“This,” you reflect to yourself under your breath “blows.”

You're sitting in your bird, hooked to one of the Sara's bow cats, trying to keep yourself half entertained. You're the alert fighter for the BARCAP for a change, instead of flying the patrol yourself.
It's a welcome shift- you may not even have to launch, though, given the current situation, you probably will.

Yesterday's scramble was because of an accident- a Tu-95 pilot breached the Battlegroup's airspace, but very rapidly exited when a pair of 'cats on a CAP locked it up for missiles- along with almost every ship in the group. Since then, the CAG, along with the captain and Admiral Nixon agreed to keep an extra pair of fighters up, as well as keeping your squadron on round-the-clock alert.

Just in case.

Thankfully, this is the last BARCAP the fleet has to mount- you're well inside rage for fighters from pearl to assist, and you can see the islands in the distance- hell, the current BARCAP is supposed to recover at pearl, not on the carrier. As soon as you're off, they'll clear the deck to go into port.

According to what you've been told so far, nothing out of the ordinary has happened in Europe- no massive alert in east Poland, no increased movement, no new flights, nothing. Hell, if anything, it's far quieter than usual. Other than a fairly large soviet naval force off to the south west of Chile, it looks for all the world like the soviet union's military has disappeared. Or, at least, drastically shrunk.

And that has you bothered. Their air force must be howling mad over the loss of a squadron of jets- not to mention their abject failure to stop Katya's defection. And yet, nothing. Hell, they haven't even put those gigantic supersubs of theirs to sea, supposedly- you overheard Nixon and Captain Blackwell talking about it when the captain came by while Nixon was talking to  you as you were getting ready to mount up for this turn on alert.

Your thoughts are interrupted by movement off to your left- Nixon's tomcat lining up on the catapult.

“Change of plans, son” He says. “We're going to fly the rest of the way to pearl.”

There's a tone to his voice you're not quite sure you can place... you'd know what it was if it was, say, coming from Slider, but Nixon?

Nahhh.

“Might want to pay attention to your shooter, son.” he says, pointing with one nomex-clad finger.

You've got enough time to look forward and return the salute from your shooter before he activates the catapult- slamming you back in your seat from the acceleration. Laughter follows you up- apparently, the witches saw that.

Nixon joins you moments later, taking the lead position as the witches launch. Before long, you're in a modified pair of loose finger-four formations as Nixon explains the plan.

“Been too long since I really got to have some fun, kids.” he says, and you ID the tone in his voice. It's mirth. The kind of mirth you get when  you're planning something that's going to be awesome, but there will be hell to pay about later.

Except, he's CINCPAC. Odds are, he can get away with it.

“It's getting pretty close to December, and that means there's going to be a lot of tourists down at the Arizona museum. Might as well give 'em a bit of an airshow.” He says.

“An... airshow, sir?” Ice asks.

“Yep!” he responds cheerily. “Since it's your squadron, Lieutenant commander, I want you to lead. Take your pair down the port side, your other pair of witches can go starboard. Then Lieutenant Bishop and I will follow. Bishop, I want you to go down the port side right behind the witches, got it?”

[] Got it, Sir
[] What about Katya, sir?