves, too. I doubted anything could sink a supercarrier, but we had clearly taken on a lot of water.

I gave my XO the honor of being our flight’s first launch, and would go last myself. I watched cats shoot our jets into the sky a pair at a time. It was a dangerous and highly choregraphed dance, with people running back and forth pulling off safety caps and plugs, double-checking systems quickly, and hooking landing gear to catapults. They didn’t think much of it, but were often within a few meters of running jet engines, helicopter rotors, or planes being catapulted down the deck.

A pedestrian hit by a two-ton pickup truck going 80 kilometers an hour is usually a goner. Powerful blasts of steam propelled heavy pistons most of the way down the ship, dragging our twenty-ton aircraft behind the cat sleds at over 250 kilometers an hour. A pedestrian collision with one of them would leave a pink mist instead of a corpse.

I usually enjoyed watching the launches and patiently waited for my turn, but I was getting worried. The ship seemed to be settling further into the water. The Admiral announced the last thing I ever thought I’d hear. “Shoot all aircraft, then prepare to abandon ship! Launch the boats!”

I told my flight over the radio, “Knife flight alternate airfields are Tromso, Norway or Jukkas ... the ‘J’ one in Sweden nobody can pronounce.” That got a few nervous giggles. “Do your best to get back to one of our carriers, though. If you land in a neutral country, you’ll be interned until the war is over.”

As a crewman hooked the catapult sled to my jet’s forward landing gear, the ship slowly tilted even farther to the left. I held the brakes down, wound both engines up to full power, then kicked in the afterburner. The shooter gave me the ‘Ready’ signal and saluted. I saluted him back, then got ready for the powerful rush of Gs. He gave the classic ‘pistol’ sign with his gloved hand, then moved his thumb to order my launch.

As I started moving, there was another explosion and I saw a large spray of water in my left peripheral vision. I was thrust back into my seat, but not as strongly as usual. I was instinctively relieved the G force wasn’t as intense as expected, but worried at the same time. Something was wrong. The catapult delivered less energy and speed than a normal launch. I felt my rear tires hit the tip of a wave as I barely made it into the air! One meter lower, and I would have been swimming in the Arctic Ocean instead of flying!

We grouped up and headed for our target at nearly Mach one, only 20 meters above the sea. Over the radio I heard the carrier had been hit again, then lost steam and electrical power as a magazine exploded. I was the last pilot to leave the ship in a plane instead of a life raft.

Our mighty ship slowly fell beneath the waves. Due to the organized abandonment, only thirty four were lost. Over three thousand were saved. The enemy had also sunk a frigate. Years later I heard it had taken three enemy submarines working together to do it. Our ASW helos had sunk two of them. One of our subs had torpedoed the last, but too late.

I remembered that several years ago Ostnordia had bought a few thousand radar-guided missiles. Since the missiles were the last generation and over 10 years old, and we flew the latest stealth strike-fighters, they wouldn’t be a problem. We wouldn’t reflect any radio signal for them to home in on.

As we crossed the beach and climbed above the mountains, my computer displayed the impossible. There were HUNDREDS of aircraft ahead! It showed the number of targets as ‘99’, the most it could keep track of, but there were obviously many more. I was surprised and confused. I knew the whole Ostnordia Air Force only had about 30 fighter jets, and wondered what the Hell was going on.

I scanned the sky and only saw tiny dots far in the distance, though radar reported many of them were less than a kilometer from me. I saw a few sparkly reflections in the sky. I felt and heard a THUMP as I collided with something small. I looked at my left wing and saw I had run into a remote-controlled drone, like kids played with. It had barely scratched the paint on my wing, but now there were a few bits of the drone and a long piece of aluminum foil stuck there.

Several of my group broke radio silence at the same time.

“Knife three to leader, I see hundreds of targets on radar, but there’s nothing there.” “Knife seven to knife one, I ran into a cloud of toy drones. What’s going on?” “Knife two. There are hundreds of drones all over the place, and they’re carrying long pieces of foil. What the fuck?”

I suddenly realized aloud, “Aluminum foil reflects radar! We won’t be stealthy anymore!”

Just then most of the targets dropped off radar as the drones fell to the ground simultaneously. Only seconds later, I saw many fast-moving targets on the screen. Again, it showed the number of them as ‘99’. I noticed the speed of one was Mach 3, telling me they were MISSILES! DOZENS AND DOZENS OF MISSILES!

I yelled into my mic, “It’s a trap! Get the hell out of here!” As I turned to the right, the tail of my plane exploded and I started falling from the sky. The ‘FIRE’ and ‘MASTER WARN’ alarms both blared in my ears as I announced, “MAYDAY! Knife one hit! I’m going down! Knife one MAYDAY!”

As a second missile blew my left wing off, I yanked the ‘Eject’ handles and blacked out.

When I woke I didn’t remember much of the previous week. I still knew I was Lieutenant Commander Magda Mullins of Naval Aviation, Inc. I was very proud to fly for the only company that owned a pair of aircraft carriers. I sadly remembered my carrier, my home, had been sunk. I nearly cried remembering I had been shot down during my first and probably only combat mission. I’d never be promoted to the highest ranks without some combat achievements. I’d never reach Admiral rank, maybe not even Captain! My career was as good as over.

Arvid and his sons Hans and Arik were bearded and tall, very muscular, and very Nordic. They had rescued me from the tree my parachute was tangled in. They carried me to their cabin and bandaged me up. They said when they found me I had a piece of metal sticking out of my right leg, a broken right ankle, and a concussion. My headache and confusion, along with the bandage, splints, and pain in my lower leg confirmed it. I didn’t speak much of their language, but fortunately they knew some English. Most of the time they were quite nice. They helped me walk to the outhouse or kitchen, fed me, and generally took good care of me.

The exceptions were important and disturbing. When they helped me to the outhouse, they insisted on watching me pee or poop! It was terribly humiliating! Hans seemed to especially love watching me take a dump and jerked off as he saw the shit drop from my ass. He never hurt me, but I thought he was a serious freak.