Raus's jet had been hit a couple times already, but they were just
lucky Vulcan shots, and his craft was working in almost optimal condition.
He was trailing an SU-25, Korean, and finally managed to get a lock. The
guy was good, but Raus fancied himself better. He fired off two radar-
guided missiles, sure they were going to hit. Then, to his dismay, three
clouds of chaff burst from the underside of the SU-25's bottom, and both
the missiles went for it and exploded, doing no harm to the Korean jet. He
glanced left out of his cockpit window, and saw an Aztec fighter spiraling
toward the ocean, oily black smoke trailing behind it. Beyond that, he saw
columns of smoke rising from a sinking Aztec cruiser. SAM missiles and flak
clouds were exploding all over the skies, and Raus noted with savage
pleasure the Chinese and Korean jets plunging into the ocean. Turning his
attention back to the fight, he did a back flip and went flying, bottom to
the sky, after a Chinese MIG that had passed on his right side moments ago.
After getting a lock, he fired one radar-guided missile and a Phoenix heat-
seeker. The MIG released a ball of chaff and three flares. The Phoenix
exploded after tracking one of the flares, doing no damage to the Chinese
jet but ripping a wing off a Korean fighter flying near the MIG. The radar-
guided missile slammed into the MIG's tail, blowing it off in a fireball
that encompassed the whole plane. The shattered forward part of the cockpit
plunged out of the sky, leaving an orange trail of flame. Taking a left
barrel roll, Raus went nose first toward the wide blue-green expanse of
ocean below. Straightening his fighter out, he flew barely overtop a
Chinese SeaWolf, Vulcan Cannon spraying the deck. As he passed over the
main Flak cannon, he fired two Phoenixes into the barrel. They went off
inside, and the explosion tunneled out through the top, shattering the
exterior. Raus pulled up, praising fate for managing not to be shot down.
Behind him, the Seawolf's deck buckled inward around the cannon, and
another fireball ripped up from under the deck, where the Flak shells were
stored. The deadly metal shards flew in all directions, shredding many of
the Chinese sailors on deck. Raus turned to fly nose to the sky when his
lock-warning went off. His mind froze, and instead of releasing counter-
measures, he punched the afterburners. Now, adding to the cacophony of the
lock-on warning, he had the stall alarm going off. As his upward motion
stopped, his plane lurched to the right. Looking out of his cockpit window,
he saw a dissipating ball of flame. He also saw his right wing was gone,
bits of the hydraulic cables hanging in a tangled, flaming disarray.
"Oh. Shit." It was about all he could think to say. The view from his cockpit window changed from blue sky to blue ocean, and he decided to try and level out his jet. It was going to hard, near impossible. His craft was beginning to tilt toward the right, and soon it began a slow, lazy spin, before picking up speed. By now, Raus was panicking. As the sea loomed closer, he finally realized he needed to eject, or he would join the many pilots who'd already succumbed to that deep blue tomb. He quickly pushed his eject switch, and his canopy slid open as he punched out. Opening his parachute, Raus made an effort to guide his way toward a nearby Aztec carrier that was relatively undamaged. After a rather harrowing descent, he managed to land on the deck. Throwing off the 'chute, he ran toward the superstructure and threw open the door to what he hoped was safety.
Several time zones away, Malajad Ten'itlan was sitting in a darkened room with several of his top military advisors. TV screens showed feeds from around Aztecha (known as Aztec'lan to its inhabitants). Malajad crossed his arms and looked at a feed from the coastal city of Hana'val. Most of the fighting had died down there, and he could make out several forms running around the town's large harbor. These figures were dressed mostly in red and yellow. Landing craft sat around the shores like beached whales, and every now and then a large explosion would kick up a fountain of sand and, if lucky, would send some of the red clothed men flying. Malajad could make out more landing craft coming toward the shore. A few choppers of unidentifiable type hovered above the beach, occasionally firing at areas off screen. Littered around the harbor were destroyed hulks of Aztec tanks and bodies of Aztec infantry. Many of the buildings were sending smoke into the air, and some had collapsed. Others held gaping holes in their exterior, and didn't look as if they'd stay up much longer. Malajad turned away and looked at the other screens. Some of them were in areas around Mala'jaad, and the capitol still looked pristine and unharmed. The Asians were still a long ways from the heart of the country, thank god. On the screens showing Kin'olam, a large city of 2 million nestled on the Baja peninsula, Malajad saw with pride that the Aztecs were beating off the Chinese and Koreans quite easily. Likely because Majutso AFB was nearby. He finally turned from his screen and looked at the grim, uniformed seated with him at the table.
"So?" It was all he spoke, but from his mouth it was more than enough. One of the men, Army from the looks of his gray and gold uniform, stood up three seats down from his right.
"Sir, as of May 16, 1967, our nation was ruthlessly attacked by forces of an alliance calling themselves the Oriental Coalition. This alliance is made up of the People's Republic of China, Mongolia, the Republic of Japan, and the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. These forces took it upon them-" Malajad stopped the man with an impatient wave of his hand.
"General Jaromik, we know these things already. Do we have any plans for dealing with it?" Malajad gestured at the screens around the room. "If we do, it doesn't seem to be doing much good." Another man, dressed in the dark blue and red of the Navy, stood at the far end of the table.
"Mr. President, Sir, Navy and Army special forces have been inserted into Karakorum, Beijing, and Pyongyang. The United States is aiding us in the Pacific, but they don't have much aid to offer. Their own country is under attack as well."
"South Korea? Russia? India? What about them? What about Europe? God knows we've helped them enough!!! Don't they have the decency to pay us back?" Civila Onli'kt, the Minister of Foreign Relations, stood in his position to the direct left of Malajad. Adjusting his tie, he spoke to the gathered men.
"South Korea is currently enduring joint occupation by China and North Korea. Russia has pledged their support to us, but seems to be a bit slow on the uptake. A few select nations in Europe have also aligned themselves with us, but have yet to send any units. As you know, most of Europe is in the grip of famine. The UK doesn't trust us, and most of their country is irradiated wasteland in the first place." Malajad winced a bit. "So, Sir, the rest of the world doesn't really have much to give." Malajad leaned back and put a hand over his face in a gesture of weariness. After about half a minute, he turned toward the Naval officer who'd spoken up earlier.
"So, General, just how well are our Special Forces doing at the moment?" The Naval General looked delighted to have some good news to report.
"Well, Sir, our men have managed to destroy most of the power plants in Karakorum, and targets have mostly been destroyed in and around Pyongyang."
"And Beijing?" The Naval General's face fell a bit.
"In China, we've had little success. A few targets have been hit, but we've taken a great many casualties. Overall, though, Sir, I believe we're doing fairly well." Malajad thought it over.
"Well, we'll meet again on the 19th. You men best begin some kind of REAL plan for dealing with this threat. Meeting's over." Malajad stayed in his chair as the rest of the men shuffled out the door. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and took another glance at the TV screens around the room. Hana'val had fallen during the course of the meeting, and he could see the transports he'd spotted before unloading various Mongol, Korean, and Chinese armored vehicles. Still staring, he thought about all the nuclear missiles Aztec'lan had stored all around the country. They would make a decisive end to the war, for sure, but he wasn't sure he wanted to turn the entire Orient into another Britain. "Irradiated Wasteland", Civila had said. With a troubled expression on his face, he walked toward the door. Before leaving, his expression changed to one of calmness. Opening the door, he exited the war room.
"Oh. Shit." It was about all he could think to say. The view from his cockpit window changed from blue sky to blue ocean, and he decided to try and level out his jet. It was going to hard, near impossible. His craft was beginning to tilt toward the right, and soon it began a slow, lazy spin, before picking up speed. By now, Raus was panicking. As the sea loomed closer, he finally realized he needed to eject, or he would join the many pilots who'd already succumbed to that deep blue tomb. He quickly pushed his eject switch, and his canopy slid open as he punched out. Opening his parachute, Raus made an effort to guide his way toward a nearby Aztec carrier that was relatively undamaged. After a rather harrowing descent, he managed to land on the deck. Throwing off the 'chute, he ran toward the superstructure and threw open the door to what he hoped was safety.
Several time zones away, Malajad Ten'itlan was sitting in a darkened room with several of his top military advisors. TV screens showed feeds from around Aztecha (known as Aztec'lan to its inhabitants). Malajad crossed his arms and looked at a feed from the coastal city of Hana'val. Most of the fighting had died down there, and he could make out several forms running around the town's large harbor. These figures were dressed mostly in red and yellow. Landing craft sat around the shores like beached whales, and every now and then a large explosion would kick up a fountain of sand and, if lucky, would send some of the red clothed men flying. Malajad could make out more landing craft coming toward the shore. A few choppers of unidentifiable type hovered above the beach, occasionally firing at areas off screen. Littered around the harbor were destroyed hulks of Aztec tanks and bodies of Aztec infantry. Many of the buildings were sending smoke into the air, and some had collapsed. Others held gaping holes in their exterior, and didn't look as if they'd stay up much longer. Malajad turned away and looked at the other screens. Some of them were in areas around Mala'jaad, and the capitol still looked pristine and unharmed. The Asians were still a long ways from the heart of the country, thank god. On the screens showing Kin'olam, a large city of 2 million nestled on the Baja peninsula, Malajad saw with pride that the Aztecs were beating off the Chinese and Koreans quite easily. Likely because Majutso AFB was nearby. He finally turned from his screen and looked at the grim, uniformed seated with him at the table.
"So?" It was all he spoke, but from his mouth it was more than enough. One of the men, Army from the looks of his gray and gold uniform, stood up three seats down from his right.
"Sir, as of May 16, 1967, our nation was ruthlessly attacked by forces of an alliance calling themselves the Oriental Coalition. This alliance is made up of the People's Republic of China, Mongolia, the Republic of Japan, and the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. These forces took it upon them-" Malajad stopped the man with an impatient wave of his hand.
"General Jaromik, we know these things already. Do we have any plans for dealing with it?" Malajad gestured at the screens around the room. "If we do, it doesn't seem to be doing much good." Another man, dressed in the dark blue and red of the Navy, stood at the far end of the table.
"Mr. President, Sir, Navy and Army special forces have been inserted into Karakorum, Beijing, and Pyongyang. The United States is aiding us in the Pacific, but they don't have much aid to offer. Their own country is under attack as well."
"South Korea? Russia? India? What about them? What about Europe? God knows we've helped them enough!!! Don't they have the decency to pay us back?" Civila Onli'kt, the Minister of Foreign Relations, stood in his position to the direct left of Malajad. Adjusting his tie, he spoke to the gathered men.
"South Korea is currently enduring joint occupation by China and North Korea. Russia has pledged their support to us, but seems to be a bit slow on the uptake. A few select nations in Europe have also aligned themselves with us, but have yet to send any units. As you know, most of Europe is in the grip of famine. The UK doesn't trust us, and most of their country is irradiated wasteland in the first place." Malajad winced a bit. "So, Sir, the rest of the world doesn't really have much to give." Malajad leaned back and put a hand over his face in a gesture of weariness. After about half a minute, he turned toward the Naval officer who'd spoken up earlier.
"So, General, just how well are our Special Forces doing at the moment?" The Naval General looked delighted to have some good news to report.
"Well, Sir, our men have managed to destroy most of the power plants in Karakorum, and targets have mostly been destroyed in and around Pyongyang."
"And Beijing?" The Naval General's face fell a bit.
"In China, we've had little success. A few targets have been hit, but we've taken a great many casualties. Overall, though, Sir, I believe we're doing fairly well." Malajad thought it over.
"Well, we'll meet again on the 19th. You men best begin some kind of REAL plan for dealing with this threat. Meeting's over." Malajad stayed in his chair as the rest of the men shuffled out the door. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and took another glance at the TV screens around the room. Hana'val had fallen during the course of the meeting, and he could see the transports he'd spotted before unloading various Mongol, Korean, and Chinese armored vehicles. Still staring, he thought about all the nuclear missiles Aztec'lan had stored all around the country. They would make a decisive end to the war, for sure, but he wasn't sure he wanted to turn the entire Orient into another Britain. "Irradiated Wasteland", Civila had said. With a troubled expression on his face, he walked toward the door. Before leaving, his expression changed to one of calmness. Opening the door, he exited the war room.