Thanks to CajunBear73, OechsnerC, and everyone else for their excellent commentary and reviews.

=O=

Chapter 26: Large Conventional War

"All flights, this is Mordor. Hobbit, I repeat, Hobbit."

In the cramped cockpit of her EF-4 Phantom Wild Weasel, Ruffnut Thorston shook herself awake. Behind her, Fishlegs Ingerman, her electronic warfare officer (EWO), did the same.

A hog of a fighter jet with two powerful turbojet engines, swept wings, and canted tailplanes, the Phantom epitomized the do-anything multirole fighter. The numerous variants of the fast jet could carry seven tonnes of bombs, dogfight MiGs, or, as in this case, kill enemy air defenses.

For the past week, Ruffnut and her EWO had flown endless sorties up and down the Indian-Pacifican border, a performer in a massive display of Pacifican airpower. The endless surges and withdraws had stretched even Ruffnut's nerves of steel to their limit.

Well, the wait was over. They were going to war.

"Altair, Vega, Rigel, Deneb. This is Sauron. Friendly RF-4s inbound 180/200 Bullseye. Do not engage."

Aww, what she'd have given to trade places with one of those RF-4s drivers! Burning over the treetops to snap pictures of SAMs and missiles while flak chased you across the sky – now that was a ride! If only that stupid flight line engineer hadn't recognized her in the other guy's uniform…

Eh, spilt milk. Her fun was about to start, and the adrenaline would be back the moment they started getting shot at.

Fishlegs spoke into the comm. "Altair 2, 3, 4. This is Altair Lead. We hit the deck at reference point. Castor will take high." He fiddled with the controls. "Rigel, this is Altair Lead. We'll call in targets as we see 'em; until then, go for preassigned targets."

"Flights, this is Sauron. Be advised, we have multiple bandits…"

Fishlegs smiled, and checked his map. This was a lot easier with Sauron around. The new AWACS birds rocked.

Hiccup's voice came in over the frequency. "Fishlegs… uh, Altair 1, this is Vega 5. We have top cover."

=O=

A hundred kilometers to the south, and twenty kilometers overhead, Toothless screamed across the sky, banging away at the earth and sky below with a powerful pulse doppler radar.

Dozens of dots crowded Hiccup's radar screen. Sauron, the big radar plane orbiting well inside friendly airspace, would tell him whether a plane was hostile or friendly if it came to it, but it was pretty clear that most of the southbound traffic – and there was a lot of it – was friendly.

Case in point was Snotlout – well, Vega 6, trailing Toothless by one hundred and fifty kilometers. To either side of them, along the length of the mighty Ganges, a half-dozen Blackbirds flew line abrest, sweeping southward to clear the skies for the strike packages behind them. To their rear, a veritable horde of SAC bombers – lumbering B-52s, supersonic B-58s, and space-age B-70s - flew figure-eight orbits right alongside the slow jammer aircraft, tankers, drone controllers, AWACS, and various intelligence planes that rounded out an Air Force, waiting for the fighters to clear out the worst of the Indian air defenses before beginning their runs.

The Blackbirds left scores of dots in the dust as they plowed ahead of the southbound strike packages. The fast jets below kissed the speed of sound as they hurtled across the continent, but for Hiccup and Astrid, they might as well have been parked on a tarmac. With so much going on below them, Hiccup felt as if he were a knight on horseback, lance held high, charging across a battlefield amidst a sea of footmen.

Watch out for longbows, then.

They had been thoroughly briefed on the target. They were headed back for the densest concentration of air defenses in South Asia – the missile complex the intelligence boys were calling "the Nest",

Last time they had been here, they'd been run out of town by enemy SAMs, Toothless had taken a shrapnel hit, and Astrid had almost, but not quite, bitten his head off.

While Hughes had developed an anti-radiation missile (ARM, a missile that homed in on radars to detroy them) for the Blackbird, the modified Falcon missiles were in limited supply, and since the Air Force was moving in with a series of large strike packages escorted by Wild Weasel anyway, Hiccup and Astrid had been assigned to kill enemy aircraft instead.

The call for targets went out, and Toothless turned his steely microwave gaze upon the nearest MiG.

"And… we have target lock. Fox three!"

A Falcon burned away from Toothless, and pounced upon a hapless MiG below.

Toothless's radar warning receiver warbled as SAMs reached skyward. "Astrid, SA-5 Gammons! 11 o'clock, extreme range!"

Astrid took Toothless into a gentle turn, keeping the MiGs well within her radar envelope. The SAMs tried to chase the aircraft across the sky, but failed to keep up with the turn.

On his radar, the target – Bravo-13 – had gone into a steep climb, forcing the missile to expend energy to track it.

Well, this does not bode well.

At the last possible moment, the MiG dove sharply. The unwieldy Falcon, designed to destroy ungainly bombers with a nuclear warhead, failed to keep up with the MiG, and missed.

Hiccup gritted his teeth. The enemy had already devised tactics against them. The optimistic engagement envelopes would need to be tightened sharply. "Vega 6, this one's yours." He switched to the package frequency. "All flights, MiGs are implementing evasive maneuvers. Launch two missiles, about forty seconds apart. Maneuver for a tail kill if possible, and close on target before weapons release. He's evading because he can either see the missile coming, or because he's timing us. I don't think they have the radar warning gear to track the active homing, but I wouldn't bet my life on it."

Snotlout, bypassing his backseater, scoffed. "The bandit's betting his life on it, not us. We can just sit back and rack up the kills."

"Fox three!" Snotlout's backseater called out. "Fox three!"

SAM calls echoed across the heavens as SA-5 radars roared to life around them, mixed with a cacophony of Fox Threes as the Blackbirds went to work.

Behind them, the MiG climbed for altitude again, dipped down to dodge one missile… and ran straight into the second one before he had a chance to repeat the maneuver.

"Vega 5, this is Vega 6. Scratch one bandit."

Snotlout's voice came in over the comm. "Yeah, baby! One kill! That's one red star!"

Hiccup ignored him, and focused on a MiG, frantically circling a SAM site to protect himself from the Blackbirds. "Astrid, run Bravo-16 over. We need that guy gone for the Weasels to do their work, and I want that guy deep inside our kill basket."

"And the SAM?"

Hiccup smirked. "Launch and roll."

Astrid chuckled. "Told you it'd come in handy."

They bore down on Bravo-16 even as Toothless warbled in alarm. "Fox three!"

Far below, two missiles left their launcher, ditched their boosters, and climbed skywards at Mach 7.

Hiccup gulped. "Fox three!"

Astrid took Toothless into a gentle turning climb while breaking into a very slow barrel roll, taking care to keep the radar tracking window on target. Hiccup swore as the radar broke lock, and again as the MiG dodged the first missile.

The second missile just plain missed.

"Astrid, we missed… Dive! Dive! Dive!"

At Mach 3 and 80,000 feet, Toothless went into a stately descent.

The missiles, each the girth of a tree-trunk and heavier than an African elephant, charged past them, and seemed to implode in their supersonic wake.

They cleared the SAM site, shaking loose a second pair of desperately-aimed SA-2s with barely enough juice to break 90,000 feet as they went.

Astrid was panting. "That was too close. I… do not recommend pulling that trick again."

Hiccup frantically checked his radar screen. Far below their supersonic wake, MiGs lay decimated by volleys of Falcons, low on precious fuel from executing evasive maneuvers and scattered across the sky.

But they still prowled the airspace over India.

"Flight, this is Sauron. Enemy air defense is heading for Castor. Phase Two is a go."

Hiccup sighed with relief. 'Castor' was the decoy drones, flying at medium level to draw attention. The strike package, flying at treetop level, could theoretically avoid any surviving MiGs.

After all, MiGs didn't have anything approaching look-down shoot-down capability.

=O=

They were calling the complex "The Nest". Ruffnut groaned at the totally square name. Why not 'the Ring of Doom" or "Red Death"?! You know, cause it was Communist and deadly.

That last one had a nice ring to it.

A complex of 'maybe eighty' strategic nuclear missiles, scattered across a few thousand square miles of Indian countryside amidst rustic little farms and villages, the Nest was defended by a multilevel air defense grid. The centerpiece of this grid was six overlapping SA-5 long-range SAM sites, defending against supersonic threats from the stratosphere. Medium altitude threats would be handled by dozens of fixed and mobile medium-range missile sites, the latter constantly changing position to avoid destruction. And below them all were hundreds of anti-aircraft guns, ready to shred any aircraft that got too close. MiGs flew from a regional interceptor base, complicating the task of any attacker.

Sure, it looked tough. But if a year of flying against the West Bengalis had taught her anything, Ruffnut knew that the Air Force could crack any defense. It was just a matter of, you know, how many lives, planes, and really expensive missiles you wanted to throw at it.

And smarts. Fishlegs would have added smarts, too.

It was just like taking down a giant monster. Take a good long look at it with satellites and recon birds, and figure out where all the eyes and ears and claws were. Then blind it by shooting at its eyes whenever they opened. While it's got its paws firmly clamped over its eyes, rush in, rip out the claws, gouge out the eyes, and gut the beast's exposed underbelly before the eyes and claws grow back. Because they always do.

Rinse and repeat as necessary.

They were flying smart this time. They really didn't need to dismember the entire nest – just knock down the big SA-5 Gammons and the interceptor base to give the supersonic bombers free reign over, like, all of India. Since airbases or ten-tonne liquid-fueled SAMs couldn't move or hide under a jungle or whatever, they were big targets.

Heck, in a nuclear war, they'd probably have thrown a few dozen nuclear missiles at the damned things just to be rid of them. But the Administration – as a pack of gutless squares was wont to do – hadn't let the Air Force use the right tools for the job.

So unto the breach they went once more.

"We are at reference point Charlie, and we are a go." Fishlegs pointed out.

Ruffnut grinned manically, tipped Meatlug III over –Fishlegs had insisted on the name even after the Bengalis had shot two Meatlugs from under them - and dove into the landscape of rolling hills and farms below her even as Fishlegs squealed like a little girl. The rest of Altair flight followed suit.

"WOO-HOO!" The hills and farms grew annoyingly large, and Ruffnut flattened out her Weasel. Startled water buffalo, denuded trees, and shredded roofs roared by her canopy at nine hundred kilometers an hour. Terrified Indian peasants ran hither and yon as four pairs of hot turbojets blasted jetwash just above the treetops, barreling across their peaceful little villages and farms like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Astride her, Altairs 2, 3, and 4 remained rock-steady, following her every move.

Ruffnut picked a river to follow, weaving between low rolling ridges to avoid SAM fire.

They'd be dead if they ran into a flak trap, but India was huge, and, as hard as they seemed to try, the Reds couldn't possibly build enough AA guns to cover everything.

"Nothing yet." Fishlegs reported boringly. Meatlug III, like all other Wild Weasels, was at its core a high-performance Phantom fighter jet, pimped out with the latest in electronic jammers, radar warning receivers, and other nerd gear, which Fishlegs insisted was necessary to kill SAMs and evade the few that got tossed their way.

"Oh. Castor's working. They've lighting up. Picking targets." Fishlegs got to work on his threat board.

Ruffnut sighed. In the good ol' days, they'd wave Meatlug in front of the radars and dodge. But nope, missiles had started getting too lethal for that to work well. Instead, Fishlegs's nerd squad had opted to fly in robot suicide planes. Flying enticingly above the strike package, the Lightning Bug drones would take the heat for them.

"Altair 2, Magnum! Missile away!" Altair 2 popped upwards, popped off a small anti-radiation missile (brevity code 'Magnum'), and ducked back down. "Scratch one emitter."

"Another one, zero-three-zero."

"Altair 2, Magnum!" Altair 2 took the shot again.

"Still emitting."

"Altair 4, Magnum!"

That seemed to work.

"Scratch two emitters."

Fishleg gasped, and Ruffnut glanced upward. High above her canopy, two… three… four… five… long smoke trails reached skywards, disappearing into a powder-blue sky. SA-5 Gammons, on their way to the stratosphere.

The Blackbirds looked busy, by the looks of it. She hoped Astrid would make it. It would be a crying shame to lose another friend.

They were in the Nest all right.

"Do we have Gammons to kill yet?" Ruffnut prodded.

"Vega lead, this is Altair lead, we are not picking up Gammon radars, I repeat, we are not…"

"Altair lead, this is Vega lead. We're out of position. Shifting to your six o' clock. Just pop up and kill on my mark. Crap. This is getting heavy…"

Another pair of white streaks reached skyward.

Fishlegs checked his map. "Uhh… Ruff? We passed one! Three o'clock, fifteen klicks. Radar's pointed the wrong way. Over the shoulder?" Fishlegs tensed.

"Yee-haw! Altair 2, cover! Legs, when I say shoot, shoot!" Ruffnut pondered the location, shrugged, and pulled Meatlug into a tight, eight-gee loop that squished them both against their ejection seats. "Now!"

"Magnum!" At apogee, with Meatlug momentarily pointed in the right direction, Fishlegs let loose an ARM, which arced high over the battlefield until it found the Gammon radar.

Another radar painted them, and ate another ARM from Altair 2.

The growl of Gammons finally rang true in their headsets, and a cacophony of Magnum calls filled the airwaves as Altair flight took their shots.

Fishlegs nodded in satisfaction as Gammon after Gammon went silent.

"Altair, this is Vega 2. Good work." There was a pause. "Vega 1 is down. Could you please check for chutes?"

Ruffnut scoffed. Who would survive ejecting at 70,000 feet and Mach 3?

"They're not emitting." Fishlegs searched his threat board for medium-range missiles.

"You think they caught on to the fact that we're using drones?"

Ruffnut rolled her eyes. "Well, duh! They know we're not suicidal enough to fly at 6,000 feet, don't they? Okay, watch this. They're probably in grid 754. Altair 3, get 'em in the ass."

Ruffnut yanked hard on the stick, and brought Meatlug into a steep climb before diving onto a convenient-looking grid square. "There. You want to shoot a Phantom diving on a target? Come get it, you bastards!"

Meatlug screamed in alarm, and Ruffnut laughed as she caught sight of two smoke trails, coming in from her left. "Left, left, left…"

"Magnum!"

"Now!" A missile roared off its launch rail, and chaff and flares spilled from Meatlug's fuselage as Ruffnut brought the jet into a snap roll to the deck, an unblinking eye on the smallish missiles streaking towards them.

They missed, detonating some distance off in balls of fire and fury.

"There. Once more around the airfield, and we let the boys blow this!"

They swept the environs of the airfield as flak seemed to flow around them. "Rigel, Deneb, Spica, Algol, this is Altair lead. You are clear for..."

Beside her, Altair 2 exploded.

Acting on instinct, Ruffnut took Meatlug into a wingover, and was rewarded by the sight of a MiG-21 bearing down on her. "This is Altair lead! We've got MiGs over the airfield!"

=O=

The contact report came in, and Hiccup swore as they turned left again, leaving another SA-5 chasing their supersonic wake. Toothless warbled incessantly as older SA-2s tore skywards towards them. The old SA-2s had barely enough fuel to reach Toothless at altitude, and were unlikely to hit anything, but the cheap, plentiful missiles were being launched in droves, and had to be tracked lest someone get in a lucky shot.

"Astrid, Ruff's in trouble! It's Altair lead!"

"Pointing us at 'em!"

Hiccup's screen filled with dots. From every point of the compass, Waves of F-111 fighter-bombers were swarming the nest, clipping the treetops as they tore towards airfields and SAM sites.

Just above them were three bogeys. Foxes among the chickens.

Hiccup locked onto the lowest. "Fox three! We're Winchester!"

=O=

Ruffnut barreled across the airfield perimeter at three hundred feet as a sea of flak swept past them. Fishlegs's neck throbbed painfully as he tracked the MiG – correction, two MiGs - across the sky.

"Ruff, they're still following us!"

Crazy bastards! The MiG pilots would have to be crazy to follow their quarry through their own flak guns. Ruffnut liked them already.

A ripping noise reverberated through the aircraft as a cannon shell struck home.

"Just the wing, Ruff! Keep flying!"

Another burst of cannon fire ripped past them. Soviet heatseekers probably couldn't work this close to the nice hot ground, and the MiGs had no radar at this height.

"Ruff, he's got us!"

A flat, steady voice echoed over the radio. "Ruff, this is Vega 5; turn two o'clock on my mark!"

Her radar warning receiver beeped, and Ruff swore, hoping that the Falcon would not be let off its leash.

Another burst of cannon fire streaked invisibly by Meatlug even as one of the fighters broke for altitude, ready to dodge the incoming missile. The ascending MiG turned sharply as an Indian SA-6 streaked past it, drawing curtains of flak all the while. Out of the fight.

Apparently, this was an air defense free-fire zone.

The other stayed on the deck.

"MARK!"

Ruffnut turned, presenting Meatlug's un-doppler-shifted-flank to the doppler-radar-guided missile.

The MiG followed – a few seconds too slow. The Falcon headed straight for him. He broke into a roll at the last moment – and ran smack into a hill, exploding in an impressive fireball.

The sound of her own breathing overwhelmed her as Ruffnut realized that she was still breathing.

"Holy crap. Hiccup really knows how to make someone wet his pants, doesn't he?" Fishlegs panted heavily as sixty seconds of repressed terror began coursing through his system.

Ruffnut whooped. "Oh my god that was awesome!" She got on the radio. "Guys, you missed, but the bandit evaded into the ground. Scratch one bandit."

"Uhh… Ruff. The strike package is here." Fishlegs

"This I gotta see!" Ruff craned her head in the direction of the airfield.

Waves of terrain-hugging fighter-bombers swarmed the Nest. Kissing the treetops at just over Mach 1, wings swept all the way back and afterburners blazing, the jets surfed a sea of flak as they made their attack runs. Columns of parachute-retarded high explosives, cluster bombs, runway-cratering weapons, and landmines (to spite anyone who tried to clean up the runways) spilled from their wings, falling onto aprons, aircraft, missile launchers, and slightly-damaged radars.

They wouldn't get them all, and the SAM sites and airfields would probably be back up and running in days, but with the blockade on, parts for SAM launchers, radars, and fighter aircraft were irreplaceable. And with the Gammons gone, SAC Valkyries, now practically untouchable, would return in force to bomb the SAM sites and airfields again and again, keeping them closed for good.

Here and there, fighter-bombers fell to flak, but by the time Ruffnut made her last pass against a SAM site and left for home, a mostly intact strike force was already winging its way back to friendly skies.

=O=

Hiccup gargled as he ran back to Toothless, hurriedly swallowing the disgusting liquid to clear the remnants of a meat stew from his teeth.

They were going back into to cover the SAC bombers hurriedly reattacking airfields across India – the second of the three sorties scheduled for today's air operations.

Astrid was already performing her preflight. "Everything looks good up here." Her voice was sullen – everyone was on edge after the loss of the squadron CO.

"Good back here." Hiccup chirped. "Astrid – we got a kill today. That's five under your belt. You've made ace."

Astrid rolled the word on her tongue. Ace. Ace. She shrugged. "Eh. Isn't going to count for much when the mushroom clouds go up."

=O=

Author's note: Military tactical call signs typically change depending on mission, unit and date (some call signs are changed daily to avoid giving too much information to the enemy).

Real-world: The use of drones in combat goes back substantially further than is commonly appreciated. Ryan Lightning Bug drones were used extensively for reconnaissance (with honest-to-god film cameras) back in Vietnam starting in the mid-60s, and proposals for their use as strike aircraft and SEAD aids (with early guided munitions) surfaced in the early-mid seventies.