Original story based on characters and material created by Project Aces. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them.
Chapter 3: Better Never Let It Go
Valais Air Base, Ustio
2 April 1995
1140 hrs.
It was a cold and snowy morning.
That morning, every pilot in the briefing room was sitting at alert and listening to Colonel Kluge explain the situation on his projector in a monotone that was, for once, laced with genuine concern. And it wasn't the cold keeping the shivering pilots awake under the flickering lights.
"Listen up. We have a situation on our hands."
The briefing that morning was for a special mission.
"A major squadron of Belkan bombers has crossed the front line and is headed directly for Valais Air Base. They intend to attack the base in an initiative to gain hegemony over the entire Republic of Ustio."
Every remaining mercenary fighter pilot had been called in, and every single one of them knew this mission was important. Making or breaking a first world nation-state would make or break the career of any mercenary. This was not something to run from.
"We are the country's last line of defense. If Valais falls, nobody will be left to stop Belka from taking over Ustio."
This consequence rang true for Cipher, who normally took briefings for missions with similar magnitude with a casual stride that straddled the boundary of being outright flippant. However, today was extra special.
"Galm, Thanatos, and Habrock teams," Colonel Kluge continued, giving a solemn glance to each squadron as he named them, "Your mission is to eliminate all the bombers before they reach Valais. Belka's invasion must end here. Dismissed."
With the projector shutting off, the eight assembled pilots stood up and filed solemnly out of the briefing room. Cipher lead them with a silent, confident smile as they boarded the truck that would take them to their planes.
He had reason to be weary. It wasn't uncommon for him to have the ambitions of a small nation, faction, and/or company riding on his shoulders. It was also not uncommon for him to expect to be let down or stiffed after fulfilling those expectations, often with extreme prejudice. And it wasn't the first time he would have to do it with people he would be flying with for the first time in the case of Pixy, who sat beside him.
The two barely exchanged more than a greeting with each other since they arrived in Ustio, and now the fate of a nation would rest on their ability to get along on the face of a fully industrialized, highly-incensed war machine, and not just one of their regional proxies.
The helmet he strapped on as the truck rumbled smoothly toward the hangars was a plain, olive drab, almost plasticine thing that seemed to clamp his head in a vice, but the pressure was really being exerted outward from the combined excitement of finally getting airborne again and the stress of knowing what was at stake.
Today was special for Cipher because today was the first time in a very long time that he made it a personal point to not disappoint or betray himself.
The moment he jumped off the truck and entered the hangar, he got straight to the walkaround of his new plane, a F-15 Eagle numbered #032 that he dubbed his "baby Blue." And his favorite mechanic was there to help.
"I want to be sad that we have to leave it to the Sotoans to save Ustio," the mechanic said with a dark chuckle as he escorted Cipher through the walkaround check. "But I'll take hope where I can get it at this point."
"Don't worry about a thing," Cipher said, unusually calm in his confidence, "I'll make it worth our last paycheck."
He knew there was a chance that this mission's success would be Ustio's last and that the Belkans would try again.
"That's what i'm afraid of. You two, please, bring my babies back in one piece," the mechanic replied, glancing at Pixy, who was also checking his own plane. "For Green."
"That's one thing we have in common, bru," Cipher replied as he climbed the ladder into the cockpit, "We're gettin' paid to keep 'em that way. I'll see you back down here for a drink, okay?"
"You'd better," the mechanic chuckled as he rolled the ladder away, "If you think I was worried when you tested little Blue, I'm gonna need to get plastered to stop worrying about her first combat sortie."
Cipher gave a jokingly dismissive wave as he brought the canopy to close around the cockpit and strapped himself into the seat and his respirator. The moment the canopy sealed shut, the smile vanished from his face. He seemed to enter a new state of mind, one more serious than his previous flight and the flights in Sotoa before.
Today was special because it was the first time that Benjamin "Cipher" Smith personally had more than just his reputation or someone else's expectations riding on the outcome of the mission. This time around, he had something personally invested in it.
And for that, he could not let himself down more than even this first-world nation state whose fate rested on his shoulders.
"Good to be flying with you, Captain Smith." were the first words through the radio as Cipher went through the process of activating the plane's systems. "How ya' feeling?"
"Scared as shit." It was a half-lie. "Like I'm really gonna earn what I get."
"We'll all get what we deserve sooner or later, buddy," was the reply, reassuring as it was unsettling.
Ustio National Bank - Valais Branch
Valais Township, Ustio
23 March 1995
1525 hrs.
The Valais branch of the country's largest bank was one of its newest, in its own modern and well-lit three story building with a glass facade that did a good enough job of blending in with the older architecture around the town square. The branch had opened the previous September to cater to the wealthy skiers and wannabe restaurateurs looking to take advantage of the country's growing economy and the promise that was supposed to lay ahead.
But from the line overwhelming the tellers and bankers giving out zollars and schillings in bank drafts and traveler's checks and helping people empty out their safety deposit boxes, it was clear that people were seeing something other than promise over the horizon.
Were it not for his casuals being clean thanks to the air base's functioning laundry facilities, Ben Smith's imposing darker-complexioned figure would have stood out like a sore thumb more than it already did. It was certainly enough that when two spots opened up at the front of the line, he was directed away toward a banker in the far corner of the bank.
Luckily for Smith, that banker also happened to handle new accounts and investments, which saved him the opportunity to ask an awkward question at the front of the teller line.
"Good afternoon, officer," the banker began, the forlorn desperation that pervaded the Ustian populace apparent in his voice as he neatly filed the paperwork off his desk from the last customer.
"Call me Smith. Ben Smith." The mercenary's voice sounded rougher than his Ustian Air Force fatigues suggested, but he had a suave smile on his face like he wanted to use that line for a long, long time.
"Linard Monsch. What can I do for you today, Mr. Smith?" he asked, already assuming that Smith was aiming to cash out with the rest of them.
"I'm here for an opportunity," Smith replied, as he placed his South Sotoan passport on the table, bookmarked with the 1,500 zollar check from his first combat sortie outside the Sotoan landmass. "I have it on the full faith and credit of the government of Ustio that the country's sitting on a fortune, and I'd like to claim a stake in it when this war ends."
Monsch clasped his hands and leaned back dismissively. "Well, I will say you are the first of the Air Force privateers to do something other than cash their check, let alone invest."
Smith chuckled and raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I'm trying to broaden my horizons, as it were. I want to make sure I have something if I live to retirement."
The banker looked around for a moment, tuning his voice down to a whisper as he clasped his hands. "Well, that's if this bank survives the next week," he said matter-of-factly. "I wouldn't blame you if you decided to cash out."
Smith looked aside and waved it off. "I like to think I have a choice in the matter."
"Not at this point though. We require at least five thousand zollars to start an investment portfolio, along with some more specifics of what you want to invest in." the banker sighed, sliding the check and passport back to Smith as he put on a smile that was doing about as badly a job at being reassuring as it was scripted. "However, we can start a deposit account for you and give you information on our investment options."
Smith could practically taste the disgust in the banker's words. Compared to wealthy skiers looking to take out spending change or wannabe restaurateurs looking to earn an extra travel book star from their clientele, a mercenary from Sotoa making a deposit was practically an invitation to money laundering.
But he understood. It was an acquired taste, and in these trying times any financial institution would be otherwise happy to receive the money, wherever it came from.
"Perfect. Where do I sign?" Smith confidently called Monsch's bluff, sliding the papers back.
The banker's smile dropped like a stone. To him this pilot was serious about throwing his money away. "...I'll be right back with the paperwork," he added, very visibly shaken as he stood up and went off.
Smith turned in his seat as far as his body would let him, tracking the banker as he left the cubicle and went to the manager's office. The manager himself was standing, looking through the glass paneling of his office at the customers.
He didn't need to know Ustiansh to understand the heated argument they were having. Monsch was clearly expressing his disdain at having to serve a brash Sotoan that was about as much a contradiction to Ustian culture as an Osean fast-food pizza chain in Centrum.
Fortunately for Smith, it appeared the manager was not having any of it. And why not, Smith's check seemed like be the first money to be put into the bank in days. After a couple of minutes, Monsch stepped out in a huff and went to the work room to collect the paperwork. The manager then stood up from his desk and made his way to Monsch's cubicle.
"I apologize, Mr. Smith. These past few days have been quite stressful," the manager began before he reached the cubicle, appeasing as all get out. "I'm sorry if he made you feel uncomfortable."
He also probably got the impression from when we came to town for a drink.
"It's no problem. I've gotten that from a lot of people," Smith waved it off.
"To be fair, we do not exactly have faith in any of our armed forces to protect us from a Belkan incursion, recruited or hired," the manager explained, his fingertips touching almost out of deference. "No offense."
"None taken, but I will say this, and you don't have to trust me," Smith smiled craftily, before tapping his finger firmly on his passport. "People hire me because I can do the job they want me to do and I do it well."
"Then I wish you all the best of luck," the manager sighed, backing away as Monsch returned with the paperwork, "We will all need it."
Valais Air Base
Hangar D
29 March 1995
1747 hrs.
The tide of the enemy's war machine raged miles away, washing over the country as fast as their armored treads and boot heels could carry them. At Valais Air Base, far behind a front line that was slowly closing in on them, it only meant their own war machine worked faster than it did before the outbreak of hostilities as long as the lights were on.
One particular hangar had a single as-of-yet unused aircraft parked in it, and two people were giving it their utmost attention and care.
McDonnell Douglas' F-15 had been a proud workhorse of the Air Force of Osea and its more developed allies in their campaigns throughout the Cold War. Even with fifth-generation models almost ready to deploy, it was expected to remain a valuable tool in their inventories for decades to come.
Why the Ustian government had decided to spare three of them for an already-risky mercenary component, if they weren't the only three they already had, was beyond the two people working on it.
"You know, you never told me what brought you out of the Savannah." asked the first person, an average-built man in his early 40s with a partially Ratian complexion, half-turning his head from the wiring he was working on. His uniform bore the markings of an Ustio Air Force mechanic.
"Opportunity, mainly," the other man, a tall, imposing mixed-race Sotoaner about half his age replied casually. "I mean there wasn't any lack of action down in Sotoa, but it's hard to find a paycheck that won't bounce now that things are getting a little more peaceful down there."
Benjamin Smith had been making the most out of his time grounded to get to take the advice of his current senior, Kristian Verhoeven. Once he got over the suggestion that getting into the plane reserved for the base's "top earners" was something out of his league now that he was grounded, the mechanics were happy to let him hang around and go through the manuals on the F-15 as well as the smaller Saab 105 light attacker used by the other "Eastern" squadron.
Smith became a fixture of the hangar, like a schoolkid getting his first apprenticeship.
"So you helping out family back down there or something?" the mechanic continued. "Oh, and hand me those tools there..."
Smith paused. This was never a good topic to bring up, but that almost never stopped it from being brought up anyway in conversations. This gave him ample opportunity for him to formulate a response to it.
"Don't have any," Smith replied in an almost rehearsed manner, shrugging before he retrieved the implements from the toolbox next to him and handed it to the mechanic, "Just hoping I'd earn my share up here, you know."
"Lucky you, my folks are staying with cousins down in Terceiro so they're safe," the mechanic continued, pressing his head forward to get a better glimpse of some of the aircraft's more delicate inner workings. "I'm just worried I'll be out of work by the end of the month if I'm not dead or in a Belkan prison camp, then how will they survive?"
Smith put his hands on his hips and cringed a little. It was bad enough he was grounded, but now it was increasingly looking like he wouldn't be able to make it back into the air. Though he supposed it did make sense to him that he was lucky not to have family anymore.
"Oh yeah, you and me both," Smith replied, shaking his head. "If this keeps up then the only money I have left on my name is for a ticket back to Wilburg."
When Belka finally decided to drop all pretense of ominous presence on the 25th, they did so with extreme prejudice. Several armored and special forces divisions overran much of Ustio's territory and most of the Ustian Air Force was destroyed in one fell swoop, in a valiant but ultimately futile struggle over the skies of the Ustian capital of Directus.
"You know," the mechanic added, "I'm probably going to miss working on this thing."
Smith raised an eyebrow. "Hear ya, bru. I'm going to miss not being able to fly this thing."
The two chuckled darkly. With even the base's residents - Ustians, Oseans and others - returning in fewer numbers, it now seemed more than likely that the F-15 in the hangar was quite literally the most capable fighter left in the UAF's inventory.
"Hell! I've treated these three almost like my own children since I got assigned to 'em," the mechanic sighed, closing the body panel he was working on. "I even called 'em Red, Green and Blue."
This particular F-15's wingtips and ailerons had been painted dark blue at an angle, making the aircraft almost resemble an odd-looking kite from above. Red and Green belonged to the ex-Belkan Larry "Pixy" Foulke and ex-South Sotoan Defense Force Sgt. Kristian "Culler" Verhoeven, respectively. It still intrigued Cipher that the UAF allowed the mercenaries to paint their aircraft like many did in places where formal military decorum hadn't quite survived.
And one of those planes had caught Smith's attention as it landed. "Hey look, Red's back," he said, pointing out at the F-15 that had just touched down on the runway.
The mechanic pocketed his tools and looked out at the F-15 just landing. "Oh right, Pixy," he replied worriedly. "He's probably the best out of your lot, but did I ever tell you why he requested his aircraft painted like that?"
"Verhoeven told me first time I laid eyes on that fairy," Smith said, before he walked over to the hangar entrance and took a peek outside. "He likes green, right?"
"Yeah, apparently it was his old squadron colors back in South Sotoa," the mechanic replied, checking another panel on the F-15. "As for Blue here, this one was sort of pre-painted for a squadron they were going to assemble before the tensions started."
Smith continued to watch outside, speaking louder to compensate for the approaching engines. "Speaking of the old man, he should be right behind, yeah?"
"Oh, he'll be waiting up there," the mechanic replied, shaking his head. "Lots of folks in a holding pattern right now and-...oh."
The two reflexively stopped talking under the rising din of another wave reverberating around the hangar - that of the powerful turboprop engines of a giant cargo plane casting a long shadow inside the hangar as it lurched past.
The sight of an Antonov An-12 cargo plane proudly bearing the red-and-yellow pentagon-and-antlers of the Union of Yuktobanian Republics' vaunted VVS as it taxied across the tarmac was guaranteed to draw all kinds of attention. Especially when it was clearly headed toward the hangar hosting the Osean expeditionary squadron.
"Yukes? The hell are they doing here?" the mechanic shouted loud enough just to be heard as he ran up beside Cipher. "I thought they were up in Vriesterdam!"
"It's just the one, right?" Smith gestured dismissively, scanning the skies for its friends. "They probably just got lost!"
The transport eventually came to a stop next to the Osean hangar, the pilots and ground crews already alerted to its presence. A small contingent of Ustian MPs quickly pulled up in a pair of jeeps and positioned themselves between the Osean crews and the Antonov in case Cold War tensions boiled over. Among the MPs was an officer who cordially greeted the Antonov's crew as they disembarked.
"Oh, they can't possibly be sharing the hangar," the mechanic groaned, leaning over a little bit to see who the crew were.
From that range, the officer handing the papers to the Ustian base staff appeared to be female.
"Damn, she's a looker." Smith grinned, pursing his lips. A damn good one too.
"She's probably saving herself for her Politburo-assigned husband, s'what I'm guessing," the mechanic chuckled. "In any case, I'm gonna get back to work on my own lost cause."
Smith waved him off with an "Okay, bru," before tilting a little bit. The MPs by the Antonov's crew were about the only thing preventing the next world war from erupting.
Yet he found himself focused so much on the chaos that was about to erupt that he failed to realize that he was the officer's next stop until he heard the jeep's brakes squeaking right next to him.
"Sgt. Ben Smith, you're needed in the briefing room now," the UAF lieutenant rattled off with a machine-gun monotone that prodded Smith out of attention fast enough that he immediately climbed into the jeep's back seat.
The jeep's route went past the taxiing F-15. Smith could catch a glimpse of the aircraft's right wing, which had been painted a solid high-visibility red to match Pixy's local legend.
Yet instead of enthusiasm, Smith couldn't help but feel disappointed. More than being unable to fly 'Blue,' all kinds of negative possibilities were already blowing through his mind. Maybe the UAF didn't exactly appreciate a merc hanging around uncomfortably close to the ground staff, or they didn't think the mercenary option was viable now that they were about to be conquered.
For once, Smith would have loved nothing more than to be proved wrong.
Briefing Room
3 minutes later
Entering the room in a standard air force flightsuit didn't cause nearly the same stir as it did when he arrived in his thick jacket and luggage. This was because the gathered pilots and air force officials had plenty else to occupy their minds than some hotshot Sotoan. In fact there was an aura of desperation circling the few pilots in the room, centered on Colonel Kluge who was setting up the debriefing presentation.
Kluge seemed as dreary and deadpan as he always was, and this time it was something Smith didn't feel he wanted to disturb. He took a seat by the aisle that once divided "East" and "West" pilots, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the seat in front almost as if bracing for a crash landing.
Although briefings were only now attended by pilots needed on sortie at that moment from both the UAF and Triple Spectrum, it wasn't hard to tell that more seats would be empty in the future whether or not by choice. If the mercenaries left, it was understandable. Hell, even if the Ustians or Oseans left, well, there'd be no time to worry about punishment.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. We will now begin the debriefing for today's sorties."
Cipher was far enough back that he only had to tilt his head up to get a good view without getting noticed.
"Thanatos and Cerberos teams provided top cover against Belkan attacker aircraft attempting to stop a retreat from L walden county. The retreat was successful, however the teams suffered heavy casualties."
Smith took a deep breath. 'Heavy casualties' summarized the results of every operation against the Belkans by the pilots from this base since the war started that it had become the base's buzzword for any sort of bad situation. The Osean expeditionary force had taken hard hits, and at least two Ustian squadrons had made Valais their overnight home during their retreat from the northwest only to leave again and never come back.
"Sgt. Mark Bodine and Sgt. John Kitchener of Thanatos Team as well as Sgt. Charlie Spring of Cerberos team are reported killed in action. Sgt. Bart Herman of Cerberos team ejected and is presumed captured."
The mercenaries sent up by Triple Spectrum fared little better over the last few days. Steamer, Wrench and Smith's replacement Michael Akers continued to make it back intact, but Hex had been almost entirely lost save for the pilot that invited him for a drink with Verhoeven after his grounding. The reserves that took their place were thinning out quickly.
"Galm Team engaged a Belkan fighter incursion over Mont-Criste county and suffered casualties. Sgt. Kristian Verhoeven was confirmed killed in action."
A hushed, tense conversation briefly washed over the dwindling audience. Smith barely looked it as he sat up, long since familiar with the concept of someone he'd started to get to know dying a sudden death and said death mentioned only in passing. But he'd never gotten completely numb to it, as much as he'd kept silent.
That's why I didn't see Green come back...
"Due to the amount of casualties, as well as the large number of pilots being drawn up from reserve, active squadrons will be reorganized starting with Galm Squadron. Sgt. Benjamin Smith will be reinstated to the active pilot roster as Galm 1."
Smith smirked a little as his head perked up, once again having all eyes on him. The death of people on his side of the conflict was almost never cause for celebration, but he knew that being bumped up to Galm Team due to its leader's death was the silver lining in his situation.
That is, if making the restrained prisoner in solitary confinement the warden of the asylum was a silver lining.
"Those of you coming in will have noticed the presence of a Yuktobanian aircraft on our runway. The Union of Yuktobanian Republics entered into a state of war with the Belkan Federation on the 27th as part of terms agreed with the Eastern Osean Collective Defense."
This resulted in audible mumblings about "commies" and "Reds" from both sides of the aisle. The EOCD was a military agreement signed by Recta, Gebet, FATO and Yuktobania in 1991, that was ostensibly meant to help rebuild and retrain the military forces of the newly-independent territories. Most accepted the reality that it gave the UYR a presence to keep tabs on their Osean rivals, as well as a way to flank Osea through Belka's east if and when the Cold War finally heated up.
"The government-in-exile in Ratio has agreed to allow the EOCD to use our base as a transit point for supplies to our northern neighbors."
For as long as the Ustian flag is flying anyway.
"Furthermore, due to the heavy casualties suffered by the Osean expeditionary squadron, the EOCD has agreed to the formation of an international joint assault squadron with the AFO along with members of a VVS squadron that also suffered casualties. The squadron will be affiliated with the VVS."
And they say we're the desperate ones?
The mumblings grew just a little bit louder, becoming mutterings among the Eastern audience.
The Easterners were just as familiar to Yuktobanian political machinations as they were to Osean influence, thanks to their heritage and closer proximity to Sotoa. Not that either the Yukes or Oseans were more benevolent in their motives than the other, but the Yuktobanians tended to treat their hired help a with a little more disposability than the capitalistic Oseans - especially their ex-pats and immediate neighbors.
"Because Ustio is now allied with the Union of Yuktobanian Republics, I expect all pilots and crewmen under our command, Ustian, Osean and Triple Spectrum, to treat them as such. New team assignments will be posted outside this evening. All pilots will continue to remain on alert status. Dismissed."
The air of tension lingered after Kluge had shut off the projector and began packing to leave. The pilots began to leave the room one or two at a time.
Cipher was one of the first to get out and leave, keeping his enthusiasm to himself. Underneath his quivering, stressed out smile, he was excited to pass the good news onto his unsuspecting mechanic friend working on Big Blue.
"Welcome back to the shitpit, Cipher!" Wrench chortled, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder as he passed briskly by. "Belkans are never gonna know what hit 'em."
"Thanks, man." Cipher replied calmly, waving it off before Steamer passed him with an equally friendly ruffle of his hair. Habrock's replacement leader Akers also patted Cipher's other shoulder on the way out.
This time around, he could more easily contain his excitement. Although he had gotten used to the notion of every "next" mission being his last, there was something about facing the full might of a military superpower that made that notion a little less of a fact of life.
2 April 1995
52 mi. NNE of Valais Air Base, Ustio
1301 hrs.
Three days and a test flight later, the enemies were almost literally at the gates. Roadblocks had been set up across Valais township for what was bound to be the country's last stand, although they were barely manned. With the Ustian Air Force mostly destroyed, what few soldiers remained did not expect anything friendly to come down from the skies.
But that did not mean they wouldn't put up a fight. Every remaining plane that could take off from Valais Air Base was scrambled to intercept a Belkan bomber squadron with enough firepower to level both the base and the township on the way.
And Cipher was smiling as he led the charge in Galm Team's "Blue" aircraft with "Red" by his side and Thanatos and Habrock following to either side.
"It's starting to come down," Pixy commented, moisture starting to develop on the canopy.
The last snow before spring. The end of the Belkan winter.
"This is Base Command, guess all you boys managed to get up. Galm 1, Galm 2, maintain present course."
"Galm 1, confirm."
"Galm 2, roger."
"Habrock Leader to base command, we're all here."
"Thanatos 1 through 3 reporting. Cipher, I hope you know what you're doing."
"Bearing 3-1-5, Belkan bombers approaching," came the voice of the Valais Base Command. Colonel Kluge was probably paying more attention to what was going on than anyone else in the base, explaining the intensity in his voice.
Hostile IFFs began blinking across the F-15's radar screen. Cipher ran a quick mental analysis as his glance flickered between the screen and the HUD in front of him.
"Nobody wants to bail out into a mountain of ice," Pixy barked. "We're counting on you, flight leader."
2 to 1, bombers included, not too bad odds there.
The Belkan bomber flight and escort had been dispatched from municipal airports and other airfields nearby to wipe Valais Air Base off the map and finish off the last remaining resistance within Ustio's borders.
The few mercenaries that remained were now the country's last line of defense before Ratio and East Osea's other great power, Nordland. The old imperial power had been mostly dormant since the 1970s, but retained the most dominant military force on their half of the continent after Belka's.
"All units, prepare to intercept," came Base Command's reply.
"Got it, boss," came Steamer's reply.
"You'd better have our pay ready and waiting," Pixy added.
"That's if we both make it through this alive, eh?" Cipher joked grimly. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"Be ready to pay up, we'll be back before you know it." Pixy reassured his flight lead.
"All Triple Spectrum teams. Shoot down all enemy bombers, don't let them get to our base. Galm 2, follow all orders from Galm 1. Free engagement is prohibited during this operation."
"Roger. Awaiting your orders, Cipher, you're Galm 1 now."
Damn right I am.
"Let's make quick work of these suckers and treat ourselves to a little hot whiskey," Thanatos 1 shouted.
"Better be boiling, feels like the control stick's about to ice over," Wrench replied. "Never got this cold over the Drakenbergs in July."
The formation of bombers and escorts at their 10 o'clock and closing appeared like a small swarm of insects, and grew to resemble a small flock of birds before their metal contours finally took shape.
"I've heard stories about you, Cipher," Pixy began, "They say you never let your prey get away."
"And that's what's going to happen, bru," Cipher replied confidently. "Hope you're up for a long flight."
"Those are Wyverns, huh," was the first communication out of Wrench's radio.
"Yeah," Steamer replied. "I didn't know they were that big either."
"Just think of it as an elephant hunt, boys," Cipher quipped. "Habrock, engage the bombers in the middle. Pixy and I will cut the head off the snake, Thanatos, take the escorts."
The Belka Maschinenwerke BM 335 Lindwurm was one of the few Papierwaffe projects to find a place in the Cold War. Combining the payload capacity of a modern Tupolev with the range of a Stratofortress, the 335 was well into its autumn years in a world of precision and accuracy but was cheap enough to make that it found use with a few client states looking to display their perceived military might.
Belka, of course, easily backed up these perceptions with a slew of modern equipment and upgrades to their old ones. But a fleet of seven 335s and its escorts of F-4s and license-built F-20 Tigersharks were enough to at least intimidate the last remaining Ustian Air Force base into submission, on paper anyway.
Cipher traced an imaginary line in front of him with a finger, connecting the dots to the bomber at the front of the pack. He tapped his HUD once he reached it, and proceeded to switch on the afterburners, yawing constantly to the left to make sure he wouldn't overshoot it.
"Cipher, you're going in too fast!" Wrench shouted.
"That's the plan," Cipher responded, lining up the front of the 335 leading the formation with his boresight and pulling the trigger as the bomber entered gun range.
The burst of cannonfire effectively decapitated the first 335, its cockpit disintegrating in a cloud of sparks and steel fragments, to say nothing of whoever might have been at the controls.
"First enemy bomber down, continue with your operation."
The man at the controls of the F-15 that sent it plummeting from the sky had other things on his mind, anyway. Plunging directly into the Belkan formation had gotten the attention of a few of the escorts, with lock-on detection warnings going off even before he destroyed the lead bomber. A quick glance at his radar showed at least three hostiles on his tail...and friendlies behind those.
Cipher drawing the escorts away for what they thought was an easy one to pick off drew the attention of Thanatos. The flight of Tiger IIs easily dispersed as Cipher brought the F-15 back around to take out the next two bombers in the formation.
"Second enemy bomber down. Stay sharp out there."
Or rather, one. Pixy had taken the opportunity to sneak a semi-active AIM-7 through Thanatos and strike down one of the 335s. The missile must have also detonated the payload because he could feel the shockwave rattle his aircraft just a little. A flick of a control switch and his aircraft activated one of his own semi-active Sparrows, bringing up a targeting reticule. The Lindwurm was still far enough away for him to remember what he'd read in the operations manuals the mechanics let him get his hands on.
Cipher's HUD lit up as the 335 entered the reticule, his cue to fire. Fire he did, the 335 slow enough for him to keep within the circle with a minimum of yawing until the missile punched through the radar installation on its underbelly, splitting the fuselage up the middle.
"I hope they're careful with the bombs when they hit the ground," Pixy commented.
"Why? There's nobody to cause an avalanche under," Steamer chuckled.
"Third enemy bomber down."
Three of seven wasn't enough reason to celebrate, although 6,000 zollars before bonuses would cover more than just a first-class ticket back to Sotoa. Cipher's attention was already drawn to the nearest set of dueling blips on his radar.
"This is Habrock One, I got an escort on me that won't fucking quit."
"Galm One to Habrock One, I got your ass, Akers."
Captain Akers' Saab Draken and the F-20 Tigershark tailing him were just up and off to Cipher's two-o'clock. He pulled his F-15 in their general direction and fired off a short cannon burst. The shells missed both planes by a wide margin, but it had its intended effect of causing the Tigershark to break off pursuit. Soon Cipher was trying to pin him down on the HUD.
The F-15's fly-by-wire system felt almost feather-like to the touch when it came to these maneuvers, although Cipher's standard of "feather-like" controls was highly subjective given his previous experience with the older Draken model as well as the assorted MiGs, Strikemasters and other stodgy early Cold War relics that filled out his Sotoan curriculum vitae. The only reason the Tigershark was giving Cipher a headache was because its pilot at least had some formal flight education, which included evasive maneuvers.
That meant Cipher had to fly at a slower speed to avoid both overshooting his target, while becoming a riskier target for the ones following him.
Missile lock was achieved during a climb, but the Tigershark was flying in tight-enough circles that his Sidewinders would easily miss before homing would activate. Unfortunately for the pilot, Cipher didn't usually rely on missiles unless he had to.
With a pull on the flight stick, cannon shells tore into the fuselage behind the cockpit, shredding crucial valves and igniting the F-20 before it could finish a loop. Cipher leveled out and pushed forward on the throttle, but the F-20 wouldn't be coming back up.
"Hey, thanks for the save, mate!" Akers cheered as Cipher's F-15 circled around the cloud of black smoke and flame that used to be a Belkan F-20. "That's a well-earned thousand right there."
"You know it, bru!" Cipher confirmed as he banked to his right and pulled back into the furball. There was still plenty of action for him to savor and more opportunities to cash in, although he and Pixy's actions had clearly inspired the other Triple Spectrum squadrons and their antiquated aircraft to up their own antes.
Coversely, it apparently inspired one of the bombers to fold and cut their losses. Amidst the few remaining bombers continuing to fly in formation to combine their side gunner fire, and the fighters tangling with Triple Spectrum in the furball, a single dot on the radar began to deviate from the remaining bomber formation.
"One of the bombers is leaving the battlefield," Wrench observed. "Looks like he's chickening out."
The thought of a bloated propaganda machine suddenly developing a yellow streak caused Cipher to grow a grin that was nothing short of predatory as he spotted a single dot blinking from hostile to neutral IFF on his display.
"Why would he leave after getting this far?" Pixy inquired.
"Fuck if I know, but I'm gonna go have some fun with it." he cooed almost seductively as he banked away from the main combat zone. "Save some for me when you get back, eh?"
"Wilco," was Steamer's reply, "I think they're only sending rookies after us today. Go get 'em."
I'm not letting three grand get away from me.
The larger Lindwurm could already detect Cipher closing in on them from miles away. Its rear-mounted vulcan cannon began spewing shells at the incoming Eagle, but at that distance Cipher could spot the tracers and evade accordingly.
The bomber then tried to initiate evasive maneuvers, but Cipher was barely putting any effort into keeping up with it. Far from being insulted, this was actually entertaining. He laughed cheekily as he waved from side to side, like a bee evading a horse's tail, and he felt like he could do this all day.
"This is Thanatos 1, I've got some escorts on me!" was a Thanatos team member's sudden reminder that Cipher was up here to earn his money.
"Ugh, playtime's over." Cipher groaned before activating one of the larger air-to-air missiles.
With a flick of a switch, Cipher demonstrated the meaning of "fire and forget," letting the AMRAAM go and banking away before watching if it hit. Unable to react in time, the missile impacted the 335's right wing, the leaking fuel lines practically igniting that entire half of the aircraft and sending the bomber into a death plunge.
Cipher immediately pulled back toward the furball, his glance flickering to and from his radar.
"Cipher shot down a neutralized aircraft!" was Kluge's confirmation. "Three Belkan bombers remaining."
"...is that legal?" came the questioning voice of one of Thanatos team. "They were trying to flee!"
"The contract didn't say anything about letting them go," Cipher replied cheekily, "And I'm not in trouble again, so I guess it must be."
Friendlies and bogies were mixing it up, and it was hard to tell where Wrench was just from the lack of names on both the radar and the heads-up display. He immediately deduced the best way to see which ones where chasing which were to thin out the enemies that weren't doing the chasing. In this case, these were the bombers.
Trailing the crippled bomber had taken Cipher a good distance from the main action, but this time the escorts were preoccupied with the unpredictable mercenaries trying to get at the other ones.
The bombers at the periphery had been destroyed, leaving the escorts to turtle around the remainders.
Remainders that Cipher could pick off with another Sparrow missile.
The first shoot-down was always the hardest, and this time activating and firing the Sparrow was a much quicker process. This time, however, he followed the Sparrow until it impacted the 335 and almost tore it messily in two, bringing himself into the furball and just passing a Belkan F-4 that crested across his left wing.
A burst of cannon fire almost grazed his cockpit, a reflexive burst from a Belkan who suddenly had a target fly in front of him. This was accompanied by the warning beeps of a potential lock-on.
Nothing I haven't been in before.
Cipher cut the throttle and gunned the brakes before barrel-rolling, allowing the F-4 Phantom to pass him. It was another risky move, as a slower plane was that much more vulnerable, but it was unpredictable enough that it would have caught the more formal Belkan off guard. Cipher's aircraft was stalling quickly, but he kept both hands on the flight stick as he activated the Sidewinders at close range. The F-15's more advanced radar was already tracking it.
Cipher rolled to his right and then dropped the Eagle as he fired. The Sidewinder corkscrewed off the left pylon and straight into the F-4's engine, disintegrating half the fuselage in the Eagle's path if it had stayed level.
"Bandit down, nice shot!" Pixy suddenly interjected.
Cipher smiled in response as another missile lock warning activated on his HUD, pushing the throttle back up and pulling back on the flight stick just a little to level out on the mountains, where the Phantom had decided to pursue him.
It was a smile propped up by the adrenaline and pumping blood from having a battle rush where the results actually mattered for the first time in a very long time.
Cold as it was, the mountain formations were still reasonably predictable for Cipher, more so than the generally unexplored Sotoan ranges. He weaved the Eagle close to the ranges, making sure the Phantom could keep up but not get a lock on. Once he was sure the bogey was securely on his tail, he suddenly pulled into a tightly-controlled loop that left the startled Phantom pilot trying to mimic his maneuver.
The tighter turning radius quickly had Cipher looking upward at the Phantom, at which point some instinctively-placed cannon shells to the forward section of the fuselage and cockpit put both the Phantom and its pilot out of their misery.
In fact he'd been having so much fun trying to take out the fighters that he'd almost forgotten about the bombers.
"Galm 2 shot down a bomber," came the transmission from Base Command.
"Looks like Galm 2's gonna steal the show again," added Thanatos 2.
"One Belkan bomber remaining."
The battle rush didn't fade, but the smile did.
"Goddammit, I'm on this bastard," he muttered. Thanatos and Habrock were easily mopping up the remaining escorts, and Pixy had taken out the last bomber on the periphery as it turned away to try to escape, putting Cipher closest to the last one as he caught up at its seven o'clock from below.
With his Sidewinders still active, he easily achieved missile lock on the last 335 and let it fly.
The missile then proceeded to disappear in a cloud of flares as the giant Lindwurm heaved up to Cipher's right.
"Mother of-" Cipher growled through a clenched jaw.
"Enemy used countermeasures," Base Command confirmed. It was no solace to the pilot, who had already warmed up a Sparrow instead of a Sidewinder.
"Fine. Once more from the top with a fuckin' missile up your arse," Cipher snarled as set up a Sparrow for a target that couldn't fit in the boresight that appeared on his screen. "Just like this!"
Cipher snapped his fingers as much as his gloved hand would allow right as his last missile impacted the side of the last 335, violently separating its tail section from the rest of the aircraft. He then jinked his F-15 to the left to avoid any fast-moving debris that might have separated from the dying bomber.
Almost like magic, he thought to himself as the radar flickered clear of enemy aircraft. And just like that, the rush ended.
"Base command to Galm Team. The enemy attack unit has been successfully repelled." Base Command's final report eased Cipher and the rest of the Triple Spectrum teams down from their high into the quiet euphoria of victory. "I'd like to see how those Belkan cowards report to their superiors."
"Holy shit, we did it!" Steamer shouted. "We saved Ustio!"
"Yeah, for now," Akers countered, "But they're going to fight a little harder at least."
"More money for us," Thanatos 1 added. "If Cipher and Pixy don't take everything again."
Cipher checked his radar as he leveled out and yawed the plane to point back to Valais. To his surprise, there were seven blips on the radar around his center dot. Seven friendly blips.
"Yeah, well," he chuckled, "One of us has to die first, and unfortunately our camaraderie means that didn't happen."
"Amen to that. Cipher, I have a feeling you and I are gonna get along just fine," Pixy said. "...Buddy."
Cipher sighed and looked ahead to the horizon.
The sun had crossed its late-winter meridian and would soon start its descent to the west, beyond the horizon of the seemingly endless mountain range. The skies were once again calm.
And he was still alive, still getting paid for a job very well done with extreme prejudice.
Yeah, just fine.
Ustio National Bank - Valais Branch
Valais Township, Ustio
3 April 1995
1629 hrs.
"Welcome back, Mr. Smith!"
Linard Monsch was at least trying to put up some outward enthusiasm as a more confident Benjamin Smith strutted right past the line of people waiting for a withdrawal.
It was a Monday, and the banks were open for a dwindling number of people who still had schillings left in their accounts to withdraw. Some were reading the paper in relative disgust while waiting.
The few surviving local newspapers and bulletins from the government-in-exile in Ratio were awash with the Air Force's successful last stand against the Belkan Reich, photos of Ustian Air Force staff celebrating at Valais covering the front page.
No way they'd let foreigners take credit, but I got my money, so I'm fine.
"Linard. Good thing we're both still here!" Smith shook Monsch's hand with enough force to jolt him up his arm.
"You're not here to take your money, are you?" Linard asked somewhat feebly as he sat back down.
"Actually, you mentioned earlier that I needed five-thou to start investing?" Smith replied cockily, withdrawing something from his jacket pocket and sliding it onto the desk.
The banker's eyes widened, his lips curling in a clear mental struggle to balance resentment with excitement.
"I ran a couple of errands for the Air Force yesterday," he added proudly, putting his hands on his hips and smiled at the check for Z15,575 and 00/100 cents, dated April the 3rd, signed on the Bank and made out to Benjamin Smith. "And I did some extra reading."
Linard could hide his resentment a bit better this time, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was actually somewhat impressed.
"Well, this can at least be deposited right away, Mr. Smith," Linard replied obediently, "But of course you do know that the stock markets won't open while the Belkan flag is flying over them."
Smith couldn't tell if Linard was trying to be snide or hopeful, so he reacted from assuming the latter.
"I'll take the deposit then," Smith replied, putting his arms up in a shrug. "And I do still look forward to us doing business together."
Linard clearly forced a smile that was more of a harried smirk as he stood up and took the check. "I hope the feeling is mutual," he replied as he went to procure the paperwork.
Smith tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, arching his upper back over the chair's backrest as he stretched his arms and let out an almost feral-sounding yawn.
Ustio wasn't saved, at least not for the time being. The fifteen thousand he now had deposited could still be wiped out with a well-placed ton of strategic explosive along with the people who were supposed to keep it safe, and if Smith survived he'd soon find himself right back in Sotoa where he started.
But for now, the pilot currently named Benjamin Smith was doing what he loved for money that was still legal tender. And he had not one but two successful sorties under his belt against nothing less than a military superpower, for an employer that hadn't betrayed him yet. If he lived and Ustio failed, then at least he could take that on his resume with him to another contractor and another conflict that would need his skills to resolve.
Everything considered, things couldn't have been going better than they were. And he hoped they would stay that way.
To Be Continued...
Author's Note: A few cultural references, Ustio is my headcanon for Austria with a bit of Switzerland mixed in. Ustiansh is the equivalent of Romansh, Switzerland's fourth official language, which will help it fit in between Belka and Ratio (Italy.)
A/N 2: Pixy's narration isn't included because he's telling that to Brett Thompson ten years after.