Summoning America

Author’s Note:

 

Want some more military vs fantasy? Go on my profile and check out Manifest Fantasy, my latest and highest quality work! If you’ve been waiting for chapters to build up, now’s the time! Manifest Fantasy has recently broken the 100k word mark, so there’s no shortage of content to enjoy!

 

Read up to three weeks ahead! Chapters up to 194 are now out for corresponding Patreon tiers!

 

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/drdoritosmd 

Discord: https://discord.gg/wr2xexGJaD

– –

US Navy Fifth Fleet
CSG-2, USS Dwight D. Eisenhower

 

Admiral Samuel Locklear stood on the bridge of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, his eyes glued to the Common Tactical Picture (CTP) display. The bridge crew was on high alert, tracking every move the Gra Valkan Third Conquest Fleet made.

Commander Michael Harlowe, his intel officer, came up to him with a tablet. "Admiral, we've got an update on the Gra Valkan fleet's position."

 

Locklear nodded. "Let's hear it, Commander."

 

"They're maintaining course and speed, sir. 1,000 miles out and closing. Standard cruising formation, with their carriers and capital ships in the center, escorts on the flanks."

 

Locklear studied the CTP. The Gra Valkans were in for a rude awakening. They probably thought their numbers would be enough, but they couldn’t be that stubborn, could they? It was like bringing a knife to a gunfight, and that gunfight was on an open field.

 

"Any response to our hails, Commander?" Locklear asked.

 

"Negative, sir. Radio silence since our last attempt."

 

The Gra Valkans’ silence spoke volumes. It made sense for the first few commanders they encountered to have second thoughts. According to reports from the Seventh Fleet, the Gra Valkan Admiral Dietrich only surrendered after experiencing a missile strike first hand. Now, putting himself in the Gra Valkans’ shoes, he could understand complete surprise and disbelief if an alien fleet showed up out of nowhere and completely decimated their forces with ease. 

 

He’d have thought it was propaganda, or some sort of Hollywood fiction. But to see that those very forces had suddenly stopped communicating, and to hear of it several times, there had to be at least some truth to the tales. Whoever commanded the Gra Valkan Third Fleet surely knew what would happen if they engaged directly, right? Surely, it couldn’t be led by some cliched leader who’d cry “IMPOSSIBLE!” after getting his forces wiped by a foe that has been confirmed numerous times to be technologically advanced, right?

 

Well, if said leader didn’t back down, at least Locklear would be able to claim the first – and quite possibly the only – full engagement with a Gra Valkan fleet. He almost felt bad for the men serving on that fleet, if not for their sealed fates, then at least the stupidity of their leaders. He’ll give them a good opening salvo; if they still kept coming afterward, that’d be on them.

 

Putting his conscience more or less at ease, he turned to Captain James Wheeler, the Eisenhower’s CO. “Captain, are our strike packages ready to execute?”

 

“Affirmative, sir. Our Super Hornets and Lightning IIs are locked and loaded with LRASMs. They’re ready to launch on your order.”

 

He faced Captain Wheeler and Commander Michael Rodriguez, the carrier's strike ops officer. "I want a final review of our strike plan. Make sure we're hitting the Gra Valkan fleet's critical assets. Carriers, command ships, any high-value targets. We're gonna hammer them until they're combat ineffective."

 

As Wheeler and Rodriguez confirmed the details, Locklear's gaze returned to the CTP. The Gra Valkans kept pushing forward, eating up the miles.

 

"Commander Harlowe, any updates on the Gra Valkan fleet's movements, let me know," Locklear said.

 

"Aye, sir," Harlowe confirmed, his attention locked on his console.

 

Locklear's resolve was ironclad. The Gra Valkans had made their bed, and now it was time for them to lie in it. The Fifth Fleet was ready to teach them a hard lesson about the consequences of threatening the United States and its allies.

 

He turned to his comms officer, Lieutenant Emily Nakamura. "Inform ARTFLT HQ and the Mykal Naval Command Center that we’re engaging the enemy. Keep ‘em updated on our progress."

 

Their commander was about to go up against the most powerful navy in the world. Maybe the tales were too far-fetched for him and he wanted to see for himself? Or perhaps he really thought he had any deluded chance at victory? Either way, Locklear was sure it wouldn’t be something they’d ever forget.

 

– –

Lieutenant Commander Jack "Maverick" Wilson

VFA-136 "Knighthawks," USS Dwight D. Eisenhower

 

Maverick squinted against the salty breeze whipping across the deck. With the strike package ordered, the deck was full of fighters taxiing and launching off. The first of his squadron’s escorts started circling overhead, just waiting for the Knighthawks to get airborne. He had one focus: making sure his F/A-18E Super Hornet was ready.

 

"Hey, Mav!" Sparks, his plane captain, called out. "Systems check complete. Weapons are locked and loaded."

 

Maverick ran his hand along the nose of the jet, finding it unblemished. "Good work, Sparks." He crouched to inspect the landing gear. Tires looked solid. No leaks in the struts. All good.

 

He moved to the wing, checking the ailerons and flaps. All clear. Nearby, his wingman was engrossed in his own pre-flight checks. "Yo, Mav! Ready to light 'em up?" Slider called over the noise, a wide grin on his face.

 

Maverick shot him a smirk. "Hell yeah, dude. All my buddies in the Seventh are aces now. Some of them are even fleet aces."

 

“Fleet ace?” Slider asked, “The fuck is a fleet ace?”

 

“An ace, but instead of 5 aircraft kills, it's 5 ship kills – or one if you manage to take down a carrier or battleship. It’s pretty new, started with the Lourian war,” Maverick explained.

Slider stopped in the midst of his checks, turning to face Maverick. “Dead ass? To think the first modern-day aces would’ve been guys who shot down wyverns, or blew up old sailing ships.”

 

“Yeah, right? Still sounds dope as fuck, though.”

 

“For real,” Slider agreed.

 

Maverick continued his inspection, moving to the tail and rudder. He placed a hand on the fuselage, feeling the hum of the machine. "Fuel status?" he asked Sparks.

 

"Fuel load at 95%, boss. We've got 14,000 pounds of JP-5 on board," Sparks reported, double-checking the fuel gauge.

 

“Ordnance?” Maverick checked the missiles.

“Secure and ready,” Sparks confirmed.

“Roger that,” he muttered, climbing up into the cockpit. He settled into the seat and initiated the startup sequence. The multi-function displays flickered to life, followed by the heads-up display. The engines whined as they spooled up, and the various indicators and gauges began to illuminate in a precise order. He watched as the navigation systems aligned and the radar swept the surrounding area.

 

First up, flight controls. He gave the stick a gentle nudge, felt the resistance push back against his hand. The pedals moved smoothly under his feet, responsive and precise. Felt good, just like an extension of his body.

 

Next, he checked the avionics. Radar, comms, navigation—all online and functioning properly.

The navigation systems were already aligned, thanks to the ground crew. He verified the GPS and INS coordinates. All correct. Moving on to the weapons systems, he confirmed that the LRASMs were armed and ready. The targeting pods were operational, their sensors primed. He continued down the checklist, methodically verifying each system. Hydraulics, electrical, environmental control—all in the green. The Super Hornet was ready for action.

 

Satisfied with the status of his aircraft, Maverick toggled his mic. "Knighthawk 201, all systems go. Ready for launch."

"Roger, Knighthawk 201. You are cleared to taxi to Cat 2," the air boss responded.

“Knighthawk 201, taxiing to Cat 2.” Maverick acknowledged the command and began to maneuver his Super Hornet out of the parking area. He carefully guided the jet along the marked lines on the flight deck, following the directions of the yellow-shirted flight deck personnel.

 

As he approached the catapult, he saw the crew working to prepare for the launch. The plane director, illuminated by the glow of his wands, signaled for Maverick to align the nose gear with the catapult shuttle.

 

Maverick inched forward, carefully positioning the aircraft as directed. Once in place, he locked the brakes. The catapult crew moved swiftly, raising the launch bar, connecting the holdback bar, and checking the connections.

 

While the crew worked, Maverick ran through his final checks. He ensured that all the control surfaces were free and clear, and that the engines were running smoothly. The whine of the twin turbofans filled his ears, a reassuring sound that never failed to get his heart racing.

"Knighthawk 201, you are cleared to take tension," the catapult officer’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Roger, setting takeoff power.”

 

Maverick pushed the throttle forward until he felt the familiar tug of the engines straining against the holdback bar. He watched the tension gauge climb, waiting for the signal to launch.

 

The catapult officer, commonly referred to as the ‘shooter’, made a final visual check, ensuring that everything was in order. Satisfied, he turned to face Maverick, his hands poised to give the launch signal.

 

Maverick took a deep breath, his hands gripping the control stick and throttle. He was ready. Ready to be hurled down the track, to feel the sudden acceleration pressing him back into his seat. Ready to climb into the sky and be one of the Fifth Fleet’s first fleet aces.

 

He focused his gaze on the shooter, waiting for the signal that would send him hurtling into the unknown.

 

The catapult officer's arms shot forward, pointing down the deck. It was the signal Maverick had been waiting for. He braced himself, his body tensing as he prepared for the sudden acceleration.

 

In an instant, the holdback bar released, and the catapult fired. Maverick felt the powerful jolt as his Super Hornet was propelled forward, the force slamming him back into his seat. The flight deck blurred past, a dizzying rush of gray and yellow.

 

As the end of the deck approached, Maverick pulled back on the stick, urging the nose of the aircraft skyward. The Super Hornet responded eagerly, leaping into the air like a bird taking flight. The sudden acceleration and steep climb reminded him of the roller coasters he loved as a kid. It was that same rush of adrenaline, that feeling of defying gravity, that had inspired him to become a pilot in the first place.

 

The transition from the controlled chaos of the carrier to the tranquil blue of the sky was always a breathtaking experience. No matter how many times he launched, Maverick never lost his sense of wonder at the sheer thrill of it all. It was like being on the world's most incredible thrill ride, one that he got to experience almost every single day.

 

Maverick retracted the landing gear and flaps, quickly gaining altitude. He performed a quick post-launch check, ensuring all systems were functioning properly. Satisfied, he banked to the left, circling back towards the carrier to wait for the rest of his squadron.

 

"Knighthawk 202, airborne," Slider's voice crackled over the radio, confirming that he had successfully launched.

 

One by one, the other members of VFA-136 reported in as they joined the formation circling above the carrier. Maverick kept a watchful eye on his radar, tracking their positions and ensuring that everyone was accounted for.

 

As the last aircraft slotted into place, Maverick heard the voice of the Air Wing Commander over the radio. "Knighthawks, this is Overlord. You are cleared to proceed to the target area. Maintain attack formation and await further instructions."

 

"Roger that, Overlord," Maverick acknowledged. "Knighthawks, let's move out."

 

Maverick and the Knighthawks settled into a steady cruise as they made their way towards the target area. The endless expanse of blue sky and shimmering ocean stretched out before them, broken only by the occasional wisp of cloud.

 

As they flew, the pilots maintained a steady stream of chatter over the radio, a mixture of technical jargon and good-natured ribbing.

 

"You guys ever wonder what the Gra Valkans eat for breakfast? I bet it's something weird, like pickled herring, eh?”

 

Maverick chuckled. “Negative, 204. Pretty sure they just have a big bowl of nationalism every morning. Keeps ‘em angry and irrational.”

 

“Real. Maybe we should send them a care package of democracy: freedom fries and liber-tea, help ‘em see the light.”

 

“Only thing that’ll help them see the light is that right, up, down, right, left,” Slider commented.

“Facts,” Maverick agreed as the other Knighthawks joined in.

 

“Ay, speakin’ of eatin’ tho, y’all heard that eatin’ food with mana in it gives you magic?” Someone else asked.

 

“Huh? That another one of your conspiracy things, Hudgens?”

 

“Nah, it’s legit! It’s on the news, too! Something about microevolution or sum,” Hudgens explained.

 

That was the first Maverick had heard of that. Were they adapting to the environment of Elysia? Before he could get any more information out of Hudgens, though, the voice of the E-2D Hawkeye controller cut in over the main channel.

 

“Knighthawk 201, this is Watchdog. Update on enemy fleet disposition: they are deploying air superiority fighters and dive bombers. Stand by for further instructions.”