Chp. 1: The Foley Mudhens

March 23, 1995

McNealy AFB Bombing Range

Staff Sergeant K.C. Smith, a member of the Osean Air Force's Strike Warfare Center, lay quietly atop the grassy knoll, the one mph breeze occasionally batting around the straw affixed to his woodland-pattern boonie hat. It was his turn to help guide in the next group pair of flyboys while his two other FAC compatriots laid half-asleep towards the foot of the slope, waiting their turn for the next run on the already heavily punished clusters of derelict Pattons, Sgt. Yorks and Chaparrals that were supposed to represent the "enemy" (the cranky Eruseans or the even still the Yukes they'd just begun to head towards friendlier terms with).

Smith chose a line of M48 Pattons and made sure the tripod-mounted laser designator he had was pointed at the middle one, just in case.

"Long Sword 2-2, this is Voodoo 3, I have a VID on enemy armor. I count four from my position." He radioed.

Far above and miles away, 1Lt. Matthew Hall listened to the FAC's description as he guided his F-15E Strike Eagle on a steady path. In the back, his WSO 2Lt. Henry Collins was waiting for the go to put the machine's APG-70 radar into air-to-ground mode for their runs. They had two GBU-12s hanging under the wing pylons, as well as four Mk.83 1000-lbs bombs and 300 rounds in their M61A1 cannon.

"Roger that Voodoo 3, standing by." Collins spoke up.

The Strike Eagle was originally intended as an interdictor, not a close-support craft like the A-10 or Su-25, but the Osean Air Force was always looking for ways to prove to the taxpayers and bureaucrats their expensive toys were worth the dollar. That train of thought was what had led to the day's exercise for the "Paladins" of the 245th TFS: close air support.

"Longsword, what've you got?" their eyes on the ground asked.

"Two Paveways, four Mk. 83, and 300 rounds for each bird, take your pick." Matt's friend smiled under his oxygen mask.

"Roger, standby…" the Staff Sergeant replied.

"Standby for what? His IR strobe?" the pilot of Longsword 2-2 asked, thinking the FAC would've activated that long before.

"Okay Longsword, make your approaches north to south. Target will be four M48 Pattons near the woodland road, coordinates are as follows…" the foot soldier informed.

Collins punched in the coordinates and consulted his map on one of the F-15's rear Multi-Purpose Color Displays (MPCD). Matt gave him a glance through one of the rearview mirrors.

"We good?" the brunette Lieutenant asked.

"Yep, let's give em a show." Genesis confirmed.

"Roger that, Longsword 2-3, this is Longsword 2-2. Weapons armed, rolling in hot." The front-seater radioed.

"Okay Prince, I'll follow you in." Longsword 2-3's pilot, 2nd Johnathan Hickman radioed. The brunette looked to his left and nodded.

"Negative Rat Pack, break off and get up higher so you can spot for me. You get the second pass." He replied. The Bana City native thought he heard a gripe from his friend, but John agreed. Matt gave him the signal to spilt off

"Voodoo 3, Long sword 2-2, rolling in hot." Henry said as his friend smoothly guided the Mud Hen to the left and began to dive.

Matt would be the one to let off the unguided Mk 83s, being given the best visibility. Meanwhile his taller friend would be ready with the GBUs if they needed to make a third pass (after John and his WSO, Captain Luther Barry). The young man of 29 adjusted the throttles to give himself a little speed in the dive. He selected the four green bombs as Henry confirmed the position of the FAC and the tanks on his AN/AAQ-14 targeting pod's Forward-Looking Infrared (FLIR). The pilot adjusted accordingly and pressed his big dark gray jet into the light-green valley, passing below 8000 feet.

The shapes crept down his Heads-Up Display (HUD) towards the circle on the electronic bombsight. The altimeter continued to drop, 7700 feet. As with most any training exercise the RWR system remained quiet. Matt's finger hung just above the release button until the rear M48 was just above the circle on the "lollipop".

"Longsword 2-2, pickle." He called calmly as he depressed the control several times. A number of soft "thunks" registered in the crew's senses as the weapons went free.

"Longsword 2-2, off target." Matt confirmed as he pulled back the stick and went into afterburner for a brief second.

Henry was turned around in his seat, the FLIR unable to slew to the angle to watch the show. Matt gave him a little help and banked right, going into military power as they climbed back up to 15,000 feet. A glance to the Earth below revealed four rising trails of smoke from the impacts.

"Good hits." K.C. Smith hooted.

Matt spotted Longsword 2-3 circling the target as he leveled out to take up the overwatch, heading back to make his own run.

"Okay Longsword 2-3, go for it." The brunette smiled.

"You said the magic words Prince." Johnathan smiled, as happy as he usually was to get some action (even if it was all just practice).

The other F-15 crew mirrored their section lead's run, delivering four more green-colored bombs to the "enemy" column.

"Okay Longsword, that'll do it. I can confirm eight good hits. You're cleared back to the barn." Their friend on the ground radioed.

Matt checked his tanks as he waited for John to rejoin on his wing. He wished he could just fly all the way back home from here, but the mission had intended to be local, and thus he was to head west and stop at McNealy for a while before returning back to the valleys, tall hills and wide rivers of Eastern Osea. He saw the other F-15E slide into position and nodded.

"Roger that Voodoo, Longsword is egressing out of the area."…


As the Strike Eagle finally fell silent, Matt pried slid the helmet off his sweaty head. The rest of the ground crew assigned to Eagle 91-0611 came forward to tend to their machine and bring forward a pair of boarding ladders. Staff Sergeant Justin Zablinski, the crew chief for the two officers, approached Matt as his black boots hit the tarmac.

"Are there any immediate problems with the bird, Sir? Don't want to delay things since we're leaving this afternoon." He asked. The First Lieutenant looked back at the multirole fighter, then towards the dirty-blonde.

"Nothing that'll keep her grounded. Engines worked fine and the controls weren't sluggish in the slightest." He reported, recalling the most immediate details of the training hop.

"Any problems in your seat?" the enlisted man went on, glancing at his clipboard.

"Nothing. ECM panel and RWR were quiet without any simulated threats, the 83s came off smoothly, and the 70 wasn't giving me any attitude like it was back at Foley." His superior outlined. The man in woodland BDUs nodded and looked at the other ground crew as they worked to disarm the two Paveways to detach them and remove the LATIRN pods.

With an "Understood sir", the two parted ways and "Prince" Hall rejoined with his WSO.

"Johnny almost got too trigger-happy again." The one with chestnut-colored hair mumbled.

"At least it's better than when he first joined the unit. I swear if he hadn't gotten a handle on it as fast as he did after almost augering into the dirt while going through The Gulch, the Colonel would've had his wings stripped off the second he'd found out."

The two approached the subject of conversation: the lanky, 5'11, oil-colored pompadour-wearing 2nd Lieutenant known as "Ratpack". Henry immediately brought up the issue.

"Hey man, we went over how we were gonna do things in the briefing." He pointed out with a bit of a frown.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I'm a combat pilot and this is our last day down here. Can you blame me?" The Strike Eagle pilot retorted.

"He's right Hickman, we were supposed to cover Hall and Collins when they made their pass." Captain "Straw" Barry added. The front-seater of Longsword 2-3 looked a bit offended his own Weapon Systems Officer would side against him.

"Oy, enough. Ratpack, next time unless I'm getting jumped by an aggressor or something, just go with the briefing man. I don't want Glory Hound getting his panties in a bunch because you got trigger-happy." Matt said to his friend.

"Understood, Prince." He nodded.

The four walked towards the building the Paladins had been given for the temporary stay down here. Inside they were greeted by overly-cooled air, as was the norm in many Air Force buildings. Their first stop was to store their G-suits, helmets, oxygen masks and sidearms. For the most part their equipment would be kept ready for the long flight back home this afternoon.

"So have they decided who's going to the next Red Flag in September?" Henry spoke up as he handed over his Berretta M9.

"Announcement's supposed to be next month." Luther answered.

Through the door left they filed into a small room with seats and a chalk board for the debrief of both the last sorties of the exercise and a debrief of things as a whole. Inside was a pair of familiar faces.

"Welcome back." The Yuktobanian-accented voice of 1Lt. Valentina "Baroness" Alexitov said.

"Heya Baroness, how was your run?" Matt replied. The woman brushed away some of her chocolate-colored hair and grinned.

"Tell me Matt, have you ever dropped twelve Mk.82s in one run? It's probably as good as sex." She asked with a serious tone.

"Sounds like a helluva time." her squadron mate laughed.

That's what he and most of the 245th liked about the short, athletic woman: she acted so frank sometimes and was capable of doing it in complete seriousness. The pilots were joined by Operations Officer Major Robert Louis following the time needed to collect certain info about the flight. After the textbook execution of standard OAF courtesies, the mustached officer got to the debrief.

"Well, from what I understand it was another straightforward flight for both two-ships?" He asked.

"Yes sir, we followed the steps from the briefing as planned and made our runs one at a time under the guidance of out assigned FACs." Matt spoke up. The older man nodded.

"And from what I've heard from the ground crews the jets were in good shape with only a few minor problems?"

"Yes sir, our FLIR pod was a little buggy, but it never interfered with the bomb drop or completely failed us. We used the Mk.82s." Captain Andre Ferguson, Osean Marine Corps, answered. "Louie-Louie" Louis looked at the Weapons Officer of the squadron.

"How bad?"

"Picture was a little fuzzy, but I mentioned it to my chief in case it's the start of a worse problem."

"Good, talk to Major Constantine if it continues to give you or your ground crew trouble."

The rest of the briefing was condensed for purposes of the exercise's debrief. They'd been preparing a squadron's worth of men and machine for the rather short transit back to Foley AFB, but even a three-hour transit took much preparation, especially since transport aircraft were needed to move the enlisted personnel. The group exchanged more information about their respective training flights, being joined by more of the 24 total aircrew with the exception of the Commanding Officer, Executive Officer, and the now-gone Operations Officer. Matt was watching the front when "Louie-Louie" snapped to attention.

"Room, atten-shun!" he barked.

All the pilots stood up in the appropriate manner and waited for the word from Colonel Dean Mackey. The most senior pilot in the Paladins gave them all a smile and an "as you were" before turning to face them from the front of the room.

"Well everyone, as we all know today ends our month-long stint at OASWC. I'd like to be the first to congratulate you all for your dedication in expanding and perfecting our capabilities in the F-15E Strike Eagle. Our reports have been satisfactory, as expected, in the areas of interdiction and low-level attack, with promising marks being made in the role of Close Air Support." He began, his long, sunken face contorting with a smile.

"All things considered I don't think we have much to talk over. You've made this old Phantom Phyler proud, and I'd say a cake and some beers are well-earned upon our arrival at Foley." The senior man went on. a few chuckles went through the room.

"Now, getting to that, we'll be taking off around 1500 today. The McNealy ground crews will take care of us so our own crews can be on the ground at home to receive our jets. We'll be cruising at 21,000 feet to give the commercial guys some breathing room, especially since the lack of VHF makes it harder to communicate with civvies. No hot-dogging as you all know, wastes fuel and we don't want a mid-air collision. We'll be taking off in twos in ten-minute intervals to keep traffic unjammed."

"Furthermore, this morning I received words that tensions have spiked a little to the East concerning the Belkan negotiations with Ustio to gain access to some of its resources. Our alert status has been raised to DEFCON 4. The Belkans have made some troop movements, I'm told, but there is nothing to indicate war. The higher-ups simply want us to be a little more vigilant." He added, addressing the subject that had him a briefing for most of his workday. Major Luke McDale, the second in command of the Strike Eagle unit, raised a hand.

"What does this mean for us sir? Will we need to start whipping up a plan for an ORE?" He asked.

"The need for an Operational Readiness Plan isn't a major concern, but we may need one soon…" he said. The man's eyes fell upon Louis and the Intel officer: Major Jeanette Dillinger.

"…So I'd keep that in mind."

He looked back up at the rest of the aviators and grinned to try and ease the rather ominous announcement. Matt shifted a bit uncomfortably in his chair. He'd never given actual combat much thought…

"As for our flight home, we'll have the standard load out. One centerline, travel pods on the side. We'll also carry two Sidewinders, two AMRAAMs and a half-load of 20mm in case instead of a single Winder and a half gun load. This is in accordance with regulations for increased readiness." He added, winding down the briefing.

"Again, I'd like to congratulate you all on what we've done here. Report back at your scheduled time with your things for the flight briefing on weather and other details." The man with graying hair said before closing the meeting with the usual formalities…

Matt and Henry walked out into the open air, helmet bags in one hand and gear affixed to their frames. They also wore rather ubiquitous headgear, which they removed as they closed in on the jets: bush caps. A tradition taken from the 245th's days flying F-105D Thunderchiefs, the piece of headgear was not widely used in the Osean Air Force anymore, but to the Paladins it was still something to be carried by its members.

"So, what's the party for?" Henry asked as he and his pilot walked towards their Eagle.

"My brother, Gerald. He just got a position as a heart surgeon in November City, and of course that's just about given my mother a heart attack of joy." The brunette replied as he removed his hat.

"Well, the finger foods should be pretty nice." The 2nd Lieutenant reasoned.

"Yeah, and hopefully the booze gets me stone-drunk." Matthew Hall added.

There was a reason he was called "Prince" Hall and his Eagle had been named "The Prince's Stallion" (complete with a fierce-looking white horse on the left side of its nose). The Hall family was a bloodline of prestige and wealth. Almost everyone was a lawyer, a professor, a medical professional, even regional senators and governors with money to spare. Matt was an exception, one of the youngest Halls but unlike his brother, he'd chosen a career path that carried what he felt was a bit more adventure and dignity. The Osean Air Force gave him satisfaction to both, but made him a black sheep among the others of his household.

The two men caught up to Valentina and Andre. The dark-skinned Marine Corps exchange WSO noticed them first.

"Afternoon compadres." He said.

"Heya Moose." Matt replied with a smile. The Yuktobanian-Osean and the "rich boy" exchanged nods of greeting.

"So what's your take on this Belka situation?" He added.

"The BAF is a force to be reckoned with, but I don't know how well they can keep that up in the long run. The Economic Crisis but them through the ringer, and I can't say if they aren't fully recovered yet." The female of the group mused.

"We're not that far from them at Foley either; 80 miles to the west." Henry chimed in.

"I say we worry about getting back to Foley first." The brown-haired Valentina reminded her squadmates.

"Alright, don't fall behind." Her fellow pilot winked as he pulled his HGU-55 and started towards his jet.

"You'll have lead, so don't YOU fall behind." She shot back.

The crew of Eagle 91-0611 played a game of divide and conquer, each aviator taking one side of their jet to personally inspect. Matt looked at the AIM-120 hung on the outer wing pylons, a newer B model as the smaller fins told him. closer to the fuselage was a single AIM-9M Sidewinder. Matt felt a little uneasy, knowing the things were live, but mostly because it meant the higher ups were uncomfortable enough about Belka to start reaching for the sword.

After inspecting the weapons and the travel pod that contained his personal items, He climbed atop the big jet and looked over its top with a small grin. The McDonnell Douglas F-15E Strike Eagle was a pudgier and more sinister-looking machine compared to its fighter brethren, the F-15C. But it was a helluva machine in Matt's eyes, especially when you had it down on the deck, weaving through the terrain around the Osean side of the Great Lakes. Sure there were aircraft that were more suited for a dogfight, but not every pilot who signed on wanted that.

The young man finished his half of the inspection as his friend was in the rear seat, checking the systems lights at his station as well as maps for the flight. The pilot clambered down from the machine and approached the Crew Chief, a olive-skinned lad who didn't look a day over 21.

"Is she ready?" he asked. The man gave him an energetic smile.

"Yes sir, she should be good all the way home. Hope you had a nice stay here!" he replied.

"Thanks for the tune-up, Sarge." Collins said to the man. Their compatriot nodded as Matt went up the boarding ladder and took his place.

The ground crew's last job before scattering was to make sure the two Air Force officers were strapped in. Once everything was done they backed off for the most part and the front-seater brought his beast to life as he secured his oxygen mask. The cockpit remained open while the "remove before flight" flags were removed, after which Matt lowered the object and secured it. Then the pilot gave a quick run-through on the control surfaces, moving them under the Chief's watch to ensure they were okay. After another minute of preflight checks, Matt indicated everything was okay and was handed over to a plane director. The man urged him forward with two hands, the dark-gray fighter rolling towards him like an obedient animal after adjusting its flaps and releasing its break.

With a salute the dire tor sent him to the left. Prince returned it and glanced back as Longsword 2-4 was rolling too. He adjusted the piece of gray over his mouth and checked in with the tower.

"McNealy Tower, Longsword 2-2 and 2-4 requesting taxi clearance to Runway 1-B arming pit." He spoke up. There was a few seconds pause before the radio crackled a little.

"Longsword 2-2, Longsword 2-4, McNealy Tower. Cleared to runway 1-B arming pit." A voice replied.

The two Osean aircraft made a stop at a slab of tarmac near the entrance to the runway, where their weapons, clear of anything volatile, were readied so they could be armed in the air. After that they were given passage to the end of the runway.

"McNealy Tower, Longsword 2-2 and 2-4, requesting conditions." Matt said as he adjusted himself in the ejection seat. A more prolonged pause.

"Longsword 2-2, 2-4, winds are south-southwest at two mph, scattered clouds at 20,000 feet. No weather systems in the immediate area."

The brunette grunted and looked at Baroness. The pilot of Eagle 90-0588, hidden behind her mask and visor, gave him a thumbs up. He returned it and looked forward.

"Longsword 2-2 and 2-4 requesting departure on Runway 1-B, McNealy Tower." Matt said.

"Longsword 2-2, Longsword 2-4. Cleared for takeoff, runway 1-B." the control tower radioed.

At the end of the go-ahead, the lead pilot of the two gave his throttles a shove and got the interdictor rolling down the black path. The screech of the two Pratt & Whitney F100s increased as he notched up his speed. By the time he was nearing takeoff speed, the Strike Eagle was really moving, his wingman (or wingowman in this case) right behind him. He glanced at the speed on his HUD as it slid past 155 mph. With a grin he pulled back the stick and brought the machine into the air. The machine roared like a mythical creature and climbed into the afternoon sky, bound for its home.