Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Ace Combat, any of their specific characters, plots, or any other element obviously borrowed from their games. If any characters or events in the following resemble those in past or current life or from outside of AC 5 and Zero it is not intended and purely coincidental.
Message from the Author:
This story represents my fourth attempt at fanfiction and my second attempt in the Ace Combat genre. The story is an attempt to provide detail, enlightenment, and hopefully attachment to the unknown individual that AC5 players know as Blaze. Since the is technically no 'canon' identity of Blaze the following is an account of the overall AC5 plot line as I have imagined it.
As such, please be aware that certain liberties will be taken with game "fact", including but not limited to: Character personality, events, plot line, dates, and equipment. There will likely be many elements will altered and or newly introduced. I can assure you this is solely to appease my creative whims (and in many occasions because I will not be bothered to 'research' the overly specific details). However, I do pledge to keep the main plot and character personalities as close to that as experienced in game as possible, since this is theoretically a narration of the game and not a brand new plot line as my other AC5 story was.
This being said, please realize my personal preference is on realism and plausability, so I will take liberties as I see fit to bring the events from the game away from their "arcade" state to more like what we see in the real world when and where I can.
I realize that all of this may be considered controversial. I also recognize any writing on a non-identified personality is controversial because my views on Blaze etc may (read: likely) not agree with yours. If at any point you cease to enjoy the story because I am ruining your personal interpretation or who knows what else, please take this as my invitation to stop reading. If, on the other hand you can see past the individualities I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your time as it is my goal to provide you as pleasurable and entertaining Ace Combat fanfiction as possible. For as long as I continue to derive satisfaction in doing so.
I welcome any and all input, questions, or concerns, be them negative or positive.
Lastly, despite generally being considered taboo, this fanfiction is being written one chapter at a time. While I have an overall outline, I may need to make minor changes to earlier chapters as the story progresses. Rest assured these will be minor details for continuity, nothing major.
Now, as I have written a far longer and far more ominous sounding preamble than I intended too, without further ado, I eagerly present: Aces High.
-SP
- Aces High -
Prologue
Sand Island.
Sand.
Island.
Pretty much as detailed description as is required to illustrate the most backwater strip of tarmac and facilities that the Osean Defense Complex has to offer. A speck of sand and rock sticking out from the waves that was half airfield, quarter port facility, and quarter housing and basic shops and services required to sustain the three hundred or so officers and NCOs that kept this sleepy outpost alive. Home only to a couple of moored up Minesweepers, mothballed Frigates, and the infamous 108th "War Dog" Auxiliary Fighter Squadron.
And that's where I was being posted.
Me.
Just another "Wet Dog".
A new pilot not even fully trained already off to join the "Forgotten Ones".
A rumoured collection of misfits, outcasts, and other pilots and aircrew that the Air Force didn't feel comfortable having around a regular unit but couldn't find enough grounds to release from service. I was top of my class in Phase I: Primary Flight, and then again in Phase II: HiPerC (High Performance Conversion), scored well in Phase III: Fighter Lead-In and came right up near the end of Phase IV to being a fully qualified Fighter Pilot.
But on one of my last sorties on particularly brutal winter night in Hierlark, apparently I screwed up... and now my career ambitions and dreams of flying with Osea's best were about as far away as this crappy piece of rock was from civilization.
But such was the nature of Osea's peacetime Air Force.
The Belkan War was long over, and the massive mobilizations and production that had given Osea the most powerful military in the world was bankrupting her now. What had been 4 mighty Air Divisions was steadily slashed to two active fighter and a single strategic bomber squadron, supplemented by a handful of auxiliary fighter, tanker, and transport units. Yes, I had only one blemish to my name, but that was all in took in this environment to seal my transfer to obscurity.
Such was the kind of positive mindset stewing through my head despite the ridiculous amount of noise and jolts of my C-2 Greyhound ride out to the island. I mean, seriously, not only was this Air Force unit supplied by a naval transport aircraft the Navy had deemed too "old" or "beaten up" to be of use, it was being flown by a 108th mechanic! Never mind an actual AF pilot!
Finally, my frustration fuelled curiosity boiled over.
"Chief, with all due respect, why isn't there a proper pilot at the controls of this piece of junk?" I asked the overweight, balding man at the controls from the narrow gap between the cargo bay and the cockpit.
"I told you, you can call me Pops like everyone else, and I also told you, there isn't a transport squadron on the entire west coast, never mind our base, so this is our only supply bird. She's on more or less permanent "loan" from the Navy and thankfully I think they have long since forgotten all about her." He paused for effect, "now since young "speed-junkies" like you can't appreciate rugged old beauty like this girl here, I handle her, Son." Came the warm response that carried just an underlying edge of authority. Intended or not, his light heartedness and amiability had the effect my cooling my frustrations. Far from just another Air Maintenance Officer, Pops was a great pillar of strength and knowledge for the 108th, but naturally I hadn't a clue of that at the time.
"Okay "Pops". It just, well, it just seems strange Command giving the OK to AF birds flying without an AF pilot up front."
"Careful in criticizing my flying abilities Nugget, I might just have to make you eat those words later on." The retort came with a smile. "And as for Command, well, they don't look too deep into how we run things out here. We're a little far from-"
"Civilization?" I chimed in, earning a laugh from the heavyset old man.
"I was going to say the bureaucracy, but I keep forgetting most of you young ones are city kids these days... man, times sure have changed." Pops sighed as Sand Island continued to grow in the windscreen. "Look Kid, I know this probably wasn't your choice to come out here-"
"Is it anyone's?"
"-But as I was saying, there's some real good flying to be had. You keep a positive attitude, and pay yourself attention, and you can learn a lot."
"Thanks Pops, but I got one goal out here, do my Phase IV Grad rides and impress the CO enough into helping get me a ticket back to a Regular Force Squadron where I belong." I said firmly, eyes straining against the setting sun to identify the miniscule features of the island still miles ahead of us.
"Well, that's a good plan, but just so you know, you'll need the 108th's Training Officer to approve you past Phase IV, and he does all the check rides himself. But just go let him know when you arrive you think you're ready, and I'm sure he'll set you up properly." Pops said with the slightest impressions of a smirk.
"Sounds like a walk in the park! I got through 99% of Phase IV with excellent marks at Hierlark, against guys who taught fighting every day. Keep the props turning on this crate Pops, I'll be flying circles around this backwater TrgO of yours and back to the mainland in no time."
"Well you sound confident enough, but you're probably right. I mean what can an Auxiliary Unit know about real flying, right? Once you get unpacked and through in-clearance, you're looking for a Bartlett, Captain Bartlett." I took careful note of the name as I walked back to my seat in the rear. Now looking back, Pops' sarcasm should have been overwhelmingly obvious and set off all kinds of red flags, but I was far too busy smiling to myself thinking how easy my escape from the sand prison was going to be. Despite the whole, 'haven't even arrived yet' bit. I, just like all Nuggets, was riding high on the waves of immortality, self-confidence, and ego that was the seemingly fail proof product of mixing youth and fighter aircraft. And I, like all Nuggets inevitably do, was going to pay dearly for such self delusions of grandeur.
Captain Bartlett, Training Officer, I thought.
Piece of cake.
The next twelve hours was a bit of a blur. The transport touched down just after dark and most of the base had stood down for the evening. After another hour and a bit helping Pops unload the mail, part boxes, and other assorted items from the "Old Crate" he gave me a lift to the shacks where I could unpack and get some rest before going through my In-Doctrine the next morning. As we passed by the lounge several of what must have been 108th pilots stopped their pool games, movie, or conversation to watch me pass. I didn't stop to introduce myself, more out of rapidly developing fatigue than anything else.
The night came and went, and after introductions with the Base CO, DCO, administration cell, and supply, I was back in the pilot's natural attire, the famed olive drab flight suit. The big red '2' of Hierlark's training squadron still humbly adorning my right shoulder.
Now came the time to meet this Bartlett.
The details from that point on are, well, just fast forward three weeks.
"Speed and Angels, 2-1." A disembodied voice echoed through my headset.
"Speed and Angels, 2-2." I responded, involuntarily tensing in anticipation.
"Hound 2-2, Bandit left 9 o'clock inbound! Break left. Break left. Hostile, hostile!"The same voiced boomed through my head and instinctively my left thumb started pumping out chaff and flare as fast as the toggle would allow. As quick as I could hear and compute 'left', my right wrist shoved hard over before burying into my gut. Outside the world rolled clockwise before stopping violently at the horizontal as I groaned and fought against the weight of my now 5 times heavier helmet, forcibly trying to look straight up as far as I could into the now sideways world.
Nothing.
Nothing.
There!
A split second flash of sunlight on steel and my eyes zeroed in on the now painfully obvious dark speck on a light blue sky. A speck that was growing. Rapdily.
"2-2 Visual. 2-2 Press." I more grunted than spoke, still hauling G in an attempt to bring my nose around in time. Instinctively my left hand shoved both throttles into full burner before assisting the right in burying the stick deeper into my gut. Somewhere my brain was already critiquing the fact I was in a max G, bleeding turn to His high speed cross.
He had the energy.
My airspeed was dropping like a rock, even in full burner.
I had begun reactive and was now fully defensive three seconds later.
Not a good start.
High alpha, off-angle, AIM-9 shot?
Nose nearly onto target now... Could I? Is there enough separation for the heater to arm? The grey speck was rapidly becoming a growing set of wings and fin.
Not a chance.
"2-1, left to left." The voice boomed again.
"2-2, left to left." I confirmed, rolling level just in time to pass the incoming bandit's left wingtip at less than a ΒΌ mile as he screamed by at well over 700 knots of closure. My head snapped back and left to follow him as I flicked my wrist again and rolled inverted before pulling through a half loop. Losing visual in the roll, I glanced through the HUD in the pull-out to see that even in dive, I was only accelerating through 300 knots.
Too slow!
I had bled way too much in the breaking turn and needed every spare knot I could get coming out of the half-loop. Hopefully the Bandit had lost sight at the merge and was busy pulling hard into a circle fight above, if not... well, he was above me with excess energy.
That wouldn't go good.
Pulling through the bottom of the loop I once again fought the G and scanned upward, desperately trying to reacquire visual. Quite surprisingly, I found myself staring straight out the top of my canopy at the topside of the enemy fighter. He was inverted heading opposite my direction about three-ish thousand feet above.
Son of a bitch had gone vertical at the merge.
Now this really wasn't good.
We had degenerated into the standard 'circle fight', with both of us flying around the same invisible circular path, only this time it was vertical instead of the usual flat variety.
And here I was slow and on the bottom.
Not a winning combination.
My options didn't look much better.
Keep flying straight and he dives down in for a heater.
Break left or right out of the circle and he's not on your tail yet, but it'd only be a matter of time with the speed and height advantage. He could wait high all day and come down when he wants.
Extending out wasn't an option, and pulling defensive wasn't an option as hell, I already was defensive!
That left forcing the draw.
Quickdraw, that is.
Cranking back hard with both hands yet again, still in full burner, I slammed the jet back skyward to complete the other half of the loop I had previously started. Craning upwards I could see the Bandit coming on down through his half loop. He would've seen me pull the nose up and must be trying to get down below and behind me before I could swing my nose up and over for a shot.
He's going to make it too.
The Bandit had carried more than enough speed and the dive was rocketing him downwards. There was no way I was going to be able to finish my minimum speed loop in time to catch the shot as he came around.
Time to cash-in, and make it count!
Using both hands again I yanked the stick as deep into my stomach as it would go, forcing the jet to bleed off every leftover knot to basically stall the airplane in exchange for snapping the nose around on a dime. By now a piercing caution tone was erupting through my headset and all control authority disappeared abruptly. As the Bandit moved rapidly from top to bottom in the HUD a quick flick of the thumb brought up the gun pipper and I squeezed the trigger back for an incredibly long two second burst.
"2-2, Hammer!" I spat.
Before I could blink the Bandit was gone and the nose continued to swing rapidly towards the blue ocean below, caution tone still screaming into my ears. Still without control authority I pulled out of burners to let the airspeed build in the vertical dive without wasting any more precious fuel. Anxiously, I waited for my jet to build enough speed to recover and manoeuvre again. Either the center of my pipper had managed to drag across the Bandit to get a hit, or he had gotten away and now had nearly six free seconds to swing around and waste me as I helplessly fell towards the waves. The pass had come and gone so quick I wasn't sure if I had caught him with the dot or not.
"2-1, Terminate, Terminate. Valid gun." The voice echoed in my ears as I passed through one hundred and ten knots and the stall horn shut off. I automatically let out the deep breath I didn't realize I had been holding.
"2-2, Terminate."
"Nice shot. Cashing-in there was desperate. Very desperate. I had you skewered if you had missed." The voice continued, slightly relaxed.
"There was no way I was going to have missed, you walked into it." I replied with the mandatory bending, or rather outright breaking, of the truth. The response was a light-hearted laugh.
"Sure, sure Nugget. A valid kill, but pure luck, I'm sure we'll see that from the tapes later. Bring it back on up to Angels one-five and you'll start reactive again. Don't burn all your speed in the break this time. You need to spoil the shot, which you did, but if you get visual before you over-commit you can see exactly how much break you need so you're not just bleeding extra energy off. Sound good?"
"Rog, but it's just hard to get visual before committing since I'm already breaking on reflex to the radio warning." I sighed in partial frustration, finally having enough speed to coax the jet back into a climb to reset the match.
"Hark! Was that an excuse I heard? Because-"
"Only bad dates and dead men make excuses, yeah, yeah, yeah." I sighed again, "2-2 is in the climb for Angels one-five, heading two eight zero, enough juice for one more."
"2-1 checks, I'm your four o'clock, slightly high."
A pause, and I knew full well what was coming next.
"So there, Mr. Hierlark-99%-to-Grad-I'm-Too-Good-For-This-Place-Ace, what's the score now? I tend to forget these things." Looking up over my shoulder at the other F-5 effortlessly cutting the clear blue air, I could all but see Lt Svenson's shit-eating grin beneath his mask.
"3-1 you today Sir. 23-8 total." I spoke rather sheepishly, only to evoke another laugh.
"Don't take it personally Nugget. You're starting to improve a lot quicker now that we've almost erased all your habits from the preschool up North. Two weeks ago you would've extended out of that dive and took my AIM-7 up the ass trying to run away. They only teach you to press good positions up North, and to run from the rest. That'll get you killed every day of the week in the real world. That gun shot was desperate, but it took balls and most importantly, it was aggressive. Press, Press, Press, all the time. You took the fight to me, and that's what will keep you alive out there." Svenson started rattling off as I took mental note.
"Of course, you got lucky actually hitting me with that shot, but it was the best offensive call for the shitty position you put yourself in." He gave the lesson time to sink in.
"Now, back to the scores, if it makes you feel any better, that split sounds close to about my ratio with Bartlett... but Shake'n and I usually have to 2v1 him to get the wins." He continued, referencing the 108th's other instructor pilot, Lt Rob "Shake'n" Baker. "That, or spoof his radar before take-off." I humbly laughed back at the attempt to soften today's lecture. Looking back now in retrospect, he had probably been telling me the truth.
Three weeks had passed since Captain "Heart Break" Bartlett had outright rejected my request for my check rides immediately on arrival. Instead, he had farmed me off to Lt Svenson for 'work-ups' or, in his exact words, so I could "replace all the garbage I had learned at Hierlark with actual combat flying skill." Well, the 'garbage' had turned out to be virtually everything, but he did promise me the check ride once I got the Lieutenant's approval.
Twelve simulator sessions, dozens of hours briefing, and eighteen flights later... my ticket off this isolated rock was still nowhere in sight. This was hop nineteen, and kill ratios to the contrary, I was making great progress, but these guys were good.
Pops had been right about one thing; there was definitely some good flying to be had out here. Once you got over the antiquated aircraft and total lack of nightlife, of course.
"So if HB's so good, then why is he stuck out here?" I queried gently as we continued our leisurely climb.
"Less hassle from Command, sweet flying hours from money discretely siphoned off the Navy, and a tropical setting, what's not love?" Came the expected veiled wave-off. I didn't heed it.
"Nothing to do with spies and security concerns?" I prodded. Rumours were a natural part of life on a home as same as ours.
"Touchy subject, Second Lieutenant. I'd advise you to drop it. The Captain a dedicated Osean Officer and a ridiculously good combat flier." A not so veiled wave-off.
"And yet attached to the 108th." I shoved.
"Might I point out, you are too Nugget. I've read your file, you've already got a pretty expensive name for yourself, Blaze." Lt Svenson shoved back with a stinger. Despite my best efforts the callsign I had 'earned' those last days at Hierlark had followed me to Sand Island.
"I didn't do-"
"That's not what the report says. But as a SAM doesn't differentiate between a poor record and a good one, here on the island we don't either. There are only two things that matter here, and those are your word and your skill. You'll notice there's nothing in there about your past. Keep that in mind when you want to start prodding at others ." The serious voice paused as I levelled my bird off at fifteen thousand feet, feeling a little colder than only moments earlier.
"Now, if you're ready to get back to work, I'm feeling generous this time so bring it around to three-one-zero and get the sun out of your eyes. Stay frosty, and don't over bleed this one. 2-1, repositioning." Lt Svenson finished the scolding, heavier overtones fading as the enthusiasm and excitement returned to his voice. Off my right side the light blue and gray F-5 broke high and away. My heart rate jumped up twenty beats a minute in preparatory response.
"Speed and Angels, 2-1." Spoke Svenson a little over a minute of silence later.
"Speed and Angels, 2-2." I confirmed, once again tensing up in eager anticipation.
Fight's on.
"Hound 2-2, Bandit right 5 o'clock inbound! Break right. Break right. Hostile, hostile!"
That's all for now. Thanks for stopping by. Hope you enjoyed.
-SP