ACE COMBAT
The Fall of Estoque
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Part 1
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Amidst the blue skies, a link from past to future.
The sheltering wings of the protector…
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Who am I?
I am Alejandro Martin Sortija. I'm a fighter pilot, as I've always dreamed of being. I fly for the Sapin Air Force, as a proud member of the 16th Air Division, 19th Tactical Fighter Squadron, also known as the Estoque Squadron.
Well… Officially, anyway. Off the record, I've also got another set of employers. I suppose it's all for the better. The Sapin military isn't involved in much at this point in history. My 'other' employers, however, are constantly getting requests, and we are the ones sent out to oblige. That's right—it isn't just me. The entire Estoque Squadron works both for the Air Force, and for the mysterious faction which doesn't seem to have a name, even though all of our superiors bear the title of Primary. There's the Head Primary, who runs everything, and then there's the First Primary, Second, Third, and so forth.
How we came into service under these Primary people is a long story, and one for another time. Suffice to say it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, though, I would almost prefer a dull life in the Sapin Air Force, as opposed to the chaotic turmoil I have to endure to serve both the Air Force and the Primaries.
- - -
"…ound for…from bo…mies…ancing togeth…aginable…ile ago…"
It was 10:24 P.M., according to the analogue clock on the wall across the bar. The television's volume was turned up ridiculously high, and yet I still couldn't hear it over the clamour of the bar.
"Can't you turn the television up any higher?" I had to shout to the bartender. He was a friend of mine, named Laurus, after the city.
He shrugged half-apologetically. "Sorry, Sortija. I can't help you." He was flagged down by another patron and went to see what the man wanted.
I looked at my beer. It wasn't very appetizing; the liquid bubbled, half-assedly, in the bottom of my mug. I didn't even like beer, really.
"I think I'm going to call it a night, then," I called to Laurus. He nodded, I think in response to me, though he didn't turn from the drink he was mixing. I shrugged into my black jacket and got off the stool. It took me a minute or so to make my way to the door.
The moment I stepped outside and into the cold, dark night, it was as if I had stepped into another world. The hot, smoke-filled air of the bar was gone, replaced by the sharp, but clean, night air. And there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It seemed that lately, all Sapin had ever known was rain. Now, though, every star in the heavens was shining mightily, despite the fact that I stood outside a tavern on the Vía Central, one of the busiest streets in this area of Gran Rugido.
In fact, it struck me as odd that there was only a single car on the street, especially since that car was mine, parked where I'd left it across from the tavern. I eyed it, and then looked around myself.
"I'm not a fool," I said. "This absence of activity isn't natural. The Primaries, I assume?"
No sooner had the words escaped my lips than was the Head Primary standing before me, a wry smile on his face.
"Congratulations," he said, "you win." The Head Primary was wearing a black trench coat which effectively hid anything else he might be wearing—or wielding. In my experience, no Primary ever ventured outside the HQ without a weapon. His hair was his most noticeable feature—is fell straight to his shoulders, and was perfectly white. The Primary, though, was only about twenty-five years old.
"Can I help you?" I said. "I'd really like to get home. There's a news program that I'm afraid I've already missed most of."
He waved a hand dismissively. "That is unimportant, I assure you. The outcome of this war is already known to the Primaries."
"Yes, well, I'm not a Primary, so—"
"We require your presence. The rest of your squadron has already been informed. You, Alejandro, are to report to the HQ as soon as possible."
I frowned, pursed my lips irritably, and nodded. "Fine. I'll be there."
Without paying any more attention to him, I approached my car. The instant I was inside, I sucked in a quick breath and hit the steering wheel with a closed fist. It creaked in protest; the car was old, and not meant to be used for stress relief.
"The damned Primaries again," I muttered to the silence around me. "They had to choose my squadron; they just had to turn my life upside down. Don't know why I ever joined the Air Force." With that, I stabbed the key into the ignition and started the car. It took a few seconds, but the engine sputtered to life and I eased it forward. I wheeled it around onto the Calle de Riqueza, and the sights and sounds of a populated city surrounded me once more. The stars faded almost entirely as I drove through the lighted streets, though the sky was still clear.
"Another wonderful night," I grumbled.
- - -
The Primary HQ was a very large, modern building, all shiny smooth and metallic, sporting reflective windows so that it was near impossible to see into the building from the street. There were exactly thirty floors, I knew without counting. The design of the building itself was almost futuristic.
To the right of the main entrance, there was a keypad, a handprint recognition device, and a small LCD screen. I approached and pressed the green button on the keypad indicating that I wished to enter.
A face flickered into view on the keypad's LCD screen: Philip Teron, head of security at the Primary HQ.
"Evening, Sortija," he said in a bored voice.
"Yes, it is," I replied. "Let me in, would you?"
"You know the drill. Handprint, please."
I obliged, pressing my right hand to the handprint recognition pad, and Philip nodded. "Come on in, Sortija. The Primaries want to see you as soon as possible."
"I know," I muttered, and Philip's face vanished from the screen. I pulled the front door open and entered.
The interior of the Primary HQ was maintained at seventy degrees Fahrenheit around the clock. It was slightly warmer inside than out, but not much. I kept my jacket on as I approached the elevator.
"Alejandro!"
I turned to see Jorge Sosegado, the Estoque Squadron's number two, approaching and looking slightly nervous. "They haven't started already, have they?"
"I hope not. I just got here."
He accompanied me into the elevator. I pushed the button for the top floor with my thumb.
"What do you think it'll be this time?" he said.
"I don't know. I was watching the news, wanted to see what was going on in Sudentor; but the Head Primary specifically wanted everyone here immediately. It must be something important."
"Yeah," he agreed. There was a pause. Then, "You don't think it has anything to do with the Razgriz, do you?"
"I hope not," I said, "and you should too. Those demons have destroyed everything anybody has thrown against them. I know you want to test your skills, but there's no use in taking a test that you can't pass."
"But if we could, wouldn't that just be amazing?"
I looked at him. "Jorge," I said, "Ever since we started working for these Primary people, my life has been as crazy as all get out. I know you like this dramatic, crazy lifestyle, but I do not, and never have. You live as if your life were a video game. If it makes life more enjoyable for you, then by all means go ahead and continue. But I can't, all right?"
He was silent. "Sorry," he said. I look up at the ceiling. Surely we were almost there by now. "I just thought… You know, we'd be famous!"
"Jorge," I said, "The Razgriz were known as bad guys for a time, but at the moment, they're very well-liked. Shooting them down would more likely make us infamous. And that is not a position we want to be in."
Ding. The elevator doors slid open. Jorge was first out of the elevator, and I simply followed him to a room like a large boardroom, complete with a long table. The rest of the Estoque Squadron was seated in their regular spots around the table, all three of them; there were a number of other people I didn't recognize, dressed in business suits; and the Third Primary, Quince Stephens as we knew him, stood at the far end. I took my regular seat, the first seat on the side of the table near the door. Estoque 1 sat at the end of the table, to my left; and Jorge, Number 2, sat across from me. Estoque 4 sat to his left, and Estoque 5 sat to my right. The rest of the table was taken up by the unknown 'other' people.
"This is the Estoque Squadron," Primary Quince said. "Now that they are all here… Estoque," he said, addressing all of us, "You are looking at your latest potential employers."
"So they deigned to actually show themselves," Tomás Gallego, better known at Estoque 1, and even better known as 'Jefe', quipped from his spot at the end of the table. "It's not very often we actually see the faces of those who hire us to do their dirty work."
Several of the characters shifted uncomfortably at this, but most stayed still. I bit back a smile.
"That is true," Quince said, "but this instance is special. You're being employed to take on a particularly daunting mission."
"And that would be?" said Eva Navarro, Number 4.
"If I may," said a man who appeared considerably younger than the rest of his peers. Quince nodded, and the man stood up. I watched warily as he approached the far end of the table, where a laptop and projector were set up. He turned it on, and when the projector had warmed up, a strange object was displayed on the screen. I couldn't recognize it from any past experience. It was blueprints for some sort of building, or bunker, or something of that sort.
There was a subtitle at the bottom of the image: "E. Razgriz". The image on the screen, however, was most certainly not any sort of plane, much less a four-plane formation.
"That's as big as Megalith was," Jorge breathed.
"It's a partially developed super weapon, produced in a joint project between various smaller nations. The project was led by Erusea. We suspect Belka was involved in the funding of the project, but we have been unable to confirm that. Who funded it is not our largest concern at the moment."
"So you want us to pull a Mobius 1 and blow the thing up?" Tomás said, tilting his head.
"Not yet," the man said, "although it may come to that. We are currently most interested in finding out who is operating the thing with Erusea, since we know they aren't the only ones. We would also like to get a confirmed report of who is funding the construction."
"We're pilots," Eva said. "We're not spies or informants."
"I know that," the man said. "We're convinced, however, that the development of the E. Razgriz cannot stay hidden much longer. They've been using the war to hold the world's attention while they build it, and their cover is almost gone. When the war ends, and the dust settles, someone is going to find this E. Razgriz thing. We want to make sure that doesn't happen before we're ready."
Were they ever going to give us a mission?
"We haven't even confirmed the location of the E. Razgriz, but we believe it is somewhere northwest of the continent of Anea. What we want to hire you for is a series of missions dealing with information about the E. Razgriz. You will, of course, be paid handsomely for your services."
"A bunch of recon crap?" Tomás said, leaning back lazily in his chair. "I don't know. Sounds pretty boring, if you ask me."
"It should be anything but," the man said. "The E. Razgriz will be heavily guarded, and virtually impossible to approach without being detected."
"Ah, I see," Tomás said. "And by 'detected', of course, you mean 'attacked'."
The man smiled. "That is a possibility in any recon mission. Now, it won't all be reconnaissance. Ultimately, if any signs of deployment are detected, you may be asked to, as you said, 'pull a Mobius 1' and destroy it. By that point, we will most likely have acquired more information, and thus, a strategy to destroy it. The E. Razgriz's deployment, obviously, is the one thing that must be avoided at all costs."
I cleared my throat. "Excuse me," I said, "but I am getting the impression that we have a choice of whether to accept this job. Am I the only one who sees this as unusual?"
"He's right," Eva said. "Ordinarily, the Primaries hand us our missions and that is that."
Primary Quince nodded. "Your potential employers insisted that you be given the opportunity to choose whether or not to accept."
"It will be dangerous," the man said by way of explanation, "and there's no guarantee that you will be properly recognized for the work, beyond the pay."
Tomás shrugged. "Lots of money for challenging work," he said. "I'm in."
I didn't want to be the odd one out, even though I wasn't too keen on the job. I weighed the pros and cons, and nodded. "Ditto for me."
Eva leaned forward, eying the projection as she said, "I'm willing."
"Yeah, I'll do it," Jorge said. Tomás turned to Diego Ramirez, Number 5, who hadn't yet said a word.
"Well, Impávido?" Tomás asked, using Diego's nickname. "Whaddaya say?"
Diego sat up. "I have no objections," he said quietly.
"Then that settles it," Tomás said. "We're all in. When do we start?"
The man smiled. "Soon, my friends. But you have time. I will warn you now, though, that you won't be spending much time in Sapin in the near future. I would suggest that you pack your bags and plan for a long absence."
"Report back here tomorrow morning at six o' clock sharp," Quince said. "You'll be leaving for our HQ in North Point at eight o' clock."
"I'm assuming you'll take care of our absences for the Air Force, as usual?" Tomás said. Quince nodded.
"As usual," he agreed.
Tomás was the first out of his seat. "Well, I'll see you guys tomorrow morning, then." And he strode toward the door and was gone. I stood up next, followed by Eva. I was out the door then, and didn't see anyone else get up or leave.
I headed for the doorway to the stairs; everyone would be taking the elevator, and I felt like being alone for a while.
"Alejandro," came Eva's voice behind me. I turned my head but kept walking.
"Yes?"
"I was wondering," she said as she hastened her pace to keep up with me, "is something wrong? You seem agitated. It's unusual."
"I'm fine," I said too soon.
"Tajo," she said, using my call sign with a frown, "if something's wrong, you ought to tell someone."
"Eva," I said, stopping before the doorway to the stairwell. "You aren't a therapist, okay? Please, just let me decide what I ought and oughtn't tell people."
She shrugged. "I'm not trying to be a therapist, I'm just concerned."
"Well, don't be." I hadn't meant to say it so sharply. She looked at me for a moment, then sighed.
"Fine. I'll see you tomorrow," she said, and left. I growled to myself and yanked open the doorway. At that moment, I wouldn't have cared if I'd fallen down all thirty stories.