AN/: Ladies and Gentlemen, the Circum-Pacific War with all its entrapments is finally upon us. Time for the chaos. Enjoy
"There's a lot of Hollywood bullshit about flying. I mean, look at the movies about test pilots or fighter pilots who face imminent death. The controls are jammed or something really important has fallen off the plane, and these guys are talking like magpies; their lives are flashing past their eyes, and they're flailing around in the cockpit. It just doesn't happen. You don't have time to talk. You're too damn busy trying to get out of the problem you're in to talk or ricochet around the cockpit. Or think about what happened the night after your senior prom."
-Brigadier General Robin Olds. King of the Wolfpack, and mastermind of Operation Bolo.
Chapter 7: Surviving First Contact
Did we have any idea of trouble before the twenty-third of September?
No. Not at all. If there was, we wouldn't have known because of the constant and usual bullshit we were dealing with.
Hang on…now that you mention it, something comes to mind. At the beginning of September, before everything went down, a mysterious wreck of a plane was wheeled into Sand Island under darkness. No one knows why it was brought in to Sand Island. It had Yuktobanian markings on it, but no one was really sure what it was. I had a nagging feeling Pops knew something about the situation, but I never asked him about it until much, much later.
My suspicions were naturally up. I was already wary of something happening and this was driving me crazy. After a few days and total silence though, my guard relaxed. A war seemed unlikely on my watch again.
Otherwise, things were normal. Lt. Colonel Ford, the "real" commander of Wardog squadron came in from the mainland for few hours on the fifteenth of September. He went on and on about following protocol and got fairly heated with Bartlett a few times. Apparently, word had gotten to Ford about the training exercise with the paintball cannons when I first arrived. Bartlett was about to get a reprimand when word came in that a reporter was coming to Sand Island to write an article about Wardog and the training program. Punishment would have to wait.
Of course that day was when the world turned upside down.
—September 23, 2010 Sand Island AFB—
I had gotten lucky, whether I wanted to admit it or not that day.
Due to the "unprecedented" nature of the visit by a member of the press, a whole change in schedule was made. Instead of wheeling out over the ocean for training, the exercises for the day were moved further inland. And more importantly, everyone was mobilized.
Well. Except for me. Myself, Chopper, and a few of the nugget airmen who hadn't even gotten their official wings yet who worked on the aircraft maintenance detail for Pops were put on official standby alert. If there were any incursions into our airspace, we were supposed to be ready to be airborne within 15 minutes. Chopper and myself as the only commissioned officers on standby, we were the Five-run alert team. Our planes were supposed to be held ready and waiting so we could be at our designated intercept points within five minutes. Of course, that's being a little optimistic with only F-5s, but I was going to do what I was told, for now.
I sat with the rest of the pilots in the ready room close to the hangars on the west side of the headquarters building. Wearing all of my gear and my G-suit made me fairly uncomfortable in my seat, and I anxiously would turn and twist ever so slightly every other minute or so. I didn't like being the one who was basically in charge of this sort of a deal with no combat experience. If something happened, I felt like we were going to be screwed, royally. But of course, Chopper was talking up a storm to the other airmen about some music of course.
As for myself, I thought about what sort of news story would even be here at Sand Island. Sand Island seemed wholly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. A forgotten training base where rebels' careers went to die and rookies got whipped into combat shape. The whole operation appeared unspectacular to a pilot like me, but to an outsider, perhaps there was something more. I hadn't seen Genette earlier, since they basically whisked him away into the air as soon as he arrived. They had armed the flights with live weapons apparently to show off a bit.
As it turned out, they were going to need it.
All of it.
At about 1045 hrs, the alert siren starting going off the hook. There was no brief in these situations. The only standing order was to haul ass.
"What the hell is going on Blaze?" Chopper yelled as he caught up in pace to my sprinting, somewhat.
"I don't have a damn clue, Chopper, why don't we shut up and do our jobs."
Chopper went silent at my suggestion as we hurried out to the hangars, with Chopper's and my F-5 already warm engines whirring in the early midday breeze. Everything seemed calm in the sky. Only a little cloud cover here and there and almost no breeze, which for Sand Island was unusual. We hopped in our Tiger II's and then were told to wait. I left my oxygen mask off as I stared at a base adjutant, some silver bar first-lieutenant who looked out of his element and shook.
"What the hell is going on! Do we have an intercept, lieutenant?" No response, he just glared up at me. The silver bar was dropping beads and beads of sweat down on the tarmac. "Lieutenant! We need a god-damn answer here!"
Nothing. He ran back off to the building as another officer came out and reiterated our orders to hold station.
"Shit, shit, shit!" I yelled as I smacked my fist into the metal covering above the instrument panel, "What the hell is happening out there?"
"Everyone got bounced!" Chopper yelled over to me, "Check your comms! Standard frequency!"
I gave Chopper a thumbs up as I switched my radio on.
To this day I wished I hadn't.
"There's ten bogies! I repeat ten bogies over Cape Landers! May day! May day!" A voice that sounded like Aero called out.
"I've got two on me!" one of the other instructors, Baker, called out in distress, breathing heavily, "I'm hit bad an-"
Static. We had a friendly down over Osean territory.
I ripped my helmet off in anger and started screaming at the officer that was blocking us, "We are losing people to unknown bogies over Landers! Let us go!"
"Hold your station, Lieutenant!"
"You cowardly bastard! More concerned over an international incident than our people! Pound sand dirt-bag, get out of my damn way!"
"I will cite you for insubordination, Mitchell!" the officer barked back.
I can not believe this.
"I dare you to!" I growled back, "This blood is on your hands, sir!"
I sat down, fuming as my attention went back to the radio.
"There's too many, I can't ke-"
Mustang was gone.
Then Cavalier.
Then Jive.
Then Barney.
Then Dingo.
Then Aero.
And then Bettson.
All gone.
I could only really hear Bartlett, Edge, and Svenson after that point, but Svenson sounded like he was in rough shape. He had both a wounded body and bird.
It wasn't for another fifteen minutes until we got a clearance to start moving. Pops was standing at the entrance to the hangar as we went out, looking just…sad and disappointed. Our gang of five was loaded with full air-to-air munitions, which was basically just a few extra sidewinders beyond our standard wingtip loading of the missiles. Again we were ordered to halt at the taxi-way. We waited a few more agonizing minutes until we were ordered to turn around and shut down.
As soon as my bird was parked and the engines were off, I was going on a rampage.
"Who the hell made these orders?! What kind of intruder intercept group never gets off the damn ground!" I screamed as I took my anger out on a lonely trash can as I picked it up over my head and smashed the tin can down on to the ground.
"Ross! Ross! Take it easy," Pops called over to me as Chopper followed quickly behind, "There's nothing you can do!"
"Nothing! Nothing!" I yelled back, "I could've done something if those assholes in that building would've let us go! Those bastards are just god-damn pencil pushers! They left all of them to die. Is that what we get from them, that when shit hits the fan we get screwed and abandoned?! No! Just no!"
"Ross!" Pops yelled back. It legitimately scared me back to reality. It was really the only time I ever heard Pops really raise his voice at anyone. What a wonderful honor I earned that day. "You need to control your temper. Yelling and throwing a fit right now is not the right thing to do. I guarantee you right now this is not the last time this is going to happen. You're going to get a shot at them, I guarantee it, and you need to be cool when you do. So please, for the love of God, take it down a notch, ok?"
My body grew increasingly more heavy by the passing second as I stooped over on my knees as I sucked in air that seemed to be fleeting from my lungs.
Breathe, bud. Just breathe.
I looked up to Pops and nodded quietly, defeated. The old mechanic gave me a soft pat on the back as he walked back to the entrance of the hangar, his eyes latched to the empty and still skies above.
"Guess people have hell to pay for, huh Blaze?" Chopper muttered quietly as he looked back to Pops.
"Yeah. I guess you could say that," I replied.
We lost Svenson too.
He crashed on landing and rolled the bird. He was stone cold dead before the F-5 exploded. He had almost made it, but his luck had just run out. I think everyone's stomach turned inside out when we watched it happen. I didn't envy the fire crews at all any more after that. I didn't want to even begin to imagine the possibility of them having to put out my shattered and smoldering remains.
Bartlett and Nagase.
That was it. Out of 11 pilots, only two came back. And we didn't bring down a single bandit in return. What a day.
But it continued. Bartlett was still the same after he got out of his F-4, with Genette holding his camera behind him. Bartlett was still berating Nagase about her flying.
"You keep flying like that you'll die real soon!" the grizzly captain yelled, gesturing towards Nagase with flight helmet clutched in hand.
"I won't die, sir."
That was her response. After all that.
This is going to be a long day…
Then the debrief happened. Speaking of chaos, this was the definition of it.
And then some.
Bartlett was going even crazier than I had, berating Hamilton and Perrault for the radar room giving a poor altitude reading and sending the nuggets straight into the fight with no instructor support. He went further and suggested that the radar operators deserved to be relieved of their positions for such an error. Perrault deflected any blame and put it instead squarely on Bartlett, claiming that his "self-proclaimed expert flying skills" seemed to amount to nothing in protecting the nuggets. Bartlett rightly took this as a personal slight and fired back that he wouldn't have been the one of the two left alive if Perrault let him have the training program he really wanted.
The barbs continued flying after that. It became more personal after every series of attacks. Beyond what I elaborated upon above, I don't think I can repeat a lot of what either side said that day. After a few more minutes of that hell, those of us who had been on stand-by got ordered to collect personal items of the deceased to ship home. Bartlett continued to face Perrault in the briefing room, alone.
This task remains to this day one of the hardest of any that serves in the military. It's a drive down memory lane where the neighbors are firing machine-guns full of memories right at you with armor-piercing rounds.
If it doesn't leave you raw when it's over, there's something wrong with you. I had the honor of packing up Svenson's and Baker's belongings. In all honesty, I thought the way things would've happened would find the reverse situation happening. Yet here I was.
Staring at the left-behind belongings of a dead man.
Svenson had little stuffed animals and pictures of his kids all over his locker. Many were life moments I'm sure he was unhappy he'd missed because of his job. Yet he stayed here and trained us. I could only imagine what it was going to be like for them when they got the visit.
That visit which we never wish upon anyone.
I…sorry. This is…a painful memory.
…
Baker didn't have nearly the amount of things that Svenson had. All that was there of any peculiar note was a silver coin. It was almost 140 years old, minted in 1871. There was a winged eagle clutching the Osean flag on the front, and the back was an inscription, "May we never forget their sacrifices".
I stared at that coin for a long time. It didn't feel right to chuck it away and back to ignominy. No one would really get the meaning as a civilian as to why that sat in his locker. So I quietly placed it on my locker shelf when I took Svenson's and Baker's duffel bags of belongings out. There was a line of paper cards in the hallway outside with a place for each of the fallen airmen. When I found the deceased instructors' spots, I placed their bags down and bowed my head.
I don't remember what I prayed for them, but I remember just hoping they were at peace.
"Go easy," I heard Chopper say a few spots down as he deposited Aero's and Mustang's belongings. He then looked over to me and nodded at me with a grim look.
I nodded back.
Go easy warriors. You earned it.
Classified and gag order. That was the final verdict. Command thought they could just shut us up and let it all blow over.
Bartlett called the remaining pilots into the briefing room a few minutes after the official announcement came down. When I headed in, the bleakness was just everywhere. Bartlett was sitting at the front of the room, zonked out with a dark five o'clock shadow from his fight with the base superiors. Nagase sat quietly at the front. She was now the most experienced trainee in the remaining class.
What a world this is.
But Chopper was still Chopper over on the left side of the room talking trash to the other airmen who seemed a little brighter and more upbeat afterwards. But Nagase was still quiet, the combat no doubt still raw on her mind. She didn't even seem to move beyond her hair ever so slightly fluttering from the A/C which which seemed to be roaring louder than usual.
After a minute or so, Bartlett groaned and lifted himself up to look over us. He grimaced just ever so slightly, but immediately it was back to business.
"I know you don't like this, but we're short on people. Starting tomorrow, all you nuggets are going to be sitting on alert. If we launch, stay glued to me up there. Nagase!"
Bartlett managed to startle her back to life. "Sir?"
"You'll be flying number two on my wing," Bartlett said, staring the young pilot down, "Gotta keep an eye on you, or who knows what you'll get yourself into. Davenport!"
I glanced over to Chopper who looked surprised. I wasn't.
"Me, sir?"
"Yeah you, you'll be flying number three. I know element command is a hard job, but you can do it. Just follow my orders and we'll be good."
"Yes, sir," Chopper grumbled to himself as he muttered some cursing under his breath that was barely audible to anyone.
"Mitchell!"
"Yes, sir!" I rattled back confidently.
"You'll be flying tail. It's the most exposed position, but if you can handle it like you have in training no far, you'll be fine."
"Affirmative, sir."
And with that, the orders had been divvied up. The rest of the airmen would be the secondary detachment. Bartlett dismissed us shortly after, and I went up to Nagase who was still stewing in her misery, glaring at the floor.
"Hey," I spoke quietly as I squatted down on my knees, "You doing ok?"
Nagase turned her head slightly towards me, not enough to make eye contact, but something. "I don't know."
"Look…Nagase," I sighed, "Whatever it means coming from me, I'm sorry. I know it's hard. I can't even begin to imagine what's going through your head right now. I heard some of the radio chatter and…"
"I know. It was bad wasn't it?"
"Just hearing it was hell. It probably was even worse seeing it. So, I'm sorry. If you need someone to talk to, you know where to find me. And don't be a stranger ok?"
Nagase finally gained back a little bit of a smile, "Sure. Thanks Ross. Hopefully this is all that happens."
"I'm praying right along with you for that. Trust me."
—September 24, 2010—
"At ease people, but don't get too comfortable. It's a grave situation for all of us right now. Let's get this briefing started."
Less than 24 hours after the debrief, already more trouble was brewing. The fat man was already annoying us with his "outstanding leadership" which of course meant leaving the briefing to the adjutant officer from ISR, or Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance.
It went something like this:
"Another aircraft of unknown origin has entered Osean Federation airspace. We have confirmed the target type as a strategic recon plane flying at very high altitude. Despite our repeated warnings, it continued to penetrate our ADEZ and was fired upon by Osean Coastal Defense Force SAMs. We believe one of our SAMs damaged the unknown plane, but did not destroy it. Radar shows that the aircraft is currently losing altitude, and is attempting to egress feet wet towards the ocean. Intercept this target and force it to land for identification. Do not fire upon this aircraft until further orders are transmitted."
We were dismissed shortly after and sent to do a final gear-up. I went to my locker and grabbed my flight helmet, adjusted it on my head and gave it a quick knock with my fist. After my G-suit was on, and as I was about to walk off, I noticed Baker's silver coin sitting there in my locker. I stared at it solemnly for a few moments and then made my mind up.
"Screw it," I said quietly as I picked up the coin and placed it in the breast pocket of my flight suit, "I'm not forgetting you guys."
I was the last one out of the locker room, following Chopper and Nagase out to our fighters. Pops was there as always, to help us all get ready.
"Ready to go, Ross?"
"Yeah," I half-heartedly replied as I climbed up into my Tiger and began my pre-flight checklist.
Pops just looked over silently and nodded as I sealed the canopy shut. We were loaded out again with a full air-to-air load out, all sidewinders. As much as I would've like to have carried AMRAAMs, the Tigers were too old to carry them. A full load for the cannon and a couple sidewinder missiles was all the old girl could manage. I didn't complain. It was better than going up unarmed.
"Formation cleared to taxi to runway, zero-nine, for immediate launch," the control tower barked into the radio, "Wardog lead, standby at runway for launch, over."
"Roger tower," Bartlett replied as our jets meandered down the taxi-way, "Alright nuggets, this is the real deal. Your training has all lead up to this moment. Stick with me, and we'll get through today."
It was deadly silent after that.
"Wardog squadron, you are cleared for immediate takeoff," the tower interjected into the void.
"Roger, this is Heartbreak One, taking off with formation, runway zero-nine, over."
We all throttled up to takeoff speed and began hurtling down the runway, the tires howling louder and louder as we increased speed. Bartlett's green F-4G leapt to the sky and we followed right after.
"Change vector to one-zero-eight. We are inbound to intercept point, over," Bartlett radioed to the command room.
"Roger Wardog, AWACS Thunderhead will take over once you're at Cape Landers, over."
My stomach was gurgling and churning every passing moment as our fighters roared towards the very same place that nine people died only the day before. My eyes were racing as I desperately tried to distract myself from what felt like going headfirst into a hurricane.
We hit the coast at Landers after a few minutes and followed it to the intercept point. Once we were about 10-15 miles out, Thunderhead formally introduced himself.
"Wardog squadron, this is AWACS Thunderhead, we will be providing support for this operation over."
"Roger, this is Wardog actual, callsign Heartbreak One, how long until the intercept over?"
"About three minutes, the aircraft has descended to about 5,000 feet and is still bleeding altitude, over."
"Roger Thunderhead, alright nuggets, you know the drill. Stay glued to me, and we'll all be good. No one fires unless I say so. Clear?"
"Wardog 2, Roger," Edge quickly responded.
"Wardog 3, Roger," Chopper replied.
And then it was silent. I was still trying to control my stomach and my brain from going wild. I had a feeling about who was operating the spy plane, and I didn't even want to accept the possibility it was Yuktobanian. I was losing my mind, albeit silently.
"Hellooo! Wardog 4? You better be tailing me, son!"
"Wardog 4, roger," I coughed out, "I'm at your six, sir."
"Good. Just keep it cool and we'll be home before you know it."
"Man, I'm glad you drew the short straw today, Blaze."
Oh, for the love of God, Chopper!
"Wardog 3, zip it! You better keep that big mouth of yours in-line, over."
"I'm sorry sir, but I refuse to acknowledge any other moniker except Chopper, sir."
"Well," Bartlett continued, "I've got my own name for you, but we'll see."
"Tally-ho!" I called, my eyes suddenly coming back to focus, "This is Wardog 4, I've got a visual on the UFO. Moving left to right, on the nose, he's heading due west, over."
"Roger, I see him," Bartlett radioed back, "Let's go roll out the welcoming committee."
The four of us turned as a formation to head after the plane, which grew larger and larger with every passing second in my canopy. As we got within a good visual range, my stomach dropped.
It was a Tu-160R. The Blackjack. It was the biggest and fastest bomber the Yuktobanian Air Force had. Although it didn't seem to be armed, seeing one of these in Osean airspace was definitely a cause for alarm.
What the hell are they thinking? Do they really believe they can just fly Blackjacks over Osea and not expect any trouble? Idiots!
As we closed in, Bartlett ordered "Motormouth Chopper" to issue the ultimatum. Turn back and land, or else. Of course it didn't really mean much because it looked like this Blackjack wasn't going to make it anywhere fast. The engines were badly damaged, and the left wing ailerons had a massive chunk missing. It was a miracle they had made it this far out.
"Well, looks like they're not complying." Bartlett sighed with disappointment. It was going to be another struggle, no doubt.
And then the other shoe dropped.
"Wardog lead, this is AWACS Thunderhead, we're picking up inbound radar signatures, fast-movers, fighters inbound vector two-eight-zero, can you confirm?"
I looked over to my screen and found four radar signatures back towards the way we had come from towards Sand Island. They had probably grounded the kids again.
"Can confirm, let's ride Wardog!" Bartlett ordered as we headed for a head on intercept, "Don't fire until I say so, nuggets."
We all click our mics back to the affirmative as we closed in. The intercept altitude led us straight into the grey cloud cover that was hovering at about 7,000 feet above the AO. As we closed in, I could faintly see the dark exhaust trails of the bandits. I gulped.
This is it. One wrong move and we all die.
"Stay close nuggets, this is gonna be tight!"
We were within one mile when shit started to hit the fan.
"Radar warning! Radar warning!" my plane started howling at me.
"Son of a bitch!" I yelled, "They have me locked!"
"Roger, Wardog 4," Bartlett calmly replied, "I think we all are, Kid."
And then the cannon fire started, which barely missed us as we roared past the group of four MiG-21s.
And so it begins.
"Wardog lead, request weapons hot, I repeat request weapons hot!" I called over the radio as I pitched my Tiger back hard into an Immelmann turn to try and get on the six of one of the bandits.
"Negative Wardog, negative! This is AWACS Thunderhead, Do not fire on the targets! I repeat, do not fire on the targets!"
"You gotta be kidding me!" I overheard Chopper moaning, with missile warnings going off in the background behind him, "These are not god-damn blanks they're shooting at me right now!"
I could hear Bartlett growling with frustration, he knew he had to disobey to keep us alive. And he didn't hesitate.
"All Wardog planes, fire back! I repeat, fire on the targets! No more of us are going to die today," Bartlett yelled.
"Hallelujah, Sweet Mary and Joseph!" I responded and I flipped my weapons systems to active, "Time to get some payback! Blaze, engaging."
"Heartbreak One, engaging."
"Edge, engaging."
"Chopper, engaging."
The fight was on now.
I sighted a MiG-21 ripe for the picking at my eleven o'clock low who was chasing after Chopper.
"Can someone clear my six?!" Chopper grunted as he turned hard to left, "This guy is getting a little too close for comfort."
"This is Blaze, I'm inbound," I responded tersely as I rolled and dived down after the MiG.
"Come on baby, come on…" I coaxed the targeting computer as I finally got into missile range, closing the distance on the enemy fighter who seemed to be completely ignorant to me tailing him.
The reticle finally locked on the Fishbed, "Good tone! Blaze, Fox 2!"
"Do not engage the targets Wardog! I repeat…"
Too late for that, Thunderhead.
The sidewinder flashed off my right wing in a ball of fire towards the fighter. Before the enemy had a chance to get out of the way, the missile impacted smack-dab in the middle of the fuselage, splitting the fighter in half and sending it tumbling down in a ball of the flames to the ocean.
I…I did it! No way, I really did it!
"This is Blaze, Splash one bandit!"
"Don't get cocky, there's still more of them out there, Kid!" Bartlett ordered back.
"Affirmative, I'm back on the hunt," I responded back as I picked up another Fishbed at my nine o'clock high. I rolled over into a High yo-yo turn to hopefully delay my ascent enough to pick up the tail of the fighter. This MiG was a bit more aware than the last and tried to turn into me to force me to break off. I did break my yo-yo turn, but I pulled up and rolled over, down into a Split-S which put me firmly on the MiG's six. I didn't wait to fire.
"Fox 2!" I called as the missile streaked off my left wing and smashed the MiG to pieces. "Splash two bandits!"
"Affirmative Kid, all four are down. Form up on me."
We loitered for a few seconds and then more bad news came in.
"Wardog, We've detected a second wave of fighters, five targets, inbound, same heading and altitude as last time."
"Roger, alright Wardog, same drill. Bring them down!" Bartlett ordered as we ascended back above the cloud cover.
The enemy was getting less confident about the four pilots being pushovers. This time the fighters were climbing up to meet us, and there was a new grey plane leading them. A Yakolvev 130, Yuktobania's top of the line training aircraft.
"Wardog 1, Fox 3, Fox 3!" Bartlett called as he let off his long-range missiles towards the bandits, which sent the fighters scrambling in every which direction, "Alright nuggets, engage at will!"
I throttled up immediately and rocketed towards the Yak-130, or 'Mitten', as our ID charts classified it. This guy was another level above the two Fishbed slouches. He was giving me a run for my money. In fact, in the first turn of the fight, He went High-G and got on my tail. And, he was already fairly close, maybe only a thousand feet off my tail.
"Warning radar lock! Warning radar lock!" Bitching-betty said in her monotone voice.
I know!
"Missile inbound!"
Damn!
I pulled the stick back to force my Tiger in a high-G loop back towards the Mitten, and as soon as I got my nose in his direction, with the missile having long overshot at that close of a range, I began firing my two 20mm cannons towards him. I tried to gain enough lead on the Mitten to try and lead him into a deflection shot, but the bastard was quick enough to get away and force me to climb again and readjust to get back on his tail.
"This is Edge, splash one."
All I could do was grunt in reply as I went back to the chase of the Yak, who was making himself be everywhere at once. He knew he had to get into a turning fight to get past my engine power advantage. But, I wasn't going to let him dictate the combat that easily. I pitched the nose up and disengaged, as I went hunting after one of the other lone Fishbeds who was slowly circling down at low altitude trying to get on Bartlett's tail. He wasn't doing that great of a job, to be honest. I went inverted and pulled into a high-angle dive, gaining speed all the way. The Mitten took this cue to chase after me, but soon he couldn't keep up, and was forced to try and take longer and longer pot-shots at me with his cannon. The MiG below didn't stand a chance as I locked him up and fired another sidewinder, which with the adding momentum of my dive, sucker-punched the Fishbed down into the sea in mere seconds.
"This is Blaze, Splash three."
"Damn Blaze, you're knocking them down!" Chopper called and then quickly grunted.
"Keep your head in the fight, Motormouth!" Bartlett cackled, "It ain't over yet! Keep it up Kid!"
I then quickly started scanning for the Yak, and found him circling directly across from me at my three o'clock. I rolled up into half-Immelmann-half yo-yo turn, that placed me inverted and diving on the Mitten as he tried to accelerate and turn back at me. This time I had a chance to get a deflection shot off with my cannon. I closed in, my window getting smaller and smaller as my speed increased exponentially. Finally, my cannon reticle was where I wanted it when I was maybe 1,200 feet out, I squeezed hard on the trigger, letting a salvo of hot 20mm lead fly towards the Yak. I blew past and could hear the rounds impacting the metal fuselage of the Mitten. I looked over my right shoulder to find the Mitten disabled and slowly descending down towards the ocean, and the pilot ejected not long after my pass.
"Blaze here, splash four, I repeat splash four."
"I've got this guy, if you'll let me have him," I heard Chopper radio out. I scanned the sky to find him and Bartlett chasing after the last flying MiG.
"Go ahead, he's all yours," Bartlett laughed as Chopper went after the MiG. This was a surreal moment. Chopper was chasing a real bandit, and Bartlett was essentially coaching him through the kill. It was weird to have a déjà vu from training, only to realize it was in real combat. Where we had killed people. Edge had formed up on my left wing, and I motioned to her to give either a thumbs up or thumbs down. She gave a thumbs up. She seemed to be laughing at Chopper and Bartlett's live exercise. After everything, at least she still could muster a smile and a laugh.
"The spy plane crashed, Heartbreak One," Thunderhead called as Chopper finally closed in to launch his sidewinder.
"Guess he was too tired to party then," Bartlett snidely remarked.
"Chopper, Fox 2!"
In the distance a little whit contrail flew towards the enemy MiG and exploded with a loud 'POP'.
"Hey, hey! I got him, splash one bandit!"
"Not bad, Motormouth!"
"Hey, it's Chopper, not Motormouth," Wardog's number 3 moaned as we all climbed back to formation above the clouds.
Bartlett ignored him as the most relieving message came through, "Wardog, this is Thunderhead, all targets have been destroyed, picture is clear. Return to base."
I let out one of the biggest sighs of relief I ever remember making. Instead of being scared shitless, I felt relaxed. Even though now, I had done exactly what the aggressors had done the same day before. We just whacked nine pilots out of the sky.
"This is Heartbreak One, everyone in one piece?"
"Affirmative," we all responded.
"Good, in honor of you all making it through that, you can keep your nicknames, from now on you'll be Motormouth and Kid, got it? Good."
And there it was. A name that stuck with me because Bartlett just subconsciously called me that. In the grand scheme of things, I could've ended up with a much worse nickname. Much, much worse.
When we returned back to Sand Island, our de-brief was surprisingly short. The IRS officer told us the whole op was going to be classified, again, and that Bartlett was ordered to Base Command. He was going to take all the flak for letting us open fire.
But either way, we all made it back. I went to bed that night no longer as a fresh nugget, but a combat veteran with four air-to-air combat kills, albeit classified. But, they were confirmed ones nonetheless. In some sense I was proud of that. When my number got called, even though I was scared, I made it work. I hadn't let anyone down; I didn't let anyone die. We had all kept each other alive through it.
And that encounter over Cape Landers would be only the beginning.
The beginning of a war that none of us could scarcely imagine the scale of.
AN/: So there it is. I've made some modifications to the dialogue due to some major breaches in radio protocol and to shake it up a little. I'm sorry I didn't post earlier in the day, but I still made it for today at least. I do plan on trying to update over the weekend, but for now, expect another chapter next week. At least if I make it over the weekend, it'll be a bonus. Anyways, please let me know what you think! I do appreciate everyone's comments and I'm glad people are happy with the pre-war developing of characters. It really makes it feel whole right from the get go.
Bis später,
Karaya 1
