Thanks to CajunBear73 for his review and input.
=O=
Chapter 13
Bullets chased each other across the stratosphere, sending sharp cracks across the valleys, mountains, and lakes of the desolate Qingzang Plateau. Beams of energy swept the skies above and below them, as titanium monsters eagerly sought out things to kill.
Astrid whooped as she took Toothless into a turn the size of Scotland at three times the speed of sound. Behind her, Hiccup frantically worked his slide rule as he plotted their course with a grease pencil. Toothless shuddered gently as the turn, at four thousand kilometers an hour, pushed his titanium skeleton to its limits.
Somewhere out there in the wild blue yonder was Snotlout, and Astrid was just itching to lock their fire control radar onto the obnoxious bastard.
Nine minutes ticked by. Hey, you try making a bullet the size of a locomotive turn a corner!
"Astrid, break out of your turn… now."
A gentle two gees tugged at her straps as Astrid deftly maneuvered Toothless through an S-turn the size of Wales. Hiccup, sweating like crazy in his pressure suit, continually updated their course, trying his best to set up a shot against Snotlout's Blackbird.
"Okay, Astrid, if our last plot was good, this should bring him into our kill basket." Hiccup's hands shook. "Astrid, this is stupid. Training while carrying live warshots is an accident waiting to happen."
"CO okayed the practice last week. And lord knows we need it."
The breakneck buildup of the supersonic interceptor force and increasingly frequent Soviet and Indian probes of Pacifican airspace – all of which had to be greeted by interceptors - had left everyone short on practice for everything except interceptions. Regional commanders had taken to authorizing air-to-air combat training during interceptor patrols.
"It's unsafe, and it screws over our ability to do our jobs." Hiccup opined.
"Desperate times, Hiccup."
Hiccup concentrated on his radar. If he had plotted this right, Snotlout would be hard-pressed to stay out of his envelope. He'd seen Snotlout's bird break right before on the previous pass, so this vector should have put Toothless right alongside… Bingo.
"We've got him on radar, Astrid! Run him over!"
While the Falcon missile could in theory run Snotlout down, in practice, the high speed and substantial maneuverability of the Blackbird limited engagement envelopes to a few dozen kilometers.
Astrid gunned the throttle, and they sped towards Snotlout. With Toothless outside his radar "cone", Snotlout's backseater couldn't shoot at them. Guided by his backseater's radar warning receivers, Snotlout maneuvered wildly, plunging to fifty thousand feet and turning sharply as he sought to shake their pursuers.
But Snotlout's vector limited his options. Astrid took Toothless into a countrysized turn at three times the speed of sound as they chased Snotlout down the length of Gansu.
"Telescopic camera on." Hiccup double-checked his switches, careful to avoid any of the missile arming units on his console.
Behind a quartz window in Toothless's nose, a telescopic TV camera whirred to life, and a fuzzy picture appeared on Hiccup's screen.
The need for a telescopic TV camera had been one of the simpler lessons learned from Operation Impending Doom over Siberia. Over the frozen wastes of the Soviet Far East, the need for visual identification had forced Pacifican aircraft to fight MiGs at close range, negating the Pacifican advantage in long-range air-to-air missile combat. In the clear, cloudless stratosphere, the telescopic TV camera worked like a charm.
Hiccup picked up the radio. "Plasma 8, you're dead! I have your picture."
Curses came over the frequency.
Astrid chuckled. "That's three for three, Hiccup. Can we go for one more?"
Hiccup shook his head. "Nah. Fuel's a bit low. We need to hit the tanker."
Toothless slurped jet fuel hungrily from the Stratotanker as Astrid carefully watched her gauges, her hand carefully perched on the stick. The wake of the airliner-sized tanker was not quite the smoothest patch of air, and Toothless handled differently at a mere Mach 0.75 and 25,000 feet.
Hiccup was doing well, Astrid thought. Heck, between exercises and intercepts, they were holding their own against far more experienced Blackbird pilots after just a month in-theater.
"Astrid, we've got a problem. Longhouse reports four bandits headed for the border, and wants us over the Eastern Sector, stat."
"Well, what are we waiting for?! Let's go!" Astrid's heart quickened.
Five kills makes an ace. I just need one more. I can do this, easy!
The mission comes first, Astrid. Don't get kill-happy.
But one more kill would be really nice, too.
Their bellies bulging with thirty tonnes each of JP-7, the Blackbirds burned towards the Eastern Sector.
"Astrid, we're going to hit the border soon. Just a quick reminder - Rules Of Engagement forbid us from going any further than a hundred klicks south of the border – to give us room to turn around - and from engaging any bird over Indian airspace without explicit orders. All targets must be identified visually before engaging."
"You handle the ROE. I'll handle Toothless." Astrid ran through a short systems check as they approached the borderlands.
Hiccup maneuvered Plasma flight through a complex series of turns, bringing them parallel to the backbone of the Himalayas – the great mountain range that had for centuries divided the civilizations of the Yellow River from those of the Ganges and Indus.
For millennia, alphabets, religions, and armies had marched along a great axis, stretching east-to-west from the jungles of Bengal, through the Fertile Crescent, to the Irish Sea. Alexander the Great, the Mughals, and the Persians had all marched thousands of miles along this great axis, but had only made the scarcest of inroads to the flourishing tributary networks of East and Central Asia just a thousand miles to its north.
The Himalayas even defined language families. Northeast of the Himalayas was the domain of the Sino-Tibetan languages; to their south and west, Indo-European languages ruled instead.
But the age of the jet engine had all but erased this ancient barrier, and with Revolutionary Communism running rampant on the other side, more reliable protection was required than a mere thousand miles of folded geology.
Aerospace Defense Command's vast network of interceptor bases, airborne radar aircraft, command centers, and supersonic interceptors provided that protection.
Hiccup's eyes went wide as he surveyed the dots on his radar screen, all heading north. "Longhouse, this is Plasma 9. We have eight bogies… no six bogies… four, heading north-northwest." Hiccup frowned. They were at right angles to the damned bogies – which meant doppler wasn't working very well.
Astrid frowned. "What the heck is going on down there?"
=O=
Disputed Area
The Indian officer waved his pistol in the air. "You people are trespassing on Indian territory! Depart immediately or…"
"No, you imbeciles are on Pacifican territory! According to your maps, you are on our side of your bloody claim line, and you bastards bloody well know it! Heck, according to my maps, I'd say you people are a hundred miles inside Tibet! Get the bloody hell out, and let my convoy through!"
Perched atop his command vehicle, the Airborne Captain scrunched up his script and tossed it in the general direction of the enemy. Beside him, on the lip of the only macadamized road running through the Eastern Sector, one of his Sheridan light tanks leveled its stubby main gun at the Indian officer.
"No, you are mistaken. This is sovereign…"
Crack-crack-crack-crack!
The Captain and the Indian officer locked eyes, surprise etched on both their faces.
Then the Sheridan opened fire, the Indians on the road just disintegrated under a hail of steel darts, the Sheridan exploded as the report of an Indian recoilless rifle echoed rocked the desolate valley, and go go go go go his command vehicle sped backwards down the bumpy mountain road, falling in column behind his second Sheridan as they reversed down the road as fast as they could.
Automatic weapons fire was echoing all throughout the valley now. That was probably his lead platoon, which he had assigned to surround the Indian roadblock in anticipation of another routine shouting match. The Indians usually turned turtle when his helicopters dropped troops around the roadblock. Well, routine had very much been broken.
Mortar rounds screamed down on the light tanks even as they reversed down the valley, and he ducked down.
"Pop smoke! Pop smoke!"
Billowing clouds of smoke poured from grenade launchers, hopefully hiding them from enemy mortar spotters long enough for them to escape back to the main body of the convoy.
The Airborne Captain cursed his decision not to command his convoy from his helicopter as he craned his head, desperately trying to find the Indian positions buried in the gravelly hillsides through his own smokescreen.
"Sir, first platoon's locked in a firefight with an Indian platoon. They're coming under mortar fire."
The Indians had set up their mortar positions well, making maximum use of the little concealment available to elude his helicopters.
The Captain turned to his radioman. "Where the heck are our gunships?!"
"Hiding over the next ridge, sir! Indian fast air is in play!"
"What?"
The roar of turbojets echoed down the valley, and the Captain looked up.
A pencil-thin jet, the orange-and-green roundel of the Indian Air Force painted on its gleaming silver fuselage, flashed overhead, followed immediately afterward by a jungle-green JGAF F-4 Phantom, liquid heat blazing from its afterburners.
The Indian officer had obviously not been expecting a shootout. The Indians – well, these Indians - hadn't wanted a fight. And if the Indians were going to fight, they'd have to fall back to pound 'em out with artillery and airpower anyway.
The Captain made his decision. "Get first platoon to disengage and fall back! Inform battalion of our retreat. And get this convoy turned around!"
Another F-4 Phantom screamed down the valley as Indian mortar fire began to slacken.
=O=
Stoick chewed another antacid, wincing at the powdery taste as he washed the remnants down with saliva.
The officer put down his phone. "Sir, battalion confirms that the on-scene commander has decided to withdraw and regroup. He intends to force the roadblock later. But we still have a platoon in contact, requiring helicopter extraction."
Stoick gritted his teeth. Should they cover the helicopters and leave open the option of evacuating troops by force? Or would it be best to withdraw the aircraft and hope for a peaceful disengagement? Or should he leave the decision to the pilots on-scene?
"Do the pilots know the risk of a blue-on-blue?"
"Yessir."
"Tell them to stay with the helicopters. It'll at least look like a furball on radar."
=O=
Snotlout came in on the radio. "IFF's negative. Indian strike package, headed north.'
Jamming could explain the discrepancies in the number of bogies – that, or pairs of aircraft flying very close to each other. Or doppler beaming.
"Longhouse, this is Plasma 8. Request permission to engage targets." Snotlout's backseater rattled on as Hiccup frowned. We've got dots all over the place. Five now. IFF's not responding.
"Plasma 8, this is Longhouse. Verifying. No scheduled flights in the area."
"Let's get 'em!" Astrid said. She gunned the throttle, and they headed straight for the bandits.
Check altitude… pretty low. Avoiding radar? But why are these two up high?
Hiccup frowned as the dots began to turn in different directions. "Snotlout, something's not right. Advise weapons hold until you have positive visual identification on the targets."
"Screw visual identification! You have four kills, I have none! I'm getting a kill today!" Snotlout yelled at his backseater. "Get to it, man! You take orders from me, not from Hiccup!"
Snotlout's backseater picked a side. "We're not breaking ROE! This is Plasma 8. Weapons safe."
"They're turning back." Hiccup took a deep breath as four, then eight bandits turned sharply again. Two bandits disappeared from radar as they hit ninety degrees to their radars, beaming them.
They closed in on the bandits as they turned south. Frantic, Hiccup slewed his telescopic camera onto the nearest blip. A fuzzy shape darted between clouds on his monitor. Hiccup squinted as flashes of grey and silver teased his eyes from between veils of cloud. Come on, come on…
The stepped nose and raked tail of a MiG came into view. He frowned, unconvinced.
"This is Plasma 8, we have MiGs. Preparing to fire."
"Hold fire, Plasma 8." Hiccup said. "Something's not right." Please be right please be right please be right…
Snotlout was furious. "What is the matter with you?! We'll lose the shot! They'll be gone by the time we come around for another pass!"
Astrid kept her eyes on her instruments. I want to finish this! I can get that fifth kill!
No. Hiccup has the tactical picture.
"Astrid, you tell him!" Hiccup yelled.
Astrid complied without a thought. "Plasma 8, as flight leader, I'm ordering you to hold your fire!" She turned off the comm. "Hiccup, we have visual identification. If we don't shoot now, we'll have to come around for another pass."
Hiccup gulped, and turned his camera onto the next bogey. Astrid really wants that kill.
A jungle-green shape emerged from the clouds, hot on the MiG's tail. An F-4.
Hiccup resisted the urge to sigh with relief. "Longhouse, this is Plasma. We've got F-4s down there. They're chasing MiGs across the sky. It's a damned furball." Hiccup shook his head. "I don't see any missile trails yet – TAC might be flying under different ROE." He examined the dots, and began filling in a worksheet. "Astrid, break left. Bring us around."
Astrid raised an eyebrow. "That'll take us over Indian airspace."
"The Indians have birds in the air. Any Indian SAMs are going to be weapons tight." He checked his map. "And the Phantoms probably aren't going to enter Indian airspace. We can separate the wheat from the chaff and shoot 'em down as they break for the border."
They passed the border, arcing across the Himalayan watershed and zipping across Nepal.
An audible click echoed through the cockpit as Hiccup killed the battery to the flight data recorder. "Astrid, we've just had a malfunction in our flight data recorder. Operator error." Hiccup took a deep breath.
Astrid did a double take. Hiccup took documentation seriously. Why would he…
So I can get the kill.
An unusual warmth spread through her chest. Encased as it was in a grey-green pressure suit, it didn't get far.
"Must be the supplier. I heard everyone lost a lot of flight data recorders back in Impending Doom."
"Yeah, we did." The Administration's red lines and free-fire zones had badly restricted air combat over Siberia. Aircrews had responded by being careless with their records, crediting kills to pilots without adequate location or timing data.
"Well, Hiccup, that's too bad." Astrid sing-songed. "Thank goodness Longhouse is watching us like a hawk."
"Understood, Astrid." Hiccup checked his screen, disappointed. "If the Indians break south, they'll be right in front of us. Adjust heading zero-eight five – we might just be able to catch them before they hit the border."
The furball broke up, and four dots streamed southward, back across the Indian border. Hiccup trained the telescope on the nearest bogey. A MiG was in his sights.
"Plasma flight, this is Longhouse. Cease fire. Break off intercept and return to friendly airspace."
Hiccup groaned. A moment too soon.
Astrid smiled. "Come on. You did a good job picking up friendlies. I don't know about 'lout over there, but I prefer not having a possible blue-on-blue on my conscience to having an extra red star."
Hiccup didn't say anything as they passed back into friendly airspace.
Astrid took a deep breath. "Hey, Hiccup?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For trying, I mean. I… really wanted that."
=O=
"Sir, all aircraft have disengaged. The ADC flight is heading back to base. Ground forces report that the Indians have stopped shooting. An advance party is heading up to parley."
Stoick breathed a sigh of relief. Another skirmish deescalated.
The Indians would receive the hammer blow soon.
But now was not the time.
=O=
The Officer's Club was in a celebratory mood. The Mid-Autumn Festival was just a few weeks away, and everyone was excited for leave, country fairs, and the obligatory drunken fireworks-fueled moon-watching picnics held under the light of the full moon.
Astrid eagerly described the failed intercept to the gathered squadron, even as Hiccup nervously scanned the table, trying his best to read the room.
The squadron XO, a black-haired, slightly wrinkly woman hailing from sweltering Guangdong, nodded as Astrid completed her tale. "Impressive." She turned to Hiccup. "Excellent work on the maneuvers, Captain."
"Thank you, ma'am. It wasn't much, really. Anyone could have done it - and to be honest, my initial approach was sub-optimal. Astrid gave you the gist, but you'll see what I mean when we take this from the top. Considerations for an engagement typically include…" Hiccup launched into a lengthy and enthusiastic explanation of the geometry and logic of the intercept, even as he secretly hoped that the people staring at him weren't laughing at him behind expressionless faces.
Snotlout laughed as Hiccup completed his monologue. "We'll keep that in mind for when we don't want to shoot something down."
Astrid kept her tone level. "You'd have shot down a Phantom if it weren't for Hiccup."
Snotlout scoffed. "Yeah, right. There's no need to exaggerate, Astrid. He's just your backseater. Him doing well doesn't reflect on you or anything." Snotlout threw back a beer. "And don't you remember how he almost killed you?"
The backseaters at the table glared at the abrasive pilot, even as Snotlout held his bottle threateningly in a heavily muscled arm.
He leaned forward. "I mean, look at him. Look at this overcomplicated bullshit!" He picked up Hiccup's napkin diagram, and waved dismissively at the backseater. "You might be a good technician, and a good button pusher, but you aren't a warrior." He gesticulated to the color TV, where a Sheridan tank burned fiercely. "And there's a war – a real war - coming."
Hiccup glanced around the table, and locked eyes with Astrid, who just smiled and nodded. He turned back to Snotlout.
"Sure, Snotlout. I'm not a warrior." He ticked the corner of his mouth upward. "I'm a professional. You, on the other hand…" Hiccup trailed off.
Snotlout lunged at him, but strong arms held him back. "There's a war coming, Hiccup! You'll crack! I know it!"
=O=
Author's note: Things are heating up - both on and off the battlefield. I came close to cutting this chapter entirely, but Hiccup really needed some extra time to get to know his friends, and build trust with Astrid before what I have planned, and I like how it turned out.
Real History: Back in Vietnam, people often scoffed at rules of engagement requiring visual contact, but the US had so many more planes in the sky than the North Vietnamese (think nine-tenths of contacts friendly), revoking those rules of engagement would likely have caused more US aircraft shot down to friendly fire, especially with the comparatively primitive air battle management technology of the time.