Disclaimer: Own nadda
Last time: An intercept mission goes horribly wrong and Blaze begins to have suspicions that an ISAF squadron is running around Osea
This time: The dreaded hearing.
The next day found the four combat pilots marching out to their Raptors with grim faces. Normally, the quartet would be bantering back and forth, trading good-natured insults and other minor pleasantries. Now, though, there was no conversation, only grim faces that held worry, determination, anger, and (in Blaze's case) puzzlement.
Pops could see straight off that the former ISAF pilot hadn't given up on his searching for whomever the voice on the radio belonged to. Truth be told, the Raven thought that Blaze was starting to crack. Maybe this kid shouldn't go out on his next mission when he returned, it might put the other four in danger and even if Blaze was the leader they could manage without him until the shrinks got through with him.
Blaze's blue eyes were far off, his mind elsewhere as his hands did their duties on their own. As the ace's mind wandered over memories of missions past, his hands connected his g-suit air hose, clipped his mask to his helmet and put the hose in the socket to supply him with air. Electrical systems and MFD screens came to life and not once Blaze's eyes truly focused on his tasks.
"Tell me you're not still on that track are you?" Pops was mildly surprised to see the Ace of Aces jump at the sudden noise. Of course, the old veteran had expected it, seeing as he'd been standing there since the ace had climbed into his cockpit.
Forrest seemed to shake himself. "Huh? Sorry Pops, guess I wasn't listening. What now?"
Now Pops' face grew stern. "Listen Kid!" he said loud and with force. Thankfully, his voice didn't carry any farther than a few feet from the plane and the other four were busy with their own F-22s, otherwise there might have been weird questions. "Get a grip will you? If you keep zoning out like this you're gonna kill yourself or someone else! Now forget about that voice and get your head out of your ass!" Ice blue eyes held shock and surprise. Pops had never shouted at anyone before. Brian certainly didn't expect to be on the receiving end.
"Pops…" The ace trailed off, not knowing what to say to the man now.
The old mechanic turned around to descend the bright yellow roll-away stairs, leaving Blaze without a word.
'I can't let him fly like this. He'll get them killed. Brian, you needed to be yelled at, whether you know it or not!'
Back in the F-22, Forrest shook his head. 'Well that was a little overdramatic,' he thought, amused. The smirk on his face faded. 'Still, he had a point. I do need to get my head out of my ass. Flying like that will not help us out now.' The former Mobius 1 snapped his mask into place and lowered his visor, becoming one of the many faceless fighter pilots in the world.
"Wardog flight, taxi to runway 27." Blaze frowned at the ground controller's voice. It was hard to hear over the radio, but there was definetly more than a hint of frostiness in the static-filled voice. Something told Forrest that it wouldn't be any different on the way to Oured. That feeling persisted as he read back the instructions and went for the runway. The ace raised his visor and rubbed his eyes, knowing that it was going to be a long flight to the capital.
Six hours later and the four F-22s were on approach to Apito International Airport. It was one of the only major airports in the vicinity of Oured. Sure there were many minor fields and, given that the capital of Osea was here, there was a OADF base not too far away, though it was more like Sand Island than anything else because there was a lot of more advanced training going on there. If it was only Sand Island that handled the advanced training, the base would have to move from its current place and Brian knew that the penny-pinching higher-ups would never go for it.
"Wardog flight, Apito Tower, cleared to land runway 23 Center." Blaze rattled back the instructions then angled his jet for the center strip of gray on the airport that was still more than twenty miles distant. Though, with an international airport the size of Apito, they might as well have been right on top of it.
A few blurred minutes later and the four gunmetal gray fighters touched down, rolling to a stop before gunning the engines once again to get them moving for the nearest taxiway exit, Romeo in this case.
"Doesn't look like a friendly committee for us," Chopper commented. Forrest couldn't agree more. Ahead of the arriving pilots was a whole convoy of dark limos and guys with black suits.
'Ten-to-one says they're armed.' Blaze thought wryly. It didn't take a genius to see that. Every single man had one hand in his jacket. 'If these guys aren't Secret Service, then I don't know who is!' But it told him just how seriously the brass was taking this whole 'Wardog bombed the citizens' thing. Too bad the top didn't know who he really was. They would be begging him for his forgiveness on bended knee if they did!
As his Raptor's fans spun down he got on the comm., managing to catch the others before they turned off the main power. "Okay, listen up. No funny movements or wise-ass remarks. These guys are serious."
"No shit, Kid." Chopper shot back, his tone none too friendly. Blaze had to let the remark go. It was clear enough to the ace that his comrade was just as tense, maybe even more so, than the former Mobius 1. After all, Brian had faced panels before, though that had been for after-action reports on major campaigns like the offensive on Megalith and Stonehenge. Never had he faced one that was going to be this hostile.
'Well, time to face the music,' he thought to himself as he descended the folding ladder stuffed away in a small compartment underneath the canopy.
As the ace was finishing up his three-sixty walkaround, one of the agents approached him. He was the stereotypical bodyguard, huge, shaven head, tall and muscles the size of Blaze's neck.
"You Brian Forrest?" he asked roughly. Brian had to do a quick double take at the guy's voice. It wasn't low and gravelly like he expected, rather it was light, almost high pitched, but with this guy's physique, you'd never think to question him on it.
"Yes sir," the ISAF ace replied, his hand making a reflexive twitch for the holster with his nine-millimeter in it, but he knew better than to try for it. These guys were friendly (sort of) and it wouldn't make their situation any better if Blaze was to try and off one of the good guys just because he made the ace nervous.
The gorilla gestured with one meaty hand. "Come with us. We're supposed to take you guys to the hearing."
The ace gestured to his pilots, who were standing by the nose of his jet, watching the whole encounter and they quickly fell in line behind him, sticking unusually close. He wondered why but then it occurred to the former Mobius 1 just how young these pilots were. He himself was in his mid to late twenties, but the oldest among his wingmen was Edge at twenty-four. Grimm was something like nineteen and Chopper was twenty-two, twenty-three.
"Relax," Forrest said with a smile, picking up on the sick expressions on the younger pilots' faces. They sat down in the plush leather interior of the first limo. A Secret Service guy got in beside them and the whole cavalcade set off, probably heading for the Pentagon, the center of the Osean military. "We'll be fine. They have no case against us." The ace's gaze turned sharp and he looked each of the pilots in the eye. "Don't let them tell you anything different." The reminder that there was no case against them seemed to take the edge off and the pilots went to various activities, if only to keep the stress away.
Chopper pulled out an MP3 and it wasn't long before faint whispers of rock music reached Blaze's ears. Grimm leaned his head against the tinted glass and closed his eyes while Edge, on the other side of Chopper, looked out the window at the capital as it rolled past.
Blaze was content to withdraw into his own head and begin puzzling out the mystery voice he'd heard during the mission. His thoughts were interrupted by Edge's voice.
"It's so…peaceful here."
The former ISAF ace looked out the window as well. "Yeah. You'd never know that there's a war going on the other coast."
It was true. There was no sign of MPs in the streets on guard detail, no fighters roared by overhead, no annoying news updates in the electronic store displays. Nothing. Nothing at all to suggest that men and women in the Osean Defense Forces were losing their lives, even then, in a battle on another continent far from this calm scene. If either pilot thought the scenes whipping past were strange, neither showed it.
"Right," said the gorilla guard when the limo rolled up to a fancy hotel. "This is where you four get off. MPs should be by in three hours to escort you to the hearing." That said, he turned on one overly polished heel and strode away.
"Well that was friendly," Chopper remarked as the four pilots moved into the air conditioning of the ritzy hotel.
"At least they had the decency to put us up in a hotel instead of some NCO barracks on a base." Blaze answered.
"Hey!" Grimm said in a pretend-hurt voice. "I'm an NCO!"
Edge laughed lightly. "Sorry Grimm, but you're not an NCO yet. Senior Airmen don't count." The two lapsed into a good-natured argument that lasted until the group had gone up the sweeping red-carpeted staircases that bracketed the ebony check-in desk. Blaze led the group down the hall at the top of the stairs, looking for their room numbers.
"100…101…102…104! Here it is." The ace pulled out his keycard and unlocked the door, leaving the others to find their own rooms.
He whistled softly at the accommodations. The bed was king sized with red satin sheets. Mahogany paneling ran all around the room, polished to a shine by someone, probably the maintenance staff. Gentle lighting made the room seem open and warm and the bay window on the other side of the room was giving him a great view of the Mall, that walkway with the monuments and museums ringing it. He opened the wardrobe that sat against the right wall, straight across from the bed and hung his garment bag inside. The bag held his dress blue uniform. He had to look good in front of the panel and being in his rumpled olive flight suit wasn't going to cut it.
Forrest unzipped the bag and looked at the uniform inside, hoping it wasn't destroyed from its ride in his Raptor's side bay. The light blue button-down shirt was still flawless, but that was no surprise, seeing as he'd starched the thing enough for it to stand without him in it. The navy blue pants were in the same shape, their creases sharp enough that it looked as if the fabric could cut you if you didn't watch yourself. Next were the shoes. Brian pulled them out of the bottom of the bag and carefully unwrapped them. The shoes had a coat on them that left them with a mirror finish and if scratched there was no way to fix it. He held them up to the light and turned the shoes every which way, looking for the smallest scuff or imperfection
Nothing.
Well that was good. Now he pulled his hat out of the pocket on his calf and looked it over. It had some lint on it, but that was easily remedied with tape or lint roller. He pulled a roller from inside one of his spotless shoes and set to work.
Now the former Mobius 1 flopped onto the bed, marveling at the softness of the sheets and mattress. These people didn't skimp on the luxuries here. Forrest wondered why the brass would bother putting them up here, but figured it was some ploy to try and loosen their mouths. After all, comfortable people tended to be more of a motor mouth than a tense person.
Brian clicked on the plasma TV hanging on the wall across from the window and started channel surfing. He settled on a documentary on the History Channel and sat back to watch. He got a surprise when the title of the show came up.
"Birds of War: The Mobius Squadron?" He read, puzzled. Well, he didn't need to be a genius to figure out whom the thing was about. The pilot grinned. "Well, let's see how the 'experts' think." Half of the documentary had Mobius 1 rolling his eyes in amusement. Their account of Stonehenge was particularly interesting. The so-called experts seemed to think that his method of destroying the railguns was a coincidence. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Not only was it deliberate, it was preplanned…
"Okay you guys," the Intel Officer said as the assembled pilots stopped their babble. "It's time. We're going after Stonehenge!" Murmurs and whispers broke out amongst the assembled pilots once again, this time in regards to the objective.
"Stonehenge?"
"Have they lost it? We're gonna get killed!"
Brian Forrest just sat there, the patch of the 110th Tactical Fighter Wing standing out proudly on his right shoulder. Mobius 1 just listened to the ongoing exclamations without any real interest. He was busy studying the massive sit-rep map behind the briefing officers.
"I assume that you have a plan for this?" he asked quietly, but all talk ceased once again. They had all heard of the ace in recent weeks. Forrest still wasn't at the legendary status that he would climb to on this mission, but his name was getting around, both in ISAF and Erusia, and most of the pilots in the room had flown with him at one point or another, so they knew that when Major Forrest spoke up, you better shut up and listen.
The Intel guy nodded. "Yes. We do indeed have a plan. Here's what we know of Stonehenge from pre-war satellite pictures." He clicked the device in his hand and the screen behind him changed. "According to the defectors that Major Forrest rescued on his last sortie, the cannon emplacements are protected by AA guns and SAM sites. However, the real threat is this thing here." A red circle drew itself around a structure in the middle of the ring of cannons. "This is an ECM emitter, powerful enough to overcome even the ECCM from our E-3s. One squad will take it out while others go on a Wild Weasel mission and engage the triple-A. After the ECM emitter is taken out, the Major will engage the cannons directly."
"Excuse me sir," a voice said from the back. "And just how is Major Forrest supposed to take the cannons down by himself? I mean, it's too much to assume that they aren't armored."
The officer nodded in agreement. "Yes, you are correct. However, there is one potential weakness that the Erusians have ignored." He clicked the thing in his hand again and now was showing a side view of one of the gargantuan railguns. "The major weak point is here." He used a laser pointer to highlight the control booth at the top of the cannons. "This is the controls for the cannon. There's one on each of the guns and the defectors say that the enemy pinched pennies and didn't make it resistant to anything larger than a .50 cal. 20mm rounds out of an aircraft cannon should be more than enough to take it down."
"Ammunition will be a problem." Mobius 1 pointed out simply.
"True, but if anyone can pull this off, it's you, Major. Plus one of the cannons, according to latest intel, is down for maintenance and shouldn't pose a threat."
"How recent is the intel?" Forrest asked, knowing that if it was too old he would be underestimating the enemy and that was always bad.
"It's from the defectors, so it should be fairly reliable." The other man replied. A silence fell over the collected pilots and command staff as each one began reflecting on the mission ahead and every single one of them wondered if they would be coming home this time.
The commander spoke up. "One more thing. You guys are attacking Stonehenge directly. Expect the Yellows." The grave silence became total. The ones who had survived the attack on the oil refinery some time ago were remembering how they were torn apart by the Erusian aces' skill.
'Not this time,' Forrest vowed to himself. 'This time, I'm gonna get at least one!'
"Okay. Anymore questions?" There were none. Each man in the room knew his duty and was determined to fulfill it to the end. "Well then, good luck. Dismissed!"
Everyone stood and headed for the hangar, Forrest jogging at the front of the pack, dead set on getting airborne and taking out that damn cannon…
"Blaze?" There was a knock on the door, jolting the ace from his recollections of the past.
"Yeah?" He called back, shutting off the TV, hoping whoever was at the door didn't hear it. Well, in this apartment-like room, it probably didn't matter.
"It's Grimm, you wouldn't happen to have a lint roller do you?"
"Yeah, give me a minute." He found the requested item and brought it to the door.
"Thank you, sir." Archer said gratefully as he got the roller from his Captain. "Chopper doesn't have one and I forgot which room Edge was in."
Blaze shrugged and went back to the documentary, watching it to the end, laughing at some of the speculation about him and his disappearance. Before he knew it, it was time for the hearing.
The ace pulled on the blue shirt and pants, making sure his gig line was perfect before he tied the tie in the appropriate double Windsor knot. He looked over the silver bar on his hat, making sure it was spotless. When he was satisfied, Forrest headed to the door and headed for the lobby.
Sure enough, the promised MPs were there, also in blues and weaponless, but easily identifiable because of the berets clamped in one hand and the badge over the left shirt pocket.
"Lieutenant Forrest?" One of the MPs asked unnecessarily. It should've been obvious. Blaze's name was on the nametag over his right pocket and the hat tucked into his belt clearly showed his rank.
"Yes uh…" He looked at the cloth patch on the man's upper arm and his name plate. "Sergeant King."
"Where's the rest of you're flight, sir?" King asked, no real hostility in his voice. The man seemed likable enough, a lot more so than the gorilla from the Secret Service.
"Probably getting ready." He cracked a grin, showing humor he didn't feel. "So here to escort the big bad criminals to the hearing?"
"Yes sir," the second MP answered, proudly wearing the three chevrons of a Senior Airman. His nametag gave his name to be Jackson. "Still, I don't see what good it does to send us out here without any weapons."
"You're not kidding," King muttered. "What're we gonna do if the best damn squadron in Osea tries something?"
Blaze was slightly taken aback at the comment. "Sarge?" He didn't need to finish the question.
"Yes sir. I meant what I said. Not all of us think that you guys have gone off the deep end."
"And how did you arrive at that?"
King smiled. "Well sir, your squadron hasn't done anything against orders before has it? Why would you start now?" He looked at his partner. "Right?"
"Yes sir!" The younger soldier answered heartily.
"So how do you know about us?"
"Well sir, a mutual friend of ours is in one of the divisions that went in during the invasion. He said that you guys were really something else." The Sergeant said. "Why would our best go crazy?"
Blaze smiled gratefully. "Nice to see not everyone jumps on the bandwagon."
"Hey Kid!" The former ISAF pilot turned around and saw his flight walking towards them, dressed like him in the OADF blues. "Ready to go?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Let's get this over with." The seriousness of their situation came crashing back down on the four at that moment, but they steeled themselves and allowed King and Jackson to lead them to a white minivan that would take them to the Pentagon.
The room was stark, all pale tile and plaster walls with harsh fluorescent lighting illuminating the windowless prison cell, with simple black tea tables and hard plastic chairs strewn around the room. For the Four Wings of Sand Island, it was quite the change from the plush accommodations that they'd been put up in back in Oured. Blaze supposed that it was all a part of some kind of psychological warfare scheme that the top brass had cooked up to make it easier for them to talk. An emotional roller coaster ride was a very good way to soften somebody up.
An aide, clad in the dress uniform of the Osean Marine Corps came in and looked down at the four seated pilots who just watched him blankly, knowing that he was there to call one of them in.
"Senior Airman Hans Grimm, the board would like to see you." The Marine said in the solid and decisive manner that typified the service that the man hailed from. Grimm gulped and stood, paling visibly.
"Don't worry Grimm." Blaze said calmly. "Just tell what happened and you'll be fine. They won't be able to pin anything on us if all of our accounts match up."
Grimm nodded, not replying and Forrest couldn't blame him. The younger man looked as if he would hurl if he opened his mouth. The Marine opened the door with a pointed look and Archer stepped into the hall, lost from the view of the other three when the bland varnished door closed with an ominous 'snick'.
The remaining three pilots lapsed into various lethargic states or tried to read the horribly out of date magazines that littered the tables. Nothing could distract them, though and all eyes were on Grimm when he came back into the room some forty minutes later, still pale, but he had a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"So?" Chopper asked as the Airman dropped limply into a chair. "How was it?"
"Brutal," Archer replied, tiredness permeating his voice. "They were doing everything they could to get something incriminating out of me."
"That's no surprise," Blaze answered. The heads of the other three swiveled toward him. "Look, a civilian college town was bombed and Yuktobania is screaming bloody murder over it. Oured wants to save face with the rest of the world by trying to find and discipline the culprits." The ISAF pilot scowled. "And as it happens, we make the most convenient targets since we were operating in the area at the time."
"First Lieutenant Alvin Davenport."
Chopper stood at the Marine's words and followed the man out. Edge looked at her flight lead. "But how do they accuse us with no evidence?"
"They do have evidence," Blaze answered. "It's the fact that we were in the area at the time and the mission logs show it. The downside for us is that hardly any of our kills were made with guns, so the gun camera footage is a moot point."
"Couldn't they get the tapes of our transmissions with Thunderhead?" Brian was shaking his head before Nagase had even finished speaking.
"ECM, remember? Any radio contact with us at the time was shaky at best, and if we tried to show our denials after Thunderhead cleared the radio, they would just say we were denying it in the middle of the attack. These guys are the ones who authorized the F-22's construction, so they know perfectly well that the Raptor is more than capable of jamming on its own, so trying to say we weren't the ones doing the jamming is out."
Kei bit her lip. "We're in a tight spot."
Blaze nodded slowly. "No kidding. I'll be amazed if they let us off unscathed." That grim thought killed any desire for conversation and the pair lapsed into silence again.
It was once again past forty minutes until Chopper returned, and he looked livid. No time was given for questions because Edge was called almost immidaiatly.
'Guess they're saving me for last.' Forrest thought. 'Oh boy. This is gonna be fun.'
The allocated forty minutes passed slowly, but finally, the stark door opened and Edge staggered back into the room looking completely drained. Butterflies fluttered in the former Mobius 1's stomach as he realized that he was up next. He always got nervous before boards, be they benevolent or hostile. It was something that had persisted from when he'd been a teenager. In high school, he'd been the quiet one, sitting in the back of the room, doing nothing but schoolwork. Taking a speech class had helped somewhat, but he still got nervous.
"First Lieutenant Brian Forrest."
Blaze stood and left with the Marine. They strode down the hall at a brisk pace, passing other aides and others who worked in the center of Osea's military brains. More than one looked at him with puzzled glances, wondering what in the heck a mere First Lieutenant was doing in the Pentagon. Finally the pair arrived at a set of heavy double oak doors.
The Marine aide pushed them open and stepped aside, allowing the officer through. It was a foyer to another set of double doors. A brass plaque on the left door proclaimed that this was briefing room number 13.
'Great. It's a good thing that I'm not superstitious,' Blaze thought dryly. 'Right now, I'd be scared out of my mind.'
"Go on through," the aide said softly. "They're expecting you." With that slightly threatening phrase the Marine backed out, shutting the doors behind him.
Now the ace was alone and facing a panel that would decide what he did from here. If they convicted Wardog, Forrest was going to pack up and head for Usea again.
'No,' he amended, 'I'll tell them who I am and we'll all go.' He smiled, despite the situation he was in. 'They've made it this far, so I'd have no problem letting them into Mobius Squadron.' If they weren't convicted, though, nothing would change. Realizing that there was no point in delaying the inevitable, the ace raised a fist and knocked solidly on the oak doors.
He only had to wait a moment.
"Enter."
Forrest reached down and twisted the over-shined brass knob. The door swung open without a sound and the former Mobius 1 found himself in a spacious room. Clearly there was supposed to be other tables in here, but as it was, there was only one, directly across from him, behind which sat various generals, all of them with more stars than even Forrest had had. Of course, that wasn't really that hard, seeing as he'd been only a Major General. What really gave him a jolt, though, was man sitting in the center of the panel. He was clearly a civilian, but there was no mistaking who it was.
Vice President Applerouth. The second most powerful man in Osea.
Brian marched straight up to the table and stopped the appropriate two paces away, standing at attention. The ace's right hand snapped up his gig line, stopping just next to his eyebrow.
"First Lieutenant Brian Forrest reports as ordered!" He barked in a clipped tone.
The VP returned the salute, and as his dropped, so did the ace's. "I assume," Applerouth said in a solemn voice, "that you already know why you are here, Lieutenant?"
"Yes sir."
"Good, then let's begin." He gestured to a chair that had magically appeared behind the fighter pilot without him noticing. Some aide had probably brought it in when Forrest had been standing at attention. Now the VP gestured to it. "Please, sit."
Blaze sat…and promptly had to lock his legs up to stop himself from sliding out of it. The front legs of the wooden chair's legs had been shorn off. That made the whole thing sit at an angle, forcing anyone who sat in it to sit at attention. He found himself at eye level with the Vice President.
"Now," the politician said, folding his hands on the table, "where shall we begin? General Sutherland, how about you lead off?"
"Gladly." The general clicked something in his hand and the projector mounted somewhere above Blaze's head came to life. "Go ahead and gaze, Lieutenant," the general said. Forrest complied and looked at the screen behind the panel. "Look familiar?"
"Yes sir."
"What is it, Mr. Forrest?"
"Sir, it is the sit-rep from Wardog Squadron's most recent mission."
Sutherland continued, "Care to tell us what happened, Lieutenant?"
"Sir. Wardog's mission was to intercept the retreating Yuktobanian forces as they tried to regroup from the OADF's invasion of the Yuktobaninan southern shoreline. Our TOT was 1330 Zulu time." Out of his peripheral vision, the ace could see the other members of the panel taking notes, probably writing down what he said to compare it to the other three. "We were equipped with an air-to-air loadout and proceeded to engage the enemy transports, at one time dealing with an escort squadron and an E-3 Sentry."
"A fairly normal mission then?" Applerouth asked, surveying the ace with calculating eyes.
"That's correct sir," Blaze replied. "A by-the-book intercept."
"Apparently boring enough for you to authorize a strike against a civilian college?"
Rage erupted within the former Mobius 1 as accusations of actually allowing that to happen surface once again. When he spoke again, the ace's tone was more than a little frosty. "No sir. I never, nor would I ever, authorize a strike against a non-military target."
"So where did the jamming come from?" Sutherland asked, doubt in his voice. "The F-22A Raptor that Wardog employs is more than capable of jamming enemy, and therefore, friendly radar."
Now Blaze's cold voice had a hint of fire in it. "Sir, we never went anywhere near a college town. I had no idea that there was even one there until it came under attack."
Applerouth looked to his right at another one of the brass. "Admiral, what do you think?"
Surprise rippled through the ace at the VP's words. Admiral? This was a multi-branch hearing? What was going on? Unless the Admiral and others were there to be a third party, seeing as General Sutherland and the Vice President seemed to think Wardog was guilty. Secretly, the pilot hoped so.
The man, just out of Brian's sight, which was why he was so surprised, sighed. "Mr. Applerouth, you know how I feel. I have seen no evidence to support the fact that the Wardog Squadron would be involved with the bombing of a civilian college. So far, the testimony from Mr. Forrest and his subordinates match."
It was almost too good to be true. Someone was actually taking their side.
"Really, Admiral?" Sutherland asked, skepticism clear in his voice. "I thought…" Whatever Sutherland thought was a moot point as the door burst open as (another) aide rushed up to the desk looking terrified beyond all reason.
"What?" The general demanded. "We're in the middle of a hearing here!"
"Terribly sorry sir," the new arrival said in a rush, "but there's a…problem."
"What problem?" Applerouth demanded.
"Well," the aide said with a nervous glance at Blaze, who was still trying to burn a hole through the sit-rep screen behind the table. "There's been an…attack."
The reaction was predictable. Every member of the brass went pale and Blaze broke bearing to look at the messenger with unbelieving eyes. An attack?
"Where?" Sutherland demanded, asking the question that Forrest would've asked in another second or two.
"A college town called Bana, about fifty miles south of here."
"Well it's obviously not a threat to Oured, so let's continue with the hearing." Even Sutherland looked at the Vice President with disbelief.
"Sir?" Blaze asked, not believing his ears. Was the VP really gonna let innocents die? "You can't be serious!"
"I am, Lieutenant Forrest. You are going to stay here and finish your hearing."
The aide cut Brian off before he could argue. "Sir, it's a…a chemical attack."
"What!?" Sutherland and Forrest shouted together.
The former ISAF pilot rounded on the Vice President of Osea with fire in his blue eyes. "A chemical attack on a college town. Still call that no threat?" He hesitated then added reluctantly, "Sir?"
The other man looked at the former Mobius 1 with cold eyes. "This is obviously a retaliatory attack for your strike on the Yuke college town."
Forrest opened his mouth to retort, but General Sutherland cut him off. "There's no time to argue. We have to deal with this attack now!"
The aide spoke again. "Sir, there's one more thing. Our Early Warning Network has picked up Yuke fighters crossing our Air Defense Zone and setting course for Apito International Airport."
Sutherland sighed before looking at Blaze. "Lieutenant, your F-22s are at Apito right now, aren't they?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Take your squadron to Apito and get airborne immidiatly to intercept. I'll call ahead to make sure your birds are fueled and armed." Blaze was about to thank him, but then the general blew it. "If you all really are innocent, then I suggest you prove it out there on the battlefield!"
Forrest only spared the man a scowl of dissatisfaction before he charged from the room, running like the hounds of hell were after him, never mind the regs that said no running in the dress uniform, to collect his squadron and prepare for combat once again.
And there you have it. Sorry that this Chapter didn't have much action, but I wanted a little change of pace. Also, I would like to apologize for the delay in updating. Between school, getting sick, and a minor case of writer's block, I was way behind schedule. Sorry. Thanks to AtrumUnas for pointing out a minor error which has been corrected.
Glossary
Gig line: It's the line formed in the dress uniform by the edge of the button down shirt, the edge of the belt buckle and the edge of the cloth that covers the pants zipper.
TOT: Time on Target. Simply the time at which an aerial strike package reaches its target
Zulu: Another name for Greenwich Mean Time or GMT. It is the time to which all aviation-related operations, be they civilian or military, are set to.
General Sutherland: Any Gundam SEED fan should recognize this name. He's the jerk who was in charge of the inquiry at JOSH-A base in Alaska when Archangel finally made it there. Therefore, I don't own the name.