#fighter jet pilot!charles is so fucking real to me

[arkhammaid]

literally scenes from a top gun movie oh my god

[leclerc-hs]

hard deck - cl16

pairing: pilot!charles leclerc x f!reader summary: in which your best friend's other best friend hates you OR charles is in love with you and he fucking hates that he is. warnings: language, bad writing (honestly, I think I'm in a bad phase rn and everything I write sucks), NOT PROOFREAD, smutttt (short but 18+ pls) word count: ~3.6k author's note: I'm gonna say I genuinely have no idea wtf I just wrote. its kinda shitty and for that I apologize. I'm still trying to get back into the groove of writing again bc it's been SO long. anyways xoxo

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“God, do you ever just shut up?” Charles watches you with irritation, his brow furrowed as he takes a long swig of the amber liquid in his class. The tension hangs thick in the air, his frustration palpable.

He swallows hard, the alcohol clearly his refuge at this moment, a desperate attempt to calm the urge to shove you down the nearest flight of stairs. You can see the conflict brewing behind his eyes, a storm of annoyance and something else— perhaps regret?

No way. Charles ‘Perceval’ Leclerc would never regret being mean to you.

You send him the hardest glare you can muster, swinging your legs to the side of the chair before coming to a stand. “Are you ever not a fucking dick? Seriously how do you have friends?”

“Why? You need tips on how to get some?”

“Perceval!” Carlos gives him a disapproving look, “Cut it out.”

“Me?” His eyes widen in astonishment as he points his fingers to himself in question. “You were thinking it too. You just can’t say it because she’s your childhood friend.”

“Seriously, hermano.” Carlos sighs. “Leave her alone.”

“Don’t sweat it Car,” You mutter, your voice low and casual as you lean against the edge of the table. “I’m moving over there.” You point towards a few of your friends gathered around the dart board.

Carlos’s expression shifts, his eyes widening in that endearing way that always makes you chuckle. “No, stay.” He pleads, giving you the best puppy dog eyes he can muster, complete with a slight pout that would make anyone’s heart melt. “Charles will stop. Right?”

With a playful swing of his arm, he hits Charles in the ribs, the impact harder than necessary. Charles winces dramatically, clutching his side as he shoots Carlos a mock glare, his lips curling into a frown.

“Whatever.”

You make a stupid face of mockery, scrunching your features and sticking out your tongue in the most absurd way possible. Childish? Sure. But damn, it felt good.

Carlos bursts into laughter, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he nearly doubles over. “What even was that? A dying fish?” He jokes, wiping a tear from his eye.

Charles just rolls his eyes, “Seriously? I’m losing brain cells just being around you, Bug.” He retorts, but theres no real annoyance in his voice— just teasing.

Bug. That forsaken nickname he gave you seemed to stick. Even went so far to be your call sign. Probably called you it because he associated you as a pest. But he really meant it as an endearing way. Not that he would ever admit it.

-

You and Charles stand in front of a model fighter jet, the sleek design gleaming under the bright lights, its metallic surface reflecting the excitement in the room. The imposing aircraft, with its sharp lines and polished finish, feels almost alive, and the air is thick with the thrill of aviation.

“Seriously? You think you could handle flying that thing?” you tease, crossing your arms and leaning against the display. Your smirk is playful, but there’s a challenge in your tone.

“Absolutely Bug,” he replies, leaning in slightly, confidence radiating from him. “I’d be soaring through the skies while you’re down here, probably tripping over your own feet.”

“Please,” you scoff, rolling your eyes with a dramatic flair. “You’d probably get lost on the runway, looking for the nearest snack bar instead of focusing on takeoff.”

“Lost? In a fighter jet?” He raises an eyebrow, a smirk dancing on his lips. “I’d be the one pulling off the real maneuvers while you flounder around in the backseat, screaming like a scared kitten.”

“Real maneuvers?” You chuckle, shaking your head. “Like what? A graceful belly flop?” You lean in closer, narrowing your eyes playfully. “I can just picture it now: Perceval, taking a nosedive to the nearest ice cream stand.”

He leans back, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the banter. “Well, at least I’d crash in style. You’d just be a mess, splattered all over the tarmac.”

“Whatever P.”

-

Your voice is the first thing Charles hears, cutting through the fog of sleep. He drags his pillow over his face with a groan, trying to block out the sound, but it only muffles your words.

Do you ever leave Carlos alone?

Charles has successfully avoided you for a whole four days. Probably the longest he’s gone since he met Carlos all those years ago.

The smell of coffee wafted through the air eliciting a groan from him. 

Coffee. Yes.

Charles makes his way to the kitchen, sleep still clinging to his eyes, his hair a wild mess that seems to have taken on a life of its own overnight. The loose grey sweatpants hang loosely off of his hips, giving him that effortlessly disheveled look that somehow works in his favor.

You lean against the counter, a mug of coffee in hand, and can’t help but smirk at the sight. “Wow, you really went all out this morning Sleeping Beauty, didn’t you?” You tease, trying to suppress a laugh.

He squints at you, trying to focus through the remnants of sleep, but it takes him a moment to fully register your presence. You stand there in a large t-shirt that hangs loosely around your frame, the fabric slightly wrinkled, and Charles can’t help but feel a rush of annoyance mixed with something else— something that sets his skin on fire.

The fact that you’re clearly wearing Carlos’ shirt bothers him more than he’d like to admit. “Seriously? Carlos’ shirt?” He finally manages to say, his voice still raspy from sleep.

You glance down at the oversized tee, a playful smile creeping onto your face. “It’s comfortable.”

“Who are you to judge my look, when you’re wearing that.” He defends himself, but can’t help but feel a little flustered. “At least they’re not borrowed from someone else.”

You laugh, and the sound only makes his annoyance deepen. “What? Are you jealous of Carlos’ clothes?”

“Not at all.” He replies, his tone more serious than he intended. “You could just wear something that actually fits you.”

You take a step closer, a playful challenge in your gaze. “And what would you suggest, P?”

“Honestly, I’d prefer you in something that’s not associated with him at all,” He blurts out before he can stop himself.

-

Life was weird.

You and Charles had gone from full-on arguments that filled the air with tension to this strange dance of tip-toeing around one another. It was a shift you hadn’t quite expected. Don’t get it twisted— you still fought. A lot. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t mean; it was almost flirty, charged with a new energy.

“Get that wretched drink away from me.” Charles chirps, wrinkling his nose as you settle into your usual spot at the Hard Deck, the familiar buzz of the bar surrounding you.

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “There is nothing wretched about a dirty martini. It’s sophisticated.”

“The fact you enjoy olives is nauseating.” He replies, crossing his arms in mock disapproval, his expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

You take a sip, letting the briny flavor linger on your tongue before responding. “The fact you don’t ever shut up is nauseating.”

He leans in slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t shut up? You’re one to talk.”

“I’m not here to argue tonight.” You say, relaxing into your chair, the low hum of conversation around you a comforting backdrop.

“Oh yeah? Me either,” Charles replies, taking a large gulp of his beer, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Just wondering though. What are you here for?”

You flash him a teasing grin. “To get laid.”

It it weren’t for his widened eyes, Charles gave no emotion away. “Seriously? That’s your game plan for the night?”

“Why not?” You shrug, leaning back with confidence. “All these fighter pilots are an easy lay.”

It was true. You were hot. And that thought alone drove Charles nuts. “And here I thought you were just here for the olives and to annoy me.”

“Those are just the bonus perks,” you quip, glancing around the bar. “Now, I’m gonna go dance and get myself a man.” You slip off your stool with a bright smile, sending a teasing wink in Charles direction. He can’t help but grumble in response.

“If any of those men touch you, I’ll fight them.” Carlos grumbles, bringing the bottled beer to his lips. 

“Oh please.” You wave him off. “Stop acting like I’m some innocent girl Car. You’ve known me too long for that."

-

Charles is pissed.

His jaw was set tight, and each breath seemed measured, like he was holding back a storm. The air around him crackled with tension, and you could almost feel the heat radiating off of him. It was clear— whatever had triggered this fury was digging deep.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, P?” Carlos chuckles, cracking a peanut shell onto the wooden bar top before popping it in his mouth.

The air around him felt charged, almost electric, as he pointed a finger toward you. “You just gonna let that guy grope her like that?”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to where you stood, fully engaged in conversation with a pilot named Jake, call sign ‘Hangman’. The way you laughed and leaned in, seemingly at ease, only fueled Charles’s frustration. “She can handle herself, you know that,” Carlos replied, a teasing tone edging into his voice.

“Yeah, doesn’t mean she should.” Charles snapped, his voice low and tight. He leaned forward, the tension in his body palpable as he watched Jake’s hand rest just a little too close for comfort on your waist. “Look how close he is. It’s like he thinks he owns her.”

“You’re ridiculous, P.” Carlos chuckles, shaking his head as he cracks a peanut shell against the wooden bar top. “When are you going to admit it?”

“Admit what?” Charles shot back, his gaze still locked on you, oblivious to anything else around him.

“That you like her,” Carlos says, a smirk creeping onto his face as he leans back, arms crossed behind his head.

Charles’s eyes narrowed as he studied you and Jake, the warmth of the bar contrasting sharply with the chill of jealousy creeping in. “Like her?” He echoed, disbelief woven in his tone. “I can barely stand her.” 

But deep down, he felt the truth of it. That he did like you. That he might even love you.

-

“Hangman!” Charles’s voice reverberates through the hangar, its volume cutting through the low hum of conversation and machinery. You wince at the abruptness of it, wondering why on earth he needs to talk to Jake, when he’s clearly talking to you.

Your gaze shifts back to Jake, who is laughing, seemingly unfazed by Charles’s entrance. But it was the way Charles’s rests his hand onto Jake’s shoulder that made you uneasy— too casual, too familiar. A knot formed in your stomach at the sight.

You took a deep breath, deciding to not let your thoughts go south. There’s no way Charles would go as far as sabotaging a potential relationship. Right?

“To what do we owe the displeasure of your annoyance?” You ask, your eyebrows slightly raised in confusion.

Charles shifts his gaze to you, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Yes, fight with me.

“Displeasure?” He shoots back. “You wouldn’t know displeasure if it hit you in the face.”

“What are you five?”

He smirks before shifting his eyes back to Jake, his hand still resting on his shoulder. “I actually need him for something. See ya sweet cheeks.” His tone dripping with mock nonchalance.

You narrow your eyes, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “Really? That’s how you’re going to play this?”

-

“You don’t give up, do you?” His voice was low and amused, cutting through your focus on the dart board before you.

You roll your eyes— a reflex you perfected around him— trying to ignore the way Charles’s gaze lingers on you. With a deep breath, you glance over, meeting his warm smile. It’s disarming, that easygoing charm of his, like a breath of fresh air.

His relaxed posture leans casually agains the bar, arms crossed, exuding a effortless confidence that somehow makes you feel at ease. You try to refocus on the dartboard, but it’s hard to concentrate when his eyes are like a magnetic pull, drawing your attention away.

“You know, if you actually focused, you might hit the board this time,” He teases, the playful glint in his eyes making it impossible to stay annoyed.

You chuckle softly, shaking your head, before placing all darts down on the table nearby. “Yeah, yeah. Like you’re one to talk about focusing.”

He laughs, and its infectious, a sound that warms the room. “I focus plenty.”

“Yeah,” You agree. “On finding ways to talk dirty.”

The corner of his mouth curls into a confident grin, and his eyes spark with mischief. “It’s a skill. Not everyone can pull off that kind of charm.”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning indifference, though your heart flutters a little. “Charm? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Absolutely,” he replies, his tone low and teasing, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sends a thrill down your spine. “You know you love it.”

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“And you love every minute of it,” He counters, leaning slightly closer, the playful challenge in his gaze making it hard to resist the pull between you. The air around you feels charged, a mix of flirtation and genuine connection.

“You know, I fucking hate you.” You say, the words slipping our more forcefully than intended.

Charles chuckles dryly, no humor lacing in his tone. “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”

“Harsh?” You let out a laugh tinged with bitterness, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “No. Jake won’t even look at me since whatever you said to him.” You cross your arms over your chest.

The air between you thickens, the weight of unspoken tension almost suffocating. Charles shifts slightly, his expression darkening as seriousness settles over him. “Good.”

“I can’t even believe you right now.” Frustration wells up inside as you reach for your bag, the rough fabric grounding you as you stomp toward the exit. Each step feels heavy, fueled by a mix of anger and disbelief. The lively chatter of the bar fades behind you, leaving only the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Charles doesn’t let up, his footsteps echoing behind you, persistent and urgent. “You’re literally such an asshole,” You throw over your shoulder, the words sharp and cutting.

“He doesn’t deserve you!” he shouts, frustration spilling over as he catches up to you, breathless. His hand runs through his hair, a familiar gesture of agitation, and before you can step away, he reaches for your shoulder, gently halting you in your tracks.

“Deserve me?” You repeat his words, incredulity lacing your voice. “What the fuck does that even mean? You hate me, remember?”

Charles looks up at the sky for a brief moment, his expression a mix of frustration and confusion, as if he’s searching for clarity among the stars. “I don’t hate you,” he finally admits, his voice low but intense. “I just… I can’t stand watching him touch you.”

You can feel the tension radiating between you, charged and electric. “But it’s not your call,” you reply, your tone softer but still defensive. 

“You don’t think I know that?” He laughs, but its somewhat sad sounding. “You…you drive me insane.” He says, but its almost as if he’s talking to himself.

“You drive me completely insane actually. Like all I can ever hear is your fuckin’ voice inside of my head. Arguing me over everything. And your stupid fuckin’ jokes too. I can’t even look at olives without seeing your fuckin’ face in them.” He continues on, the words pouring out of him and he can’t stop.

“And I know it sounds crazy because I’ve been such a dick to you. But I didn’t know how to handle these feelings. I mean you’re Carlos’s best friend,” he confesses, his voice trembling slightly, “but I like hearing your voice inside of my head. I like that olives remind me of you. I like you.” His eyes are locked onto yours, filled with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

They’re so green. A vivid, almost luminescent shade that captures the light and seems to hold an entire universe within them. You realize you’ve never truly noticed how striking they are until this very moment—the way they flicker with emotion, drawing you in and holding you captive.

The green is rich and deep, like a forest canopy dappled with sunlight, alive with the promise of something untamed. You find yourself getting lost in them, feeling the weight of his confession settle around you like a warm embrace. It’s as if all the barriers that had kept you apart are beginning to dissolve, and you can see a vulnerability in him that you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge before.

For a fleeting moment, the world around you fades away—the sounds of the bustling bar, the cool night air, the lingering frustration—all of it blurs into the background. In the depths of his gaze, you sense a longing, a desire that mirrors your own, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You feel the tension shift, and the space between you feels charged, alive with possibility.

“So hate me all you want, but I couldn’t watch Hangman try to have a meaningless fuck with you.”

“You don’t mean that.” Your voice comes out small and unsure, your throat feeling dryer than before from his confessions.

“Don’t mean what?” He steps closer, eyes never falling from yours, as his calloused finger tips rest along your hips. He almost expects you to flinch and shove him away— hell you think you would too— but you don’t. 

“You think I’d lie about liking you? About wanting you?” His eyes drop to your lips for a mere second before meeting your gaze once more. “It’s not a lie. I’m not that cruel.”

You go to turn from his hold, but his grip on your hips tightens. “Bug, I swear. Why would I embarrass myself like this if it weren’t true?”

The tension is palpable, an electric charge hanging in the air, and your stomach swarms with warmth at his words. “I can’t get your fuckin’ lips out of my mind,” he nearly pleads, his voice thick with desire. “I need to kiss you. Please let me kiss you, yeah?”

You feel your heart race, your thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm as his confession washes over you. The weight of the moment feels like it could burst, and you swear your brain short-circuits, caught between disbelief and overwhelming longing.

Before he can say another word, you rise on your tiptoes, driven by an instinct you can’t ignore. In a swift, bold move, you press your lips to his. The kiss is soft at first, tentative yet charged with all the unspoken words and emotions that have built up between you.

As his lips meld against yours, a rush of warmth surges, igniting a fire that spreads from your lips to the tips of your fingers. The kiss deepens, turning from hesitant to passionate, and Charles groans into your mouth.

Time seems to stretch, the world around you fading into a blur. All that exists is the taste of him, the warmth of his breath, and the intoxicating feeling of connection that envelops you both. 

“Bug,” He pulls you both apart. “We gotta stop or I’m gonna take you right here on the deck of this place.”

You pull back from his embrace, giving him a look as you breath heavily, your lips swollen. “Is it bad to say I like that idea?”

His lets out a long groan and tilts his head back. “I always knew you’d be the death of me.”

“Take me home, P.”

-

“Fuck, baby.” He groans hotly into your ear. “Keep fuckin’ doin that.” His hoarse voice muttered, hands behind his head as he watches you work yourself over his cock.

There’s a sense of desperation on your face, and he can’t help but smirk at the sight of it. 

Your eyes burned with the tears that slid down your cheeks. The feeling of being filled to the brim and fucked the way you needed, was more than enough to elicit tears.

“Fu-uuck.” He groans again, panting out as he drops his hands to hold both your hips. Your hips swivel, a heavy moan escaping your lips as you ground yourself against him in a feverish pace.

“P,” you whine as your mouth falls open into an “O” shape. The air around you is humid and thick as Charles thrusts his hips up into you with ease. “M’so close.”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip to the nape of your neck, squeezing roughly as he pulls your chest down to his. Pumping his cock upwards into you. “C’mon, give it to me.”

You fail to form any words, nothing but grunts and small moans escaping past your lips as Charles fucks himself into you. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room. 

“Need it so bad, baby.” He mutters into your ear in between groans. “Need to feel you on me.”

“Mmm, feels so nice.” He urges you on. “You do it so well.”

Charles couldn’t help himself as your wall clamp down him tightly. The pace of his hips, and the force of you driving down onto him, was enough to send you both spiraling over the edge. Crashing.

“You’re so good. Mon dieu.”

“M’gonna go insane baby. Need more.” He groans, flipping you both over before slipping your leg up and fucking into you again. “Y’feel so good. Can’t stop.”

"Never gonna be mean to you again."

"No?"

"No. I promise, Bug."

"Even when I eat olives?"

"Even when you eat olives."

"What about when I argue you on anything."

"Don't care. I only fought with you because it was the only time you gave me actual attention."

Your heart clenches at his words, his hips slowing down as he presses soft kisses to your face.

"What about when-"

"Never again, Bug."

[fapangel]

What's the reason why aircraft carriers have been doing consistently 31±2 knots ever since the Lexington class? Why not faster? Why not a bit slower (and cheaper)?

Simply put - because you want as much speed as possible in a carrier, and hydrodynamics cap that around 31±2 knots. 

Taking off from a carrier is fucking hard - you’re trying to accomplish in 800-1000 feet what’s usually done from a runway at least four times, and more often six times that length. And that’s assuming you’re not the first guy in the deck spot, in which case you’ve got half that room to work with. The key here, is that the carrier’s forward speed is effectively added to the aircraft’s forward speed when it takes off from a carrier. 

The speed at which an aircraft starts generating enough lift that it can take flight is called the “rotation speed;” so named because in a conventional (tail-dragger) gear configuration, when you hit this speed your tailwheel lifts off the runway as the wings begin to “carry” the aircraft’s weight, rather than the wheels. Most lighter aircraft will actually lift off the runway completely at this point without further control input, (depending on how they’re trimmed). Rotation speed is the velocity you need for a safe take-off, basically. It’s not the minimum speed required to actually fly - that’d be the stall speed (specifically, stall speed with your flaps out), and that distinction is quantified and observed.  Now check the v-speeds for the Cessna 182; specifically Vso (stall speed in landing configuration, with flaps out,) versus Vs, (normal “clean” stall speed,) and Vr (rotation speed.) There’s not much difference, is there? But that narrow gap defines the distance between a safe take-off, and riding the razor’s edge of being a fireball tumbling down the runway. Cessna’s might not be fighter jets, but planes are planes and they all obey the same physics - compare the F-4 Phantom, which rotated around 150 knots and stalled around 135 - still a pretty narrow spread. (V-speeds are more complex for military aircraft, since their drag and dry/loaded weight vary far more than light civil craft - I used data for 40,000 pound loading from the Navy Manual; pages 11-13 and 11-36. If anyone has a proper v-speeds chart for the Phantom, please let me know.) 

The margin between “take-off” and “fireworks show” was - and still is - pretty damn narrow. It’s not quite as bad now as it was in WWII, but other factors cropped up to mitigate against lowering carrier speeds any. I’ll explain. 

In WWII the v-speed ranges were a lot closer to the Cessna end of the scale - a few knots speed difference mattered. Plus, you would stack aircraft up in a “deck spot,” lined up behind each other, roughly to the halfway point - thus you were effectively limited to only half your deck (400 feet or so) for acceleration. The Kaga, with her 27 knot speed, posed real problems for her flight crews, especially for the heavily-laden torpedo bombers. This is also why carriers would always (and still do) turn into the wind when launching, to get a few extra knots of effective “free airspeed” over their aircraft’s wings - or at the very least, avoid any subtraction of speed. 

Another example of the narrow margins in play comes from this WWII USN training video on the use of aircraft catapults. As the video shows, they were especially important for the cheaper “jeep” carriers, which were smaller, cheaper, and significantly slower than fleet carriers, at only 20 knots. As the video’s example shows, aircraft are lined up for a traditional “fly-away” launch, until the CAG says “not enough wind, we’ll catapult.” For escort carriers, available wind alone could make the difference between a fly-away launch, or a mandatory cat launch. (Note that it was possible to do a “fly-away” launch from even a stationary fleet carrier if you had the whole deck to accelerate - but if you were launching one at a time anyway, it was far faster to have aircraft on deck rolled forward from a deck spot to be hooked up, rather than bringing them up the aft elevator one at a time. Similarly, combat loads matter here. An early-war USN steam cat could just barely put a Wildcat up from a stationary ship - I checked, for KCQ - but only with a light fuel load and a skinny pilot.) 

As the jet age arrived and aircraft ballooned in size, weight, and power, catapults soon became mandatory for launching at all - and consequently they became much, much more powerful. The few knots speed difference no longer makes as much difference, it is true (though every knot of airspeed is still a welcome margin against disaster.) The reason carriers still maintain that 30ish knot top speed anyways is more an artifact of almost all CATOBAR supercarriers being American. 

Consider: the Charles de Gaulle is a great comparison to late-war USN carriers because she displaces the same (45,000 or so, close to the Midway class,) and is CATOBAR (Catapult Take Off, But Arrested Recovery.) And her top speed is… 27 knots, because in the end, a three knot difference makes a big difference for the ship, in terms of required installed power, but not as much for flight operations, as the speed margins are wide enough now that three knots won’t wreck anything, and the catapults can be made a bit more powerful a lot easier than the ship can be made a bit faster.  Now ship speed is a bit more significant for a ski-ramp carrier (Short-Take-Off, But Arrested Recovery) as their aircraft launch in the old-fashioned way with a ski-jump at the end to assist them a bit. However, even these ships are clocking in, as you say “slightly slower, for a lot cheaper,” like India’s under-construction Vikrant-class, at 28 knots. Ski-ramp carriers pay a price in aircraft payload already by dint of the launch system, so the payload lightening required to gain back that three-knot difference is fairly minuscule compared to what’s already sacrificed. In any case, it’s not worth the hojillions of dollars to install gorillions more horsepower in the ship required for another three knots. 

And then you have the colossal super-carriers America builds - which do clock in at 30+ knots. The main reason for this is because they can. They not only have nuclear power - unlike gas-turbine ships like the Vikrant - but they also displace a staggering one hundred thousand tons, giving them truly obscene volume to work with internally. This is important - nuclear power scales up very well, but scales down rather poorly - what doesn’t make financial sense for the nuclear-powered, 45,000 ton de Gaulle makes plenty of sense for the Nimitz-class. Simply put, that 30+ knot top speed is just a lot more practical to achieve for a nuclear-powered supercarrier. 

There’s also non-aviation related reasons to prefer a few extra knots speed, if you can afford it in your displacement. The most obvious one is anti-submarine warfare. Remember this clip from Behind Enemy Lines? To quote an actual Hornet pilot; “so he escapes,  lands on the carrier, and limps into the ready room to change… and when he closes his locker door, hiding behind the door? The missile again!” This scene is what torpedo attacks are like in real life - instead of a 3,000 knot missile chasing a 900 knot plane, it’s a 46 knot torpedo chasing a 30 knot ship. A difference of a few knots can make a dramatic difference in how long it takes a torpedo to chase down a target and grape’em - which translates directly to effective range, since torpedoes only have so many minutes worth of fuel. (This is precisely why the exact top speeds of many ships are classified and expressed as “at least X knots-” like the Nimitz.) The margin also matters more for the USN because of the aircraft they operate, such as the E2-D Hawkeye, the Grumman C-2 Greyhound, and other turbo-prop support aircraft. And then there’s the issue of landing - the carrier’s forward speed is subtracted from the landing aircraft’s effective velocity as it approaches from behind, and that matters a lot when a carrier landing’s about as gentle as hitting a brick wall. Recall your kinetic energy equation: kinetic energy equals one-half the mass times velocity squared. Velocity is about four times more significant than the mass in determining how much energy the airframe is going to be jolted by when it comes to a very sudden stop; and that translates directly into overall strain on (and thus lifetime of) an airframe. 

And as for faster, well! Everyone would prefer a faster ship - for the above reasons, (torpedo evasion especially) as well as the simple fact that a small increase in speed can mean a significant increase in distance covered over time (effectively, mobility of the ship in a strategic sense - even shipping lines prize a few knots extra speed because of how significantly it can shorten trips and thus make more money per ship, per day,) but ship speeds have capped out around 30 knots since WWII because of physics. The math on this is a complex topic and I don’t pretend to understand it, but suffice to say that above 30 knots or so, the energy input required for every additional knot of speed is increasing exponentially. Consider: the USS South Dakota made 27.8 knots, and displaced 35,000 tons. The USS Iowa was pretty much the same ship - armor and armament - but trucking at 32.5 knots… and displacing 45,000 tons. For 4.7 knots more speed, it took ten thousand more tons worth of installed power (from Dakota’s 97MW to Iowa’s 158MW worth, to be precise - more than half again the power.) The curve gets really steep, which is why 70+ years of technology development still hasn’t made a dent in this. 

This relationship is why making a ship a “bit” slower makes it a lot more than just a “bit” cheaper - and it illustrates just how expensive carriers were in WWII, when that three or four knots were desperately needed for launching aircraft. 70+ years of tech development has impacted these trends, though.

[WARNING: ASK AN ACTUAL MERCHIE SAILOR IF YOU WANT SOLID INFO ON THE FOLLOWING, THESE ARE JUST MY GENERALIZED/VAUGE IMPRESSIONS]

 For starters, the modern gas turbine is impressively light and efficient for the great power outputs they’re capable of, compared to old steam turbines - which, like nuclear reactors, always scaled up much better than down. For the same reason, steam turbines are still the go-to propulsion method for big ships like supercarriers - such as the Shitty Kitty class, conventional-powered USN supercarriers using steam turbines and displacing 80,000 tons. So there’s a “cutoff point” at a certain displacement where the steam plants become more cost/volume efficient, as displacement increases. For a desired power output, that is - remember that ship speed isn’t all you need power for, especially for carriers. This is likely why the Vikrant (40,000~ tons displacement) uses gas turbines, but the de Gaulle (also 40,000ish tons) uses a nuke plant - the de Gaulle has to power its catapults (with steam, from the nuke plant’s steam turbine) but the Vikrant doesn’t. It’s also the likely reason the planned 65,000 ton(ne, fucking metric) INS Vishal is planned to use nuclear power - it’ll need the extra electrical power for radars, electronics, jammers, etc; and most of all for a proposed electromagnetic catapult system. 

And speaking of the de Gaulle again - let’s consider just how well nuclear “scales up.” One of the many things I learned touring the USS North Carolina recently was how the boilers take up much more room than the steam turbines themselves - most of the mass/volume is invested in creating that steam energy, not in harvesting it. One thing I learned really, really quickly trying to design new reactors in Children of a Dead Earth is that nuclear fuel is stupidly energy-dense - the limitation on a nuke plant’s output isn’t the size of the reactor vessel, but in how much equipment you can fit in to harness the heat it puts out (and get rid of the excess, which increases rapidly with total power output.) Thus there’s some really, really  strict “minimums” in reactor design that are damn hard to work around - you need at least this much reactor to contain X amount of fuel without melting on the spot… but you only need that much reactor to produce as much heat energy as your linked systems can utilize (and/or dispose of.) This is why scaling down is hard and scaling up very easy. Compared to Ye Olden boiler fireboxes, a nuke plant is an insanely more compact heat source; to the point that the real engineering problem is getting rid of all the heat you can’t harness! Water has a very high specific heat (ability to absorb heat energy,) which is why most nuclear power plants are sited near water for the open-loop side of the cooling system… which means the entire ocean is basically a massive, free heat-sink for a nuke ship. And since most of the cost is in the reactor itself, this means that the more volume you’ve got available for boilers to harness that energy, the more energy you can generate for your already-fixed investment in the reactor. 

And that’s why the 100,000 ton Nimitz class ships can charge around at 30+ knots, juice eleventy gigaflips of computers, radars, and jammers, and carry ninety planes, a hojillion bombs for them, and tons upon tons of fuel to juice up their own escorts - but for 40-45,000 ton ships like the de Gaulle the trade-offs are more “can you already nuclear?” and “how badly do you need catapults?”