TWITTER:
twitter.com/planefagARCHIVES:
http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending“GUYS! There's TWO DOZEN uglies bleeding SAINT MOTHERFUCKING ELMO'S FIRE out of their GODLESS EYES and I am NOT equipped to fight underwater contacts! PLEASE ADVISE!”
Stunned silence rolls through the shadowed CIC in the wake of this announcement; the tac-map spinning in your head as the world turns on its axis, re-orienting with the threat on one side and your assets on the other.
The enemy's gate, etc.
“CV-9,” you reply. “Do you have a position fix on the contacts?”
“Uglies?”
“Sure, we'll go with that.”
“Yeah! My strike planes saw them underwater!”
Aircraft can spot the shadow of a submarine at periscope depth, especially in shallow waters with a white sandy bottom. Unfortunately, none of her airborne Corsairs have weapons fuzed to be effective against them.
“Stand by, Essex - we've got an ASW strike inbound!”
“Catalinas!?”
You grin with wicked amusement. “You'll see. Have your Corsairs orbit over the contacts or mark them with tracer fire, okay?”
“Got it! I'll light'em up like a neon sAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH-” she screams as the four F-18s scream overhead at Mach point-nine, getting visuals on the orbiting Corsairs before pitching straight vertical and screaming skyward, vanishing through the light cloud deck in mere seconds.
“W-W-WHAT WERE THOSE!?” CV-9 demands.
“Airplanes,” you reply drolly. The F-18s roll on their backs leisurely, then pull the throttles back against the stops as they arrow down towards the general vicinity of the orbiting navy-blue Corsairs. Goto brings up their cockpit camera feeds in PIP windows one after another, showing the vast blue Pacific rushing up to meet them fast.
“CV-9, have your Corsairs strafe those contacts now!” you command.
