With an angry howl, wind buffering the jets so bad the pilots had to fight for control, a bolt of bright light smashed into the second Fulcrum. The aircraft lost power, and began tumbling helplessly towards the thrashing waves below. The pilot desperately yanked at the ejection handles to no avail, and could only watch as the plane dived closer and closer to the darkness that reached out to grasp them.
The lead aircraft banked into a sharp turn so the pilot could observe what was happening. "Dagger Two, recover." But the second plane didn't respond. "Recover Dagger Two! Dagger Two!"
I sat alone in the fairly packed mess hall the next day. Well, at least I tried to. As I began tucking into a delicious meal of colourless porridge and hard bread, a second tray was slid into place opposite me, and I groaned inwardly. While I sure wasn't a people person, I definitely was not a morning person. So people in the morning was certainly not my thing.
I looked up, expecting to see the thin unshaven face of Reus but was instead greeted by a taller man with scruffy blonde hair. He sat down heavily on the chair opposite and took a long, loud slurp of the carton orange juice he held.
"So, spy. Have you figured out what this place is?"
I shrugged. "I don't even know where I am."
"Then let me officially welcome you to Zapland, home of the 444th. Where all your hopes and dreams come true." The sarcasm was practically dripping from his mouth like half the orange juice he'd drank. His voice was anything but hopeful. "The number one dumping ground for convicted pilots Osea still needs."
"Better watch what you say around this one, Count." A second tray slid into place next to me. It was the tanned woman, who was trying too hard to be the badass tomboy of the group although to be fair to her she could probably snap me like a twig. "She's a snake. She'll bite you in the ass the first chance she gets. How many sin lines did they give you then, Snake Eyes?"
It took half a second to answer, the porridge sticking to the roof of my mouth like hot tar. "Two." I spluttered, drawing jeers from Count and the woman. Another question came to mind, and once I had managed to swallow the grey mess properly I asked them. "What do the sin lines mean?"
"Shows how bad you've been." The woman replied. "The more you have, the worse the crime. You must have been a pretty bad spy to only get two. I reckon a good spy could get three."
"Don't mind old Gunslinger here." Count chuckled. "She's just jealous because she's only got one."
"Should've been more." Gunslinger muttered bitterly as she viciously attacked her bread with a knife.
"She got drunk and drew her weapon on the squadron leader." Count answered the question I was just about to ask, then carried on poking at Gunslinger. "If you'd wanted more you should've pulled the trigger. Heard murder is worth at least two here. Maybe even three."
"Nobody's ever had three strikes." Gunslinger continued to stab at her bread. She wore her flight suit down and shirt sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, and I found myself lost in the incredibly detailed rose tattoo that adorned her left arm. Such a work of art must have been expensive...
"Watch it Snake Eyes." I snapped my gaze away and back to my meal. Gunslinger twirled her knife menacingly towards me. "You better not be following that Tabloid's advice and be looking for a fight."
My amber eyes rose to meet her piercing black ones. Somehow I plucked up the courage to retort and surprisingly I didn't mess the words up. "Stabbing me won't give you more sin lines. You'd be better off going for McKinsey."
There was a second's pause where I became acutely aware of my heart beat before Count laughed, a short bark, reaching over to snatch the knife from Gunslinger. "I like her. You're all fart and no shit, Gunnie. We're all on the same team here."
Gunslinger snorted. "I don't want an Erusean watching my back up there." She stood up, snatching her tray up with a rattle before storming off. "I'm watching you, Snake."
"Ignore her." Count picked his own tray up. "She's a good pilot but she's got no manners whatsoever. Come on, brief's in a few minutes and I wanna see what they've got in store for you."
We binned our plates and stacked the trays away, heading outside into the weather that was already too hot for me. As we walked across the stoned pathway to the small briefing room, I noted the guards looked more agitated than usual. They gripped their weapons harder, and every so often one would look to the skies. "What's going on?" I asked Count, who shrugged.
"Who knows. Guards out here get access to news from the outside world but we convicts are kept in the dark." He answered with very little enthusiasm. "Maybe our Glorious Leader will tell us now."
We pushed our way through the single door which squealed to announce our arrival. The room was already crowded with pilots and a few ground crew inmates. Commander McKinsey was already at the front, and by just looking at his face one could tell he was pleased with the situation. Whatever the situation was.
"You're late!" He barked at us. Well, it seemed he'd not lost his distaste for us overnight. "Sit down and listen in convicts, I've just received news that the Erusean government has declared war on Osea."
The room erupted into exclamation and mutters. I sank lower in my seat in a feeble attempt to escape the many prying and accusing gazes thrown my way. Realisation hit me like a freight train, I would be fighting Eruseans. My own people.
Erusea's not your home anymore. I reminded myself amidst the turmoil in my head. They cast you out, remember? I desperately needed air, but there was no hope of that. Instead I tried to ignore the cold sweat that had broken out all over my body and focused my whole attention on McKinsey in a desperate attempt to combat the tunnel vision creeping in.
"Quiet!" The room complied. "It's time for you lot to atone for your crimes! Lights!"
Someone at the back slapped the switch and plunged the room into darkness. The projector whirred up as slow as me getting out of bed, then a blue screen appeared on the screen behind McKinsey. A map of the world, with several red blips around Osea and some in Usea.
"Somehow the Eruseans caught us off guard." McKinsey explained, his booming voice cutting through me. "Drone strikes on Osean ports have crippled all our carriers at home, bombing runs have knocked out our local radar sites and the harbour at Fort Grays. Their airfield however is still active and they managed to repel the Erusean attack. Unfortunately they didn't send any aircraft to attack us here…"
"How is that unfortunate, exactly?" A fairly large pilot, one of the few who had stood up to challenge Tabloid yesterday, asked.
"Because what we're going to do is make Erusea believe Zapland is the main base for Osean air operations. We want them to concentrate their attack here so the other Osean bases can recover and counterattack. Their lives are far more important than any of yours." McKinsey growled. "To make us look like a main military base, some of you will be going up to fly patrols about the area and draw the attention of the Eruseans. And because the Eruseans have managed to seize control of the Space Elevator, the Osean Air Force needs to concentrate on reestablishing control. And it can't do that if the Eruseans continue to bomb our bases."
The Space Elevator, or the Lighthouse as some called it. I had only seen pictures of the massive structure constructed by the Oseans and a host of other nations in Gunthar Bay. Many hailed it as a joint venture and a sign of closer relations between Osea and Erusea. But I knew others who considered it another way Osean President Harling could attempt to exert power and influence throughout Usea, Erusea included. My father had been such a man, but it was no secret that Erusea's own Princess was against the construction. I had come to wonder how such a structure could come to symbolise two different ideals, one of togetherness and one of domination. And now it was becoming the focus of conflict.
I was beginning to think that the damn thing should've been left unbuilt.
The Commander picked up a piece of paper from the desk and studied it in the glow of the projector. "The two new guys will be going up first. Reus, you will be known as Spare Eleven. Robolski, you're Spare Thirteen. Consider these your prisoner numbers. Spare Three, Spare Nine and Spare Twelve will be going up with you. The rest of you are dismissed for general duties. Your time to atone will come later!"
The room emptied with a loud screech and chatter. When just me, Gunslinger, Tabloid and two others remained, Commander McKinsey clicked on the screen and a map of Usea appeared, with Zapland highlighted. Our flight path was shown, a simple line stretching out towards Erusea until it stopped over the ocean, a few hundred miles west of us. "Command has identified this area as a place where Erusean bombers meet with some of their escorts. You should be able to find some Erusean aircraft here. Your mission is to patrol this area and intercept any Erusean aircraft you find." He then looked directly at me with a glare that could probably turn Medusa to stone. "And don't even think about trying to defect! Your aircraft are fitted with remote explosives and your ejection seats are deactivated. You even think about running and I will personally blow you out of the sky! Dismissed!"
It was our turn to leave. I stood on unsteady legs, and was the first the leave the room well aware of McKinsey's eyes drilling holes into the back of my head and willing me not to return. As I stepped out into the bright sun, blinded for several seconds, a heavy knock made me lose balance, somehow I managed not to face plant the dirt.
"Remember. I'm watching you, Snake." She hissed. I felt hot and irritated, but I knew better than to start a fight I couldn't win. So instead, I waited for Gunslinger to walk on, followed closely by Spare Three and Spare Nine.
"I didn't think you'd take my joke seriously." Still carefree as usual, Reus, or Tabloid "You might want to find someone smaller to fight."
I shook my head. "That woman has it out for me."
"She has it out for everyone. Looks like we'll be on our own up there. Don't worry, I've got your back."
It was a nice gesture but I was too worked up to notice. Without a word, I began to follow Gunslinger and the others with Tabloid on my shoulder.
The aircraft were lined up outside the hanger. Our two battered Mirages were at the far end, next to a pair of Hornets that had seen better days and an F-16 that didn't seem serviceable by any standards. They were already armed, four air to air missiles per aircraft. Climbing into the cockpit, I found a second hand G-suit and a helmet that had probably been worn by thousands of other pilots over the many years of service it had seen. I tried not to think about the numerous other pilots that must have worn, sweated in and probably pissed themselves in the suit as I pulled it on. Then I slipped into the cockpit and belted myself into the ejection seat. Well, the seat, I told myself. This thing wasn't going to eject me anywhere.
The only assistance I had during the startup was the paper I'd somehow deciphered the night before and a single orange clad ground crew to unplug the ground power unit sat nearby. Back in the OADF, I'd become fairly confident with F-5E startups and before that, MiG-29s. But in the baking hot sun of Zapland in the greenhouse that was the cockpit, I was by far the last to finish getting the Mirage ready to fly. The engine reluctantly started up with a cough and splutter, then it whined and powered up.
I decided there and then that I would be lucky to make it back alive. If the Eruseans didn't kill me, the bucket of bolts someone called a serviceable aircraft would.
"Spare Squadron this is the Tower. Cleared to taxi. Spare Three first, follow on in line." The tower sounded bored, a far cry from the professional military air traffic controllers I'd encountered before.
One of the Hornets went first, followed by the F-16. The second Hornet sat between Tabloid and me as we taxied down the line at what was easily double the normal taxi speed. I was sure to do a brake check before I set off, and was pleasantly surprised when the jet came to a stop. At least that was one system working properly. Sadly though, the climate control system wasn't.
I settled back into the seat, trying and failing to get comfortable. This was going to be one long sortie.
Eventually we were given our clearance. "Clear for take off. Linked to AWACS Bandog. Climb to angels fifteen, vector two five five to mission airspace. Have fun." His last sentence implied that we would indeed, not have fun. He must have left the mic on, because over the airwaves came the angry sound of someone dishing out a bollocking.
"Hey! Did I say you could clear them to go?! That was your last warning convict! I'll make sure you end up in solitary for…"
The comms went quiet just as Spare Three rolled onto the runway and lit up the afterburner. The small F-16 nimbly leapt forward and eagerly began to climb, followed closely by the two Hornets and Tabloid's Mirage. Then it was my turn to line my nose up with the dashed while centre line and set my throttle to max.
There was a noticable delay between pushing the throttle and the engine beginning to roar. The Mirage was more powerful than the F-5E, at least a fully serviced and looked after model was. It was only when I was halfway down the runway and it felt like most of the bolts had been shaken loose that I could coax the nose up and pull the aircraft off the ground. The landing gear rose with a groan, but finally I was airborne.
I peered over my shoulder at my new home slowly growing smaller in my wake. I gasped, the whole place was three or four times the size what I had been expected. Our little airfield sat upon an island, across a small bridge was a huge airbase where rows upon rows of B-52 bombers sat lined up wing to wing taking up the area of a small town. Two more runways. Fighters were scattered about like ants, two huge runways crossed at angles, and stretched into the distance.
How in the world had Erusea missed this? I had to tear my gaze away and look through the shakey HUD and faint green display that was almost too dim to see. Where was that dial to turn it brighter? The hieroglyphics were useless and I gave up. It would have to do for now, I pushed the jet as hard as I could without flicking to the burners to catch up with the others.
"Alright convicts, listen in." I sighed into my oxygen mask, I knew that tone of voice. It was a man who knew he had power, and wasn't afraid to abuse it. "This is the AWACS Bandog. I'll be running top cover on this mission and all missions for Spare."
"This is Spare Twelve. Form up on me, arrowhead formation."
Of course Gunslinger would take lead. Grudgingly I slid into position in Tabloid's five o'clock, while Three and Nine took the other flank. Another check of the cockpit instruments told me nothing had changed since the last time I'd checked them. Everything was still relatively in one piece. Except for an annoying rattle which I sincerely hoped wasn't anything too important.
"One five zero miles to mission airspace." Bandog checked in once more. "You're in luck. Five bogeys inbound vector two seven zero headed towards the mission airspace angels twenty. Climb angels five, maintain current airspeed to intercept."
"Spare Twelve, roger. Climbing." The lead aircraft pitched up and we all followed. It was far from a textbook airshow display, but then again we were far from airshow pilots. I kept on Tabloid's wing, fighting the urge to jettison the canopy to replace the stale, hot air that stank of my sweat. In frustration, I slapped the climate control panel and to my disbelief and a sigh of relief cool air rushed into the cockpit. A little piece of heaven in the hell I was in. I'd lost feeling in my ass shortly after takeoff, and I was wondering if it would ever return.
"Spare Nine. Tally, five bogeys ten o'clock high. Got them on radar, Erusean IFF. Two bombers and an escort."
There was a brief pause. "Are you waiting for an invitation, Spare Nine? You're clear to intercept."
"Roger. Fangs out." There was more enthusiasm in roadkill than in Spare Nine's voice.
It took me half a minute to find the weapon control panel, and the MASS and LAS switches that would let me use my weapons. Reaching down, I flicked the MASS to live and was greeted with a short sharp warning tone and a light flashing on the warning panel. Frowning, I switched it back to safe and tried again but the tone returned. "AWACS, Spare Thirteen. My weapons systems are offline."
"You must be one of the new recruits." Bandog sneered. "Your weapons are locked, unless Base Command or I decide you can use them."
"Say again AWACS, we're intercepting without weapons online?" Tabloid sounded as surprised as I did. So he did show other emotions. "How are we meant to shoot them down then? Throw stones at them?"
"That sounds like a you problem, Spare Eleven." I could almost hear Bandog smirking, sat in his ISTAR aircraft miles away watching our mission on a computer screen. It reminded me what I had become, an expendable pawn in a chess game. "Continue on current course to intercept. The dead pool has good odds today, don't let me down."
"Bandits dead ahead, twelve o'clock. Escorts have seen us, they're turning to engage." A different man's voice, Spare Three I assumed. Sure enough, I spied three of the growing black specks in the distance break off and point themselves towards us. A three on five fight, the Eruseans sure were brave. Of course, the odds were all in their favour but they wouldn't know that. "Spare Twelve, what's the game plan?"
"Survive." Gunslinger growled. "Three, Nine, engage far left. Eleven, Thirteen, take far right. I'll spook the bombers then come back to support."
"Spare Three roger. Judy on intercept. Nine, cover my six."
"We're gonna get our fangs stuck in the floorboards." Spare Nine muttered over the comms but complied anyway, the F-16 and the rear Hornet banking away in unison. Ahead of me, Tabloid did the same and I followed seconds after, sliding over to his other wingtip.
"Spare Eleven to Spare Thirteen. I'll take point. Watch my back...if you can."
As our formation broke, so did theirs. Gunslinger had climbed high, and the three Erusean fighters screamed through the hole we had made. My sharp eyes caught the shape of them, MiG-21s, leaving dirty trails in the sky with their single engines. One smoke trail was darker than the other, a damaged aircraft perhaps? I had no time to think about it as Tabloid pulled into a sharp 6g turn and I followed. I squeezed my thighs to keep the blood from pooling in my feet, keeping my eyes glued to the enemy aircraft least I lose sight of them. A mistake often fatal in combat, and how I had lost many a mock engagement.
"Spare Three, two have gone your way." I groaned against the strain of the turn. "One looks damaged."
"Three, Copy." They too were struggling with the forces.
As our jets banked about, the solo MiG we were chasing had also reversed it's turn and was trying to bring it's weapons to bear on us. Our Mirages had turned quicker however, Tabloid snap-rolled to bank the other way as the MiG once more passed out nose. I slammed the control stick against my left thigh to follow, adrenaline cursing through my veins like fire. This was it, my first proper combat.
"They've split. Should I follow?" It was Nine, calling out to Three. I ignored the transmission, concentrating on rolling out of the turn as our own MiG had seen us once more out-turn him. From where I was just below Tabloid, he was in a good position to fire but alas our all-seeing AWACS wouldn't let us. I cursed in my native tongue, careful not to push the PTT. The last thing I wanted was to make everyone think I was in with the enemy.
"Negative, stay behind me."
"He's just gonna get behind us! Screw it, I'm engaging!"
"Spare Nine!"
"He's going high." The last one was Tabloid as the MiG we chased abruptly pulled up into a loop. We followed, again I squeezed to remain conscious as the g meter rose and rose. The world turned upside down, I felt a moment of weightlessness before the g forces slammed back into me. My grip tightened on the HOTAS controls as we traded altitude for airspeed, with a sudden judder and bang as the sound barrier was broken. Still gaining speed and energy, the Fishbed broke into a high speed turn with Tabloid and I close behind and hot on his heels.
"Spare Nine, report!"
"No joy! I've lost him in the clouds!"
The MiG was getting desperate, jinking crazily into a series of barrel rolls we were forced to follow. I could only imagine his confusion. He must think we're toying with him!
"AWACS, Spare Eleven. This is getting beyond a joke. Can we please have permission to fire?"
"You have your orders. The bombers will leave the airspace in five minutes. Keep them occupied until then." Bandog happily denied Tabloid's request as the Fishbed broke into yet another fast turn, drawing us away from the bombers…
"Spare Three! He's behind you!"
"I'm spiked! Can't evade…" The transmission went dead. I risked a glance about me, and saw a single flaming wreck in the near distance tumbling down to the seas below. Two MiGs pulled away like sharks, the lead one still trailing dark smoke.
"Spare Three is down." I thumbed the mike, unable to keep the anger from my voice.
"If we were allowed to fire, maybe we could have helped him!" That was Gunslinger, but I couldn't see her aircraft. "The bombers are spooked, I'm coming back to help."
"This is Spare Nine, they're coming after me! I need support!" A far cry from the bored man I'd heard earlier. "Someone get these assholes off my tail!"
"Hang tight. I'll be there in thirty seconds. Bandog! Give me weapons!"
I could tell that Spare Nine didn't have thirty seconds. Panic had set in, he'd lost sight of the targets, and now he was alone.
"Absolutely not! Your job is to deceive the enemy, not kill them! Continue the mission, convict!"
Meanwhile our prey had dived for the deck, rapidly gaining speed and heading back towards Erusean airspace. He must be low on fuel by now, I wondered. That reminded me, and in between chasing Tabloid and keeping an eye on the MiG, I checked my own fuel gauges. The unhealthy engine was drinking fuel faster than a Yuke drank vodka, I estimated I had less than five minutes until bingo fuel.
"Spare Eleven, Spare Thirteen. I'm going to support Nine. You got this?"
"Copy. This one's bugging out anyway."
Free of the engagement, I turned away while scanning the skies and intermittent clouds for any sign of the three aircraft. I pointed my nose in the direction my radar had picked them up in, and sure enough the faint grey trail of the damaged MiG high above me. They were both hounding Spare Nine, who was ducking and weaving in a desperate dance to survive. I was helpless, bound to watch as the Hornet pulled too hard into a turn and lost all it's energy. The stalling aircraft was easy prey for the MiGs, they lit it up with a hail of bright orange gunfire.
"I'm hit! Mayday! I'm going…" The Hornet exploded before he could finish. At least it was quick, I told myself. At least he didn't have to watch the ground come up to claim him.
"Dammit!" Gunslinger cursed loud enough to make me flinch instinctively. "Bandog! Pull your head out your ass and let us use our goddamn weapons!"
"Any more attitude from you, Spare Twelve, and I'll have you thrown in solitary!" Bandog retorted just as loud. "Two minutes."
"Fuck you!"
The MiGs were getting closer, they had a different target in sight. Gunslinger suddenly came into view, charging recklessly through the middle of the pair. Like heat seeking missiles, they twisted sharply onto their new prey.
"Spare Eleven. This MiG is going home. Did someone forget to refuel the aircraft? I'm on bingo fuel already. Gotta return to base."
"Negative Spare Eleven! Keep distracting the fighters."
"No can do Bandog. I'm RTB."
"Damn it! We haven't got the fuel for this!" Gunslinger cursed. "Snake Eyes! Take over so we can get out of here."
I also was about to hit bingo fuel, the fuel gauge hovering dangerously near empty. I had enough for one pass, then could only hope that the Fishbeds were also in the same state. But how was I supposed to clear Gunslinger's six with no fuel, and no weapons?
Well, I had weapons. But I couldn't fire them. However…
A plan came suddenly to mind. My timing had to be something spectacular but there was no other option I could think of. Thankfully it didn't take but a few seconds to find the cockpit instruments I needed, two more seconds to line my aircraft up...
This is gonna work.
The two MiGs were fangs out for Gunslinger, chasing her down with everything they'd got. Gunslinger was running as fast as she could, the missiles would follow her soon…
This is gonna work.
But what if the Eruseans saw me? That would ruin the whole plan! What if they suddenly broke off to go home? What if Gunslinger jinked? But nothing changed as I grew closer and closer and closer…
This was gonna work!
A half second before I screamed past the front MiG, I jammed the emergency jettison button through the control panel. With a clunk, my four missiles were tossed from my wings then I was through, speeding away into a smooth parabola that would point me home to Zapland. There was a one in a million chance that any of the missiles I'd randomly tossed in the vague direction of the Eruseans had actually hit. In fact, there was probably more chance of me winning the lottery twice in a row.
To quote one of my favorite films, thanks to Sparky forcing me to watch it, it was like hitting a bullet, with a smaller bullet whilst wearing a blindfold and riding a horse. So you can imagine the absolute astonishment and disbelief when I peered back over my shoulder to see one of the MiGs, the one with the screwed up engine, tumbling to earth. One of my wildly thrown missiles had taken off it's vertical stabiliser, the pilot had immediately bailed out and was now floating gently towards the sea below.
And that was how I claimed my first aerial kill.
"Spare Thirteen...splash one bandit."
There was a full minute of silence as I watched the last MiG give up the chase and pull away to catch up with the bombers it was supposed to be escorting. Relief washed over me, followed by exhaustion as my body's supply of adrenaline stopped. We'd done it! We'd actually survived!
"Say again, Spare Thirteen. You splashed a bandit?!" Bandog's tone was a mix of anger, surprise and what I decided was impressed. It probably most certainly wasn't but I was going to claim that one small victory. "You were ordered not to shoot down any enemy aircraft! Your FCS was locked! How the hell did you...what even...never mind! Get your ass on the ground! Now!"
"Good kill Snake Eyes." For once, Gunslinger didn't sound like she wanted to knock me unconscious. "Think I owe you one. Form up on me. Let's go home."
Guards were waiting for us when we landed and powered down. Once more, I was dragged from the cockpit and slammed face down into the hot concrete while cuffs were tightened several clicks more than I would have liked around my wrists, and we were marched straight to the briefing room. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred zollars.
Commander McKinsey was there already, red faced and ready to blow. I caught a look from Tabloid sat across the small walkway from me, grinning like a schoolboy and I smiled back. Bring it on, Commander McKinsey.
"You were ordered not to shoot down any enemy aircraft!" He shouted, spit flying over the unfortunate podium. "You all disobeyed a direct order! Solitary! All of you!"
I didn't care when I was again yanked out of my seat, and roughly pushed out the door. Euphoria still filled my veins as the guards frog marched us to the solitary confinement block, a fenced off brick wall that looked far newer than the rest of the camp, with four tiny cells that barely had room for the single bed inside. No windows, no bars, just darkness as the guard shoved me inside after freeing my wrists and slamming the door shut behind me.
Blindly, I collapsed onto the bed and it's lumpy matress. Three more loud bangs echoed through the building, then silence. Pure, uninterrupted, blissful silence. I was alone in the bleak, lightless cell with nothing but my thoughts to entertain me.
I could get used to this.
