#Naval Air Station Pensacola

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

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The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

[swantales-aw0owo0]

Just a little something I’ve been cooking (attempting to write a secretly married hangster fic so I figured out an entire timeline pre-Tg:m cause the timeline is kinda fucked in the movies)

Bradley is born in ‘84 (June 27)

Jake is born in ‘87 (January 3)

Top gun takes place in ‘86

Carole dies in ‘96 (Bradley moves in with Ice and Mav)(he’s 12)

Bradley’s papers are pulled, he begins to attend UCSD (University of California San Diego), and he stops talking to Mav in ‘02

(College in the fall of ‘02)

Jake, Javy, and Natasha all attend the US Naval Academy in Annapolis together. Jake and Javy bunk together and become fast friends/brothers. Nat becomes friends with Javy but can’t get past Jake’s persona to get along with him. ‘05

Bradley graduates with a bachelor’s degree in PoliSci and a minor in History spring of ‘06

Bradley and Jake meet in the summer of ‘06 right before Bradley goes to flight school and after Jake’s first year at the Naval Academy in Annapolis.

Bradley then goes to Pensacola for 18 months (‘06-‘07) continuing to meet up with Jake whenever possible

Bradley gets stationed at the Naval Base San Diego from ‘07-‘08

Bradley is invited to and wins Top Gun in ‘08 before being sent to the Naval Air Station Jacksonville

Jake, Javy, and Nat all graduate from the Naval Academy in ‘08 and then spend 18 months in Pensacola for flight school (‘08-‘09)

Javy and Jake are stationed together

Nat gets stationed with Bradley who’s heard his boyfriend (husband) complaining about her and befriends her.

Jake, Javy, and Nat all attend Top Gun together in ‘09 and Bradley is sent back to NAS San Diego. This is when Nat finds out about their relationship. Jake scrapes a win at top gun, very closely followed by Nat then Javy.

December 18 ‘10 DADT is repealed

They fly up to Vermont to get married in a courthouse and then “honeymoon” in NY December 21 ‘11 after taking time off for Christmas. Javy and Nat attend as their best man/woman and witnesses

The four get stationed on the USS. George Washington where the “rivalry” between Jake and Bradley is established from their banter over comms and on the carrier. They spend 18 months there before they’re all split up. (‘11-‘12)

Over the next 8 years the four are moved around occasionally stationed with each other. Jake and Bradley have a house together in Cali (Bradley’s parents house) for any free time they have.

From ‘20 onward Jake is flying with the Vigilantes out of Lemoore and Bradley is on board the USS Theodore Roosevelt flying with the Golden Warriors.

‘22 TG:M (Bradley is 38, Jake is 35, Mav is 60)

I spent a long time on the logistics of years and math so if you see any mistakes no you didn’t <3

[nocternalrandomness]

National Naval Aviation Museum - Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida

The National Naval Aviation Museum is the world’s largest Naval Aviation museum and one of the most-visited museums in the state of Florida. It features more than 150 beautifully restored aircraft representing Navy, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard Aviation. These historic and one-of-a-kind aircraft are displayed both inside the Museum’s over 350,000 square feet of exhibit space and outside on its 37-acre grounds.

[carbone14]

Lockheed PV-2 Harpoon – US National Museum of Naval Aviation – Naval Air Station Pensacola – Floride – Etats-Unis – 18 juin 2009

©U.S. National Museum of Naval Aviation

[usafphantom2]

A USMC KC-130F and a British Royal Navy FRS Mark 1 Sea Harrier at Pensacola Naval Air Station May 1986. (paquette)

@kadonkey via X

[lukin08]

Up In The Air Chapter 9

Kristanna Modern AU

Rated T

WC 3048

Summary: Tired of her nomad lifestyle, traveling nurse Anna Arendelle on a whim picks Pensacola Florida as her new town to try find a sense of home. Meanwhile, Navy Pilot Kristoff Bjorgman has accepted a dream position at the Naval station in the same town. After a chance encounter goes south, the two of them find their lives entwined, with neither of them all that happy about it!

Also Available on AO3

Previous Chapter

“Anna!” Nicole exclaimed for the fifth time as Anna tried to justify another clash she had with Kristoff from the last year.

Kristoff couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face listening to Nicole reprimand Anna.  They were sitting on opposite ends of the couch with Nicole pacing in front of them.  He almost jumped out of his seat when Nicole directed her ire at him.

“I don’t know what you think is so funny.  You’re just as bad as Anna.”

Kristoff’s eyes went wide with the weight of Nicole’s words directed at him.  From the corner of his sight, he could make out the scowl on Anna’s directed at him.  It baffled him how someone as small as Anna could be so intimidating.  It made him slump down against the couch to minimize the space he was taking up.

After a while, Kristoff grew weary of hashing out the last year with Nicole.  All the arguments, his justifications, Anna’s wild versions of what really happened; it all brought back his annoyance again.  Kristoff laid his head against the back of the couch.  He knew all this was childish, but there was something about Anna he couldn’t shake and he was almost ashamed to admit he liked getting a rise out of her.  But now he was done for the night and looking for a way out.

“So,” Nicole finally said, putting her hands on her hips. “Do you think you can both be adults and make up?”

Anna sat back, crossing her arms.  “We’re all good as long as he stays away from me.”

“Don’t need an invitation for that,” Kristoff interjected, making his eye roll obvious.

“You see,” Anna said first looking at Nicole then focusing on Kristoff.  That look was back and he knew she was incapable of letting this go.  “I feel like you do.  It’s like you can’t stay away from me.”

He turned and glared at Anna.  “Yeah, like when you see a car wreck on the highway and can’t look away.”

“Kris!” Nicole reprimanded.

Anna shot forward, her arms out in a plea to Nicole.  “This!  This is what I’m talking about!  He doesn’t leave me alone.  He continues to bug me over and over like the mosquito he must have been in a former life.”

In the background, Sven was trying to stifle a laugh.  Kristoff shot Sven a stare and noticed Camilla was also laughing.

“Anna, I don’t think- “

Anna cut Nicole off “Or maybe a gnat. Whatever is more annoying.”  Anna flung herself back on the couch, her eyebrows scrunched together.

“Alright, that’s enough.”  Kristoff slapped his thighs and stood up.  His eyes scanned the group in the living room. “It’s been fun, but I realized I don’t have to sit here and take any of this.”  He started to move towards the door. 

“Kris, come on.  Don’t leave,” Nicole implored.

Kristoff paused, quickly shaking his head as he looked over at Nicole. “Nah, I think I will.  Enjoy the rest of your evening and your new friend.”  He turned back and took several large strides towards his exit.

“That’s not fair.  Please- “

Kristoff was already out the door slamming it behind him before Nicole could finish her sentence.

“…come back.” Nicole turned back to Anna, a defeated look across her face.  “I’m sorry.  That’s not what I wanted to happen.”

Anna waived her off, pretending Kristoff storming off didn’t bother her.  “I’m used to it.  People have been doing that all my life.”

********************

The light raps on the door made Kristoff flinch.  He jumped up hoping it wasn’t Boss coming to reprimand him for not joining the group for dinner.  He wasn’t in the mood to be around anyone, the madness from Monday still a fresh wound.  Kristoff was hoping that leaving for the show would give him some reprieve, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen.

Sven was on the other side grinning from ear to ear. “So, this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Kristoff sighed.  “What do you want, Sven?”

“Can I come in?  Thought we could watch a movie.”

Kristoff took a step back and gestured for Sven to come into the room.  “Is Boss pissed?”

“Nah.  He gets it.  We all have our off times.  But you missed a hell of a dinner.  What did you do anyway tonight?  Sulk in here?”

“I went for a run if you must know.”

Sven shrugged and looked around.  “At least you weren’t hanging out at the bar alone.  Which bed are you using?”

Sven jumped on the opposite bed that Kristoff pointed to and started scanning for movies.  Kristoff went and sat in his own bed against the headboard.  Thankfully Sven picked a comedy he didn’t have to think about.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“Ok.”

“I just didn’t want to be around anyone.”

“If that’s what you say.”

“There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

Kristoff didn’t respond.  Thankfully Sven let it drop and focused back to the TV.  After the movie, they switched on a game from the West Coast that was still on.  In as bad of a mood Kristoff had been in all week, he was still grateful for moments like this.  To have his best friend come in and do something as simple as watching a movie with him was something Kristoff didn’t take for granted.  They had spent the last ten years seeing each other a few times a year and it was nice not to have to worry about that for at least a few years.  

But Kristoff knew Sven also had an ulterior motive.  They needed to talk about what happened on Monday.  Sven wasn’t going to let Kristoff get away with that, but he was giving Kristoff the space to bring it up.

Finally, Kristoff relented.  He couldn’t take the dead space between them. “How angry is Nicole with me?”

Sven waived his finger, smiling as he looked at the TV.  “Now that is who you need to be worried about.  Not Boss.  Glad to see you finally figured that out.”

Kristoff winced.  “That bad, huh?”

Sven turned towards Kristoff.  “She’s more disappointed than angry.” He stared over at Kristoff for a few moments before breaking out into a grin.  “How was that? I was practicing my dad voice.”

The pillow hit Sven square in the face. He yelped as he fell back.  “Damn, Kris,” Sven said as he rubbed his nose.  “You didn’t have to throw it that hard.”

Then don’t be a smart ass all the time.”

Sven laid there for a few minutes looking over at the game again.  He let out a small chuckle before he spoke.  “Look man, I think this is funny as hell.  I mean what are the chances?”

“Just my luck.”

“You know, I think there’s a part of you that actually enjoys all the bickering with Anna.”

“Yeah, ok.”

“No really.  She keeps you on your toes. A little bit of a challenge.”

“Can we not talk about Anna. I’m more concerned about Nicole and the possibility of never being allowed to step foot at your doorstep again.”

“Nicole’s not mad at you.  She’s frustrated with the situation.  If I had to describe it, she’s more sad than anything.”

That wasn’t the response Kristoff expected. “Sad?”

“Yeah, you know,” Sven’s arms fell to his side. “She really likes Anna and you’re like a brother to her.  She was hoping everyone would get along.  Now it’s all fucked up and if you two are going to butt heads all the time…”  

“I don’t have to go to anything that Nicole wants Anna at. If it makes it easier, don’t worry about me.  I’m fine.”

Sven shifted again and looked Kristoff in the eyes.  “No, that’s not ok.  I’m asking you as my best friend. Don’t make Nicole choose.  Don’t do that to her.” 

Guilt washed over Kristoff.  He knew Sven was right, but all he could do was nod back.

“As entertaining as it is, can you at least try not arguing with her as much?  Maybe keep it to a light banter around Nicole.”

Kristoff wanted to scoff at the request, but he held it in.  “Yeah, bud.  I’ll try.”

Sven smiled and sat back. “Good, because Nicole invited Anna to the Memorial Day remembrance.”

“She what?!”

“Hey, you’ve been warned with plenty of advance notice.” Sven pointed a finger at Kristoff.  

It was enough for Kristoff to only let out a small grumble before turning back to the tv.  They settled back into watching the game a now comfortable silence between them.  After a few minutes Sven spoke again.

“I have to ask you something.  I’ve held back asking you forever, but now you owe me.”

“What?”

“If that night you met Anna hadn’t gone to shit.  Don’t tell Nicole this by the way, but I’m on your side with that.  But if things hadn’t gone sideways, would you have asked to see her again?”

The question hung out between them. Kristoff could feel the weight of it in his chest.  He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to say it out loud.  But Sven was right.  Kristoff owed him.

“Yes,” he said flatly not taking his eyes off the TV.

********************

The wing was void of any activity as Anna walked down the corridor.  The hospital was inching closer to the pediatric wing opening and it was exciting to see it start to take shape.  But the walk to the new wing was quiet and it felt lonely with all the lack of activity.  Anna did her best to shake off that isolating feeling that always seemed to be stalking right behind her and walked faster to the last set of doors

The committee was meeting to take a tour of the progress. She couldn’t wait to really get to work, making the area an inviting place for the children and their families.  Beyond the state-of-the-art equipment, there were murals, decorations, books and toys all waiting to fill up the space. She walked through the doors and into an open space that would be a staging and area for families waiting for doctor appointments.  The whole room would be lined with bookshelves and interactive toys.  

Anna stopped when she noticed Kristoff sitting on one of the benches, hunched over with his back turned to her.  It was just her luck that he’d be the first one here.  He looked towards Anna briefly as she started walking again only to turn back without any acknowledgement.

She rolled her eyes.  Kristoff was not going to get under her skin today.  At least that was the mantra she had been repeating to herself all day.  It was the first time they had seen each other since the incident, as Anna referred to it, at Nicole’s and there was no way she was going to let him think it rattled her.  She threw her shoulders back and purposely walked over to a chair near him.

He nodded her existence when she sat down.  Anna quickly pulled out her phone after a quick hello.  She did a good job ignoring him for all of thirty seconds when she noticed something in his hands.  He was flipping through note cards and when she looked closer, she could see handwriting on them.  Anna was intrigued.  Studying him closer, Kristoff was not his usual cool collected self.  In fact, he almost looked nervous.

With a sly grin, Anna leaned forward, getting closer to Kristoff.  “What’cha got there Cap?”

“Huh?” Kristoff glanced up at Anna, almost startled before he was able to put on his emotionless mask on his face.  He quickly cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

Anna grinned.  “Come on, share.”

“It’s none of your business.”  He sat back against the bench, looking towards the entrance like he was willing someone to walk through.

Anna didn’t relent. “What is it? Top secret?”

“No.”  He looked back down at the cards he was holding, tapping them on his thigh.  “Why do you care anyway?”

“Just curious what’s making you so nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Right.”  Anna shook her head.  “Then why do you look like your about to be called into the principal’s office?”

He let out a loud sigh, slumping his shoulders.  “It’s that obvious?”

“Yes, unless you’re going for the about to yack up your breakfast look.”

Kristoff chuckled and it almost made Anna smile knowing she cracked what she thought was the impervious shell he wore.  “I, uh, have a presentation to give this afternoon.”

Anna sat back, crossing her arms.  “And?”

“I had to do it last year too and let’s just say it could have gone better.”

“Who’s it for, the head of Navy or something?”

“Worse.  It’s for a bunch of high schoolers. 

Anna burst out laughing envisioning Kristoff giving some dry speech to a group of teenagers. “Oh, they ate you alive, didn’t they?”

“No, but only because it was the ROTC and a group of the sports teams.  This year I’m in front of a whole auditorium of these kids today. I’m toast.”

“It can’t be that bad.”  Anna held out her hand. “Gimme.”

It took a moment, but Kristoff finally relented and handed his notecards over to Anna.  She flipped through them, before stacking them together and handing them back to him.  “I take it back.  It is that bad.”

“Fuck.  But I have to cover certain topics and- “

Anna held out her hand to stop him.  “You fly jets for a living.”

“So?”

“So?!” Anna’s arms flew up in exasperation.  “You have the coolest job in the world!  Tell them about it.”

“It’s not really that glamorous,” Kristoff said, brushing her off.

“I don’t buy that for a second.  Come on, tell me something.”

Kristoff tilted his head at Anna. “Like what?”

“Like something about what you do.  What’s the best flight you ever had?”

Kristoff thought for a moment then broke into a small grin.  “It had to be dancing with the Northern Lights at 40K feet while flying North of the Artic circle.  I’ve never been so in awe of anything in this world as I was that night.”

Anna nodded in appreciation trying to imagine what Kristoff saw.  “And what’s the scariest thing about flying?  Teenager approved answers only.”

“That’s easy.  Night carrier landings in a storm with the carrier pitching and rolling.”

“Tell them that. Tell them about a time you had to do that.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.  Tell them what scares you, a funny story, why you love flying. Mix them into your presentation.”  Anna stood up, noticing some other people enter the room.  Then she added, “They’ll love it, and you might trick them into thinking you are actually human, not just a robot spitting out facts.”  Anna walked away, not giving Kristoff an opportunity to respond.

*******************

The tour went by too quickly for Anna.  Her head was filled with ideas on how to make the pediatrics wing an inviting space for the children and families.  There was a twinge of disappointment when the tour was over until the administrator giving the tour asked if anyone would like to visit the current pediatric area.  Anna lit up, jumping at the opportunity.

Unfortunately, everyone had to bow out except for Kristoff.   She was surprised he agreed to go over to the floor, convinced he would have ducked out at the first opportunity.  They followed the administrator until she said she needed to stop at her office and asked Anna to show Kristoff the way to the floor.

They walked in silence down the hallway, Kristoff keeping a step behind her.  

“Can I ask you something?” Kristoff asked, breaking the silence.

“Ask away, Cap.”

“Why did you decide to be nice to me earlier?”

A small grin came over Anna’s face.  “I don’t know if I was being nice.  Helpful, yes.  But they aren’t the same thing.”

“Ok fine.  Why were you helping me?”

“Pity.”

She saw Kristoff pull a face at her, but he didn’t say anything.  After a few moments, he responded.  “You got the talk, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“I knew it.  Guess we need to be on our best behavior.”

“Nicole is my friend and Sven too…don’t give me that face.  I’m not going to lose her because of you.  If it takes putting on the air of civility with you, then fine.”

“You stay in your lane, and I’ll stay in mine?”

“Exactly.”

Kristoff pondered that for a second before saying.  “I can live with that.”

The time on the pediatric floor flew by for Anna.  She was in her element stopping to talk to the children.  She made sure to talk to each of them, not leaving until she got a smile or laugh.  She even promised to come back to visit a few of the children on her breaks at work.  It was something she was looking forward to.

As she was getting ready to head out, she realized she hadn’t seen Kristoff.  He had come into a few of the first rooms with her not saying too much until a small child they met in the hall, enamored by his uniform, took his fingers in their hand and led him away.  He’d been gone since, and she figured he must have made his escape some time ago.

Anna did a double take, stopping quickly to back up when she swore she saw something out of the corner of her eye.  When she went to peer into the common play area for the children, there was Kristoff, sitting on the floor with a group of children surrounding him.  A young boy was pointing to his shoulder boards, asking about them and the service ribbons on his shirt.  

She leaned against the doorframe in disbelief.  “Wasn’t expecting that,” Anna said to herself.

Another nurse saw Anna and walked over, a large smile on her face.  She looked back at Kristoff. “He’s got a big group of fans.  Been here over an hour with all the kids.”

Before she could say anything, Kristoff caught her eye.  He gave her a small wave and a sheepish smile and Anna couldn’t help but return a warm smile.  Maybe she didn’t have Kristoff Bjorgman completely figured out.

[lonestarflight]

Vought OS2U Kingfisher at the Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, circa early 1941.

Note: in the background is a Consolidated P2Y flying boat.

wawstl: link

[captain-price-unofficially]

A U.S. Navy North American SNJ Texan assigned to the Naval School of Photography at Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida. Pictured on a training flight over the Gulf of Mexico. 22 June 1943

[lonestarbattleship]

USS Lexington (AVT-16) docked at the Naval Air Station, in Pensacola, Florida, on October 1, 1980.

NARA: 6404233

[mariacallous]

On July 31, 2022, a U.S. drone strike killed al Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri at a Taliban guest house in Kabul. A year later, al Qaeda has still not announced Zawahiri’s successor.

This has made it difficult for the core group to stake a claim to the leadership of the global jihadi movement or even to remain an important player regionally or internationally. Indeed, al Qaeda, the broader set of affiliate groups it claims to lead, and the jihadi movement as a whole have all suffered repeated blows in recent years—reducing the threat to the United States and its allies.

For an organization that once struck fear into the hearts and minds of millions of Americans after Sept. 11, 2001, and sparked a so-called global war on terror that dramatically reoriented U.S. foreign policy for two decades, al Qaeda’s almost complete disappearance from both the daily news headlines and the broader foreign-policy conversation in Washington these days is remarkable.

A quick look at the number of deadly jihadi attacks in the United States since 9/11 suggests the organization’s decline in both capabilities and ideological influence. According to data from the New America Foundation, jihadis have killed 107 Americans on U.S. soil since 9/11, compared with the 130 killed by right-wing terrorists. The last significant jihadi attack was four years ago, when a Saudi Air Force trainee working with al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP), the group’s Yemen branch, killed three sailors at the Pensacola Naval Air Station in 2019. Pensacola was the only post-9/11 attack on U.S. soil that a jihadi group abroad coordinated; the others involved jihadis who were inspired by al Qaeda or its onetime affiliate turned competitor, the Islamic State, but who had little or no contact with the groups themselves.

The core organization that Zawahiri led has not directed an attack on the United States since 9/11, and after a spate of bloody attacks in Europe, has not conducted one there since the London attacks of 2005—almost 20 years ago. In Europe, affiliates such as AQAP have had more success, such as that group’s 2015 attack on the Charlie Hebdo cartoonists, but their operations have also decreased in recent years. The Islamic State has conducted more attacks than al Qaeda affiliates, including devastating shootings and suicide bombings in Paris and Brussels in 2015 and 2016 respectively, but a pattern of decline in Europe is clear.

Once-strong affiliates such as AQAP, as well as al Qaeda-linked groups in the Philippines, Syria, and other countries, have suffered numerous leadership losses, internal divisions, and other debilitating problems, making it harder for them to conduct external attacks. Measuring overall support is difficult, but foreign fighters no longer flock to places like Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria, where the Islamic State and al Qaeda were once ascendant and are now far weaker. To be clear, the picture is not all bad for jihadis—in Africa, new jihadi organizations are emerging, and strong groups such as al-Shabab in Somalia are flourishing—but decline is evident in most of the rest of the world.

Part of this weakness is due to the civil war that erupted in 2013 within the jihadi movement between al Qaeda and its upstart offshoot, the Islamic State. In many Muslim countries, most notably Afghanistan, parts of the Sahel, and Syria, al Qaeda and its allies directly waged war against the rival Islamic State organization and its so-called “provinces.” Today in Afghanistan, allies of al Qaeda—the Taliban—are in a bloody fight with the Islamic State’s proxy. In addition to the tangible impact the death toll has had on the capabilities of all involved, this infighting also discredited both movements: Few starry-eyed, would-be holy warriors are eager to sign up to kill other holy warriors.

The movement has also fragmented and localized. Most of the affiliate groups— from Mali to Nigeria to Afghanistan—now focus almost exclusively on the local civil war or insurgency that they are fighting in. You still do not want to be a Western missionary or tourist who stumbles across their path, but this shift in focus reduces the chance of an international terrorist attack. Some jihadi groups, such as those in West Africa, probably could launch a terrorist strike on the West if they put in the effort—they are just focused elsewhere. Their brutality is directed toward their own countries and at their neighbors, with thousands of people—many of them Muslims themselves—dying from terrorist attacks and civil wars involving jihadi groups.

The enduring counterterrorism campaign against al Qaeda and its affiliates, as well as the Islamic State and other parts of the movement, has also taken its toll. U.S. drone strikes have relentlessly decimated the ranks of the senior al Qaeda core, affiliate leaders, and other jihadi figures, even when they try to hide in remote parts of Pakistan, Somalia, and Yemen. Today, the core al Qaeda organization has “far fewer” than 200 fighters, according to the Defense Intelligence Agency.

The anti-Islamic State campaign, too, has proved highly effective. At the height of its so-called caliphate in 2014 and 2015, the group ruled over millions of people and controlled territory in Iraq and Syria the size of Great Britain. But by 2019, the U.S.-led coalition drove the caliphate underground. The group still launches attacks in Iraq and Syria and has thousands of fighters there, but like many al Qaeda affiliates, it appears focused on the civil war it is fighting, not international terrorism.

U.S. training and aid extended to foreign militaries and security forces has made them more capable of and more willing to target local jihadi groups, while an ongoing global intelligence campaign disrupts jihadi cells around the world. Because of this constant manhunt, it is dangerous for jihadi leaders to communicate, making it hard for them to direct affiliate groups and operatives, further decentralizing the movement. As the groups weaken, they have a harder time overcoming more rigorous airport screening and travel controls, while more aggressive FBI efforts make it more likely that plots in the United States will be discovered.

With variations, this broad counterterrorism campaign began under U.S. President George W. Bush after 9/11 and continued in the Barack Obama, Donald Trump, and now Joe Biden administrations, suggesting that it has considerable staying power regardless of which party is in the White House.

It may also explain part of why al Qaeda has not named a new leader. Some senior al Qaeda operatives are hiding in Iran, including Saif al-Adel, whom some say is al Qaeda’s de facto leader. Tehran does not cooperate with U.S. intelligence, and Iran is a no-go zone for the U.S. military, as a strike there would be seen as an act of war. That makes it hard to target operatives there. (Though Israel managed to kill a senior al Qaeda figure in Iran.)

However, the Iranian government also places restrictions on al Qaeda figures in the country, as Tehran hardly needs another reason for the United States and its allies to punish it. In addition, in the highly sectarian world of jihadi politics, al Qaeda’s quiet alliance with Iran is a source of  criticism from the Islamic State and other jihadis. Having your de facto leader be a prisoner, or at least muzzled, in a country that many jihadis consider to be worse than the United States is hardly a way to win new followers.

Obama, Trump, and Biden all sought to reduce the U.S. military presence in the Middle East and Afghanistan, with the 2021 withdrawal from Afghanistan being the most dramatic example. Such a shift has reduced the number of nearby U.S. targets and simply made the United States less important to the region (often at the expense of U.S. influence and regional stability), making it hard to push locally focused groups to see the United States as their main enemy. In addition, the civil wars in Mali, Somalia, Yemen, and elsewhere do not have the emotive power for many Muslims that Iraq did after 2003 or Syria after 2011, reducing the number of foreigners who volunteer to fight in the jihadi ranks.

Afghanistan remains an important question mark. The Taliban appear to value international legitimacy, but their hosting of Zawahiri and general refusal to distance themselves from al Qaeda raise questions about whether the group will allow their territory to again be used to stage international terrorist attacks. Although the United States was able to kill Zawahiri in Afghanistan, the lack of an on-the-ground presence makes it hard to gather intelligence, conduct strikes, and otherwise maintain pressure on groups in the region.

Zawahiri’s death compounded many problems for the jihadi movement. There is no obvious successor, as most members of the founding generation are dead or, like Adel, isolated from the rest of the movement. With no clear leader, it is hard for the core organization to direct its affiliates or even to encourage unaffiliated jihadis to attack the United States: These loose cannons will find inspiration elsewhere or nowhere at all.

Perhaps most importantly, time does not appear to be on al Qaeda’s side. The terrorist world is highly competitive, and as al Qaeda dawdles, new causes and groups arise to compete for money and recruits, while the U.S.-led counterterrorism campaign continues to thin its ranks.

[roosterforme]

Emily! So I live in the Florida panhandle, right, and I just got back from the blue Wahoos game, which is Pensacola, Florida’s. Minor league, baseball team, and the only thing I can think about the entire time is coach, kitten, and Everett, not only is Pensacola a baseball town they’re also a navy town. there’s a Naval air Station Pensacola, so there were a lot of navy men at this baseball game, and whenever they play danger zone, the amount of obvious naval aviators that stood up was hilarious 

Ahhhhhhh!!!!!!! OMG!!!! That is so cool!! Coach, Kitten and Everett would absolutely love going to minor league games together. And I would have screamed when they played Danger Zone 😂

[gerardlesudiste]

Portrait de femme : La Lieutenante Amanda Lee, première femme pilote de jet de démonstration des célèbres et mythiques "Blue Angels" de l'US Navy.

Le lieutenant Amanda Lee est originaire de Mounds View, Minnesota. Elle est diplômée de l'Irondale High School en 2004, où elle a participé à des compétitions de soccer, de hockey sur glace et de natation. Pendant ses études à l'Université du Minnesota Duluth, Amanda s'est enrôlée dans la marine américaine en tant que technicienne en électronique d'aviation (AT) et a eu son premier commandement avec le Strike Fighter Squadron 136 (VFA-136) "Knighthawks". Elle a été sélectionnée pour sont admission en service en tant que pilote par le biais du Seaman-to-Admiral (STA-21) programme de mise en service en 2009.

L'année suivante, Lee a assisté à la Naval Science Institute (NSI) pour la formation des officiers à Newport, Rhode Island, et a commencé simultanément ses études à Old Dominion University à Norfolk, en Virginie, où elle a obtenu un baccalauréat ès sciences en biochimie. Amanda a obtenu sa commission dans la marine américaine en août 2013 et a fait rapport à la Naval Air Station (NAS) Pensacola, en Floride, pour commencer sa formation de pilote naval.

Elle a suivi l'Aviation Preflight Indoctrinement (API) en Avril 2014 et a terminé la formation de vol primaire en novembre 2014 dans le T-6B Texan II au NAS Whiting Field tout en étant attaché au Training Squadron Two (VT-2) "Doerbirds". Ensuite, elle s'est rendue au NAS Kingsville, au Texas, où elle a terminé sont entraînement en vol intermédiaire et avancé dans le T-45C Goshawk tout en étant attaché au VT-22 "Golden Eagles".

Amanda Lee a été désigné aviateur naval en avril 2016. Après avoir gagné ses ailes d'or, Amanda a été intégré au Strike Fighter Squadron 106 (VFA-106) "Gladiators"a la NAS Oceana à Virginia Beach, Virginie, pour s'entraîner sur le F/A-18 Super Hornet. Sa première affectation à la flotte était avec le Strike Fighter Squadron 81 (VFA-81) "Sunliners" de la NAS Oceana, Virginie, où elle a effectué deux déploiements de combat à bord du porte-avions USS Harry S Truman (CVN-75) soutenant l'opération Inherent Resolve (OIR), l'opération Freedom Sentinel (OFS) et l'exercice Trident Juncture de l'OTAN. Parallèlement au vol, elle a occupé le poste d'officier des horaires, Officier du mess du café, officier de la division de ligne et normalisation de la formation et des procédures d'exploitation de l'aéronavale (NATOPS) Officier.

À la fin de son déploiement 2019-2020, Amanda est revenue au VFA-106 en tant qu'instructrice F/A-18 E/ Super Hornet, pilote (IP) pour former les aviateurs navals nouvellement ailés et les officiers de bord de la marine dans l'emploi tactique du Super Hornet. Tout au long de son séjour à VFA-106, Amanda a été agente des horaires, chef des opérations Représentant, officier de planification du détachement, officier de quart principal et chef d'équipe de démonstration de Rhino.

Amanda a rejoint les Blue Angels en septembre 2022. Elle cumule plus de 1 400 heures de vol et plus de 225 atterrissages arrêtés sur des porte-avions. Ses décorations comprennent quatre médailles d'honneur de la Marine et divers récompenses personnelles et unitaires.

Photos © US Navy.

[venezuelatrending]

Who are the Blue Angels Pensacola Florida

Blue Angels Pensacola Florida by Gorila Travel The Blue Angels is the United States Navy’s flight demonstration squadron. The squadron was created in 1946, making it one of the oldest performing U.S. military aviation demonstration teams. The Blue Angels are stationed at Naval Air Station (NAS) Pensacola, Florida, and they conduct their practice demonstrations over Pensacola Bay. The team…

[awfulwordmonger]

And here I am, 44 years to the day since I reported for Aviation Officer Candidate School at Naval Air Station Pensacola!

[indynerdgirl]

Happy 248th Birthday to the US Navy!

The bravery of four Catholic chaplains in the line of duty has been recognized by US Navy vessels named in their honor:

Father Aloysius H. Schmitt and the USS Schmitt

Aloysius H. Schmitt was born in St. Lucas,Iowa on December 4, 1909, and was appointed acting chaplain with the rank of Lieutenant (Junior Grade) on June 28, 1939. Serving on his first sea tour, he was hearing confessions on board the battleship USS Oklahoma when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. When the ship capsized, he was entrapped along with several other members of the crew in a compartment where only a small porthole provided a means of escape. He assisted others through the porthole, giving up his own chance to escape, so that more men might be rescued. He received the Navy and Marine Corps Medal posthumously for his courage and self-sacrifice. St. Francis Xavier Chapel, erected at Camp Lejeune in 1942, was dedicated in his memory.

The destroyer escort USS SCHMITT was laid down on February 22, 1943, launched on May 29, 1943, and was commissioned on July 24, 1943. The USS Schmitt was decommissioned and placed in reserve on June 28,1949 and struck from the Navy list on May 1,1967.

Father Joseph T. O'Callahan and the USS O'Callahan

Joseph T. O'Callahan was born in Boston, Massachusetts on May 14, 1905. He received his training for the Roman Catholic priesthood at St. Andrews College, Poughkeepsie, New York and at Weston School of Theology, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Prior to his commissioning as a Navy chaplain on August 7, 1940, he was head of the mathematics department at Holy Cross College. His earlier duty stations included the Naval Air Station, Pensacola, Florida, the USS Ranger, and Naval Air Station, Hawaii.

Chaplain O'Callahan was the Senior Chaplain aboard the aircraft carrier USS Franklin when the Japanese attacked it off the coast of Kobe, Japan, on March 19, 1945. After the ship received at least two well-placed bomb hits, fuel and ammunition began exploding and fires were rampant. The final casualty count listed 341 dead, 431 missing and 300 wounded. Captain L.E. Gehres, commanding officer of the carrier, saw Chaplain O'Callahan manning a hose which laid water on bombs so they would not explode, throwing hot ammunition overboard, giving last rites of his church to the dying, organizing fire fighters, and performing other acts of courage. Captain Gehres exclaimed, "O'Callahan is the bravest man I've ever seen in my life."

Chaplain O'Callahan received the Purple Heart for wounds he sustained that day. He and three other heroes of the war were presented the Congressional Medal of Honor by President Harry S. Truman. He was the first chaplain of any of the armed services to be so honored. He was released from active duty 12 November 1946 to resume his teaching duties and died in 1964.

The destroyer escort USS O'Callahan was laid down on February 19, 1964 and launched on October 20, 1965. Chaplain O'Callahan's sister, Sister Rose Marie O'Callahan, was the sponsor, the first nun tosponsora U.S. Navy ship. The commissioning took place July 13, 1968, at the Naval Shipyard in Boston, Massachusetts. The USS O'Callahan had its shakedown cruise out of San Diego and later operated largely in anti-submarine training and reconnaissance in the Western Pacific. In 1982-83, the ship had an eight-month deployment in the Indian Ocean. The USS O'Callahan was decommissioned on December 20,1988. 

Father Vincent R. Capodanno and the USS Capodanno

Vincent R. Capodanno was born in Richmond County, New York, on February 13, 1929. He was an avid swimmer and a great sports enthusiast. After receiving his training at Fordham University in New York City, Maryknoll Seminary College in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, and Maryknoll Seminaries in Bedford, Massachusetts and New York City, New York, he was ordained on June 7, 1957 by Francis Cardinal Spellman, Archbishop of New York and Military Vicar of the Roman Catholic Military Ordinariate. Shortly thereafter, he began an eight-year period of service in Taiwan and Hong Kong under the auspices of the Catholic Foreign Mission Society.

Chaplain Capodanno received his commission with the rank of Lieutenant on December 28, 1965. Having requested duty with Marines in Vietnam, he joined the First Marine Division in 1966 as a battalion chaplain. He extended his one-year tour by six months in order to continue his work with the men. While seeking to aid a wounded corpsman, he was fatally wounded on September 4, 1967 by enemy sniper fire in the Quang Tin Province. He was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor "for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty...." He had previously been awarded the Bronze Star Medal for bravery under battle conditions.

The destroyer escort USS Capodanno keel was laid down on February 25, 1972; the ship was christened and launched on October 21, 1972 and commissioned on November 17, 1973. The USS Capodanno was designed for optimum performance in anti-submarine warfare. Deployments included operations in the Western Atlantic, West Africa, the Mediterranean, and South America. The USS Capodanno was decommissioned on July 30, 1993.

Father John Francis Laboon, SJ and the USS Laboon

John Francis Laboon, Jr., a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, native, born April 11, 1921, was a member of the Class of 1944 at the U.S. Naval Academy and a distinguished athlete. In World War II, Ensign Laboon was awarded the Silver Star for bravery for diving from his submarine, the USS PETO, to rescue a downed aviator while under heavy fire. Lieutenant Laboon left the Navy after the war to enter the Jesuits. With the Navy never far from his thoughts, he returned to his beloved "blue and gold" as a chaplain in 1958. For the next twenty-one years, he served the Navy-Marine Corps team in virtually every community and location including tours in Alaska, Hawaii, Japan, and Vietnam, where he received the Legion of Merit with Combat "V" for his fearless action as battlefield chaplain. He was the first chaplain assigned to a Polaris Submarine Squadron and Senior Catholic Chaplain at the Naval Academy. Captain Laboon retired in in 1979 as Fleet Chaplain, U.S. Atlantic Fleet and died in 1988.

The launching of the guided missile destroyer Laboon nicknamed the "Fearless 58" took place on February 20, 1993, at Bath Iron Works. The highlight of the event was the presence of the honoree's three sisters and brother. Christening the ship were sisters De Lellis, Rosemary, and Joan, all members of the Sisters of Mercy. Rev. Joseph D. Laboon of the V.A. Medical Center of New Orleans offered the invocation. Former Chief of Navy Chaplains and the then-current Archbishop of New York, Cardinal John O'Connor, offered remarks. The commissioning of the USS Laboon took place on March 18,1995 in Norfolk, VA. Throughout a lifetime of service to God and Country, Chaplain Laboon was an extraordinary example of dedication to Sailors and Marines everywhere.

[all information from the USCCB website]

[usafphantom2]

Marine Air’s Dark Day at Midway

Marine Aircraft Group 22’s experience at the Battle of Midway serves as a hard lesson in trying to do too much with too little.

The 4th of June 1942 was a very bad day for Marine Corps aviation. At the Battle of Midway, Marine Aircraft Group (MAG) 22 suffered terrible losses and contributed little to the U.S. Pacific Fleet’s spectacular victory that day. The group’s fighting squadron, VMF-221, lost far more aircraft than its pilots shot down. Its dive-bomber squadron, VMSB-241, suffered staggering losses without hitting a single Japanese ship.

Midway historians have thoroughly chronicled the actions of these two squadrons and touched on some reasons for their performance. The most cited causes are the obsolescence of Marine aircraft and the inexperience of Marine aviators.1 A closer examination of archival material reveals additional factors that impaired the group’s performance at Midway and new insights into why MAG-22 sent such green pilots into battle.

The heart of MAG-22’s troubles lay in its two competing missions: While forward deployed to defend an advanced base, the group also served as a de facto training command for new aviators. This alone would have undermined its combat readiness. But additional factors worked against MAG-22. In the weeks before the battle, the flight hours the group devoted to training were limited by its responsibilities to defend Midway Atoll and by logistical shortfalls. During the battle, Naval Air Station Midway and MAG-22 were unable to coordinate aircraft from three services based at the atoll. Finally, imprecise direction from Pacific Fleet commander Admiral Chester W. Nimitz led to misunderstandings of how MAG-22 would employ its fighting squadron.

Present-day naval commanders are acutely familiar with the challenge of balancing combat readiness and forward presence. As naval leaders look for ways to maintain Navy and Marine Corps forces in the western Pacific and prepare for possible conflict there, the experience of MAG-22 at Midway provides a sobering reminder of the risks of attempting to do too much with too little.

At Midway, First Lieutenant Daniel Iverson stands on a wing of his shot-up SBD-2 Dauntless, one of MAG-22’s 46 aircraft losses in the Battle of Midway. Later repaired in the United States, the restored SBD is now an exhibit at the National Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola, Florida.

At Midway, First Lieutenant Daniel Iverson stands on a wing of his shot-up SBD-2 Dauntless, one of MAG-22’s 46 aircraft losses in the Battle of Midway. Later repaired in the United States, the restored SBD is now an exhibit at the National Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola, Florida. National Naval Aviation Museum

MAG-22’s Very Bad Day

At 0555 on 4 June 1942, Midway’s radar detected a large formation of aircraft 93 miles northwest of the atoll. MAG-22’s siren wailed. In accordance with orders issued the previous evening by Lieutenant Colonel Ira L. Kimes, the commander of MAG-22, VMF-221 launched its aircraft immediately. A detachment of six Navy TBF Avengers took off next, followed by four Army Air Forces B-26 Marauders armed with torpedoes. The TBFs and B-26s proceeded independently to attack the Japanese carriers. The 16 SBD-2 Dauntlesses and 12 SB2U-3 Vindicators of VMSB-241 took off last and rendezvoused about 20 miles east of Midway’s Eastern Island.2

VMF-221’s commanding officer, Major Floyd B. Parks, had organized his 21 F2A-3 Buffalos and seven F4F-3 Wildcats into four divisions of Buffalos and one of Wildcats. All but one F2A-3 and one F4F-3 were mission ready and got airborne, though the divisions became slightly disorganized during the hasty scramble. The Japanese strike consisted of 108 aircraft—36 Aichi D3A “Val” dive bombers, 36 Nakajima B5N2 “Kate” carrier attack aircraft, and 36 Mitsubishi A6M2 “Zeke,” or Zero, fighters. In accordance with Kimes’ plan, MAG-22’s fighter direction center funneled all five of VMF-221’s divisions to intercept the incoming strike. The Marines had the altitude advantage, and the separate divisions launched a series of overhead gunnery passes against the Japanese bomber formations. As the slower Marine aircraft recovered for additional passes, the nimbler Zeros overtook them and sent one after another tumbling downward.3

There is little doubt VMF-221 got the worst of the fight. The Japanese shot down 15 Marine fighters and severely damaged another nine, leaving just one F2A-3 and one F4F-3 ready to fly. Though Kimes afterward estimated Japanese losses at 43 aircraft, his surviving pilots definitively claimed just nine victories. Kimes’ estimate included “probable victories by missing fighter pilots” as well as claims by rear-seat gunners of VMSB-241.4 The actual total was far lower. VMF-221 probably shot down just three aircraft outright. Another 16 Japanese aircraft survived the raid but either ditched or were so irreparably damaged they could not fly again.5

A PBY Catalina flying boat had spotted the Japanese carriers, and MAG-22 passed their location to VMSB-241.6 Major Lofton R. Henderson, the squadron commander, led the SBDs. Major Benjamin W. Norris, the executive officer, led the SB2Us. While Henderson took his unit to 9,000 feet, Norris climbed to 13,000 feet.7 On paper, the SB2U-3s were nearly as fast as the SBD-2s, but the two flights proceeded independently.8

Because the Marine dive bombers were slower than the TBFs and B-26s, had taken off last, and had flown east before heading northwest, VMSB-241 did not attack until a half hour after the TBF and B-26 attacks had ended. The Japanese combat air patrol had shot down five of the six Avengers and two of the four Marauders; none had scored a hit. When Henderson and his SBDs spotted the carrier Hiryū at about 0755, the Japanese combat air patrol still had 13 fighters aloft.9

Henderson conducted a glide-bombing attack. A dive-bombing attack would have facilitated bombing accuracy and complicated fighter gunnery and antiaircraft solutions. But more than half of Henderson’s pilots were too inexperienced to attempt the technique, and the cloud cover would have made dive bombing particularly difficult.10

The combat air patrol’s Zeros attacked Henderson first. On their second pass, they sent him down in flames. The remaining SBDs continued the gliding attack. One by one, the Marines released their bombs—and missed. Some came petrifyingly close for the Hiryū’s crew, and many Marines mistakenly believed they had scored hits.11

Norris and his Vindicators arrived at about 0820, less than ten minutes after the surviving SBD-2s had departed and amid an attack by Army Air Forces B-17 Flying Fortresses. The combat air patrol had doubled to 26 fighters. Norris descended through the clouds toward the carrier Akagi. The Zeros could not find the dive bombers as long as they were in the safety of the cloud bank, but neither could the Marines see the ships below. When they emerged at 2,000 feet, they saw only the battleship Haruna. Norris also attempted a gliding attack. The Haruna maneuvered evasively, neatly avoiding every one of the Marines’ bombs. The SB2Us hugged the surface and flew back to Midway.12 Only 8 of VMSB-241’s 16 SBD-2s and 8 of its 12 SB2U-3s returned.13

VMSB-241 conducted two more strikes during the battle. That evening Norris led five SB2U-3s and six SBD-2s in a vain search for burning carriers. They found nothing, and Norris did not return, lost in the inky, moonless squalls. On 5 June, VMSB-241 attacked the cruisers Mogami and Mikuma. The squadron lost another Vindicator to antiaircraft fire and again scored no hits.14

What Was Done Well

MAG-22 did some things remarkably well in its first action. Due to superb intelligence and early warning, no airworthy planes were caught on the ground. The fighter direction center placed the fighters in an optimum intercept position. The dive bombers located the Japanese carriers. Most impressively, every fighter and dive-bomber pilot attacked without hesitation into the teeth of a formidable defense.

MAG-22’s efforts indirectly contributed to the destruction of the Akagi and two other carriers, the Kaga and Sōryū, later that morning. As historians Jonathan Parshall and Anthony Tully demonstrated, the cumulative effect of the series of failed attacks by bombers from Midway and U.S. carriers created conditions that delayed Admiral Chūichi Nagumo’s counterattack and placed his carriers at greater vulnerability to the dive bombers from the USS Enterprise (CV-6) and Yorktown (CV-5). Dodging the attacks required the carriers to maneuver violently. Defending against them required the carriers to launch and recover fighters. Perhaps just as important, Nagumo faced a series of menacing dilemmas, complicating his decision-making. When the dive bombers from the Enterprise and Yorktown appeared overhead at 1020, Kates and Vals were still below on the hangar decks, where their fuel and ordnance amplified the destructive power of the American bombs.15

VMF-221 also helped reduce the strength of Nagumo’s counterpunch when it did come. The only carrier that survived the Enterprise and Yorktown dive-bomber attacks was the Hiryū. It was her air group that VMF-221 had attacked. Though the Marine fighters shot down just two Kates outright, another seven Kates were shot down by Marine antiaircraft guns, ditched, or were too damaged to participate in the strikes against the U.S. carriers.16 In other words, the Marines did not bring down many aircraft, but the ones they did bring down were the right ones—aircraft from the Hiryū’s air group.

Nonetheless, 4 June had been an awful day for MAG-22. It had lost many aircraft, shot down only a handful of the enemy, and hit no ships. Forty-two MAG-22 Marines had died; 36 pilots and gunners were missing; and six Marines had been killed in the bombing of Eastern Island.17

‘Not a Combat Airplane’

On 17 April, Major (soon to be Lieutenant Colonel) Ira L. Kimes (below) landed at Midway Atoll to replace Lieutenant Colonel William Wallace as MAG-22 commander. Accompanying Kimes were six second lieutenants, green aviators who replaced six captains, seasoned fliers, who left the atoll with Wallace three days later. Public Domain

Every surviving Marine fighter pilot from VMF-221 attested to the superiority of the Zero over the Marine fighters. Captain

The F2A-3 is not a combat airplane. It is inferior to the planes we were fighting in every respect.

It is my belief that any commander that orders pilots out for combat in a F2A-3 should consider the pilot as lost before leaving the ground.18

Kimes agreed. In his endorsement to his aviator’s statements, Kimes recommended that the fleet relegate the F2A-3 Buffalo, the F4F-3 Wildcat, and the SB2U-3 Vindicator to training commands.19

The Vindicator was indeed past its usefulness. However, there is evidence that neither fighter was to blame for VMF-221’s poor performance. With improved tactics, Marine and Navy pilots would achieve far better results with the F4F in the Solomons. Captain Marion Carl, the only Marine to shoot down a Zero over Midway, believed the F2A-3 was as maneuverable and fast as the F4F-3, and its only drawbacks were that it could not absorb punishment and was less stable as a gunnery platform than the Wildcat.20

Some British and Dutch Buffalo aces, whose squadrons suffered grievously against Imperial Japanese Navy Zeros, attributed their lopsided outcome to Japanese proficiency and numbers rather than the Buffalo’s inferiority. Finnish Buffalo pilots enjoyed great success flying the planes against the Soviets.21 The Buffalo’s mixed performance in other theaters suggests that other factors contributed to VMF-221’s poor performance.

‘Half-Baked Flyers’

When VMF-221 and VMSB-241 had landed on Eastern Island in December 1941, both squadrons were top heavy with experience. VMF-221’s most junior pilot had been flying for at least a year since flight school.22 But the 57 aviators who flew on 4 June included 35 second lieutenants, none of whom had been with their squadron more than four months, and 17 of whom had arrived on 27 May directly from flight school.23

SB2U-3 Vindicator dive bombers take off from Midway’s Eastern Island in early June, possibly to attack Japanese carriers the morning of 4 June. While inferior aircraft—including Vindicators—were factors in MAG-22’s poor performance at Midway, tactics and training played key roles.

SB2U-3 Vindicator dive bombers take off from Midway’s Eastern Island in early June, possibly to attack Japanese carriers the morning of 4 June. While inferior aircraft—including Vindicators—were factors in MAG-22’s poor performance at Midway, tactics and training played key roles. U.S. Naval Institute Photo Archive

In the first half of 1942, Marine aviation had two conflicting missions: defending the fleet’s advanced bases and training new aviators. Newly winged aviators reported to the fleet with just 200 hours of flight time, and none in the aircraft they would fly in combat.24 The new aviators needed operational training, but the aircraft they needed to train in were defending advanced bases in the Pacific.

On 8 January 1942, Brigadier General Ross E. Rowell, the commander of 2d Marine Air Wing, described the dilemma in a letter to Vice Admiral William F. Halsey Jr., the commander of Aircraft, Battle Force, Pacific Fleet: “I have now accumulated 35 second lieutenants in various stages of advanced training. . . . If ComAirBatFor approves and you want some half-baked flyers, send me a dispatch to that effect.” Halsey approved; he directed Rowell to order the green fliers to squadrons like VMF-221 and VMSB-241.25 This decision set in motion a sequence of personnel transfers that diluted the combat readiness of forward-deployed squadrons. As inexperienced aviators joined squadrons at advanced bases, experienced aviators left to form new squadrons in Hawaii and California.

Marine aviation was still following its prewar training pipeline. Once students were designated naval aviators, they reported to squadrons in the Fleet Marine Force for about a year of operational flight training in combat aircraft.26

Not only did MAG-22 not have a year to train its new aviators, but the group’s commitment to the defense of Midway also required it to devote most of its operational flights to patrols and radar calibration vice gunnery and tactics. Less than 30 percent of VMF-221’s missions from December 1941 to May 1942 were dedicated to improving the lethality of its fighter pilots.27

Logistics shortfalls further impinged on the group’s training. A shortage of .50-caliber machine-gun ammunition often limited gunnery practice to dummy runs.28 In the final week before combat, PBY Catalinas and B-17 Flying Fortresses drew thirstily from Midway’s fuel stocks, which were already limited due to an incredible blunder. On 22 May, demolition charges placed at an underground fuel storage facility detonated when one of the defense battalion batteries fired its 11-inch guns. The station lost 375,000 gallons of precious aviation fuel and its pipeline to Eastern Island.29 The resulting shortage prevented the group from providing the 17 Marines fresh out of flight school with anything more than familiarization flights. VMSB-241 could not even check out its new pilots in their SBDs.30

Without question, MAG-22 fought the Battle of Midway with inferior aircraft and many “half-baked” pilots. Though the odds were stacked against the group’s aviators, command decisions may have stacked the odds higher than they needed to be.

‘No Organized Plan Whatsoever’

In a 1966 interview, MAG-22’s former executive officer stated there had been “no organized plan whatsoever” to coordinate Midway’s Army Air Forces, Navy, and Marine aircraft.31 Though not strictly true, his characterization betrays how Naval Air Station Midway and MAG-22 struggled to coordinate air operations.

In anticipation of the coming fight, Nimitz had abundantly reinforced Midway. In addition to MAG-22, Midway’s air force included 31 PBYs, 17 B-17s, the 4 B-26s, and the 6 TBFs. Nimitz assigned tactical control of all these to the naval air station commander, Navy Captain Cyril T. Simard, and sent an experienced aviator and a naval base air defense detachment to coordinate air operations.32

While the naval air station directed scouting operations superbly, integrating the bombers in a coordinated strike proved beyond its reach. Each aircraft type attacked without regard to the next, permitting the Japanese the opportunity to fend off each in turn. As Kimes observed in perfect hindsight, “It would have been better had they arrived simultaneously.”33

Coordination was exacerbated by the physical separation of the naval air station and MAG-22 command posts. Simard and his air operations officer were on Sand Island; Kimes and his command post were on Eastern Island. According to Kimes’ executive officer, the “Marines ran their own show” but did not command the other services’ bombers on Eastern Island, including the six Navy TBFs.34

Kimes’ air group struggled to coordinate its own aircraft. VMSB-241 does not seem to have attempted to integrate its SBD and SB2U attacks. Most puzzlingly, MAG-22 allocated no fighter protection to VMSB-241 for its strike against the Japanese carriers.

‘Go All Out for the Carriers’

Kimes employed his fighting squadron in what Marine Corps doctrine termed “general support.” As then–Major William J. Wallace lectured Marine officers at Quantico in 1941, general support was an offensive mission that allowed fighters the freedom to be “on the prowl.” In contrast, missions that tied fighters to protection missions, such as escorting bombers, were termed “special support.” As a fighter pilot, Wallace clearly favored the freedom to go find trouble and emphasized, “The rule, then, for the employment of fighter units should be-—general support wherever and whenever possible.”35

In January 1942, now–Lieutenant Colonel Wallace took command of Marine aviation on Midway, which he retained until relieved by Kimes in April. It was Wallace who had developed the fighter direction system MAG-22 employed for defense of the atoll. As Wallace’s views on fighter employment reflected Marine Corps doctrine, and Wallace commanded MAG-22 until two months before the battle, this bias likely influenced Kimes’ decision to place all of VMF-221 in general support on 4 June.

MAG-22’s fighter employment stands in stark contrast to how Japanese and U.S. carrier task forces operated on 4 June. Carriers were far more vulnerable to air attack than an island base. Nonetheless, every Japanese and American task force commander allocated fighter escorts to increase their bombers’ chances of getting through the enemy’s fighters.

Hitting the Japanese fleet was exactly what Nimitz had in mind when he reinforced Midway with so many aircraft. On 20 May, Nimitz provided the Chief of Naval Operations and Commander-in-Chief of the U.S. Fleet, Admiral Ernest J. King, with some views on the role of land-based aircraft he had drawn from the recent Battle of the Coral Sea:

The shore commander should assign attack missions designed to render the greatest possible assistance to the Fleet Task Force when it is engaged and should particularly be ready to provide fighter protection when it is practicable.36

Nimitz incorporated these views in his planning guidance for Midway. In a 23 May memorandum to his chief of staff, Captain Milo F. Draemel, Nimitz explicitly directed that “Midway planes must thus make the CV’s [aircraft carriers] their objective, rather than attempting any local defense of the atoll.”37 In an undated memorandum likely written about the same time, Nimitz reiterated his intent to Captain Arthur C. Davis, his air officer:

Balsa’s [Midway’s] air force must be employed to inflict prompt and early damage to Jap carrier flight decks if recurring attacks are to be stopped. Our objectives will be first—their flight decks rather than attempting to fight off the initial attacks on Balsa. . . . If this is correct, Balsa air force . . . should go all out for the carriers . . . leaving to Balsa’s guns the first defense of the field.38

But in his operations order for Midway, Nimitz was less clear in the tasks he assigned to Simard at Midway:

(1) Hold MIDWAY.

(2) Aircraft obtain and report early information of enemy advance by searches to maximum practicable radius from MIDWAY covering daily the greatest arc possible with the number of planes available between true bearings from MIDWAY clockwise two hundred degrees dash twenty degrees. Inflict maximum damage on enemy, particularly carriers, battleships, and transports.

(3) Take every precaution against being destroyed on the ground or water. Long range aircraft retire to OAHU when necessary to avoid such destruction. Patrol planes fuel from AVD [seaplane tender] at French Frigate Shoals if necessary.

(4) Patrol craft patrol approaches; exploit favorable opportunities to attack carriers, battleships, transports, and auxiliaries. Observe KURE and PEARL and HERMES REEF. Give prompt warning of approaching enemy forces.

(5) Keep Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Pacific Fleet and Commander Hawaiian Sea Frontier fully informed of air searches and other air operations; also the weather encountered by search planes.39

The very explicit language Nimitz used in his planning guidance—that Midway’s aircraft “should go all out for the carriers”—is not reflected in his order. Absent such direction, Simard left it to Kimes to command the Marine squadrons as he saw fit. In accordance with Marine Corps doctrine, Kimes placed his fighting squadron in general support over Midway—and sent his dive bombers against the Japanese fleet without fighter escorts. Had he allocated one or two divisions from VMF-221 to escort VMSB-241, more Marine dive bombers may have survived to drop bombs on the Hiryū, and their accuracy may have improved had they attacked with less interference from the Japanese combat air patrol.

Trying to Do More with Less

MAG-22 had not gone all out for the carriers but had massed its fighters in defense of Midway. Naval Air Station Midway had struck the Japanese carriers with every bomber available but had been unable to coordinate their attacks to increase their chances for success and survival. Most tragically, many of the Marines lost in the battle were just not ready to fight the Imperial Japanese Navy, despite their willingness and eagerness to try.

MAG-22’s very bad day is a cautionary tale. Trying to do more with less—in MAG-22’s case, trying to defend Midway while training novice aviators—carries risks that may be hidden until they are exposed through combat. In his report of the battle, Kimes included a page and a half of candid comments and recommendations.40 After Midway, Marine aviators applied the lessons MAG-22 had learned at enormous cost and achieved spectacular results against the same foe in the Solomons, often under the leadership of aviators who had survived Midway.

Those same lessons are noteworthy today. Naval experts have cautioned the naval services against maintaining too much forward presence with too little fleet.41 An enduring lesson of MAG-22 may be that very bad days result from very bad choices, and that choosing to do more with less is often a very bad choice.