AN/: A special thanks to an old friend for putting together the cover image and helping to proofread and check my work.

NOTE: You do not need to read any of my other content before this. This story is a standalone piece.

"All courses of action are risky, so prudence is not in avoiding danger, but calculating risk and acting decisively. Make mistakes of ambition and not mistakes of sloth. Develop the strength to do bold things, not the strength to suffer."

― Niccolò Machiavelli

Chapter 1: Reconnoiter

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered to myself in frustration.

A twenty plus line of returning ship crewmen had formed and were processing through the Entry Control Point, or ECP. And the purpose of this waiting? An ID check to just be allowed to enter the pier where the remaining ships of the once respected Independent State Allied Forces' navy were docked. Olinvan Naval Base at North Point City was one of the only friendly major ports left for the ISAF to dock, so many ships dotted the piers and moorings.

And now I had to get in line.

I shuffled into the rear of the line as my eyes moved to the checkpoint itself. On the left side of the entryway was the checkpoint office, with what looked like a Petty Officer 2nd Class running the show. A light blue ISAF flag fluttered in front of a light blue morning sky. On the flag was the three white 'arrowheads' forming a triangle pattern, the insignia of the alliance. Usually the Petty Officer would be in charge of some other sailors who had to don plate carriers and carry battle rifles in order to be intimidating to the locals, but today was different.

The checkpoint guards were from the Federation of Central Usea, as denoted by their red and white diagonal cross flag patches on their left shoulders, and to boot, they were Marines, and Force Recon ones at that. They were decked out in dark grey urban multicam ammo, a full body armor kit with helmet mounted night-vision, and were packing heavy weaponry, including carbines, light machine guns, and even a recoilless rifle. These guys meant business and betrayed just how valuable the remaining ships were.

As the line shuffled forward, occasionally a Marine would randomly take a sailor's duffel bag and search it for anything suspicious. They were ignoring obvious contraband, mostly tobacco products, in search of more dangerous hidden surprises: explosives.

When I finally reached the front of the line, a clearly annoyed Petty Officer 2nd Class held out her hand, waiting for me to hand over my ID. I reached inside the pocket of my OD green flight suit and handed it over, and her eyebrows immediately raised at the sight of my card.

Looking up at me, she saw a 24 year old, medium-tanned pilot, with an oval shaped head, and very dark brown hair on the sides under a blue garrison cap. I took my sunglasses off to reveal my blueish-green eyes and scarred eyebrows and nose, which I had earned from my proclivity towards mechanical labor.

"A pilot? I thought there weren't any of you left around here, sir."

"Sorry to disappoint you," I smiled as I put my aviators back over my eyes.

After another moment, she waved me through and I re-adjusted my duffel pack on my shoulder as I headed down the pier to a familiar ship, the aircraft carrier and pride of the FCU's navy, the Fort Grace.

My thoughts were distracted as I the towering ship in at the end of the pier grew nearer and nearer. The Fort Grace was one of the few remaining "big-decks" in the ISAF navy and was the only operational carrier left in the fleet, with the rest of them either sunk or damaged and sitting in dry dock. I served on the Fort Grace a few years prior as a part of the Central Usea Treaty Organization, or CUT. I was one of the few of the conscripted forces from North Point who had earned a slot.

The Fort Grace, or 'The Grace' as everyone called her, was a Kitty-hawk class aircraft carrier that had been a cast-off from the Osean navy, who were eager to make some money after upgrading their entire eight carrier fleet up to the Hubert class. When the Oseans opened the door for offers, the FCU eagerly bought three carriers. Now, one of them was underwater in the Cascade ocean, sunk by Erusean harpoon missiles, and the other was badly damaged and in dry dock on the eastern part of North Point, away from the fighting. The Grace was the last operational carrier for the entire coalition.

So much for having 'insurmountable' numerical superiority.

As I reached the gangplank to the ship, trailing a few other sailors, we all turned towards where the ship's ensign should have been flying, at the very rear of the ship, and snapped to a salute. Every sailor was required to do so before entering the quarter-deck, or the primary entryway to the Grace. A few moments later, everyone was heading up the gangplank for a meeting with the 'OOD', or the Officer of the Deck.

If all that screening before getting to the ship was annoying, now there was a whole other ordeal to go through with the OOD.

A Chief Petty Officer, as it often was, stood behind a podium, while his armed-to-the-teeth henchman, the POOW, the Petty Officer of the Watch, and a go-fer MOOW, or Messenger of the Watch, would assist in processing. Behind them was the large open entryway into the hangar deck, where the crashing and banging of metal easily came through to where we were all standing. Above the entryway was a copy of the ensign on the ship's flag pole, with the ISAF Flag, the FCU flag for the origin and direct command of the ship, and the North Point flag, a dark blue flag white a bright white off-centered Vikkan cross.

This processing was a little slower because of these authentications being much more important. And probably since they were expecting new crew members, case in point: me, they were being more stringent than usual. Once the enlisted sailors in front of me processed through, it was my turn to be on my best behavior.

I walked up to the podium briskly, and saluted the Chief quickly and handed over my ID, muster papers, along with my command-issued assignment form. The Chief's name tag read "Holsson".

"Sir, Lieutenant Elias Martin reporting in as ordered for duty with Mobius squadron, sir!" I snapped to attention, holding my salute.

The Chief quickly saluted back from behind his podium as he went over to his roster board to the pilot list. For fixed-wing fighter pilots, there were only three names, including mine listed. He checked me off the list and motioned for the POOW to scan my ID, who quickly did so.

"Well, I guess I'm the first to say welcome back to the Grace, Lieutenant Martin," The Chief sighed as he retook his position behind the podium and handed my papers back over, "Walters, notify the bridge that Lieutenant Martin's here."

"Aye aye, Chief," the MOOW saluted and spun into a jog over towards the main staircase to my left.

"There's only three pilots coming in?" I asked, gesturing to the board.

"That's an affirmative. We lost all of our fixed-wing pilots either in the defense of the continent or in the withdrawal from Saint Ark on the east coast of Usea when the full-pullout was ordered. From what I've heard there's almost nobody up to speed in the North Point Navy that's carrier certified. But luckily, we've got you and the two others. Hopefully you can get us out of the mess we've gotten ourselves into here, Lieutenant," the Chief wryly smirked, "You can go ahead and head up to PRIFLY and get your immediate assignment."

"Well, that's what they pay us the big bucks for, Chief," I replied with another salute, which the Chief quickly returned as I passed through the quarter-deck checkpoint.

I walked over towards the hangar deck, taking off my garrison cap, and headed through the entry-way to take a look at what was going on. The yellow, green, white, red, blue, purple, and brown colored uniformed crew members were hard at work on the helicopters as well as on the surprisingly few fighter craft that occupied the hangar deck.

The clangs of metal, the grinding and whirs of saws and drills all filled the air, the sounds of sailors hard at work. I surveyed the hangar for a minute, I grimaced slightly at the results. I could only count three fighters out of all the aircraft, and on top of that the three were borderline obsolescent F-4 Phantom IIs. They all seemed to be the later F-4J models, but even still, flying an F-4 in 2004 against the cream of the crop of the Erusean Air Force didn't seem that appealing. But it was a familiar bird to me.

I turned back to the quarterdeck and found a stairway that would lead up to PRIFLY or, primary flight control, and the airboss, my direct superior for the coming weeks and months. The airboss was in charge of all flight operations on the Fort Grace. Once I arrived at the tower level, I was greeted by the daylight through the many windows that gave a clear view down on the entire flight deck, in all its charcoal black colored glory. The area was covered in magnet boards allowing for on the fly organization of launching and landing of aircraft on the flight deck. Pilots didn't spend much time here, but I always preferred to get my bearings and see things first-hand instead of assuming what operations were.

But lucky for me, the airboss was a familiar face.

"Commander Hexford?" I asked skeptically, as I noticed a tall, blonde haired figure standing peering out the port windows to the front of the flight deck.

The figure turned and immediately grinned. It was Hexford alright.

"Son of a bitch! Martin, is that really you? You're one of the replacement pilots?" Hexford said in disbelief, wiping his brow on the sleeve of his brown shirt, denoting his previous service working in the aircraft preparation part of the deck crew. He had a blocky head and a thick jaw-line and neck to go with it. But his dark green eyes stood out most in contrast to his skin's sailor tan.

"Yeah, been a while since the Cascade ocean tours, hasn't it?" I replied with a chuckle.

"It's sure as hell nice to have a familiar face in our flight crew, I wasn't really sure what to expect," he grinned back as he gestured for me to take a seat on a repurposed bar stool that now served as one of the perches for the flight deck officers.

"I've heard things haven't been going too hot, in both the war and the personnel department," I lamented as I looked out to the seemingly endless expanse of the Reisling Bay and the ocean out beyond to the north.

"That's an understatement," Hexford nodded, his head drooping slightly, "We lost pretty much our whole contingent in defensive operations, and the last of them during the withdrawal from the Usean mainland. We've got those three Phantoms as spare planes for crew we don't, and for now still don't entirely have yet. But that's it. We've got some Force Recon Marines on here that have been antsy for a fight ever since we picked them up at St. Ark off the east coast of Usea."

"Explains all the helicopters then," I commented as my gaze returned back to Hexford, "Any idea on what the plan is supposed to be for the near future?"

"Mostly buying time. The ISAF is in no position to launch an offensive to take back Usea anytime soon. Especially since we're drawing heavily now from North Point's forces."

I chuckled, "We're ready to fight for a last-ditch effort, not a prolonged conflict. The ISAF is probably drilling the hell out of whoever they can get their hands on now."

"That seems to be the case for your two counterparts," Hexford grunted as he shifted in his seat, leaning back up against the window frame, "They're just about finished with conversion training but they'll be here in a day or two."

"So I get to babysit rookies in addition to being the last remnant of the ISAF naval air force?"

"For the most part," Hexford bluntly added.

"So we're definitely not making it out alive this time," I sighed, "I haven't even gotten a confirmed air-to-air kill before, and they're expecting me to do everything?"

"Don't mistake my bluntness for acceptance," Hexford conveyed by placing his hands up, "The ISAF's directives have been utterly frustrating from the beginning. They stretched us too far, too fast and that led to the Eruseans pounding the crap out of us at every turn. Advancing through Central Usea was like a cakewalk to them."

"They won't get North Point as easy. They've got the straight to cross, and a force fighting like hell for its home turf. The whole country has been prepared for a moment like this. It's why they kept the conscription program around for so long. Eventually the assholes come to your door, and you've got to fight like hell to keep your home."

"I hope you're right," Hexford nodded, "Why didn't you volunteer to join up with the ISAF when the shooting started, Elias?"

I couldn't help but let a smile grow on my face, "I finally found something outside the military that I enjoyed doing."

"And what might that be?"

"Starting racing kit-built cars professionally."

"No shit? That's pretty cool, I have to admit, that's a sweet gig. I don't think you'd feel like you were working a day in your life," Hexford laughed, "But we still could've used you."

"I know," I replied with a grim frown, "But it seems like you really needed me more now, Commander."

"Funny how the world plays things out like that," Hexford shook his head as he got up from his seat and looked around for a moment. "As far as I know you've got your old bunk in the officer's section on the 02 level. Of course, you have all the same rules and privileges as before, so keep yourself out of trouble. At least for now you can have the Mobius squadron area all to yourself though."

"Not sure if that's really a blessing or not, Commander," I replied as I stood up and gave a salute.

Hexford returned it, "We'll find out soon enough. I'll send someone for you if anything develops in the near future."

"Aye aye, sir," I replied as I headed back to the staircase and down to the officer's quarters.

I passed a few other full and junior-grade lieutenants in the stairways and they gave me some not-so-nice glances in my direction. Probably were upset that more people were coming to take up their precious spaces they got to have all to themselves.

My first stop was the squadron briefing and ready room, which I expected to mostly be an abandoned mess since pretty much all the pilots from before had been wiped out.

To my surprise, it was mostly empty and free of trash. At the front of the room, there were about six rows of reclining, black leather chairs facing towards a whiteboard and a tandem projector screen. I tossed my bag in one of the chairs at the front of the room and headed towards the back to check on a few things, primarily the squadron operation documents filing cabinet. It was one of those dull grey metal cabinets that looked like they were fifty years old with the chipping paint and clunky drawers, but were probably only about five or ten years old at most. I found it unlocked and only had a few folders, mostly just maps of AO's, or areas of operation from previous engagements, most notably there were several maps of St. Ark, the last operation the Grace's fighter wings had engaged in.

The sidearm safe which contained all the handguns pilots would carry on sorties was locked, as per usual. But the room was fairly bare, a few new bulky desktop computers had been set up with small desks in the back for processing flight data, which was a nice addition compared to my previous tours on the Grace.

The room was . . . just eerily silent.

My memories of this room were a lot more jovial and upbeat than what it was now.

A stark reminder of the true costs of war.

I headed back to the front of the room, when an officer walked through the door. On his collars were the eagles indicative of Captain rank.

Without any further thought I snapped to attention and gave a salute, "Sorry sir, I was just checking in on things."

The wrinkled, brown haired Captain chuckled for a moment at my comment as he stuck his right hand in the pants pocket of his khaki uniform. "At ease, Martin," the Captain commented with a wave of his hand. He almost seemed slightly embarrassed at my behavior. I glanced down at his name tab, which read "H. Konner."

"I heard from the quarterdeck you had arrived, Lieutenant Martin," the captain gestured back towards the door as he leaned back up against the side of the leather seats, "I had a hunch you probably would be in here. Figured I would at least stop by and introduce myself, and not be a jerk."

"I appreciate the gesture," I replied with a nod and held out my hand, "Elias Martin."

"Henry Konner," he answered, and gave a firm handshake back, "I tried to keep the helicopter pilots as well as the non-flight officers out of here before you showed up. Seems like they heeded the order."

"It doesn't really bother me, sir," I shrugged, "It was sort of an semi-open common area when we weren't using it. But it's nice to have a clean space to get to work in. Just wish we had more guys coming."

"The sentiment is mutual," Captain Konner sighed, "Three fixed-wing pilots is nowhere near enough to turn this war around. But who knows, sometimes something is better than nothing."

"And something's all you need to get started," I smirked for a moment, before my mind came back to the present, "I'll get out of your hair sir, I still have to get my gear squared away."

"No worries, Lieutenant," he answered as I grabbed my bag and headed out the door. A minute or two later of walking down the passageway or the p-way as we called them, I found my way into my old bunk room. There were eight bunks partitioned into sections of two bunks each. I found my old spot in the fourth partition at the far end of the room and dropped my bag on the floor. I could feel a head-ache coming on already from my body getting used to that wonderful artificial air on the carrier.

It never gets better.

I unzipped the front of my flight suit down to my waist and tied the sleeves around my stomach and laid down on my bunk, which was only a few inches up off the floor, with my arm draped over my forehead.

What the hell am I going to do? Me up against what might as well be the whole world. Hell of a hand I drew.

I closed my eyes and tried to catch some shut-eye before my head-ache turned splitting.

After napping for about an hour, and my headache subsided for the most part, I turned my attention to my duffel bag and began unpacking my flight gear which had been stuck in my apartment's closet for the good part of almost two years.

I unzipped the duffel and began pulling my stuff out. On top of my pile of belongings, in its own blue camouflage cloth carrying bag was my flight helmet. I unzipped the bag, and found my flight helmet just as pristine as I had left it, with a black leather protective cover for the visor, which had the Mobius 118th TFW patch in the center.

For a pilot, a flight helmet was one of the few places where uninhibited creativity was allowed. You could be as plain or as crazy as you liked. I had seen some crazy designs in my time which had looked anywhere from ugly to spectacular. I liked to pride myself on my helmet design both in intimidation factor in appearance. On the sides and the rear of the helmet was an intricate design which a family acquaintance had generously painted for me right before I left on my first sea deployment.

It was a swirling black dragon, done in the old woodblock print art style which was characteristic of the islands off the southern coast of Usea. The scales were all individually and intricately painted, with a few silver scales mixed in with the black which would reflect light depending on the angle. What was even cooler about the dragon was it was laid out in a figure-eight pattern much like the Mobius strip of my fighter wing. It cost a decent amount of money to get the thing done, but it was worth every penny.

Under the design on the rear bottom lip of the helmet was a tag with my name, rank, and callsign "Hydra".

I had earned that 'cool' callsign for my propensity to try and fix everyone's problems at once, usually with varying results. Most navy squadrons played pranks on new pilots by making them be their go-fers and do all the older members' menial tasks with the exact intention that it was impossible to do all at once. Of course, with my luck, I actually got the closest to pulling it all off, but I couldn't quite manage it. At the end of that day, the squadron agreed to give me the callsign of Hydra. They were certain if some issue came up again, I would have grown another head to make sure I'd get it done that time around.

After I was satisfied with my helmet's condition, and peeked at my other visors, which I kept a few different color tints, I went back to the duffel. I pulled out my g-suit and refolded it neatly into a small tight square and placed my brown leather flight gloves on top of the suit. I had some desert/tropical gear and uniforms which were all in tan patterns, but I only took out the tan flight suits and left the rest in the bag. All of my showering and toiletries I removed and placed into one of the slightly larger than average lockers that were next to the bunks in the section, hanging my off-duty clothes which were next out of my bag. With the necessary unpacking complete, I threw my duffel into the locker, picked up my flight gear and headed to the equipment room which had all the pilots' lockers. We kept our gear here so it could always be ready for us to go.

I headed out into the p-way with my helmet slung over my left shoulder by its chinstrap, with the rest of my gear folded under my right arm. A pair of FCU Marine officers walked by with a knowing nod, and I nodded back as I carried on. Two lefts followed by a right led me to the equipment room, which seemed to be slightly abuzz. I walked in to find quite a few pilots inside having loud and boisterous conversations, pretty much all of them were Marine helicopter pilots, but a few navy ones that had patches for SAR, or Search and Rescue, were there too. The SAR guys were mostly quiet as they stowed away their gear, while the Marines were jawing off. They were all at the far end of the room

The lockers were set up in two long opposing rows. All of the locker doors were painted in an orangey-red color, and had three digit numbers stamped in ink on the top part of the door. Those were the squadron numbers. Beneath that was a smaller stamped black number indicating the pilot number within the squadron.

Luckily my old locker was on the near-end of the row to my immediate left. My locker number was stamped with one-one-eight, and below it obviously, a one.

"Man, I can't believe this shit," one of the Marine pilots, a Major, groaned as he slammed his locker door shut, "We're going back out there with three fixed-wing pilots and no timetable for an offensive."

"What the hell do they even have us on here for anyway? Making the bodycount when the ship goes down bigger?" another Marine, a Captain asked, throwing his hands up.

"I dunno, man," one of the SAR pilots glumly replied, "We just gotta hope these new guys aren't total shit. Maybe we can have a chance this time around."

"With only three?" the Major spat back, "Good luck with that shit. It ain't happening. The Eruseans aren't incompetent."

I quietly opened my locker, hoping not to attract any attention from the group as I stowed my flight gear away, but my helmet elicited a loud thud as I placed it on top of my locker. I grimaced. I didn't really want to have a conversation about being one of the reasons that everyone on this ship was probably screwed.

As I glanced in their direction, all of their gazes had immediately shifted in my direction. They were just standing there in silence, realizing I had probably heard everything they had said.

"I guess you're one of the new guys, huh?" the Major sighed, scratching the back of his head, "Sorry for being . . ."

"No, sir," I cut him off, "It's fine. If I were in your shoes, I'd feel about the same honestly. This whole thing doesn't make much sense to me either."

"You hear any word about what the plan is?" the SAR pilot, a Lieutenant Commander, asked next.

"Negative, sir," I slammed my locker firmly shut, "My only guess is that if they start pushing this way across the straight, we're going to be the first and last line between the Eruseans and an attack on North Point. But I'm going to make sure that doesn't happen, even if it kills me. That's something you can count on, Lieutenant Commander."

The SAR pilot seemed to like my last remark and he grinned, "Been a long time since we had that sort of attitude around here. Keep it up, Lieutenant."

"Aye aye, sir," I responded with a firm salute, which the group returned as I headed back out into the p-way, empty handed.

In something that was almost totally out of course, but considering the circumstances I didn't really give a shit, I decided to head to the enlisted mess hall to see what was going on and get a feel for what the general attitude of the regular crew was. I was already exhausted at the thought of listening to officers go on and on in the officer's mess about how we were all screwed and I didn't really want to sit in the squadron ready room all by myself for the rest of the day in total silence.

So, I decided to take a gamble with it.

Why not, right?

As I headed into the land of the enlisted sailors, the stares grew ever more frequent. Officers typically didn't make themselves known around these parts, especially fighter pilots, who were mostly notorious for staying to themselves and their designated areas on the ship.

I eventually found my way down the hallway to the enlisted mess hall which was getting pretty packed since it was getting to prime-time for lunch. The line for the food was pretty long, so I just took my place at the end of the line and settled into a sort of daydreaming zone and waited for my turn to eat the wonderful navy chow that is renowned for its stellar ability to be just edible enough to digest.

And that's about it.

As I was zoning out, I neglected to notice that more and more people were staring at the sole officer that was standing in the mess line, but every time I began looking around, everyone who looked quickly averted their eyes.

Eventually I got to the front and waited for mess crew, who didn't even look up from their work, who quickly threw some of the navy's "world famous" baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and some other vegetables on a tray and handed it over to me.

"Thanks," I said as I turned away and went to a row of vending machines and dug through my battered wallet to find my old 'ship card' which is one of the most vital things to have on you at all times. It had been a few years since I had last used mine on the Grace, and I was crossing my fingers that whatever money I had left on it was enough to satisfy my caffeine addiction for the time being. I swiped the card reader on the machine and received a happy beep from the machine that it had been accepted. I let out a sigh of relief as I made my selection and received a much needed soda. With my ordeal complete, I searched for an empty table to sit at.

Only one table had an empty spot, and it was a four-seater with a red, green, and yellow shirt flight deck member sitting in three of the chairs. I walked over and as soon as they noticed I was coming for their spot, they all cast their heads down and refused to look up. They all glanced at each other in confusion, and remained silent as I approached and took a seat.

I was desperately thinking of what to say, so I attempted to kill two birds with one stone.

"You guys don't need to worry about saying some greeting and saluting me," I coughed out, "Sorry to disturb your lunch. I was hearing too much complaining in the officer's section so I decided to come over here." My jab at the officers elicited a few laughs and loosened everyone up enough that they all turned their attention back to their lunch and the normal sounds of conversations at the tables all around resumed in earnest. "Ah shit, I haven't introduced myself, Lieutenant Elias Martin. I'm one of the three new incoming fixed-wing pilots."

Slowly the realization of why I was here was more apparent.

"I'm ABE1 Velez, I'm one of the 'bears' on the flight deck," the yellow-shirt said as he pointed to himself with his thumb. Velez was a bulky individual, mostly from what appeared to be his large chest and arm muscles. He was really heavily tanned and had dark black hair cut in reg, and black eyes. His yellow shirt was covered in black streak marks from all his work on the flight deck.

"An aircraft director, huh?" I asked, "How long have you been at that?"

"Oh, about two years," Velez replied after taking a couple of bites from his food, "I was recruited out of San Salvicon before it got overrun when the war started. It's hard having been away for so long, but it's good work."

"Your family still there?" I continued, hoping that I wasn't prying too much.

"Nah, they left months before shit went down. Word came through that San Salvicon was the likely target. They didn't need to hear that twice. They're over on the east coast of Usea somewhere, last I heard they're fine."

"That's good to hear, I'm glad they're ok," I said as I finally decided to dig into my food some.

After a minute or two of silence, the green shirt, after swallowing a massive piece of his chicken, spoke up.

"I'm ABE2 Hockenson," the relatively small man said with almost a shout. He was totally bald and had pretty pale skin. Hockenson was as skinny as a rail, with dark black eyebrows and brown eyes, "I make sure when you launch that your ride is hooked up to the catapult."

"Is that why you talk so loud?" I half-jabbed back.

Velez and his red-shirted compatriot laughed pretty heartily at my banter.

"Pretty much," Hockenson sighed with a shrug, "It's just a curse of being on the catapult and arresting gear crews. Most of the greenies talk pretty loud."

"You'd think they'd learn to keep it down," the redshirted female added, "Petty Officer Jacobs. I'm with the Ordinance handlers."

"You get the fun job of arming and towing bombs and missiles around all day, eh Jacobs?" I said between bites of my lunch.

"Fun is not necessarily the word I would use, but sure let's go with that," she laughed. She had short auburn hair tied back into a tight bun and bright green eyes. Her face was pretty small and round, and she was almost as thin as Hockenson, but all the ordinance work made her pretty muscled in comparison.

"What do you guys think of our chances? It's probably pretty rough going once we head underway," I asked, surveying the group.

"There's not really much we can do about it," Hockenson jumped in first, "All we can do is give you and the other pilots the best chance to succeed we can. Beyond that it's not in our hands."

Velez was next, "I think we've got a chance, which is better than nothing. The Eruseans may have gotten complacent with everything going so right for so long, so if you catch them sleeping on us, beat the hell out of them."

"I mean F-4s are hardly top of the line equipment, but I think in the right hands, we've got as good a chance as anyone. I think the real question is where the first fight's gonna be. If it's over water, or near North Point, I'd be willing to put money on us," Jacobs nodded earnestly, "We'll make sure we get you to the fight with the best equipment and weapons we can give you. But like Hock said, in the end, you've got to pull that trigger, sir."

I was genuinely relieved to hear their comments. I felt a lot better that more people on this tub had my back than I thought after hearing the complaining from the Marine chopper pilots earlier.

"That's not what I heard from some of the other officers earlier," I pretended to mope, "They seem convinced we're screwed."

"Pfft," Velez spat, "They can think whatever they want. Unless they're getting up there and fighting with you and the other pilots coming in, I wouldn't give two shits what they think. Look what that attitude got them already."

"Can't argue with that," I added grimly.

Lunch continued on with more conversations and introductions as I, at minimum, got introduced to most of the enlisted guys that were in the mess hall. I definitely felt vindicated by my choice to stop by and see what was going on, because with more of the crew behind me, I felt my chances were definitely improved.

But the rest hinged on what the other pilots and our back-seater RIOs would be like.

And that . . . was a whole other shit-storm.

AN/: Yeah, I'm back, albeit under a name change. Took a year to get myself up to speed with everything and to do enough info gathering to be willing to take another stab at it. A lot changed in the aftermath of writing the AC5 story to where I had formed such a different opinion on several topics that I was unable to continue that project. I found that I wasn't enjoying it and felt that I wasn't doing something that was bringing new material to the table. I hope that I can accomplish that better, and just from my preliminary material, I think I have done so.

They say going to college changes a person, and law school does that to an even higher degree. I'm currently wrapping up the end of my first year, and I've learned a hell of a lot. I'm currently working on an original project in tandem with this one, so the primary focus of my attention will be on that, while working on this story for fun.

I hope all of you are safe and well, and this finds you in good spirits and good health. Hopefully, this can brighten your day if not. Coming back and working on this has rekindled a fire that I really haven't had since the HoW days. I hope you can see that coming across the page.

Sincerely,

Esquire 6.