Operation Hail Storm

Busan, South Korea ― on the Gerald R. Ford Aircraft Carrier

Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan was crazy. At least that’s what the men in his squadron thought of him. Not just because he had volunteered to fly the suicidal mission into North Korean to take out a warehouse. He was the squadron leader after all, and could have certainly guilted one of his men into taking the sortie. But he hadn’t. When the mission had come down from the top, Nolan had already accepted it even before the men in his squadron knew the mission was available.

In force, the mission was doable. But the Lieutenant Commander’s men knew that a single fighter flying into North Korean airspace had about as much chance as a kite in a hurricane. Five miles out to sea. No problem. Five miles on the friendly side of the DMZ. Easy. Five miles into Wonsan. No Bueno. Between the radar and anti-aircraft batteries, not to mention the North Korean jets just sitting in a ready state on North Korean airfields, add to that the fact that the North Korean pilots were drooling at the prospect of getting them some American jet fighter ass, it was not a good mission at all. The probability of surviving the mission was low. The probability of dying or being captured was high. Only a crazy person would fly it.

And his men also knew that their brave leader was crazy in another way. He was crazy for some pay back. His twin brother had been killed in The Five. And ever since that happened, Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan had become withdrawn and morose. It didn’t help matters that the American military had very little to offer in response to The Five. Two years after The Five and the best response the United States could muster was some spot bombings here and there. Nothing of any real consequence. No real enemy to go after, unless their government made all Muslims enemy combatants. If that happened, then there would be plenty of countries to bomb. More than enough to go around. More pay back than Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan could handle in a lifetime, no matter how short that was. But that was not the case. And the limp dick response from the US of A frustrated the Lieutenant Commander to no end.

So when this mission to go in fast and low and spitting missiles at the North Koreans came about, well, all his men knew why Nolan had taken the gig. He was crazy.

So, crazy Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan sat in his Lockheed Martin F-35C, hooked into the catapult of the Gerald R. Ford aircraft carrier. The ship had just arrived at the Fleet Activities Chinhae Navy Base in Busan, South Korea.

The Lieutenant Commander checked his watch ― 3:44AM. One minute until blast off. Surprisingly, he wasn’t scared. He wondered if his brother had been scared when his Virgin Atlantic flight 1082 was shot down leaving Orlando International. He guessed there wasn’t enough time to be scared. Low altitude. Maybe only ten seconds until impact. Even so, Nolan was sure that his brother had been pulling on the ejection handle that was not under his seat. It would have been a habit. His brother had been a jet pilot as well. The ejection handle. A magic handle that could shoot you far away from danger and then float you down to the ground. Reaching and tugging for salvation. Foster Nolan supposed he could reach his handle if the shit got too heavy in North Korea. Maybe he could blow away a few North Koreans on the ground before they rounded him up. But it really didn’t matter. He had been profoundly sad since he had lost his brother. Clinically depressed is what the shrinks would say if he’d let it all out. But he hadn’t. He had contained his ailment, his secret. And the little bugger had slowly changed over time from depression, to anger, to revenge, and now it would seem it had mutated into a death wish. That was OK as well. Hell, that’s why he was a pilot. If there wasn’t any chance of dying, then everybody would want the job.

The Lieutenant Commander went over a final checklist and waited for the yellow shirted Catapult Officer, the shooter as they called him, to give him a thumbs up. His flight would only last about a half hour. Fifteen minutes one direction. Fifteen minutes to come home. That is, if he came home. If not, then his plane had probably been reduced to ash and tinsel that rained down and decorated the jungles of North Korea. Nolan often thought of dying. He fantasized about crashing his $337-million-dollar aircraft into the warehouse, instead of just sending a few missiles into the building. That would make a bigger bang. But then all pilots thought about stuff like that. At least he thought they did.

The Lieutenant Commander checked his watch again. Time to go. He saw a flurry of activity around him as the guys on the ground did their best to make sure he was safe. SAFE. That was funny. It’s like giving a flu shot to a guy being executed in the electric chair. Fifteen minutes from now he would be a bird in a shooting gallery. Or not. Down on deck, he saw the shooter in the yellow shirt getting ready to do his thing, so Nolan spun up the Pratt & Whitney F135 turbofan engines to max power.

Foster Nolan put his stick in all four corners and cycled the rudders to demonstrate to the deck crew that his controls were free. He then turned on his lights and held still. Ten seconds later, Lieutenant Commander Foster Nolan saluted the man in yellow who was standing next to his plane. The man gave him a thumbs up, dropped down on one knee and pointed toward the bow of the ship. Now in full afterburner, the ship’s catapult cut loose and ripped the F-35 off the deck and threw it out into the darkness.