"Saberhawk Flight, this is New Yokota Control." An English-speaking voice piped in on his flight helmet's built-in comm-link. "Recommend you maintain current course at one-nine-three, speed four hundred and fifty knots closure at angels five for about twelve minutes. Acknowledge, over."
"Saberhawk Two copies, over." another voice piped in.
"Saberhawk One acknowledges, over." he replied quick while adjusting his flight controls accordingly.
"Roger, solid copy on all. Be advised, you'll enter Tokyo Three airspace in less than ten mikes steady on this bearing. Once you do enter Tokyo Three ADP, command authority will be transferred to UN AWACS asset, designate Clairvoyant. Proceed with caution, over."
"Roger, Control. Will do."
"Good luck, gentlemen. New Yokota, out."
"Saberhawk Flight, out."
With a quick flick of a finger, Captain Jameson Reagan of the United States Air Force made short work of shutting off the transmission back to New Yokota Air Base. Sighing heavily on his oxygen mask, he wondered for what seemed like the fifth time today of how unreal this all was.
To say that details about this op were sketchy at best was a damn near-colossal understatement, and the extremely curt pre-mission brief his squadron commander had given earlier wasn't exactly helpful in that regard. What he did know, was that sonar sensors embedded underneath Sagami Bay had detected an unknown object on the sea floor, and it was heading inland at a slow but steady rate. They didn't know what it was, who sent it, or even why it was coming to the fortress city of Tokyo-3 in particular; but what they did know for certain was that it was massive. With an estimated height of at least seventy-meters.
Imagine that. Seventy fucking meters! That's as tall as a fucking skyscraper!
When he first heard about it from his commanding officer, he thought he was joking. But seeing how grim and unflinching the man's face was inside that squadron briefing room, he immediately felt his gut clench and his throat go dry. And as far as he knew the man, he wasn't exactly known for being a kidder either. Which didn't help the captain in any way, shape, or form.
And so after about a few more minutes of prep time, him and his wingman were immediately vectored towards the southbound city of Tokyo-3 ten minutes later, from the sprawling UN air base out of Hachioji, and flying two F-22 stealth fighters loaded for bear in what was technically just a reconnaissance mission.
Although, to be honest, this was the first recon mission he knew of—and participated in—that needed a complete weapons package of air-to-ground ordnance, and a full load of twenty-millimeter cannon rounds. Seriously, he already had to sacrifice part of his overall fuel capacity to carry all this hardware, and if that didn't tell him how serious this situation was, then he didn't know what would.
Not to mention the atmosphere that the brass in New Yokota was giving off wasn't exactly that of a jovial and merry mood, either. Before he was scrambled, he heard from scuttlebutt that the entire UN Command in this region had been mobilized after seeing the fucker just casuallly waltzing under the sea, and that nearby garrisons were already being dispatched to pre-planned mission areas surrounding Tokyo-3 to confront the approaching threat. He really didn't know if it was true or not, but he wouldn't doubt it if it was. Though, if he hadn't known any better, he'd have thought that the upper echelon was in a complete state of panic.
Not that he could blame them, however. In retrospect, who wouldn't be? After getting a glimpse of a big ass object approaching towards them at a casual pace, anyone with a sane mind would definitely lose their shit.
Still, he did hope that whatever this thing was that was definitely coming for them, it wouldn't be too much of a hassle to deal with; that nothing short of a few SLAM-ER missiles would help eventually solve this particular problem.
The thought of which didn't fail in bringing out a smile to Reagan's lips.
He needed it.
"So," the second voice from earlier suddenly sounded out on his comms, originating from the plane flying alongside him, "does this mean our dinner date with the twins is cancelled, then?"
The captain barked out a quick laugh underneath his oxygen mask.
"Of course it fucking is," he replied while watching his instruments and the heads-up display in front of him, "what makes you think we're getting to the restaurant in time after this?"
"I dunno, blind optimism maybe?"
"Could be. Either that, or you just really want to screw Ayumi's brains out later tonight."
That elicited a chuckle from his wingman, First Lieutenant William Saint Paul, who was barely containing his laughs on the frequency that they shared.
"Can you really blame me, Cap? I mean, no offense to your impeccable eyesight, but I swear they keep on getting hotter and hotter each time we see them."
Reagan just shook his head in mild amusement.
"Glad to know that someone is valiantly bridging the gap between our two very different cultures."
"You know me, sir. Just doing my civic duty and all that shit." the first lieutenant happily replied, before switching to a different tone. "Though, there is one thing I don't get..."
"What's that, Will?"
"I don't need to remind you that Ayumi's twin sister is, well, for lack of a better term, completely fucking into you right?"
He already could see where this was going, and he was completely trying his best to fight off the urge to facepalm. He was utterly failing, though.
"What is it about her, now?"
"What I don't understand, oh Captain my Captain, is that why aren't you taking advantage of this insanely wonderful moment?" Saint Paul continued on his tirade. "Azumi, who's oh-so drop-dead gorgeous just like her sister, thinks you're cute for some fucking reason. You don't know why, I don't know why, safe to say is nobody really gives a good shit why. But the most distressing part is, and I cannot stress this enough, is that you're not really doing anything in your power to—well, I don't know—tapping that woman's glorious ass? Seriously Cap, what the fuck? Uh, sir."
He couldn't fight the urge anymore, and with a motion that's well-practiced since he was paired off with Saint Paul nearly a year ago, he bent his head low, and very effortlessly placed a gloved hand on his bone dome helmet; in the part where he knew his eyes and forehead were underneath.
The stealth fighter was already set on autopilot, so he wasn't overly concerned about covering his eyes for the briefest of moments. He really couldn't help it. It was like an automatic reflex now whenever Saint Paul did something stupid or just plain opened his mouth.
Come to think of it, if there ever was a non-verbal way of summarizing all the time together he spent with his wingman, this was really it. No doubt about it.
"Christ sakes', Will. We've been over this more than a dozen fucking times."
"I know, but it completely boggles the mind, Cap. And it's not just me, too. The rest of the boys either think you're a fucking eunich, or that you're a closeted flaming homosexual. And based on the betting pool we got going on at the moment, they are now pinning their hopes on the latter. Not that I blame you though. What with so many good-looking hunks on base, it's hard not to notice. Especially with me being one of those said hunks..."
"I really should have you court-martialed," Reagan said offhandedly. "Lord knows I have enough reasons to get you tried and convicted. Hopefully with any luck, you'll be put in front of a firing squad."
"Ouch, mein Captain. Why are you hurting me this way? Don't I deserve some loving like the rest of the good folk in this cruel and embittered world?"
Reagan's way of reply to that statement was to crane his head towards the right, his gaze now locked to the F-22 Raptor flying in formation next to him, and flipping the pilot of the other plane off with a certain finger.
Safe to say, Saint Paul saw the gesture through his cockpit's bubble canopy and proceeded to laugh his ass off once more.
"Jesus fucking Christ, you really are a big softy." the first lieutenant said after his bout of laughter, slightly out of breath. "I still don't get it. Why are you so intent on looking for this supposed, 'the one'. The odds of that ever happening are really fucking high, man. As in, like, a billion or so to fucking one."
"It just doesn't feel right with Azumi, Will. You already know that." Reagan finally replied sincerely, for what could only be the nth time that he's ever did, most especially since Saint Paul kept on asking the very same question, given the chance. Over, and over, and over again. "Like I told you before, there's just no spark between us."
What was so hard for him to comprehend any of this? Of just wanting a monogamous and meaningful relationship? Was it really that difficult to understand? He certainly didn't seem to think so, but his fellow pilot seemed to disagree.
"She happens to think there is," Saint Paul offered. "And according to Ayumi, you're definitely her type."
"Look, I won't deny it, she's a helluva a girl. But..."
"But what?"
"But...hmmm," The captain contemplated for a bit, then went back, "you know what? Just forget it."
"Wait, what?!" Saint Paul expressed frustration at the sudden dismissal. "You're shitting me."
"Nope."
"You do realize I'm never gonna let this go until you tell me, right?"
"I know. But, like I said, just forget about it."
"Tell me." the first lieutenant pushed. "Tell me right fucking now."
"No."
"Jameson Alexander Reagan, you stubborn fucking mick, you tell me right now."
"Lieutenant, don't make me turn it into an official order." Reagan tried to warn sternly.
"Don't care," Saint Paul immediately quipped into the line, "tell me."
"You do realize that I have the power to have you thrown into the brig, right? For this, and all the other indiscretions that I've seen you commit under my supervision?"
"Blow me, still don't care. Tell me. Tell me, damn you!"
"Shut the fuck up, Will. Now that is a direct order."
"If you don't tell me, I am going to fucking sing a song with my terrible voice, which we both know you can't stand."
"Then I'll fucking turn this comm-line off." The captain said impatiently.
"Captain, why, I do declare," Saint Paul countered with mock outrage, "you do realize that doing such a thing would violate several flight regulations, right?" He emphasized his faux disappointment with several clicks of his tongue, "I cannot believe you would be capable of doing such a horrendous thing!"
"Yeah? Well, so is annoying and disobeying your flight leader, you irritating bastard!"
"You say these mean and terrible things to me, which are hurtful, but I know deep in my heart that you truly care about me."
"Like hell I do."
"It'll all be over soon, dear Captain." the other pilot soothed. "If you just tell me why you don't want to shamelessly bang and/or date Azumi Kitahara; a.k.a., smoking hot babe with the face of a goddess, curves that'll drive you crazy, that insanely tight and lucious ass, and those perfectly-sized ta-tas that would make any grown man cry."
"I repeat," Reagan said with a slightly tired and immensely annoyed voice. "I am not telling you shit."
"Final warning, Cap." Saint Paul threatened with a sing-song voice. "if you do not tell me right now, I will unleash me shit hot vocal chords into your auditory canal. Be advised that it is not pretty."
"I am mentally counting off the minutes 'til we RTB, when I finally have the MPs violently throw your ass in solitary confinement."
"Ten seconds..."
The young captain didn't respond to the reminder, opting instead to just look at his cockpit's state-of-the-art flight controls, all the while trying not to be tempted with actually reporting his wingman to the base's military police. He wasn't kidding about the number of crappy situations that his wingman had unwittingly dragged both of them into.
Up until this day, he still hasn't forgiven Saint Paul for making a still in their shared dorm so that he could have some homemade gin on demand. And both of them got a harsh reprimand for it from the base commander, when he eventually found out about it after a quick inspection. Docked pay for two months, and luckily double duty for just one month instead of three.
Or on that fateful day a month ago, when the horny lieutenant brought in Ayumi—who he had just met at a bar that time—into their dorm unit and they were humping like there was no tomorrow, moaning and downright screaming. And since there wasn't any soundproofing on the walls separating their two living quarters, he could hear everything that went down on that unfortunate day. And when he meant he could hear everything, he really did mean everything. For starters, it didn't take long for him to understand what iku meant in English after the first half-hour of their marathon performance. Which lasted for three hours straight.
The result of which was only about two hours' worth of decent sleep for him, and a scathing performance review from his squadron commander, for having failed what was supposed to be a routine flight exercise from the simulator; forever tarnishing his perfect record, which he so carefully cultivated after having graduated from the Air Force Academy with honors two years ago.
That happened to upset him a lot that day.
At least Ayumi had the good grace to be embarrassed about it when she finally heard what happened afterwards. And as penance for having ruined his perfect record and his precious sleep at that time, the brunette Japanese beauty deemed it fit to introduce him to her twin sister, Azumi. Which apparently was both her and Saint Paul's idea.
Though, in all honesty, it probably was coming more from the latter instead of the former.
Speaking of the latter. He thought to himself as he awaited the inevitable.
"You have been warned, Le Capitaine..." Saint Paul ominously gave out as he breathed in and exhaled a couple of times.
In the depths of his mind, something told him that this was going to suck. A lot. Reagan mentally braced for what was coming his way.
But before he could be subjected to what was basically a gross violation of the Geneva Convention in terms of unadulterated torture, he was saved at the very last moment by an incoming transmission from the main command frequency, sparing him from the worst thing ever devised since the creation of tofu bacon.
Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Lord. He thought to himself blissfully as he readied himself mentally for this op. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.
He didn't even bother covering up his sigh of relief when he finally answered the call. Lord knows he probably would've lost it if he heard his wingman sing one more time.
"Attention, attention, southbound flight coming in on one-nine-three." an authoritative and definitely female voice reverberated in his comms. "This is C-Two, callsign Clairvoyant, operating north-north-east relative to your whiskey, distance three-four-zero klicks away at angels ten. Identify yourself, over."
"Showtime." he sent to his wingman before finally transmitting to the floating command center that was extremely away. "Uh, roger wilco, Clairvoyant. This is Saberhawk Flight, pair of two Raptors now currently operating within Tokyo Three ADP from New Yokota. Ready for tasking. Over."
"Authenticate. Sierra Delta, over."
Reagan grabbed the nearby communications booklet strapped on his lap, and flipped the pages open for the correct counter-response. Which he found a few moments later.
"Zulu, X-Ray Six, over."
"Affirmative, Saberhawk Flight. Authentication confirmed." Clairvoyant responded. "Be advised, you are now operating under execute authority for this callsign, and will follow standard protocols and ROE guidelines set forth by this callsign from here on out. How copy, over?"
He expected as much. It was already understood from the get-go that when him and Saint Paul were pawned off to the nearest command and control asset, they'd take orders and instructions from there and be off their merry way once the op was finished. And as such, a reminder wasn't really all that necessary to begin with.
The only reasonable explanation he could think of, as to why he was being sort-of lectured about this, was because this nugget was either new to command, or that she got her rocks off by reminding everyone of their place in the military's food chain.
Since she was a woman, Reagan could only assume that it was unfortunately both.
Nevertheless, he just acquiesced to the not-so-subtle reminder from the CO.
"Roger, Clairvoyant. Saberhawk Flight copies all, over."
"Excellent. Standby for tasking, Saberhawk Flight. Wait one, over." And then the line clicked off. Leaving the captain alone with his thoughts.
"Man," Saint Paul commented on the two-way comm-link that they shared. "I don't mean to sound like an dick—" That's a first, he thought to himself. "— but she kinda sounds like she's got a massive stick up her ass, don't it?"
The captain didn't respond to that statement, opting instead to just groan audibly on his mic as a way to reply to his wingman. Knowing Saint Paul, he'd shut up about it well enough.
After all, this was their first major sortie here in Japan, and it wouldn't do both of them any good if they were being grounded indefinitely afterwards because his subordinate just happened to piss off a superior officer. No matter how warranted it may be.
Plus, he really didn't want any more blemishes on his record. After what had happened previously, once was more than enough.
"Saberhawk Flight, this is Clairvoyant." the female voice returned after being gone for about half a minute or so. "Standby for new tasker, over."
"Roger wilco, ma'am."
"Recommend you head south-east. I say again, shift your course to one-three-five and decrease altitude to angels two. Maintain current airspeed on your approach, over."
"Roger." Reagan replied automatically as he shifted his plane to adjust to the Raptor's new given heading.
Flying just above the pre-Impact 255 National Highway in Odawara, the captain depressed the pedal underneath his left foot and felt the stealth fighter slowly ease itself towards the east. While he was at it, he also banked the aircraft a few degrees down to the left to help with the turn, and carefully decreased his altitude from five thousand feet to two thousand, which took about a minute of constant finessing with the flight stick.
Next to him, his wingman dutifully followed in near perfect formation on his right.
So far so good...he said to himself as he finely manipulated the controls of the aircraft.
After about two minutes' worth of constant adjustments, he finally leveled his Raptor and headed straight towards the direction the AWACS had given him. Up ahead, he could see the coastline that was rapidly approaching, along with the hollowed out and abandoned pre-Impact buildings that were littered all along the flight path down below.
He thoroughly ignored the eerie feeling in his gut from seeing all the dilapidated structures and continued onwards.
In his helmet-mounted speakers, the AWACS commander was still active.
"...be advised," Clairvoyant continued, "once you hit the coast, Saberhawk Flight is to proceed into a holding pattern around grid papa-bravo-eight-four-six-three-nine-one, and provide overwatch on the designated area. Acknowledge, over."
"Copy," he heard his wingman reply in the affirmative, while Reagan wordlessly lifted his throttle hand away from the speed controls and inputted the designated grid on the GPS interface in front of him.
A small box was highlighted in the navigation screen a few seconds later which, according to the display, was just a quarter of a klick away from the coastline. His HUD told him that he was going to arrive there momentarily, where he and his wingman had orders to fly in lazy fuel-efficient circles around a grid that was just two square kilometers in length, and observe anything that was happening there.
He could only assume that this was the general area in which the unknown object was planning to come out of, in all it's undisturbed and hopefully not-so-intimidating glory.
Without much preamble, the young captain readied the sensors and outboard cameras littered all over his aircraft, which he was going to use to capture everything of relevance concerning the unknown object's approach.
ELINT sensors...check. He thought as he swept through the diagnostics reading on his main display. COMINT and SIGINT systems...online. AESA is a-ok. LADAR sensors, alright. Optical imagers within nominal levels.
"Clairvoyant, Saberhawk Two, flight is now feet wet." Saint Paul reported once they were past land and were now above the bay's shimmering surface.
"Saberhawk now going into holding pattern," Reagan stated as he inputted the controls on his aircraft's auto-pilot. "At grid papa-bravo-eight-four-six-three-nine-one, over."
"Roger Saberhawk Flight, proceed on mission and ensure that your rec-cap is rolling."
"Wilco, Saberhawk One copies all."
As ordered, he checked his rec-cap, which was shorthand for the mission data recorder embedded on his seat, and was satisfied with it's readiness shown clearly on the display.
"Clairvoyant, this is Saberhawk Two. What's the ETA on this bastard, over?"
"ETA is any damn minute, Saberhawk Two." Clairvoyant hotly replied. "Now unless you have anything useful to report, clear off the command channel."
"Uh, roger that...Saberhawk Two, out." there was a brief pause, and Saint Paul shifted towards him: "Man, what a fucking bitch."
"...excuse me?" An obviously female and most definitely outraged voice replied on the line, instead of the captain the lieutenant was expecting.
"Oops."
Reagan could not stop the grin forming on his face as both Raptors started the first turn into their holding pattern above their assigned grid.
Apparently his wingman forgot to switch off the main frequency before opening his big-ass mouth.
"Would you care to repeat that, Saberhawk Two?"
"No, ma'am." .
"Are you sure?" the voice answered sweetly. "Because I did not just hear one of my subordinates say what I think he just said. On an open frequency, no less."
"Could be solar interference from the atmosphere, ma'am." His wingman quickly offered. "Heavy sunspot activity today, must've been causing trouble on the comm systems and resulted in you mishearing something, over."
"It better be." Clairvoyant menacingly shot back on the frequency. "Because if I check the mission recorders later and it says otherwise, someone is getting to get busted down a grade. Or two."
A sudden, shrill beeping took the captain away from the unfurling drama before him and into the cockpit's secondary sensor display. Where the data from the sonar sensors embedded underneath the bay was being transmitted to his screen directly.
What the hell...?
He didn't have a chance to fully analyze the readings, as all of a sudden, the massive object surfaced dramatically out of the waters of Sagami Bay; giving both him and Saint Paul a first look into what it was.
And just how enormously big.
Suffice to say, it completely did not disappoint.
What followed next was Saint Paul perfectly describing their somewhat precarious situation.
"Oh, shit."