[b]The [i]USS Navassa Island[/i], Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean[/b]

If there was one word that could aptly describe the Pacific, it would be "empty." Save for the tiny silhouettes of the other ships in formation behind and to the front, there was nothing to be seen save for gently rolling water. The only thing to break this monotony was a tiny blip on the horizon. As it grew slowly larger, one could discern it to be a V-22 Osprey. The [i]Navassa Island[/i]'s Osprey, to be precise. Painted in Navy grey, the tiltrotor craft approached from stern with its engines full-forward. Its mission was simple, if not mundane: the Navy had been testing V-22s for carrier onboard delivery services to replace the venerable C-2 Greyhound. The added bonus of a tiltrotor was that it could extend delivery range to smaller ships that lacked a runway for conventional aircraft, and that was exactly what the [i]Navassa Island[/i] was demonstrating. Carrying mail, packages, and other similar cargo, the Osprey began to slow down. It approached the ship, closely matching velocity, and its gigantic propellers began to swing upwards. Likened to a Transformer, the Osprey could change its engine position to fly like a helicopter. Now, the craft glided slowly forward to the helicopter deck on the battlecruiser where sailors stood ready to receive it. Seconds later, the wheels touched down triumphantly, and the rotors began to slow.

Lieutenant Commander Mark Flowers watched from a walkway, leaning suavely on the railing to see around the CIWS barrel blocking the view. The crew began carrying the boxes and equipment away from the tail ramp, stowing it away in the hangar where someone else would put it in storage. As they went, their uniforms flapped around in the rotor downwash and the wind, underneath colorful jerseys and vests so often dubbed "Skittles." Unlike the rest of the crew, their uniform pants were an eclectic mixture of anything they had lying around from NWU pants to old woodland BDUs. Flowers could even see an ordinance sailor wearing chocolate chip camouflage pants that had somehow survived from 1991. They scurried like ants for a few minutes before the Osprey was cleared to leave with an empty cargo hold. It would return half an hour later with additional supplies - one craft made this process slow, especially for such a large ship. Flowers was considering urging the carrier's skipper to let them use another helicopter for onboard delivery, but had so far procrastinated on sending an email. Ever since yesterday, his time had been taken up by a new operation issued in the wake of Admiral Dumas's unfortunate death at San Diego. Without an overarching commander, the individual commanders had to decide the raid on Baker Island themselves. Both Flowers and Captain Sinclair were unsure if that would go over well.

As the Osprey fluttered away, climbing heftily into the air with its giant propellers, Flowers decided that it was time to go inside again. Turning to open a nearby hatch, he found himself almost face-to-face with a mildly startled Lieutenant Commander Rodger Nixon. The wiry tactical action officer held a tablet in one hand and a stack of papers in the other, a pen stuck in his open left breast pocket alongside a pair of gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses that he so loved. The TAO took a step back, shaking his head with a grin. "I didn't realize we were playing rugby," he mused, eying the XO.

"Hmm?" inquired Flowers as he closed the door behind him with a squeak.

"Knocking me down for my precious plans," Nixon continued. "It's a power grab, I tell you. You're trying to take me out so you can be one step closer to lord and master of the US Navy."

"They denied me when I asked to be promoted to Cadet Generalissimo in college," deadpanned Flowers. "My dreams of world domination ended there. Besides, they said they'd try me for war crimes when I stole my buddy's Cheetos at a party. Get the whole UN in on it. So, naturally, I sent a note to the UN with a penis drawn on it."

Nixon let out a hearty laugh, himself a graduate of ROTC. "What happened?"

"It got intercepted by the OPFOR so I dyed his eyebrows blue at three AM the next morning."

"You should get out of the Navy and audition for those Dos Equis commercials, Mark," suggested Nixon as the pair began their walk to the CIC. "Make a helluva lotta money being the most interesting man in the world. 'He once boated around Iraq with a bunch of hot babes. He is... the most interesting Sailor in the Navy.'"

"Please," Flowers responded with mock exasperation while turning a corner. "There was one chick and she was a five out of ten. The hottest one there was that Junior Grade: Tim Walker. And I'm straight."

"You've told me this story, I think."

"Sure. Let's go with that," answered the XO before they arrived at their destination. It was a simple, unadorned hatch labeled simply with a stenciled "CIC." Underneath it in smaller print: "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY." With a mock curtsey, Nixon wheeled open the hatch to allow everyone in.

The CIC looked partially out of a science fiction movie. Consoles with display screens ringed the room, while a triple-screen wall display took up the forefront: center screen displaying the fleet's modeled location, right screen showing a map of the world, and the left screen currently occupied by a weather map that showed all clear, more or less. A long table with a modern-looking sand table adorned the center. At the edges of the room, several crew members sat in their chairs, talking amongst themselves while on watch - nothing to do while the operations officers came up with their grand plans. The other set of these officers - the CO, and the officer of the deck - were clustered over the table in the center, awaiting Flowers and Nixon. Sinclair, himself busy drawing with a grease pencil over a map on the island, looked up to see Flowers ducking through the small hatch. "Afternoon, Mark," he greeted warmly. "Did you see the COD flight come in?"

"Yeah, yeah," answered Flowers while he looked back at Nixon closing the hatch behind him. "Running smoothly. I know Anders has it under control," he observed, referring to the flight deck detachment's supervisor. "No problems."

"That's good. Anyways, Barkley and I here have devised a firing plan for Baker. It's going to be a whole fleet show," the Captain stated, rubbing his hands together with a triumphant clap. "We get to show off the guns to all the cameras. Maybe Congress won't scrap the [i]Navassa[/i] just yet."

"I thought we were running on a platform of 'please don't mothball us like you did to that stealth ship. We're frugal, we promise!'" jested Nixon as he placed his things on the table.

"That's true," Sinclair answered. "But we have an opportunity to show off combat prowess. Now, this is something I dreamed of ever since I was a young Ensign. A good old fashioned, World War Two-styled beach landing. Complete with us - the gunfire support."

He pointed towards the situation map on the table. "Basically, we're going to park the [i]Navassa[/i] a few kilometers offshore and let her rounds land on the bunkers. Distance and our countermeasures should be able to defeat the antiship missiles that they have dug-in."

"Don't forget that we have the [i]LBJ[/i] and whatnot to help, and we're sharing BAMS data that we get from the carrier's drones. But we have the most guns so we're doing the heavy lifting," added the officer-of-the-deck: a swarthy, accented Filipino Lieutenant by the name of Ramon Sereno. "I've plotted a destination that puts us at a good angle for the majority of the simulated OPFOR's defenses, so our AOR is the biggest."

"So it's a small island," continued Nixon, taking over from the others. "Which means a few salvos and we're done. We're not sinking the damn thing: we have to leave some space for the Marine landing parties to storm the airbase. Securing the airstrip is a priority, because we don't want to send hypothetical Seabees out to rebuild it. By then, the hypothetical Chinese would have hypothetically sunk our sorry asses without heavy aircraft support."

"The amphibious assault ships should send out some LCACs with a few platoons of Marines to make sure the island is secure. However, that's my professional prediction. I have no clue what anyone else is doing," Sinclair said direly before shaking his head. Running a hand through his thin, greying hair, he added: "The Admiral couldn't have kicked it at a worse time."

"If we screw the pooch on this one," warned Lieutenant Sereno, "we show the government - the Navy, the CINC, Congress... everyone - that we're failed experiments. We need to be on our A-game."

"I'd ask for a morale cheer but that's goddamn stupid," quipped Nixon. A round of grins from everyone except Sinclair ensued. "Any questions, Mark?"

"Nah," answered Flowers while he surveyed the plans. "Looks good to me."

"It's barebones," observed Sinclair. "Kind of hasty."

"I don't like formal plans," admitted Flowers, not looking up. "They get all clunky. I prefer to leave wiggle room. This is fine."

"Then it's settled," Sereno declared. "I'll gather up the department heads and Commander Nixon can brief them."

"Okay, great," said Sinclair. He stood up straighter, coming back from leaning over the table. "Our operation is tomorrow at noon. Combat camera wants it picture perfect."

"They'll get picture perfect," Flowers proclaimed. "We'll put on the best goddamn show they've seen!"