28thth September, 1973
Encoded transmission from Flight Commander Richard Hallington ACAF Dover to Allied European Air Marshal Denis Spotswood
Regarding: Channel Engagement
At 1600 hours today, the 26th Allied Air Wing engaged multiple airborne hostiles over the English Channel, while defending supply planes bringing troops and supplies from doomed locations in Northern France to defend against what is obviously an imminent Soviet operation to assault the English South Coast. Our aircraft had mild naval support, but Soviet warships in the channel made this difficult.
Although one of our supply planes was shot down, unfortunately, our squadron took the fight to the enemy and downed most of the enemy planes. I am recommending the leader of the squadron, Charles Dalton, nominally an airman of the RAF for the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal and the Allied Airman's Cross of Bravery for his efforts, along with promotions for his wingmen. Even with Armageddon at our doorstep, it is refreshing to know that our men will still fight to the end.
End transmission.
**
"Alert. Hostile aircraft approaching. 1200 meters and closing."
Flight commander Charles Dalton angrily deactivated his flight computer with a punch. He didn't need a damn machine to tell him the enemy was coming. Damn, back when he joined the RAF and by extension the Allied Combined Air Force what a good pilot needed was a good eye and sharp wits, not a fucking machine telling him when he could have a piss or how many bullets he could fire.
Seated in his F-11X Apollo fighter, moving at slow speed over the English channel near Dover, Dalton glanced out of his cockpit. Seven fighters accompanied him, their pilots as diverse as the rest of the Allied military: there was Dale and Richards from the USAF, Jaeger from the Luftwaffe, Claude from the Free French air forces, Jansen from Holland, and Zadroga from Poland. Not long ago Dalton, as a patriotic Brit, would have felt uncomfortable flying with these shifty foreigners, but with the Ivans a channel away from Blighty, and having seen these chaps in action, he had decided it was worth it. In war, a man needed all the friends he could get.
A tinny voice came from his communications headset. "Commander! Objective, portside!"
Dalton glanced out of the windscreen, seeing a quartet of C-130 Hercules transport planes rumbling lethargically through the sky, superimposed over the blue of the channel. Two of them were trailing smoke. He wouldn't be surprised if the Reds were far behind. With Allied airpower overstretched and the Soviets taking out bases in Western Europe, with aircraft being diverted to protect London and bases on the French and English coasts, the Soviets were frighteningly close to achieving air superiority. Well, he thought, let those uncouth bastards come.
"Copy, Richards." Acknowledged Dalton.
"Cholera jasna!" swore Zadroga over the radio. "Dalton, we have Soviet jets, incoming, 11 o'clock! "
Dalton glanced at both the windscreen and the radar readout on the dashboard before him. Rapidly approaching were several Soviet MiG jets, backed up with a small number of outdated Sukhoi Su-27s that were clearly being deployed solely to use up their ammo and distract them. Disabling the safeties, he tensed as the squadron banked into position, silently praying not to hear the beeping of the missile lock alert. Then, a single missile streaked overhead, and the squadron broke formation as Soviet jets appeared out of a cloud up ahead.
Dalton fired off countermeasures as MiG Matryoshka rockets streaked around him. He ignored the screaming of his wingmen over the radio. He ignored the roaring of autocannons and the shrieks of missiles. He ignored the babbling of his flight computer. He acquired a target lock on one of the MiGs, and let rip.
Kinetic rounds tore through the fuselage of the enemy fightercraft and sent it spiraling into a burning crash. As he began to relax marginally, the proximity alert started screaming. Bullets and fire-and-forget rockets screamed by him. One of the fucking Sukhois was on his tail. That damn commie pilot thought he was so clever? He'd show him real flying.
Pulling down, he screamed down towards the churning waters below. Sitting immobile in the channel, looking like bricks in a pond from this altitude, was a small cluster of Allied naval vessels—an aircraft carrier and two hydrofoil skiffs. Swiveling upwards, the CIWS gatling cannons aboard the boats started blazing away, bullets spitting by him so close that they could almost be grazing his paint. Behind him, he heard a satisfying explosion, and then pulled up meters above the water, with what was left of his pursuer slamming into the foamy sea.
Moving as fast as g-force would allow him, he could see the sky above filled with contrails of aircraft and jet. He noted one of the Apollos spiraling down in a fireball; according to the tactical readout, it was Dale. Poor bastard; he had barely spoken to him outside of briefing. Any further thoughts of sentimentality vanished when he noted one of the MiGs approaching the Hercules planes, which were now nearly over the coast. Damn him if he'd let that Red have the pleasure of bringing down what happened to be his entire objective.
"Commander! Requesting backup!" Jansen's Dutch accent barked out of his headset. Dalton ignored him as he got into position behind the enemy jet as it in turn got behind one of the Hercules planes, which was desperately spitting countermeasures. Just as he prepared to get a lock, the MiG let off a missile barrage, slamming into the hulking cargo plane. Momentarily, Dalton gaped in horror as the Hercules split open, spilling vehicles and men before plummeting down onto the green field of the English coast. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of men and machines. That did it. That fucking did. He felt the need. The need for speed.
Jetting forward, he let off a barrage straight into the bastard's rear, reducing the MiG to a cluster of burning scrap metal. Banking sharply around, he headed back towards the dogfight, and glanced at the strategic readout. Jaeger and Richards were taking damage and were on fire, and although several enemy planes had apparently been taken down they just kept on coming.
"Sorry I took so long, old chaps." Said Dalton onto all channels as he rushed forward, blazing away at the nearest enemy jet, which promptly exploded into flame.
"You! You are still dangerous." Said Claude over the radio. Dalton could almost see that Frenchie smile. "You can be my wingman any time."
"Bullshit! You can still be mine!" Dalton fired off countermeasures as a MiG banked in his direction, before acquiring a target lock and punching it out of the sky with a burst of kinetic fire. Adrenaline flooded his body as he went another enemy plane, which was firing off flares like there was no tomorrow. He smiled. He had been petitioning for Allied aerospace engineers to add something as trivial as missiles to the Apollo; but in situations like this, it just worth to see the bastards panicking. He squeezed the trigger on his joystick, and the fucker burst into flames.
"They're pulling back! Bastards are pulling back!" yelled Richards over the squadron channel.
"Commander? Do we stay or pursue?" growled Jaeger.
"We pursue." Said Dalton calmly, and then slammed down on the throttle.
Resuming formation, the squadron accelerated after the fleeing Soviet aircraft. From here, Dalton could see the French coast, with columns of smoke rising from fields and villages. He could only imagine what those poor ground grunts were experiencing, while here he was, safe in a comfortable cockpit, guaranteed a quick death should an enemy get him. Times like this, he could understand why the grunts had such animosity to flyboys like him. But that was irrelevant. As they bore down on the French coast, with Soviet vessels spread out among the coastline like a deck of cards, he noted what looked like entire supply bases set up on the beaches.
It was then that the flak started. Black clouds of death appeared out them, accompanied by the booming of guns. Instinctively, the squadron broke formation as anti-air emplacements down below started up, along with Bullfrog combat boats sitting on the shore. How the fuck could he have been so stupid? How the fuck could he have not seen this coming? Veering away, Dalton felt his heart leap as he saw Claude's Apollo spout flames and then plummet down. Did he managed to eject? Irrelevant, considering he'd either end up shot or in a prison camp. Warning lights lit up on the dashboard as flak shrapnel cut lines in the hull, causing the starboard fuel tank to leak.
"Alright then chaps," he said through gritted teeth as he weaved around bursts of flak, "I'd say it's time we went home."
He got no reply save static. No doubt the reds had thrown up an ECM field. Gunning it, he saw the others streaking back across the channel to the green fields across. At least the remaining transport planes had definitely made it, and they had took down a good deal of enemy planes; that was all that mattered.
Then the missile lock warning light came on.
He glanced at the tactical readout; a single MiG, on his tail. His ammo was low, his fuel gauge was rapidly dropping, and his thrusters were being clogged up with flak shrapnel. He fired off most of his countermeasures as the MiG let rip with missiles, which exploded around him, shaking him in his cockpit. More warning lights came on as the engine and thrusters began to trail smoke, as his visor and cockpit canopy began to steam up with heat. Flying low, he could see the familiar White cliffs of Dover ahead. Glancing at his fuel gauge, it seemed he only had a minute or two of flying left. Another missile exploded to starboard. Now fifty seconds. He had only once chance of getting out of this alive; it was potentially suicidal, but what did he have left to lose?
Positioning himself directly in front of the enemy fighter, he let more fuel flood into the thrusters, increasing the level of smoke. With the cliffs rapidly coming up, he thumped the eject button, then braced himself as he was shot out of the cockpit and into the air. Looking downwards, he saw his Apollo jet straight towards the cliffs, with the MiG behind it engulfed in its smoke. Slamming straight into the cliffs, the Apollo was shortly followed by the enemy fighter, which impacted into the chalk just above it as the pilot desperately attempted to pull up.
Dalton let his parachute expand and relaxed as the wind guided him to the grass near the cliff edge. Shedding his parachute, he let off a flare as he saw his squadron streak overhead.
"You okay, mein freunde?" came Jaeger's deep voice out of his radio.
"Right as rain. I'll meet you at base." He watched the Apollos jet away into the distance, and began to walking through the field towards the motorway in the distance. Looking over his shoulder at the channel, he could still see the smoke rising from the French coast, and the faint outline of what was clearly a Soviet invasion fleet. The turning point of the war was almost upon him; either Britain would prevail, or it would end with red banners hanging from Buckingham Palace. Damned if he was gonna let anything other than the former happen.
As he continued walking through the wet grass and the moss-covered rocks, he noted how little he was thinking of the two wingmen he had lost today. So much war and violence had desensitized him to such losses. Countless brave men were dying every day; at the end, what was two more? Sentiment did not win battles. It had no place among those who were striving for nothing less than victory.