Chierici - Lions of the Sky

LIONS OF THE SKY

Copyright 2018 by Paco Chierici

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Braveship Books
www.braveshipbooks.com
Aura Libertatis Spirat

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Cover Design by Rossitsa Atanassova

Cover Photo by Charles Wingnut Wickware

Book layout by Alexandru Diaconescu
www.steadfast-typesetting.eu

ISBN-13: 978-1-64062-065-0

This novel is dedicated to the amazing individuals I served with for two decades in the United States Navy, the officers and enlisted men and women of the aviation community.

And to my incredible wife, Hillary, and my fantastic children, Bella and Zander, the loves of my life who inspire me every day to be the best version of myself.

This book was just a lump of words until my editor breathed life into it. I will be forever grateful to the amazing, patient, and talented Nan Gatewood Satter.

Ive stolen liberally from the rich collection of call signs I came across in my career. Though most of the call signs are real, they are attached to completely fictionalized characters. It was impossible to do better than the wicked creativity of naval aviators, so I borrowed instead.

Book One
- The Gladiators

South China Sea

The compact boat made its way silently through dozens of small islands barely visible in the inky night. The insignificant land masses that made up the rowers obstacle course were not the sort of place humans visited for pleasure. There were no hotels, no resorts, no basic amenities such as water or shelter. Not a single romantic palm tree swayed in the hot, humid trade winds blowing just north of the equator. Notwithstanding these well-known deprivations, the man rowed purposefully, eager to reach his destination.

He dipped the oars with metronomic regularity, ignoring the outboard motor perched securely on the transom, raised and locked out of the water. He rowed hard, breathing deeply but evenly, a man used to such exertions and making very good time. Every few strokes he glanced over his shoulder, taking bearings from the glow of a low campfire on one of the larger of the tiny islands. In the last few meters, he rode a wave onto the beach and allowed the rigid inflatable craft to crunch quietly to a stop. He paused for a few moments, more to listen than to rest from his long trip. Once he was convinced his arrival had caused no more ripples than the waves themselves, he bent to gather the gear stowed in the footwell of his boat.

The black of his weapons and gear blended with the black of his clothing and the paint on his face. He was not particularly tall, but he was both agile and solid and with practiced precision he quickly assembled a QBZ-95 assault weapon made in the Peoples Republic. Keeping an alert watch on his surroundings, he flipped open a sack and removed several banana clip magazines, each holding thirty rounds of 5.8mm Chinese-made munitions. He snapped a clip into the rifle and slid the bolt to chamber the first round. The rest of the clips went into deep pockets on his thighs. Then he reached into the sack and removed two bandoliers holding several packs of explosives. Methodically, he checked the batteries, wiring, and switches of each small pack before slinging a bandolier over each arm and then over his headthey crisscrossed his chest as if he were a banditocareful not to snag them on the wicked six-inch blade strapped by his left shoulder, handle down for quick access. Finally, the commando was ready.

He moved carefully across the pebbles and thick layers of sea shells toward a scraggly concentration of huts on stilts surrounding the dying fire. These half-dozen clapboard houses were, he had been briefed, an attempt by the Vietnamese government to further their claim to the chain of islands. An attempt to put a human presencean occupation of scientistson this smear of coral to use as leverage in the political debates regarding the mineral rights below the shallow ocean floor.

The commando did not bother with his night vision goggles; the moonlight was more than sufficient for this operation. He paused behind a hut, listening to the prattle of the so-called scientists barking away in Vietnamese, scraping their chopsticks against the metal bowls as they finished the last of their dinner. He took note of the AK-47 machine guns leaning upright against each other like a little teepee near the fire, their oiled barrels joined together in a dark bouquet pointing at the night sky. Scientific equipment, no doubt.

Sticking to the shadows thrown by the huts, he moved from one flimsy building to the next. Beneath the raised floor of each structure, he attached an explosive pack with an adhesive patch. Once the pack was affixed, he flicked a switch on the fuse and watched for the dim red light to illuminate, announcing the explosive was ready to perform. He quickly reached the last of the half dozen huts.

As he waited for the final red arming light, the door to the outhouse four meters behind him bounced open and a man erupted, fanning his hand in front of his face, bellowing something that elicited a chuckle from his compatriots around the fire. The commando froze as the Vietnamese soldier carefully navigated the rickety steps of the outhouse, landing with a loud crunch on the bed of shells and rock.

The soldier raised his head and opened his mouth to shout more comedy, no doubt, when his eyes landed on the figure crouching by the hut. He stopped, mouth still open, momentarily paralyzed. Immediately the commando flung himself forward with his right arm extended toward the soldier and the man finally moved, his gaze lowered to his chest, where the blade was buried nearly to the hilt. The soldier expelled a terrible wail as his legs gave out beneath him and he toppled to the ground.

The soldiers around the campfire leapt to their feet, bowls that had been perched on knees clattering to the ground. They eyed each other nervously. Perhaps their jokester was offering another, more elaborate skit from the latrine? The commando watched their concern turn to panic as he, a vision from hell, rounded the corner a moment later. He was a nightmare in black advancing toward them, flames spitting from the baffle at the end of his weapon. The AKs that had seemed so superfluous moments ago remained untouched, out of reach, as short, precise bursts cut the men down.

Two minutes later the commando was back at his boat. He checked an elaborate instrument on his left wrist, noting the time on the glowing green display. He tossed his weapon into the footwell, put both hands on the bow, and heaved the inflatable back into the sea. With the last kick of boot on shore he sent the boat past the low surf, spinning it 180 degrees. He clambered back to the transom, released the outboard, yanked the starter cord and twisted the throttle. The boat accelerated with a roar over the low chop like a rock skipping across a lake.