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In a prelude to war that closely resembles the real thing, the Connie has been running night ops for nearly two weeks. Coupled with planes from the USS Kitty Hawk and the USS Lincoln, both here in the gulf, U.S. naval air forces have dramatically increased the number of sorties flown over Iraq's southern no-fly zone in recent weeks. Each night, between sunset and sunrise, the Constellation's gravelly, greasy flight deck bears the thundering weight of nearly 100 takeoffs and landings, as pilots of the ship's 72 aircraft carry out Operation Southern Watch. "We get shot at every time we go up," says Hornet pilot Michael Herbert, 28, of the surface-to-air missiles that zoom "within a mile" of his plane from the Iraqi ground below. From a dark cockpit, SAM shots look like a rocket launch "over Cape Canaveral," says Capt. Mark Fox, the Connie's Carrier Air Group Commander. "You just try to gauge whether this thing is tracking you or not." Fox–a decorated pilot who shot down the 1991 Gulf War's first MiG–knows U.S. bombs have depleted Iraq's store of radar-guided missiles below the 33rd parallel. Still, he says, SAM shots "certainly keep you on your toes."

So the Connie's planes keep flying, as the ship maneuvers its flight deck in a terrible, beautiful ballet that has an aircraft landing or taking off every few minutes throughout the night. The immense Prowler, a four-seater that jams enemy communications and carries the deadly High-speed Antiradiation Missile (HARM), rolls to its spot on the strip. In 20 seconds, its low rumble ratchets up to a belly-of-the-Earth roar. For the prolonged second that the Prowler runs full throttle, waiting to be catapulted off the deck, its monstrous moan completely immerses you, fills your lungs, becomes the air you breathe. The brief climax–two seconds in which the plane hurtles from 0 to 150 miles per hour–almost disappoints. The catapult releases, the plane shoots off the deck, and a thick curtain of steam is all that remains.

Deckhands swarm into the smoke, preparing the tarmac for another takeoff. Within seconds, another Prowler makes its dramatic entrance onto the runway, nudging its nose into its sister's steam. "I don't know that we could provide a greater show of force or muscle in this area," says Constellation Capt. John Miller of his ship's part in this massive gulf buildup.

On this clear March night, with so many planes circling the sky overhead it looks like the stars themselves are moving, one sight stands out. From the deck of the Constellation, a deep orange glow dominates part of the horizon, spreading out like an anachronous sunset over the midnight sea. It's the tip of an oil refinery in Saudi Arabia, a flame that shoots some 200 feet into the air as it purifies its precious, controversial brew. Pilots call the steadily burning ember the BAF, for "big a-- flame," and bemoan its effects on visibility. But some sailors say otherwise. They believe the fiery glow is Iraq, waiting for them each night under the stars, an unnerving harbinger of the uncertain future into which they sail.