"The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth…" – Revelation, Ch. 8: 7
Aaron woke to the sound of a bluebird chirping outside his window. He looked at the petit creature, simply amazed at its rather loud voice. "You'd better get outta here, before Mr. Demon of Razgriz here gets you," Aaron warned the bird, nodding to the bunk above his. Seraph 9 wasn't a morning person.
He looked over to the calendar on the wall, the first thing he always did when he woke up nowadays. It was March 9, 2026, a lot of time had passed. The Seraph were again flying sorties; they had tested their mettle against the Omega Squad, faced off against the Rapier Squad, annihilated the Vapor Squad, and crushed the Halo Squad. But there was no sign of Falcon 4 or Pitch 7, or anyone else from their squadrons. It seemed that high command was still making sure that the Seraph were never given a chance to allow the hated enemy to live again.
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The shrill alarm went up throughout the headquarters. An air raid, somewhere far off to the east. This alarm never sounded for an attack here, the enemy would never reach Farbanti. A bomber flight was en route to a critical factory, escorted by Mobius Squadron aircraft. The officials scrambled to decide what to do.
"The nearest squad is the Red Squad, send them up to delay them." "Are you kidding! Those are ribbons, the Reds would get eaten alive up there!" "Where's the Yellow Squad?" "Off the coast of Anea!" "What the hell are they doing there!" The chaotic mood did little to slow the advancing bombers. They were just miles from their target, just minutes from pulverizing it. "God, this is getting nowhere! What about the Red Devils?" "Negative, they're grounded up north for maintenance." "Dammit! How about the Blue Angels!" "Too far, they'll never make it in time." The only sane person in the room at the time was an officer who had seen the Seraph in action, as well as the Mobius pilots. He knew that the Seraph were closest, and were the only squad available that could handle these aces. He also perceived that their name would never surface in this conversation, it was too risky to task the Seraph with killing the ribbons. Yet, the officer saw it as the only choice.
"The Seraph, send them up. They're closest, they're the best we've got, they're ready. We have no time, this is final. The Seraph must do this." The vehement uproar that followed was indiscernible to the officer, who was not dissuaded. "Look at the other options. We either send for the Reds and have them all go down with the factory, or we send for the Angels, and have them arrive too late. Oh, how about the Yellows? They'll get here in time…for the next raid. You have no choice. If you value that plant so much, then send up the Seraph, if only to slow them down until the Angels can arrive."
The furor died down, each man returning to his senses. The general in charge flopped down into his chair, a blank expression on his face. One of his aids asked for the permission to scramble the Seraph. "Sir?"
He paused, but got no response.
"Sir? What…what will you have us do? We can't waste time sir."
The general continued his stare, and only moved after a very tense minute. He waved his hand at the aid, defeated. The Seraph would go up.
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"Attention Mobius and Hammer pilots, this is Sky Eye, target is on the nose. Make every bomb count, and be quick, there are reinforcements coming from vector 2-2-5."
Mobius 3 responded, "Roger, we'll wait for them to get closer before we try to engage or intercept them." He listened to the strained silence from the bomber flight, and hastily added, "Er, not to make you Hammers nervous or anything." The Mobius pilots separated from the bombers and wondered what planes were coming after them.
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"Seraph 1 here, we've got them on radar now, Harp. Fifteen bombers, one for each of us, and a dozen escorts, all presumably Mobius aircraft. Will engage on sight."
Aaron sighed. No Falcon 4. No Pitch 7. The higher-ups truly did not trust them, he was sure, from how long it took them to have him and his wingmen launched. They were worried that they'd let more enemy aces away. The Seraph Squad's days in the spotlight had ended, and they were quickly losing favor with the officials. But this, this was a chance to save some face. Aaron knew that another squad, possibly the Angels, was being scrambled to follow after them, and that his flight was only to stall the bombers. This was now their only slight opportunity to prove their worth, to kill the enemy before the others could arrive. It was a most grim idea to Thatcher.
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Forgotten. No one cares, no one but us. The thoughts of an Osean soldier in Belka. The war in Usea had shunted the bloody conflict in Osea and Belka to the side. While the world watched the Erusians battle the IFOM and Yukes, thousands of soldiers, both Osean and Belkan, died in the fiercest fighting of the war.
The Belkans, renowned for their defenses, had resorted to trench warfare. There were no great charges, no victories, no gain, nothing but shattered glory, death, and loss. Both sides' casualties were mounting, more and more mothers and fathers were crying, the white snow in Belka had become drenched, dyed black, with the blood, guts, fears, and dreams of Osean boys and girls. And all of it was filtered into the homes; through television, radio, through any source, the misery spread like a horrible disease that many had been infected by and couldn't be quarantined. The media broadcast images of torsos missing legs; hands on the ground with no arms nor bodies; panning shots of the no-man zone between trenches, where so many dead laid in grotesque deformations, with no one to give them a proper burial. After all, these boys and girls were forgotten, forgotten by all except the other boys and girls in Osea and Belka, the only ones who cared.
At just such a home of some boys and girls, there lived a man and a woman, two who knew more about wars than those surrounding them, more than what was shone by the media. The man was watching, observing, the men in Osea were pulling back, as were the Belkans. There was going to be a lull in the death, a time to mourn and lay away the deceased at last. The man's eyes flickered back and forth, looking through his own eyes into those of the boys and girls on the screen. They were weary, scarred, hurt, dead themselves. While still physically alive, none on those battlefields could be alive inside.
The report changed to the anchorman. They switched to a party at the HQ on the frontlines, a frolicking, happy place to be. It was pure paradoxical to the man, that those boys and girls could be shown as such, and then it was off to this great carousal. They seemed to be celebrating the temporary cease-fire, a time to get drunk and waste away. The reports swapped from battlefield to frolic, from frolic to battlefield. The man stood, and called his wife to watch with him, "Hey, Nagase. Come take a look at this."
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"Continue on vector 1-3-5, Seraph flight, weapons hot. Engage any hostile bandits and protect the factory. That is all for now."
Aaron pulled on his oxygen mask. The bombers and F-25s were dead ahead, and they were closing fast. This was no time for hesitation, yet Aaron couldn't help but wonder why this assembly plant was so important. It looked like just another aircraft manufacturing firm from five thousand feet up. In fact, that was all it was supposed to be, a plant controlled by 'Erusian Pilot Industries,' or EPI, a competitor to EASA. EPI was the company that had made the plane he was flying now.
"Seraph 1, engage." "Seraph 2 engage!" "Seraph 3, engaging!"
Aaron gave quite a start. He hadn't realized they were this close to the enemy flight. "Seraph 8, engage!"
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The Erusian officials watched as the two flights of fifteen aircraft each merged. No one was speaking, everyone was praying. There were just a few minutes left, the Seraph had to do this, the Angels were too far away…
This particular factory held several prototype fighters designed by EPI. They were designed to be faster than an SR-71, hold more weapons than an X-02, and outmaneuver an F-25B. The loss of these aircraft would be unacceptable by high command.
Thus, everyone was praying.
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"Mobius 7, fox 3!"
Aaron watched as the missile impacted on Seraph 3's wing, shearing it on completely. The plane plummeted down, crashing into a hangar far below. Seraph 3 himself had luckily gotten out at the last minute, but probably hit the ground hard. Thatcher returned his attention to the bandits, who had them outnumbered. The Mobius pilots were good, they had to be, to keep their name. One appeared on Aaron's tail.
"Oh crap! Hey, Ericks, how 'bout some help!"
Aaron's call went unanswered; Ericks had already been shot down. He had taken two bandits down with him, but it still wasn't enough. There were nine Seraph pitted against thirteen ribbons. And the bombers were rolling in on the factory, only being pestered by a few AA guns on the ground. Time for the plant and the Seraph reputation was wearing thin.
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Mobius 3 clung to the tail of one of the Berkuts. The enemy pilot was good, but not enough to make up for the Syphoner's clear advantages. "I'll end this now for your sake," Mobius 3 muttered, "Fox 2!"
The Seraph dived towards the factory, as did the missile. He swerved around a water tank just in time, and the missile impacted on it instead of his plane. "Damn, that was actually pretty cool looking!" Mobius 3 laughed as he took off after the enemy ace.
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"Pretty cool looking huh?" Aaron thought, having overheard the bandit behind him (and having ignored Harp's angry shouts), "Just wait for this."
The Syphoner was sitting directly behind him, closing fast for guns. Aaron didn't think twice. Throwing the craft's nose up and over, he went into a kulbit, all while spraying bullets at his opponent. The ribbon, unlucky enough to be hit, dodged to the right.
After leveling out, Aaron yawed and locked on. "Fox 2!"
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The general watched on the screen of his computer simulation as another one of the enemy bandits was splashed, this time by a little Berkut symbol marked '8.' The odds were evening out, but there were still fourteen bombers; one had been shot down by AAA. The rest were literally only a minute away from the factory.
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Checking his radar, Seraph 1 realized that there was now the same number of bandits as there were allied aircraft. "No, wait," he thought, "Eight's not engaging the fighters and hasn't been shot down yet, where is he?"
The answer came through in Harp's next transmission. "Nicely done Thatcher! Only twelve bombers remaining, get them all!"
Aaron turned to the six of another B-52. There were only a few of these, the rest were Tu-95s, easy kills. "Seraph 8, fox 2!" The missile slammed into its target, critically damaging the Stratofortress. It began to slowly dip in attitude, then it fell faster and faster towards the ground.
"Alright, next!" Aaron closed in on a Bear, rolling to avoid the tail gunner. He flew up to its wing and opened up with his gun. The engines took a few dozen rounds and sputtered smoke, then died completely. The bomber began a fiery roll down to the ground.
"Just ten more, c'mon," Aaron egged himself on. He fired a shot at the nearest Tu-95, and hit the bomb bay. The bombs inside started going off, and the whole airframe was torn asunder by the explosions. There were only nine bombers now, yet they were over the facility. Aaron realized that he was too late; the messages that came from the bombers themselves confirmed this.
"Over target, dropping, dropping!" "Bombs away!" "Hit the runway too!"
Aaron eyes wandered from the destruction below him to the runway that they had spoken about. He saw a strange aircraft streak down it, engines ablaze in afterburner. He peered at its fuselage. It…it seemed to have four wings…
"Thatcher! What are you doing!"
His captain's shout brought Aaron back to his senses. His aircraft had nearly drifted into a bomber's tail fin.
"Whoa!" He brought his plane up to eight angels and looked towards the runway. The plane was gone, nowhere in sight. All that was there now were the exploding bombs.
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The mission had been a disaster even before it started, yet Aaron and the other Seraph were getting full blame. After the bombers had destroyed the factory, the surviving ribbons had egressed. The bombers themselves were mostly picked off after by some Blue Angels who wanted revenge, having arrived too late after all. To make matters worse, there had been a special IFOM marine unit on the ground the whole time, directing the flight of bombers. They picked up most of the downed ribbons and returned to allied territory. Only one Mobius pilot had been killed. It seemed that that was the only good thing, as HQ was not exactly thrilled to hear they'd still have all of the Seraph to deal with, or about the number of (rather expensive) aircraft they'd have to replace.
"I swear man, they wouldn't have rescued us if we were in enemy territory. They were seriously hoping some of us would die so we'd be out of their hair, weren't they man?"
Ericks, along with every other Seraph, had safely returned (except for Seraph 3, who broke a leg hitting the ground after ejecting). Aaron was quiet and depressed however, he was tired of being berated by Jones and the idiots at HQ. Most of all, however, he was wondering about the jet that had escaped. Nothing was said of it in the briefing, no landing for it was ever recorded anywhere, and none of the others saw it.
The only one Aaron could ask about it was Richardson.
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It was the room again, the one ruled by silence and dust, the kings of age and decay. This time, a man had been sitting in it alone, with only the dimmest lights on. This man was the general, the one who had ordered the Seraph to be launched without assistance. Another man entered, dirt and silt kicking up around his feet. This time, no extra lights came on, no guards protected him, this man was not the Prime Minister. He spoke to the general, his voice full of contempt.
"You ordered them up, without aid. And we paid for it. The factory was completely destroyed. Do you realize what that means? You could have launched the Red Squadron to attack the bombers while the Seraph held off the Mobius pilots, but…no, you took the risk, and lost. All but one of the prototypes of the 'Lone Star Project' were destroyed, completely, just like the factory. Only one managed to escape the annihilation, and it is currently being sheltered at a secret EPI test facility in the mountains north of Whiskey Corridor. Your reputation, your successes, everything has just been erased by this incident, and we at high command don't particularly appreciate failures, even little ones that stain an otherwise spotless record. You are just as much a flop as the Seraph Squadron itself now. As such, I have been appointed to be your successor here, and you…well, let's just say I hope you never meet those poor factory workers yourself, where you're going."
The man pulled a small handgun from his pocket, pointed it at the general's head, and pulled the trigger three times.
"Call us heartless, call us evil, call us what you will, and we will still be Erusians, still be as human as you," he said coldly to the cadaver lying before him. It was not long before the new general had left, and the dust had come to settle on the corpse, masking it, making it indistinguishable from the floor.