Storming Skies

by Rustito

Led by Glenn Gordon, Thunderbolt Squadron continues its aerial campaign against Black Hole, but when the rogue country forms a grim team of some of the world's best pilots, even Orange Star's finest dogfighters must wonder if any will survive.

14. The Battle of Reagan

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------
Storming Skies
By Rusty Dillingham
---------------------------

---Mission Fourteen – The Battle of Reagan---

The radar officer's eyes swept over the adjacent green panel's display, gaze narrowing at its inky neon coloring in the darkness of the Reagan Air Force Base's primary control room. A conglomeration of distinctive dots on the screen had caught his attention, sending it away from where Sunset Squadron's respective position happened to be in the course of their mission to patrol the perimeter between the base and Fate's Point. In the two days following Thunderbolt Squadron's downing of a Judgment aircraft, there had been little – almost no activity of which to speak on the part of combat for the base's resident tactical eagle-eyes, and this anomaly on the radar was the first interesting thing that the radar officer had seen ever since.

Brow furrowing, he inspected the blips further, searching for signs of Orange Star fighter identification tags, but only three of the dots carried with them a respective military number. There were a large number of other aircraft showing up by them, ones that the officer had little chance to identify correctly. The group was showing up well past the front lines, at that, and their path currently looked to take them a bit too close to Reagan for complete comfort. Pivoting in his uncomfortable old seat, the officer gestured to Technical Sergeant Arty Gates, the chief control room operator of the base. "Sergeant?"

Gates was just finishing a long swig of his coffee when the officer had beckoned. "Hmm?"

"Unidentifiable units on radar in formation with ID'd fighters," the officer informed him. Gates had already hurried over to inspect the radar as soon as the first word had hit his ears, but looked equally lost upon witnessing this oddity for himself. The officer had rather hoped that wouldn't have been the case, but not all wishes came true. "Shall I open a broad-spectrum channel for communications?"

"Do it." Gates took a place in the empty chair beside the officer and placed a headset over his cranium, waiting for the officer to open the feed. When he'd done so, the control room chief navigated the headset's microphone closer to his mouth, and began to speak.

--- --- ---

Deep somewhere inside the brown overcast clouds of the night's sky, the warplanes thundered forward, flanked by allies on all sides. Seven distinctive fighters led their path: Four Orange Stars, one Blue Mooner, one Green Earther, and one little Yellow Comet warbird that struggled to keep formation, but nonetheless looked as ready to reap death and destruction on the enemy as the other aircraft. Judgment One turned in his cockpit at the front of the group, examining its interior. They looked almost naked without Five's unfortunate Green Earth fighter in there somewhere, but he was adaptable to the battlefield, an arena that was never static in its presentation. He'd live.

"Sector one-oh-one element, this is Orange Star Reagan Air Force Base control," a new, unfamiliar voice broke in over the radio, prompting One to turn back around and grin. "You are in direct vicinity of unknown units. Identify yourselves and current task."

Judgment One's finger keyed his radio, having informed the entire fleet to let him do the talking before they'd departed, and had reiterated it when they'd stopped for fuel at a Black Hole settlement hidden well within Orange Star territory. "This is Captain William Apple of the 298th Tactical Fighter Wing, Union Squadron out of Dawn Air Force Base. We are on an emergency sortie, escorting damaged allied aircraft to safer haven within the country. Our destination is Roosevelt Air Force Base and we will bypass Reagan by seven miles. Please stand down any anti-air measures to insure safe passage, over."

There was some fixed hesitation on the other side of the communications line, but One was a patient fellow. "Your request is granted, element. Continue course – and good luck. Out."

Judgment One killed the connection, and only smiled further. The fools were opening themselves completely. It was a bloody good thing that Black Hole hadn't tampered with the renegade Orange Star fighters' internal computer structure, as that would have eradicated it of its resident identification signature, and without it, they'd never have fooled the foe. Orange Star would have seen them coming from a mile away, but now the surprise of a rain of fire was all they'd need to finish their mission.

"William Apple?" a laughing Judgment Two heckled from his four o'clock. "That's just gorgeous. Please tell me that's your real name, sir."

"Actually, I think it's Seven's." One's grin flashed towards the Blue Moon fighter off in the corner of the echelon formation.

Judgment Seven did not seem interested in dignifying that with a response.

With a chuckle, their flight captain knelt his gaze back towards the dark horizon, looking past the brown cover of the clouds. Lights sprinkled the darkness of the planet here and there, but that wouldn't be anything compared to the air force base they'd be looking at through their canopies soon enough once they completed their mission. "Maintain heading and visual scanning, gentlemen. I'll find out the position of the bombers, and get us linked up with them. Try not to wet your seats in anticipation -- the fun is only just beginning."

That said, the fighters and their thirteen escorts of Black Hole warplanes carried in into the night, their dark thunder echoing across the countryside.

--- --- ---

Sergeant Gates carefully placed his headset onto the console and turned to discover a perplexed expression staring into his face via the radio control officer. He just huffed and smirked at the younger fellow's rigid posture. "I'm not shutting down our anti-air measures just because some Apple hotshot who says he's coming out of Dawn is scared we'll think it's cute to take some potshots at them for target practice. Get Heartbreak Squadron up in the air and have them patrol the base perimeters by a radius of one mile, and take us to yellow alert."

"What about Thunderbolt Squadron?" the radio officer queried, his demeanor still not quite back to any sort of relaxed state.

"Nah, not them. They already went up for a patrol this morning," Gates told him. "Besides, Commander Beauregard wants to keep them in top shape in case they all get sent up to the front lines soon. They don't need any more losses, like what happened over Sgadd. They lost three good planes, and a pilot didn't get out of one of them."

"So I've heard. You'd think those guys would get some medals or something by now." The radio officer adjusted his headset and began issuing the requested commands, but found himself moving a bit quicker to do so than usual for some reason.

Gates let the young man do his job as he rose from the seat and made tracks back to his own chair, plopping down into it with a poomf and a sigh. But only seconds later, as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table where he did his own work, he realized his hands were sweating, and hurriedly wiped them on his khakis before one of the other officers might have noticed.

He paused for a moment, watching the staff carry out their duties. A pair of fingers rose to meet his temples as he thought to himself.

"Jackson."

The officer glanced over his shoulder towards Gates. "Sir?"

There was no response – at least until the Sergeant exhaled a big breath of air. "Put Thunderbolt Squadron on stand-by alert status."

"Yes-sir." And the officer instantly set to work.

--- --- ---

Glenn Gordon zipped the top of his dark orange flight g-suit up to his neck, examining himself in the mirror inside his locker while his wingmates got prepped for potential fly-time next to him. The jumpsuit, while not as incredibly attractive as he would have preferred, was a new model made by Orange Star engineers that expounded some of the old suit's lesser qualities and made the strain of high-level gravitational forces just a bit easier on the wearer, and Glenn had accepted it with as much hope as he'd been able to muster that it would give the squadron – and Orange Star's air force as a whole – just enough of an edge over their foes to finish the war off once and for all. He wasn't particularly fond of its color, though. Despite how it was a darkened shade of Orange Star's national color and was meant to instill patriotism in its pilots, he still felt like he'd look more suited to being picked from an orange tree than anything else, now.

Tux wasn't interested in marrying it, himself. "I swear, man, this thing is so damn ugly, it'd make old Fel look like a million bucks when his fat ass squeezes into it. Hey, Glenn, how long we gotta wear these damned things, anyhow?"

"Only until school lets out," Glenn mumbled sarcastically, not paying a large amount of attention to Tux's whining as he tied the laces to his black flight boots.

Come on, Tux, they ain't so dang bad. I'm sure your momma'd say they look good on you after you two got back from your prom.

Glenn hesitated, then realized his thoughts carried not his own voice, but Bubba Boggs'. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, shadowing his sudden unhappiness well from the others. Bubba's killer might have been dead, but Thunderbolt Squadron still seemed so empty compared to other units. There was nothing he could do until top brass figured out what to do about that, however.

Tristan Royal actually seemed to like the stupid-looking things, though, as he was busy preening himself for some dumb reason – making sure his hair looked right, specifically. Glenn had joked that he was going to start looking like a civilian if he grew it too long, but he also silently admitted that the kid was the only one who looked halfway decent wearing something as unappealing as the new suits, although when he glanced at Rainey, he second-guessed himself on that one. Since all the lockers were nestled closely to one another, he easily heard a query Tristan made to Zodo Gallow, whose locker was unfortunate enough to be placed right in the middle of everyone else's. "Hey, if we're wearing orange suits, does that mean Blue Moon wears blue jumpsuits themselves?"

Gallow ignored him. Glenn silently shook his head but didn't turn around, only further preparing himself in case they'd have to go upstairs with those knuckleheads from Heartbreak Squadron, which was busy encircling Reagan Air Force Base.

"Hello?" Tristan said not-so-quietly. When the fellow pilot still didn't respond, the squadron's youngest flyer spat to himself, turning back to his locker. "Fine, whatever, screw you too."

Glenn almost turned on instinct to reprimand Tristan for that little comment, but caught himself midway. Why should he have cared about it? Unfortunately, although he wasn't up for letting loose the long arm of the law, the quip got Gallow's attention by a landslide, and the Blue Mooner's head swiveled so quickly that Glenn nearly heard the woosh it made. "Just because I'm in this squadron doesn't mean I have to put up with your asinine questions. Go look in an encyclopedia."

"Asinine?" Tristan dropped his comb into his locker and slammed it shut, creating a resounding BANG that echoed through the room and caused the nearby Rainey Banker to jump in surprise, though she wisely chose not to intervene. "Lemme tell you what's asinine, blue – Having to stand next to your ass in this locker room every time we have to go flying. There's nothing worse than a Blue Mooner who hasn't showered for a month, and that'd be all of them."

"Speak for yourself," the elder pilot mumbled, concentrating more on finishing his preparations than the annoying little idiot standing next to him.

"That's a good one," Royal continued, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "Do they teach all you Blue Mooners that one when you reach high school?"

Now it was time to say something. As much as he'd have liked to not get in the middle of this nonsense, it was happening ten feet away, and Tux was fixing him with a gimlet stare that basically told him if he didn't do something to quell this conversation, someone's fist probably would, so finally, Glenn turned around and let a hand rise towards the normally reserved Tristan. "Kid, that's enough, alright—"

Gallow's hard-edged tone interrupted him as the foreign pilot smirked derisively at the kid. "All this coming from the one with the fewest kills on the team. Let me know when you shoot down something other than a helpless transport copter, and I'll take you seriously."

Rainey and Achmed exchanged a glance and began to increase the distance between themselves and the arguing duo. Fel Banon simply smirked at the exchange and finished prepping himself, removing his oxygen helmet and mask from his locker, which also happened to be the one that had a massive dent in it from where Glenn had slammed the door into its owners head not a great time earlier. Tux just sighed grievously, clearly becoming more than fed up with the political parrying going on, and Glenn couldn't have felt any different if he'd tried. They had much more important things to worry about.

"And this coming from a Blue Mooner," Tristan laid into him, youthful frustration overpowering war-born maturity. "Do you miss flying those Blue Moon fighters of yours? The ones we dominated in the last war? You know, the ones that got blown up by our aces? Or do you miss flying for Black Hole at Fate's Point like the traitor you are?"

Gallow's eyes bore straight into Tristan's. Glenn should have known this would have happened someday – Tristan was young and less-than-experienced in the world's intricate workings, much like any dumbbell kid just out of high school, but they were in a war here, and he didn't appreciate this attitude. Neither did anyone else at the moment, judging by the looks on their faces. "Tristan, be quiet and get ready."

"It isn't my fault he's a prick. Is everyone in Blue Moon like you? Or are they just big and fat like Olaf?"

"Stop talking" Gallow hissed in the most threatening tone any of them had ever heard him use, wrath suddenly bubbling to life on his surface. He might have normally been as composed better than any of them in a tough situation, but evidently, he wasn't in the mood for any of this crap either today.

"Talking is all you Blue Mooners are good at. You can't do anything to help us win this war, so you have to screw it up for everyone else like the frosty, mud-licking traitors you are."

By then Gallow had turned all the way around to face Tristan. Anger flashed through his eyes; his hands convulsed into fists. "You'd better shut the hell up."

Glenn and the others couldn't believe what they were seeing. The young pilot scoffed loudly and stepped a bit too close to Gallow for everyone's comfort and nerves to appreciate. "You say you'd like to see me shoot something down?"

"Tristan," Rainey pleaded, "just leave him alone, for crying out loud!"

"Second Lieutenant Royal," Glenn blared in what wasn't a quiet tone as he pointed an index finger at the kid, wondering what the hell was the matter with him all of a sudden but more than ready to walk over there and slap the taste out of his mouth, "you will knock that kindergartener shit off this instant."

Tristan was so close to Gallow, their noses nearly shared the same air tunnels. "How about if we go up there and I save us all a bunch of trouble and just shoot your ass down, you mud-licking—"

WHAM went Zodo Gallow's powerful hands into Tristan's chest, fingers attaining a voracious grip on the orange flightsuit, and he slammed the kid right into the adjacent locker with enough force to nearly send the whole row of lockers toppling over while a collection of simultaneous gasps inhaled around them. "Don't you threaten me, you little son of a whore! You talk like that to me or anyone else here again and I'll tear your entire colon inside-out! You understand!?"

Silence enveloped the room. Hanging there in Gallow's hold, Tristan Royal looked as though he were encased in a mile-wide block of ice, predatory eyes sending a stinging bolt through his nerves. Glenn was completely stunned by the scene.

Gallow dropped the kid where he stood, and turned back to his locker silently. All Tristan could do was stand there, and in only a moment, he went as red-faced as a tomato. Glenn and the others could simply watch.

The world around them suddenly shuddered. Every single member of Thunderbolt Squadron froze and blinked at its strangely violent subtlety.

And then, before they could even start to properly react, there was another tremble, but this one touched their very cores and brought their bones to a deathly chill, and the accompanying sound was louder than anything they had ever heard in their lives.

--- --- ---

Judgment One hauled back on his yoke and swiveled around in his fighter's seat, examining the chaos and destruction he had just reaped on one of the target base's resident buildings, allowing himself to grin for only a bare moment. The fools hadn't even sounded their alarms yet, and he had already personally dealt a crippling blow to his enemies, but the fun was only just getting started. The four bombers that had accompanied Judgment Squadron had yet to make their own play of the cards, and then, eradicating the base of its soul would be as simple as stepping on a fleet of ants. It was almost too simple and easy to the point where it wasn't even fun at all.

He keyed his comlink and glanced around as he began to level out, watching the other members of his ebony-hued squadron make a bombing run on the sizable base's runway. Fireballs and heated shards of asphalt lit up the night and darkness of the flat facility's fields, a sight that did nothing but make him hungry for more. "Don't forget to target their control towers. The bombers don't have the kind of accuracy capable of doing so. Two and Three, begin targeting any and all vehicles you see. Prioritize anything that can hurt us."

Then, something else lit up the night – something that wasn't created by Black Hole's hands. Tracer rounds soared into the overcast skies, the base's anti-aircraft fire trying to latch onto them and knock them from their very wings. But One ignored them; they were merely gnats in a beehive.

Suddenly, Judgment Six's familiar tone scratched through the confines of the communication link. "Ho-ly guacamole! They've already got fighters in the air! Check your radars!"

Judgment Two didn't believe his ears. "What in bloody blue blazes? The little pricks couldn't have already taken off, could they?"

Judgment One blinked and shot his gaze towards the inky green blobs that met his vision with a challenge. A poisonous grin captured his visage, and he began to wheel his aircraft towards the collection of enemy fighters. "Apparently, our friends downstairs aren't as simple-minded as we might have expected, gentlemen. Is it the squadron with the lightning bolt insignias?"

"I don't think so. I'm counting eight of them. There are only seven fighters in the lightning bolt squadron."

"Heh!" Judgment One cracked at that memory for an instant as more explosions tore through the base below, red and orange flashes teasing his peripheral vision. "And to think that people actually expect Orange Star to win this war for everyone. They can't even fill up one of their elite fighting units. It's a sad state of affairs."

"With all due respect, sir," a voice that One quickly and irritatingly recognized as being Judgment Seven's uttered over the radio, "if we're not careful, this fighting unit won't need to be filled up. If I may remind of you Five's fate?"

"Keep your reminders to yourself, my associate." Judgment One's eyes glazed over the sleek black aircraft that hailed from Blue Moon's air force. "And stay out of my way. That's an order."

There was no response for at least three seconds. "Yes-sir."

Neither of them would continue the discussion. Competitiveness thundering through his pupils, One ratcheted his fighter's throttle up to full, sending his aircraft straight towards the closing Orange Star bogeys.

His grin had long since faded.

--- --- ---

"GO, GO, GO! Move it, pilots, GO, GET A MOVE ON! TRIPLE-TIME IT NOW!"

Ancient-looking overhead lightbulbs flickered on and off with every deep, successive boom that shook the world and sent dirt crumpling down onto the racing group of pilots and base personnel as they shot down the path's claustrophobia-inducing confines. The underground tunnel hooked directly from Reagan's primary building into each of her hangars in the event of such a situation as they all faced, and Glenn couldn't have been more thankful for its construction, but he was a bit too busy to acknowledge that at the moment. Officers raced by Thunderbolt Squadron and yelled at them to pick up their footing speed, as they were the only team that needed to get its butt up in the skies to help out Heartbreak Squadron.

"Pick it up, Ya-horse-tit-pen! You too, Royal! Get the hell moving, we've got people getting killed up there!"

Glenn felt sweat glaze over his face, but he didn't even notice. He only concentrated on reaching the end of the path as instantaneously as possible, panting and reaching for more breath than he'd ever thought he'd require. Fel Banon was already a mile ahead of the rest of the group, but he was the fittest member of the team despite his girth, and that would have made Glenn envious if he weren't already so preoccupied with just catching up.

"BOOM!!!"

That one ripped through Glenn more than any of the others he'd been victim to thus far, but it didn't slow his gait. The string of lightbulbs lining the ceiling died out entirely, and emergency power flowed through the base's veins, illuminating the tunnel in a bloody hue that admittedly scared Glenn and only made him feel more alarmed.

Finally they reached a door and piled through it, looking more like a pack of rats struggling to get through the same mousehole all at once, but within seconds they were already ascending the nearby stairway, and found themselves inside their squadron's giant hangar where their birds of prey rested and almost begged aloud to get into the skies to take the fight to Black Hole. They also found themselves a bit too close to the already hellish battle for comfort, and the explosions and blasts reached deafening levels as soon as they emerged from the tunnel, even with the hangar doors still closed.

"GET TO YOUR PLANES PRONTO!!" base personnel screamed at them. Glenn and his squadron obliged immediately.

In an instant he was already at his own aircraft. The poor, orange-hued thing had been with him for the entire duration of the war, and he would have hated to see it go down without even the smallest of struggles, so he had made a mental note some time ago to never let such a thing happen. He was more than aware of that even now as he clamored into the cockpit with the assistance of hangar staff, struggling to do a million things at once. On his helmet and mask went, down the canopy closed, snap went the belts around his body. He was moving faster than he ever had in pre-flight inspection, but he didn't even realize it.

He glanced over at the aircraft situated to his right – Tuxedo Ral's. Its pilot had moved just as quickly in getting ready as he had, even amidst the terrible sounds of war right on their doorstep, and as he looked farther across the hangar, he could see the five other pilots already in their respective fighters, racing to get outside behind him. He held no doubt that they were as anxious to get moving as he was, but it wouldn't do them a lot of good to get themselves thrown around all over the cockpit because they forgot to buckle their belts.

Keying his comlink on as his vessel's engines began to power up noisily, Glenn tried to keep his voice as calm and collected as possible – and he failed miserably. "Everyone just take your time and don't make any mistakes. We'll be up there soon enough."

"Roger that, Glenn," Tux's voice scratched into his eardrums, in addition to everyone else's. "Y'all could learn a lesson from this fella, he's so cool under pressure. Atta boy, Glenn."

Glenn almost grinned until he realized his second-in-command was being sarcastic.

"Gordon," Fel Banon suddenly rumbled over the connection as Glenn watched staff race around his fighter and get it ready to go. "Watch your ass on the way out of here. We don't need you getting blown sky-high as soon as you stick your nose past the doors."

Glenn looked down the long hangar at Fel Banon's aircraft, grimacing. "Thank you, Banon. I feel much better."

Then he paused for a moment, eyeing Banon's fighter further. The man had previously opened up a six-pack of Kick-Your-Ass on him, and now he was being told by the guy to be careful? What had this Banon done with the real one?

He chose not to think about it at that moment, though. He glanced ahead and realized that the hangar staff was racing towards the giant double-doors of the building, and he felt his nerves tense up at the sight. He was about to be the first of the squadron to exit the frying pan and leap head-first into the volcano, and for a bare moment, he almost felt inclined to jump straight through the canopy and tear off in no particular direction screaming his head off, but unfortunately, such wishes of the imagination were only fantasy. Besides, that might not have set the best example for his team anyway.

The base staff grabbed at the hangar's doors, and Glenn carefully began to roll his fighter forward in anticipation. Sweat beaded down his face and bundled at the bottom of his oxygen mask; his hands clenched tightly around the yoke; he felt his nerves tense up even further. But he could say nothing – he only took a deep, anxiety-driven breath, and told himself it might not have been as bad outside as he previously thought.

And then the doors rumbled open.

Flashes of light forced him to squint – Anti-air gunfire thundering up towards the out-of-sight bandits nestled somewhere amidst the cloudy dark sky inhabited almost every section of the base in droves. The wreckage of four unidentifiable planes already littered the grassy field next to the primary runway, fires tickling their remains. Another one sailed straight into the dirt near the secondary runway and exploded in a massive red ball to Glenn's horror. Bombs blew apart concrete and Macro Land alike, sending fireclouds larger than any Glenn had before seen scorching toward the skies. The red-hot exhaust of missiles and golden tracer rounds high above the base caught his peripheral vision and only added to the already terrible sight. Almost as gruesome as the conflict was the utterly horrendous noise. He heard it all and could do nothing but take it in – The deafening, continuous blasts of anti-air rounds sparking into the night, the echoing scream of fighter jets, close-proximity blasts from the ground, and if he listened hard, he thought he even heard the unforgettable bee swarm sound of bombers overhead, even there in his cockpit with noise debilitators muffling everything as best they could.

It was almost a harsher sight than Fate's Point over a month earlier. Glenn was so incredibly unsettled by what his eyes told him that he almost didn't hear the control tower operators yelling into his ears. At first they sounded distant, tinny, but then he was more aware of them than anything else.

"Warning! 207th, control tower! Enemy bandits have hit the primary runway! Take off from secondary runway; Heartbreak Squadron is covering you! Again: Take off from secondary runway!"

Beautiful. With any luck, that wasn't half of Heartbreak Squadron laying out in the field next to what was left of their main runway. Glenn ratcheted the throttle up further and eased the aircraft out of the hangar entirely, trying to keep one eye on where he was going and the other on the bloodthirsty fangs of the sky above.

--- --- ---

"We have activity at the hangars," Judgment Four announced, his black Yellow Comet fighter nestled away from the rest of the furball to pull recon while the others had all the fun. It was a lousy job, but someone had to do it, and as Judgment One wasn't particularly fond of Yellow Comet, he'd gotten the shortest straw of the bunch. Nevermind the fact that Judgment Four was good enough of a pilot to actually lead the entire bunch, but that made One feel even more vulgarity towards the fellow ace. "Orange Star fighters in view, preparing for take-off."

"It must be them, now!" Judgment Two hissed like a viper ready to strike its weakling prey. "These wimps we're fighting couldn't shoot down a gang of flies at a trashcan. I say we pick them off now while they're helpless!"

"Now, now," their flight leader said in a tone that was the complete opposite's of Two's, "we don't want to get ahead of ourselves. That wouldn't be sporting of us, would it?"

"WHAT!!?" Two gassed, and Judgment One could almost make out the man's eyes springing out of his head even so far away from him in the battle. "Commander Hawke is only going to MURDER us if we fail again! Now isn't the time to be a good, friendly neighbor!"

"I'm not afraid of that man." One didn't notice it, but his hands suddenly clenched tighter around his yoke. "We were contracted by Black Hole to eliminate this squadron as I see fit. That's not the way I play my games. Instead, let us remind our friends down there of exactly who they're dealing with now."

It was a moment before someone – Judgment Two – finally responded. "Yes-sir. We'll follow and perform as you command."

"Very good." Judgment One watched the hordes of artificially-piloted Black Hole escort fighters they had brought along pester the Orange Star aircraft dogging them, simply out of some cruelty-driven sense of humor on his part. "Rejoin my wing and stay tight with me. I'm going downtown!"

"Yes-sir!" Two repeated, and now he was excited. I'm going to enjoy this!

--- --- ---

The line of orange fighter jets was still making its trip to the secondary runway, but they couldn't have moved any quicker for Glenn. First in line to the fire, he was doing his best to keep the speed up to the point where he was still in control of the craft, but he knew the others hated having to be in a position that wasn't the lead. If only there were some way to simply have fighters take off vertically – they would have already been up there, slashing at the hornets that threatened them. Maybe someday, though.

Glenn's fighter rumbled past the asphalt road leading to the base's primary runway as gunfire and explosions tore apart the planet around him, its pilot's eyes sweeping across its destruction. The enemy had hit it like there were no tomorrow, and he held little doubt that the squadron would never be seeing use from it again, but he found it curious that they hadn't struck the other take-off strip by that time. Perhaps they were simply too busy with Heartbreak Squadron, but he wasn't taking any chances. He wouldn't stick around to find out how long it took them to get around to taking care of the only remaining runway that the fighters were capable of taking off from, and neither should the rest of the Thunderbolts. "Keep the pace up, folks! We don't want to get caught with our heads between our legs down here."

"Speak for yourself, Glenny," Tux gassed from the fighter rolling along behind their flight leader's. "Man, this sucks. I swear, this just couldn't be any worse—"

"BANDITS COMING IN AT US!" Tristan screamed into the radio connection. "One-pair diving from nine o'clock!"

Glenn's head shot over to one side of the canopy, and he was horrified to discover that the kid wasn't screwing with them. Two black Orange Star fighters were speeding past the hurricane of anti-air fire and 20mm tracer rounds, screaming right in towards the helpless line of Thunderbolts poking along towards their only remaining runway. Glenn's entire face went completely white, not only at the realization that he was about to get blown to pieces, but also at the understanding of exactly who was attacking them. "Oh, mother of—"

"Glenn," Tux yelled, "what do we do? What do we do!?"

"We—hold on—" Glenn's mind raced through the options in the milliseconds he had left to decide. The incoming bandits' engines echoed through his fighter's hull and grew progressively louder with each passing instant. "Get— Control, get them out of there! Get them away!!"

The tracers trying to catch the bandits were still failing to meet their mark. "SOMEBODY GET THEM OUT OF THERE!"

Surface-to-air missiles blasted from Macro Land into the skies at the pair. The bandits simply outran them. "COME ON!!"

"GLENN, GET OUT OF THERE!" Rainey screamed as even more anti-air fire stretched to the skies to no result. "WE GOTTA MOVE!"

Similar screams grasped the radio waves, but Glenn didn't even hear them. His hand was already gripping the throttle and he threatened to snap the whole thing straight from its bindings, but he couldn't go any faster without driving the whole plane straight onto the grassy fields around Reagan. At first he hoped for some miracle that would blow the bandits out of the air, but no good—they were there. Glenn almost felt his heart stop as his pupils tracked the enemy fighters, and it seemed as though they weren't going to blow him apart but instead slam right into them like kamikazes. He never noticed the cold sweat drenching his uniform, and he couldn't even buckle down in the face of his fate. He could do nothing but watch.

He almost closed his eyes, but realized he didn't even have time left to do that. Oh, God.

"BOOM!"

The soundwave rippled through his aircraft as though it were in the center of a nine-point-oh richter scale earthquake. Glenn felt the entire world shudder around him, and he could have sworn he felt some fillings ping-ponging around inside his jaw at one point. But contrary to what he initially thought, he had not just been turned into a smoldering pile of ash courtesy of their enemies. Blinking in utter confusion, he swiveled his head to the other side of the canopy and locked his vision onto a sight that was still in the middle of surprising him – the bandits were racing skyward, back up towards the overcast clouds, having cleared the line of Thunderbolts by no more than five meters.

"Holy—" he panted, still trying to find out where his breath and heartbeat had ran off to, "holy shit."

"Those dirty bastards!" Fel Banon roared, furious at this insult. "They're just TOYING with us!"

Gallow offered his own input. "It's alright, Gordon. They're simply trying to scare us and throw our focus off."

Well, they freaking succeeded, Glenn didn't have to say. Only now did he take notice of his cold sweat and how terrified he suddenly felt. He had never come so close to standing around boredly in the afterlife before. The only reason he was even still sitting there in his aircraft's cockpit was by the good grace of the enemy pilots, and once he understood that, he barely even knew what to feel. A whirlwind-like flurry of rage, embarrassment, and morbid horror flooded through his bones, but he could never have readily admitted it.

"Everyone alright?" he finally queried as he eased his fighter onto the second runway, still struggling to calm himself down as he kept one eye on the pair of bandits, who were rejoining the dogfight with Heartbreak Squadron amidst the flashes and explosions in the skies.

"Looks like it, unless any of y'all had yourselves a stroke just now." Tux was not helping ease Glenn's composure. "Let's get the hell up there, folks! I've got about six missiles with some Black Hole names on their butts."

Glenn wasn't entirely certain why, but when Tuxedo Ral said that, he found himself grinning, and the steel was suddenly returning to his nerves. "I copy that, Tux! Control tower, Gordon requesting take-off!"

"Thunderbolt leader, you are cleared for take-off. Get up there and keep safe!"

Will do, Glenn thought to himself as he pointed his fighter's nose down the runway, ratcheting the throttle up to its highest level and kicking the afterburners in, getting slammed back in his seat. At least, I'll try.

--- --- ---

"Well, so much for your little plan. Here they come." Judgment Two didn't sound entirely impressed at the result of the fun he and his flight leader had just had at the lightning bolt squadron's expense, but that was to be expected. "Hmph."

"Good. Four, rejoin the formation." Judgment One glanced towards the rising squadron, and then at the other Orange Star fighters they had already been dogging. They were more than ready to call it quits, with most of the remaining ones either smoking or otherwise doomed anyway, once they finished off the newcomers. "Choose your opponents carefully, gentlemen. You're good enough to do this in your sleep against anyone else, but stay sharp here. I'm switching AI-fighter targeting to handle the rest of the base in assisting the bombers. All Judgment Squadron wing members, you are cleared to engage incoming hostile bogeys. Destroy every last one of these Orange Star cowards. Make them suffer."

"Yes-sir! Commencing attack!"

--- --- ---

Glenn tipped his fighter onto its wing, easing out and charging head-on towards the remaining Heartbreak Squadron wingmembers and their predators, tightening his grip around the yoke as hard as he could. Even amid the brown overcast skies of the night, he could easily make out the deathly black paintjobs of the enemy squadron that terrorized them all. Somehow, Judgment Squadron had managed to discover their resident base, and that got his blood going, but now that they were there, Glenn wasn't going to just let these boys walk all over he and his friends. He wanted more than anyone to get the fight going as soon as possible, and it was now or never. "Everyone stay on me! Keep steady!"

The seven Thunderbolt Squadron fighters blazed towards their foes, but then it became morbidly apparent that the enemy team thought it best to pull the very same maneuver, and Glenn quickly found himself next to seven other fighter jets screaming head-on at a group that was speeding at them at a combined speed of over a thousand miles an hour with anti-air fire filling their visions. Glenn suddenly felt the iron hardening his nerves fade, and his blood ran cold at the sight. "Get ready now! Get some shots off!"

"Oh, Lord a'mighty," Tux uttered, appalled at the approaching sight.

And as soon as Glenn started to activate his missile system, a terrible, consistent beeping rang throughout his cockpit. They were one step ahead of him already. Damn it!

But he ignored the sound and somehow clenched the yoke even tighter, accelerating further and trying to catch one of the incoming Judges on his heads-up display. The system waned and wavered around the bandits, but he realized they were going to meet each other far too quickly for comfort. In an instant he was thumbing the yoke's weapons system again. "Switch to guns!"

The missile alert sound vanished as soon as he did that. Judgment Squadron had taken notice of the closure rate as well and had done the same thing as the Thunderbolts again. "GET READY TO BREAK!"

And almost before he could even realize it in every terrifying, passing instant, the Judges were there. Tracer rounds tore at he and his friends, and Glenn blasted a stream of golden 20mm cannon rounds into the night. Fireballs of ammunition illuminated the sky, their golden flashes impacting against the surface of the clouds high above the furball. For a moment, the exchange of gunfire registered brighter than the battle as a whole.

"BREAK!!" Glenn slammed the yoke back into his stomach as hard as he could, feeling the force of gravity weigh him down and send blood rushing towards the bottom of his body. He knew at once that he hadn't hit anything, but he was uncertain as to whether or not he was in the clear as soon as he pitched his aircraft higher into the sky. The collective blasts of seven other fighter jets rippled against his hull, and it nearly took his breath away more violently than take-off did. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the rest of the Thunderbolts juke every possible way imaginable as the black-hued bandits roared past all of them at far too close a margin to keep his heart alive. It was a horrible sight to behold.

The Thunderbolts shot away from the closely-intertwined pass and tried to collect themselves.

"They got my left wing! She's alright, still flyin'!" It was Tristan.

"I think one nicked my fuselage," Gallow said next, though much more hurried than usual. "No failures, I'm fine."

"I caught a round on my tail! She's good to go!" Then there was Tux.

"I think one of those fricking sons of fricks flipped me off!" Finally it was a flabbergasted Fel Banon, who utterly abhorred not being allowed to use his favorite word in the air. Commander Beauregard had gotten on him some time ago about that sort of thing, and while he frequently forgot his composure anyway, he'd still been good about it – mostly. How he'd ever even seen the gesture at the rate of speed they were all going was beyond Glenn, but that would be one of life's mysteries.

Glenn swung his fighter onto its side again and pulled hard on the joystick, bringing the aircraft back towards where the bandits had blown off to. "Everyone spread out and don't get in too deep! You remember what happened last time with these guys!"

He didn't get an answer. Every inch of Thunderbolt Squadron was more than aware of the past encounter, and he silently chastised himself for such a gaffe. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Casting an uneasy stare across the sky towards their foes, Glenn found himself racing into the path of the enemy squadron's only Yellow Comet fighter while the rest of the planes managed to stretch out from one another. At first, he was uncertain of what to make of such a spectacle. Yellow Comet fighter planes were ancient in design compared to the other superpowers of the world, and while they had distinct upgrades that made them take to the skies better than their earlier predecessors and brought them closer to the line that put them up against modern warbirds, just the sight of this enemy plane buzzing towards the state-of-the-art jet fighter made Glenn want to laugh derisively at it and kick back right there in his cockpit lazily.

And then it opened fire on him.

"Holy--!" Glenn hurled his aircraft onto its belly, showing it to the enemy bandit, forcing himself towards the ground. A storm of tracer rounds from the Yellow Comet fighter's various 20mm Vulcan cannons streamed across the atmosphere past Glenn's fighter, and even so far away from the other craft, he could easily hear their deep, resounding blasts. It was almost like standing next to a fleet of machine guns. "Geez!"

Much to his surprise, however, the gunfire didn't let up in the least, because the Yellow Comet fighter decided to pull down right on after him. Glenn hauled back on the yoke and twisted onto his side again, hoping to merely out-turn the enemy bandit, but then he realized that was a bad idea. Since the Yellow Comet fighters could achieve a much lower speed than Orange Star's, he was only giving the other pilot a decent target to trap-shoot, and in the instant after he'd begun making his turn, Glenn slapped the fighter back around in the other direction.

But more gunfire filled his vision, the venomous booms echoing across the battle. Instinctively, he pitched his aircraft into a twisting turn that would hopefully have sent him sailing underneath the other fighter, and was rewarded by hearing a trio of PINGs glisten off his fuselage.

This FREAKing GUY in a FREAKing YELLOW COMET fighter is KICKING my FREAKing ASS!!! a suddenly frustrated and dumbstruck Glenn Gordon realized, foaming at the mouth as he listened to the enemy plane rumble by, the other pilot attempting to get towards his six o'clock again. Kicking in his afterburners, Glenn opted to play his trump card. His fighter went thundering forward at a much faster speed than the enemy craft could achieve, and in seconds, he had simply outran the bandit.

Then he slowed rapidly and brought the craft around again, pointing his nose back in the opposite direction from whence he'd come. Perfect – the pilot had done exactly what he'd wanted by racing on after him, getting every possible ounce of speed out of his plane. Glenn increased his own velocity again, making a beeline straight for the incoming bandit in a scene very much similar to what had just been attempted only moments earlier in the dogfight. That speed wouldn't be so easily lost compared to what Glenn was capable of, but the enemy bogey didn't budge from its course in the least. Glenn would have commended the pilot for being so gutsy, if he weren't busy trying to shoot him down, and if he weren't so pissed off at him, at that.

As the distance closed, Glenn hurriedly eased a bit to the side, as though to simply blow past the bandit as he'd done before, but then utilized his rudder to pitch the nose in the direction of the bogey's path while still maintaining his original direction. Naturally, he completely forgot that the enemy pilot was just as capable of pulling this maneuver and probably had experience in doing so, and as Glenn began to spit bullets at the Yellow Comet vessel, so too did the other ace. Crap!

Tracers played tag, stretching from each aircraft to the other. Glenn only let it last an instant, hurrying to put in his share of the pot while there was an opportunity to do so, but he was floored by the level of fire the other fighter was able to put up. Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader angrily discovered in the instant they exchanged fireballs that the Yellow Comet aircraft grabbed much more of the share than he managed, but he was relieved when he heard none of the enemy rounds make contact with his own hull. They had been simply moving too fast for the bullets to catch their targets.

Glenn looked ahead and plotted his next move – and as soon as he'd come up with it, bright yellow streaks disrupted his concentration, the rounds sailing past his fighter. Glenn caught his breath in surprise and pitched his aircraft over to try and evade again only to see his oncoming path being riddled with bullets immediately afterwards, and he suddenly came to the horrible realization that not only could the Yellow Comet fighter plane match his jet move-for-move in direct combat, but he was also going toe-to-toe with one of, if not the best pilot in Judgment Squadron.

Wheeling around in a barrel roll, Glenn pulled away from the rounds and pointed his fighter towards the clouds, hoping to use the raw power of the aircraft to blow the Yellow Comet plane's climbing rate out of the water. In an instant he was skyborne, but he didn't even have to look back to know the other pilot wouldn't bother pulling up after him. That would have resulted in disaster on his part, but that left Glenn with the realization that he had little clue as to what the pilot would do in such a case.

One glance out his canopy towards the ground solved that question. The Yellow Comet fighter was spitting fire at one of his comrades.

"Geez lou-eez!" he heard an evasive Tristan hiss over the radio amidst the rest of the chatter which mostly went ignored by Glenn in the heat of battle. "That thing has more guns in it than a battle with Max and Flak!"

He wasn't kidding, either. For a moment, Glenn wondered if the damned thing even carried missiles– and then immediately had the pleasure of seeing one sail out from under the fighter towards Tristan's aircraft. Glenn nearly swallowed his tongue. "BREAK RIGHT!!!"

Every Orange Star fighter in the furball besides his own broke hard right at that exclamation. Tristan's was no exception to this, and he just barely put enough atoms between his tail and the missile's tip to stay out of its violent path. But the Yellow Comet fighter stayed tight on the kid's six o'clock, and that infuriated Glenn. Kicking hard onto his wing, he swung down towards the ongoing brawl and aimed his direction right towards the enemy bandit dogging Tristan, looking to shoot over the enemy pilot's plane after giving him a mouthful of gunfire.

As soon as it was apparent he was coming in to assist his friend, though, the Yellow Comet fighter broke off its chase and instead pulled up towards Glenn. They were going to play this game yet again, and Glenn felt icy needles shoot through him when he saw this. But then he knew he probably would have preferred it this way, anyway. Better to meet something opposing you head-on instead of cowering before it.

More bullets careened back and forth between the two as Tristan's fighter looped away to safety, only to get pulled into another struggle. Glenn ignored it and grit his teeth so hard he threatened to break every one of them, but kept up the barrage from his six-barreled 20mm cannon. He was again able to mount a good assault, but the enemy plane had so many guns situated on its wings that he had to break off his collision course early and clamor out of the way of the attack by spinning up and over onto his belly again.

This allowed the bandit to track him for enough of an instant to cut at its prey even more. Glenn heard another PING pound through one of his tail wings, and now, as he tore away from his foe and began a wide turn, he was seeing red and snorting flames, all while covered in his own freezing perspiration. DAMN THIS GUY!

He had never felt so humiliated in his life. He was supposed to be one of Orange Star's best pilots, and he couldn't even take down this flying hunk of crap that was tearing into his and his wingmates like some sort of reincarnation of the Orange Baron. If Glenn somehow managed to send that thing on a one-way trip to the ground, he quickly swore that he was going to follow it and claw it apart with his bare hands when this was all over.

Unfortunately, he didn't see that happening soon, because not only had the Yellow Comet fighter raced back around onto his six o'clock during his turn, it was now forgoing the bullet-blasting and trying to attain a missile lock. Glenn realized he was about to have a much harder time with this situation, and an enemy air-to-air missile was something he could not outrun. "Someone get this guy off my six NOW!"

The beeping sound increased in intensity, its successive tone becoming faster and more hectic. The enemy pilot had his missile lock. There was only one more level the sound could attain. "SOMEONE GIVE ME A HAND!!"

He tensed his nerves and anticipated the final step – the constant, straining beep that often ended in fire and destruction for many pilots, but instead, to Glenn's surprise, the annoying noise disappeared entirely. Blinking in confusion, Glenn swung around in his seat and felt his jaw drop in disbelief at what he saw.

--- --- ---

"REINFORCEMENTS!" Judgment Three yelled into the Black Hole radio channel. "More Orange Star fighters in-bound! They've taken down our bombers! Four, are you okay!?"

"I'm fine," Four half-responded, half-growled. "They took a good chunk out of my wing, though. I'm going to have to pull out and head back."

"The hell you will!" Judgment One roared. "You'll get your Yellow Comet ass back onto that fighter's tail if you know what's good for you! We didn't come here to run away from these miserable rats! That's an order!"

Four's response was calmer than anything said thus far between the two sides. "I'd sooner follow such a command from a child. I'll be at the supply base."

"Ugh!" Judgment One's jaw bunched up in rage – until he found himself having to evade one of the new enemy bogeys' missile locks. His fingers punched away at buttons on his aircraft's console, calling back most of the Black Hole artificially-piloted fighters, and his teeth bared underneath his oxygen mask in animal-like fury. These bastards – he'd just destroy them twice as hard. "Damn them! All fighters, it's time to get serious!! Step it up, and kill them all!!"

--- --- ---

The new squadron of Orange Star fighters soared head-on into the furball, and Glenn was still getting his eyes adjusted to this sight. Apparently, everyone else was too, including Rainey Banker. "Wow, where in the world did these guys come from?"

Glenn wasn't certain, but he was more than willing to accept the help as he watched the squadron blaze a path of violence into the Judgment Squadron, already antagonizing the enemy pilots. With the number of human pilots suddenly skewed so far against them, despite the help from the rejoining AI-fighters, even the Judges were forced to step up their gameplan.

"Thunderbolt Squadron!" It was the control tower operator's edge-riddled tone. "Sunset Squadron has returned from their mission! Captain Alberto de la Vega is in their command; work with him to eliminate the enemy bandits while base staff makes its escape in transport helicopters! Protect the choppers if necessary to prevent—""

The operator's voice cut off rapidly. At the same time, Glenn caught a flash of light in his peripheral vision, and he turned in his seat to become victim to the sight of a barrage of missiles slamming into the control tower courtesy of the attacking AI-fighters. He could only watch in horror as the entire lanky building erupted in an inferno and began to crumble at its seams. Not only had more lives just been lost on their side, but they had also lost their primary means of landing safely back on the base – or what was left of it, as he realized when he took further notice of the base's condition.

In the course of the dogfight, the AI-fighters and enemy bombers had been hitting Reagan Air Force Base with everything they had, and Glenn saw less of the anti-air gunfire than there'd been when the fight had started. In its place, flames crackled skywards from every section of what was left of their home. Buildings had collapsed upon themselves after missile attacks. Only the pilot's wing, two hangars, and the secondary runway remained completely intact. Glenn had seen many terrible things in his life, but such a sight rendered him stunned for precious seconds on end.

It took a moment for him to discover the unfamiliar voice speaking to him through the radio connection. ". . . Gordon! Lieutenant Gordon! This is Captain de la Vega!"

Glenn redirected his awareness to his surroundings as best he could while the dogfight stepped up a notch in violence. He'd never met Sunset Squadron's flight leader, but it was a hell of a time to get some allies. "I read you, Captain!"

"Commander Beauregard is in one of those transport choppers," the other experienced war ace told him. "If something happens to him, we're going to be hurt. I want some of your boys to keep them out of harm's way while we're dealing with these pests up here. Have two of your pilots escort them to safety at Dawn Air Force Base."

As much as he would have liked to follow that request, Glenn held no doubt whatsoever that nobody in Thunderbolt Squadron would be willing to leave the fight. He wouldn't have had it any other way. "With all due respect, sir, I don't think—"

"That's a goddamn ORDER, Lieutenant! Get—" De la Vega's voice suddenly rose in anxiety. "Bandits heading for the choppers! Get them away from there!!"

Glenn's attention swung back towards the base. Two of the Judges were cutting a path away from the fight and tearing ass straight towards the orange transport vessels hurrying away from Reagan, the black fighters ripping one way and the other to evade what was left of the anti-air fire directed at them. Two of his Thunderbolt friends tried to speed on after them to give chase, but by the time they'd gotten around to begin their run, the bogeys were light-years ahead of them. Glenn's blood ran cold for the millionth time that night, and he set air-speed records on his way to intercept the bastards. Captain de la Vega's plane joined his in the pursuit.

Thumbing a switch on his yoke, Glenn activated his missile system and curved in behind the bandits with de la Vega's fighter thundering along at his five o'clock like a bolt of lightning that threatened to knock Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader right out of the way if he didn't get there quickly enough. The bandit pair did nothing to evade their pursuers, making tracks for where the collection of transport choppers poked along at the base's edge, and that made Glenn's skin tighten. "They're not even trying to get out of the way!"

"Then let's knock them out of the way ourselves," the Captain commanded.

That was all Glenn needed to hear. Aiming the HUD's red little box around one of the fighters and latching it onto the enemy craft, Glenn depressed the dangerous button his forefinger gripped, and the night was alive with the scream and flash of missiles. One each from he and de la Vega's craft burned into the skies towards the enemy fighters at over two thousand miles an hour. The bandits continued their course, and only at the very last possible second did they begin to try and evade their pursuers' malicious attack.

One bandit barreled onto its stomach and pulled down as hard as the craft's nuts and bolts would allow without coming apart there in the air altogether. The other bolted higher into the sky, and as it did so, bright golden fireballs sailed into the night from its undercarriage. Flares, Glenn realized – They were a newer utility of the modern fighters, and most squadrons in the Air Force didn't yet have their luxurious saving grace, but just the sight of them only made him want to rip up the enemy planes worse, especially when his missile impacted against them while de la Vega's made a banshee cry right past the other bogey. Glenn started to hiss and spit, but then his eyes widened even more.

Only then did he realize what his failure meant.

Like a match being struck in a cave, missiles ripped from the bandits and streamed a line across the sky. Glenn's eyes tracked them, horrified at the sight. In one instant, the transport choppers were swinging around to try and hopelessly evade their fate. In the next, they were consumed by explosions and fire, their remains pitching down towards the war-scarred ground of Reagan, if they didn't disintegrate outright. The enemy bandits traced an arc up and over their targets, wheeling around to rejoin the horrible furball over the base's remains, outright ignoring the two Orange Star fighters that had royally blown their task.

"Bloody hell!" de la Vega cursed.

Glenn felt his tongue dry up, liquid welling in his eyelids. Commander Beauregard had been on one of those helicopters, not to mention the rest of the Reagan personnel he'd become acquainted with in his time at the base. He bit the edges of his mouth to keep his composure.

A second later, he was seeing red.

Juking to his side, Glenn aimed his fighter past both a bandit pursuing an Orange Star, and an Orange Star pursuing a bandit, Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader easing his yoke back onto the enemy bogeys he and de la Vega had already given chase to. The Captain by then had broken off his race and was looking for targets elsewhere, but Glenn hung tight onto the red-cone afterburner trails of his foes.

It was only seconds before the enemy pilots took notice of their potential assaulter and broke away from one another in opposite direction. Glenn ignored the one on the right and stayed hard with the bandit that had released the flares. If he had any more of that crap, Glenn knew that elevated the bandit into a bit more of a dangerous spot than the other enemy bogeys, but he wouldn't give the bastard another opportunity to pull any tricks out of his tail.

Switching the missile system back over to guns, Glenn watched as the bandit slowed and sailed into a colossally powerful turn to try and simply force its pursuer past it, but he saw it coming and hit his airbrakes too, keeping tight on the enemy's ass. The other plane twisted down and rolled back to try and get underneath him, and Glenn followed the maneuver as precisely as his opponent. Just a bit closer, you son of a bitch!

That was when they got tangled up in the web of another personal dogfight occurring between Rainey and one of the enemy Orange Star renegades, and that muddled up Glenn's enemy just enough for him to pop some shots off. Bullets whipped into the air, cracking against the bandit's fuselage, producing white smoke from its wounds and sending the plane into even more of a tizzy to get away. As they pounded through and away from the other dogfight, Glenn found another opening and trapshot the bandit with such a torrent of gunfire that it was only seconds before his eyes caught sight of the damage he'd done.

The enemy plane's entire right wing became dislodged from its seams and spun wildly into the night-time air, and then the rest of the aircraft began to barrel-roll violently, around and around. Glenn snap-kicked his fighter onto its own wing and he pulled away from the damage he'd done, past pieces of the disintegrating craft while not even allowing himself to grin. The flames of battle consumed him. "BANDIT DOWN!"

--- --- ---

"MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!!" Judgment Two screeched, fighting the yoke harder than he'd ever tried. "That BASTARD shot me up like Green Earth cheese! I'm going down!"

"Orange Star dogs!!" Judgment Three rasped hatefully, cursing their victory over Two from the squadron's remaining Green Earth fighter.

"Ease your course and eject," their flight leader told his victimized wingmate as he sought to get into a position to fill an Orange Star fighter full of holes himself. "I'll have transport choppers make their way here and pick you up when you reach safety. When we're done here, inform us of your location by latitude-longitude, and you'll be fine."

"WHAT!?" Two screamed. "You know what'll happen to me if I'm caught by someone still down there!?"

"It's that, or you can die with pride. Make your choice."

Two growled loudly into the radio like some animal enraged at not being the alpha male of its herd. "Just blow that coward apart, and I'll be a happy man on my deathbed if they catch me!"

Then, as the dropping aircraft passed the confines of the base's property, its stomach-wrenching spin eased up just enough for the canopy to shoot off into the air, followed by the propulsion of the pilot seat high towards the sky. The parachute opened up only a moment later as the rest of the plane continued its descent and finally slammed nose-first into the already wounded fields around Reagan in a massive explosion that bombed the airspace between the dogfighters.

"It was their number one, sir," Judgment Eight informed his leader. "He's the one who took Two down. They passed by me a moment ago."

The flight leader didn't seem to particularly care enough to respond, but someone else did.

"Is that so?" came the low voice of Judgment Seven, whose black Blue Moon fighter arced up onto its side and began a slightly inverted pull towards the enemy Orange Star plane that had taken down one of their own, whether he was ordered to do so or not. He did not appreciate having one of his wingmates shot down, regardless of personal feelings for them, and he would show no generosity in the face of his foes now. "I've had enough of this. The dirty, mangy hound is mine."

--- --- ---

Glenn saw the enemy pilot bail out of his craft and was immediately tempted to race down there and spit more gunfire at him, but he wasn't the sort of ace who played that game. While the Judges were the most dangerous squadron he'd ever been up against, Glenn would never have even considered doing something of that nature against a person as helpless as the sinking pilot he'd just taken down. With a humph and a glare at the large, black parachute sailing down towards Reagan's edges, Glenn turned back in his seat and concentrated on his next kill.

Or at least, he would have if he didn't see something sleek and black rushing straight at him at a closure speed of nine hundred knots. "HO—"

WHAM went the yoke into his side and to his left, his own sentence being cut off by the violent strain of gravitational forces as Glenn fired his aircraft into a wild looping course downward. The enemy plane roared right over his own like some tornado that missed him by an inch, and Glenn could do nothing to quell the horrible, deafening blast of the other plane's engines and the jet wash slamming into his own aircraft. He'd had close calls before, but this time, Glenn got rattled – hard.

"WHOA! Glenn," a concerned Tuxedo Ral suddenly queried, lost somewhere in his own twisting, steel-nerved battle with the Judges and their AI-fighter escorts, "you alright!?"

"Yeah," Glenn told him, catching his breath as quickly as he could. "These guys are freakin' lunatics!"

Or they're just good at scaring us to bits, he thought, more than aware of their intimidation techniques by then. His heart rate still hadn't completely dropped off after what the enemy had pulled prior to his squadron's take-off, but that was to be expected anyway. "How are you guys doing?"

"Oh, we're fine," BOOM, "just a little tiny-bit worn out is all. Ain't nothin' some hotshots like us can handle."

Glenn almost grinned, but then realized he didn't want to at all anymore. "Good. Keep up the fight, guys! Don't let Sunset get all the glory! We're the best!"

The missile alert system rang into his eardrums as soon as he said that. Oh, for the love of--!

Glenn hurled his aircraft downrange and spun it around the other way, causing the noise to dissipate, but as he glanced up out of his canopy, he could see the cause of the sound attempting the same maneuver. It was the same aircraft that had almost gone kamikaze on his face – the enemy Black Hole squadron's only Blue Moon fighter jet. A sleek delta-wing aircraft, it was capable of pulling moves just as well as the Orange Star fighter, and while it didn't have as nice a top speed as its counterpart, it made up for it in maneuverability and agility. Glenn felt his already freezing blood go a bit colder. Great.

He pulled back up hard, but the enemy pilot seemed to predict this, and leveled out before Glenn had begun to make his ascent. Glenn caught wind of this when he glanced back at the other craft, and instinctively broke hard to starboard when it looked like the two aircraft were going to collide again.

Instead of pursuing him, though, the enemy ace was pulling too much speed compared to the other plane and consequently broke off to the opposite side as Glenn wheeled his craft around as tightly as physics allowed. The Blue Moon fighter pulled the same move, and this resulted in both of them speeding right back around towards each other.

Thumbing his yoke, Glenn readied the guns again, but he was still antsy about the other pilot's recklessness – or perhaps it was tenacity and fearlessness – so he eased the stick ever so slightly to put himself in a downward position that hopefully wouldn't help their noses meet one another, but the enemy fighter rolled over onto its belly and drifted a bit down as a result after the Thunderbolt flight leader did this. Tracer bullets cut a golden line at him, lighting the skies further. "Damn it!"

As he was already pulling on the yoke as hard as he could, he could only slow the aircraft down to try and get even less of a turning circle out of the poor thing, but he managed to keep the aircraft free from harm this time. Glenn honestly felt bad for the plane now – he'd gotten attached to his fighter over the last few months, as it had seen him through thick and thin, and he almost felt some odd, unannounced kinship with it, so he knew he had to take care of it as best he could. If he did that, he knew it would take care of him as well. This time, he kept her out of pain's way and continued his turn, twisting back down towards the ground.

He glanced back again in the cockpit after speeding past inky black smoke from someone's missiles as more flashes caught the edges of his line of sight. Sure enough, the Blue Moon fighter was whirling down after him, and Glenn's brow furrowed. Fine, damn it! This is my turf, so let's play MY game!

His hand slammed the throttle up as far as it would go as he pointed the fighter's nose directly at the ground. The sudden increase in acceleration, the sense of the ground enveloping the canopy, and the fact that he was being pursued by one of Judgment Squadron's more dangerous pilots shook his nerves, but he looked past the fear. There was no point in being afraid anymore. But another glance back at the enemy plane struck his blood with a hammer – The Blue Moon fighter hadn't hesitated in the least and was breaking his old airspeed records in chasing him down to the planet.

Down further they raced until finally Glenn realized he was approaching the ground far too quickly for comfort. He whirled his warbird around again and hauled back on the yoke just before Macro Land got close enough to reach out and slap him out of the air, and almost immediately realized that this move of his had been a poor idea executed even poorer. The Blue Moon fighter slowed rapidly as Glenn had started back up and turned with him, spitting more gunfire his way.

PING! went something through his left wing, and the terrifying shock of being hit yet again sailed through Glenn once more, but he was still airborne, and that was what counted. But the enemy pilot was still on him, and he was getting ravishingly tired of it already. The Judges were driving him nuts and made him want to chew through chainwhips. So much for all the praise he'd been getting from Commander Beauregard and the Commanding Officers like Nell and Sami. So much for his annihilation of a Black Cannon and that satellite dish thing from the Black Hole train. So much for all his damn training and putting up with Fel Banon and Stupid-Name Gallow. I don't believe this!

Past more fighters he sped as he regained his momentum and height, and in the millisecond that passed after he did so and he started to consider what to do next, more gunfire blew past him, except this time, it was immediately followed up by the missile alert warning sound. Glenn pulled harder toward the clouds, rendering any missile attack nigh-useless, but that only allowed the Blue Moon fighter to continue its bullet barrage.

Glenn felt sweat pour into his eyes as he finally began to notice his exhaustion as he pulled again to evade the attack. The bandit behind him wasn't screwing around – This enemy pilot meant business.

He almost wanted to yell for help, but knew that everyone else was too busy to even think about assisting. War consumed the skies around him. Everywhere he looked, one of his companions was dealing with either a Judge or one of those damned AI-fighters, so he did the only thing that really came to mind. He grabbed the throttle and pulled it back all the way it would go while engaging his airbrakes. The force of the sudden deceleration slammed him forward in his seat and made his skin feel as though it would go flying from his bones any moment, but when he saw the enemy bandit pull alongside his, having not been completely anticipating such a gratuitous move, he regained all sense of war thirst.

The bandit juked off high to starboard in a reactionary move, and Glenn kicked right after it. He wasn't in good enough a position to initiate a lock-on for open fire on the bogey the old-fashioned way, but it was the first time he'd had an edge over the Blue Moon fighter in both their current struggle and back over Sgadd, so he took what he got.

But the enemy plane had a better turning radius than he did, and was already seeking to make use of it. Glenn hissed to himself and tried to figure out how to correct this when something else suddenly caught his attention. One of the Orange Stars was being dogged by a Judge and two AI-fighters not far from where he flew, and as much as he hated to do so, Glenn didn't waste any time breaking off his hopeless pursuit of the Blue Moon fighter.

Immediately he clenched the trigger on the yoke, sending shivers through his body as the 20mm guncannon at the front of his fighter popped a stream of bullets down at the bandits chomping at Tristan Royal's tail. The two AI-fighters juked away and out of the fight, but the Judge and their black Orange Star fighter carried on mercilessly. The edge in Glenn's frown intensified, and he increased the suppressive fire, this time actually seeking to make his aim true.

The bandit merely slipped left and ruddered to the right, opening fire on Tristan's craft. Even as far away as he was, Glenn could see chunks of the fuselage burn away into the night, and the kid broke hard to starboard. The bandit stayed tight on him as Tristan's anxiety became clear over the radio. "Taken some damage! I think these guys got better since our tussle at Sgadd!"

"No kidding," Glenn agreed, guiding his aircraft after the chase. "If I didn't know better, I'd say these guys were trying to shoot us down."

He eased his fighter in behind the enemy bandit who still dogged Tristan and spared a quick look to his own six o'clock to make sure it was clear of anything he didn't want back there. Naturally, the black Blue Moon fighter had somehow managed to spring right back on his ass, prompting Glenn to bare his teeth in rage and shock, but then he saw another Orange Star plane curve in behind the bandit behind him. And only a second after that happened, another bandit sliced into the mix behind that Orange Star fighter.

Glenn couldn't believe his eyes. He was suddenly inside of the world's most fearsome aerial freight train thought possible. The five fighter jets forked around the skies as though attached to one another by some unseen rails, creating tension so immense that not even a hot knife could have cut through it. Glenn struggled to maintain his focus as the bandit on his tail edged ever closer, ignoring its own pursuer. This is crazy!

Tristan arced his plane around towards the ground and brought it back up in a twisting roll, and as he came back up, he inverted into a rolling scissors maneuver. Every single fighter jet behind him mimicked the action perfectly. Glenn silently wondered how in the world this was going to end as G-forces pushed against his cranium – and then received his answer in the response of tracer rounds diving past his canopy. "HEADS UP!"

The Orange Star fighter behind the Blue Mooner responded in a similar tone and was rewarded with bullets tearing at it as well. Glenn didn't notice, as he was too busy trying to decide in the instants of time he had left if he should break away or open a six-pack of hot lead on the bandit in front of him as well. In the end, he chose to do both.

Hauling back on the yoke, he triggered the worn stick's notorious red forefinger button again, spraying cannonfire into the black Orange Star plane hounding Tristan. Much to his own surprise, having grown used to not hitting anything worth a crap thus far in the fight, one of the rounds ended up impacting with the vessel – right up the pilot's left afterburner. A fiery blast enveloped the back of the tail, and the whole left engine died out like a doused match. In the next instant, the enemy plane shot up and away from Tristan's fighter.

"Thanks, Glenn," Royal wheezed, guiding his fighter out of harm's way.

"You owe me!" Glenn gassed, and he could almost see the grin on Tristan's face from there, mask or no mask. But then he glanced around again, and prayed to see his tail clear from the threat of the rogue Blue Mooner. It wasn't. The other two planes involved in the chase had by then raced away from the train, and Glenn growled loudly, ratcheting the throttle back up to its fullest amount as he kicked the afterburners on.

In seconds, he created enough distance between himself and the pursuing fighter to hurriedly cut back around and return from whence he'd come even as the missile alert system wailed through his cockpit. He aimed the nose of his craft directly at the oncoming bandit, teeth clenched and fire in his eyes. He was fed up with this game. He was fed up with the fight. Right here, bastard!

The enemy pilot's path didn't waver in the least -- he was accepting Glenn's challenge. The two planes screamed right towards one another at the fastest speeds they'd seen yet in the battle. RIGHT HERE!

The sky roared with the fury of 20mm guncannons, lightning bolts tearing across each of the two fighters from one another's birthplace. In the instant that he finally hurled his aircraft out of the way, he saw one small puff of smoke form and disappear across the enemy bandit's wing. The two planes barreled past one another, jet washes and shrieking engines screaming at the enemy. The enemy bandit thundered up and off into the dark clouds behind him, afterburners echoing across the atmosphere.

Glenn had not been hit.

--- --- ---

"This is Eight – My systems are starting to fail! Internal damage! I've gotta get out of here!"

"Six here – I've taken hits too! I think I've got a fuel leak!"

Judgment One's eyes hardened as he watched another of his AI-fighters get blown to pieces. Such had been the fate of most of them by then, and he was infuriated by the sudden odds against them. But they couldn't run away – they weren't cowards like these pathetic Orange Star vermin. "We're not—we can't run!"

Just the thought of Hawke's reaction to this failure filled his heart with ice. He would never live it down, if he lived upon his return at all. But beneath his exterior, he knew he had a responsibility to keep the squadron as safe as possible, and going against such odds was not the correct means of achieving that measure. Clenching his jaw again, Judgment One shook his head in condensed irritation and keyed his radio. "All planes, break your actions and follow me, triple-time. Point your noses towards sector three-oh-two-five, now."

"We're running away," Three uttered in a defeated tone. "These pathetic cowards. We could have destroyed them with fair numbers!"

One examined what the damage they had already wrought upon the enemy squadron's home, and then glanced at the number of enemy aircraft that were either smoking or already planted firmly upon Macro Land's war-hammered surface. A slithery grin enshrined itself upon his angular face underneath his helmet and mask as he engaged his afterburners, making tracks away from the furball. "I believe we have instilled enough horror and pain into their lives for today, my friends and associate. No complaining, now – follow me and keep your souls intact. And someone get ahold of Two."

"Right away, sir."

--- --- ---

By the time he was already getting neck-deep into another dogfight with a Judge, Glenn had begun to wonder if he should just eject out of his craft and save himself a lot of time and effort. This was getting to be far too much for he and his friends to handle, even with the odds stacked up in their favor with the assistance of Sunset Squadron. It was an even harder struggle than Sgadd's, and he'd never felt so utterly exhausted in his entire life, but even still, with everything pounding against him – the force of physics, the enemy bandits, his own decreasing will – he continued to swing the yoke back and forth in battle, wishing every second for the fight to just simply finish.

And then, it did.

Every single enemy bandit on the opposing force broke hard and kicked their afterburners into action. Glenn at first wondered what was going on, but then took notice of their singular heading. Even the tenacious Blue Mooner had swung away from its pursuit and was mercifully granting him an end to the battle. Glenn was almost tempted to tear ass after him, but as he leveled his aircraft out, he realized he felt inches from passing out. Sweat consumed his flight suit. His nerves were shot from one end of the planet to the other. His heart rate still hadn't slowed down. His head felt like it had a sledgehammer ping-ponging around inside it from the gravitational forces.

He, frankly, could not give chase even if he'd wanted to.

Catching enough breath to speak, Glenn released his oxygen mask from his face, letting cool air rush onto his skin. It almost felt good, but the pain in his body otherwise prevented him from enjoying it. He gripped the mask and held it closer to his mouth. "All wings, sound off and report status."

Tuxedo Ral's normally wild tone was the first to crackle into Glenn's helmet. At first, the Thunderbolt flight leader wondered if it were really the squadron's second-in-command speaking. He'd never heard Tux sound so worn out – all the umph from the man's usually cool tone was gone. "Ral, standing by. Damage to my tail, but I'm okay."

"Banon, standing by. No damage to report."

"Royal, standing by. Internal damage, having some issues with my HUD, but I'm good to go."

Glenn listened to his comrades sound off one-by-one, eagerly awaiting the finish with hope. Please let them all be safe.

"Gallow, standing by. Took one to my fuselage and another to my wing. I'm fine."

"Banker, standing by." Thank goodness. "No damage to report."

"Yahasititapen." And Achmed muttered something so unintelligible that Glenn thought he'd have an easier time understanding whale songs, but Achmed's fighter was still intact, when he took a gander at it. That was enough for him. It was a miracle they were all even still flying at all.

Then, with his loudest and deepest sigh ever, the squadron flight leader weakly turned his eyesight towards Reagan Air Force Base. It was almost completely decimated beyond repair. It looked even worse than it had when he had first examined its condition during the furball. It had been his home since arriving at Macro Land, and now it was gone. He nor anyone said anything over the radio.

It wasn't until another Orange Star fighter began to ease up near his own. Captain de la Vega's tone coursed through his ears. "Lieutenant Gordon, have you and your pilots follow us to Dawn Air Force Base. We're running low on fuel, so we'll have to land before your squadron. I'll have brass bring you back to retrieve what belongings you can recover. Understood?"

Glenn didn't respond.

"Lieutenant," de la Vega repeated in his odd, foreign accent, voice emboldened.

The Thunderbolt flight leader's eyes turned away from Reagan into the horizon. "Yes-sir."

"Good. I'll take point. All aircraft, follow me." That said, the squadrons sailed into the night sky, away from the fires of ruin behind them and forming up with one another. No one from Heartbreak Squadron joined up with them – there was nothing left of them.

Glenn could only look back once.

--- --- ---

"What are you going to tell Commander Hawke, sir?" Judgment Six queried.

"It doesn't matter," One replied plainly. "We are going to accomplish our goals as I see fit, if you'll recall Rest assured, the next time we meet these men and women in battle will be the last. I will make certain of it if I have to die seeing it to its end."

"They fought harder than last time, though," Six admitted. "And with the loss of Five, I'm afraid death may be a possibility."

Silence overcome the squadron's radio connection. But the inevitable response came not from One, but from Judgment Seven, who uttered in a mildly inconvenienced tone:

"We'll see about that."

Judgment One turned and fixed Seven's fighter with a piercing gaze.

His slithery grin returned.

-----------------

Author Notes:

This chapter is a pretty long one, which explains why it took a while to get out, I guess. I hope you enjoyed it – and didn't get bored halfway through – and I'll see what I can do about getting the next one out a little bit quicker. And just for the record, Sarumarine, the guest appearance worked out better than I could have hoped, because it created an opportunity for some action with the Judges. I just hope the guest spot worked out for you too. I realize now I might have taken something away from the last chapter of "the Death Array" as a result of it, but... ah well. Anywho, thanks for reading, folks.