Disclaimer: Area 88 © Kaoru Shintani/TV Asahi. This work is not intended for commercial gain or to infringe on these copyrights. May you get hit by an I-2000 on the noggin if you don't believe me.

Author's Note: No Shin, Mickey, Greg, or McCoy (well, maybe a little, later). This fic just borrows the Asran setting and is an AU, and takes place on a different air base. Saki Vashtarl's faction has won control of the desert kingdom, but during his reign trouble flares up again. The descendants of the mercenary squadrons from Area 88 go into battle once more. Rated M for a lot of profanity.

THROW A NICKEL ON THE SAND

I: Iffa

The S-70 Jayhawk didn't even touch down on the helipad shimmering under the noonday desert sun. Hovering a foot above the concrete, its starboard cabin door opened, and a lone man in his early thirties jumped out. The helicopter increased power and left him crouching there in the flying brown dust.

He was watching the whirlybird disappear into the perfectly cloudless blue sky when a HMMWV pulled up behind him. The man behind the wheel of the vehicle honked his horn twice and motioned for him to enter. The newcomer accepted, grateful of the chance to come out of the searing heat that already had his flying suit plastered to his body.

"Hi, you must be the RIO I've been waiting for," the driver said as he got in. "I'm Mike Derwent."

The man gave Mike Derwent the once-over. Lanky, sandy-haired, with a face as craggy as the Rockies. "Name's Gary. Gary Heberlein. How'd you know I was a RIO?"

"Your patch." Mike pointed at Gary's shoulder. "I happen to know that squadron's transitioning to Hornets, and you wouldn't be here if you weren't out of a job."

Gary raised an eyebrow. "Kinda big assumptions. What if I was a pilot?"

The old man gunned the Humvee. "Naah. Couldn't be. All the pilots of that unit have been retained." He smirked. "It helps if you've got a friend up in J-2. How's your stay in Asran been so far?"

"Shitty. The heat, the lack of broads, the scorpions..."

"Really?" Mike grinned. "Well, fellow av-puke, we'll soon make you accustomed to all that." He made a panning gesture out the front window of the Humvee, at the dismally plain and uniformly tan set of buildings sitting in the emptiness in front of them like children huddled together in a refugee camp. "Welcome to the shithole that is Iffa!"

------oOo------

"We protect the capital city's northern approaches," Mike explained as they sat eating lunch in the noisy cafeteria. "But we're only one tenant here. The Royal Asranian Air Force would've kicked us out long ago, except that we provide them with a ready supply of warm bodies to go do the really dirty stuff." Gary blanched, but Mike seemed unfazed as he continued. "There are six of us who usually get called up when BarCAP or other long-range air-to-air work is needed. There's me—I mean us—and Gisette who fly Super Tomcats, and Wacko and Mulligan who fly F-14A Pluses."

"Who're the other two?" asked Gary as he ate another spoonful of the chalky-tasting gruel that passed itself off as beef stew.

"An Indian named Ker and his pal Vella. They ride around in a Su-30MKI, while the other's a Tornado ADV flown by two Brits named Hallaway and Podd." Derwent took another puff on his cigarette. "Ker's the newest of the bunch. His Flanker's usually used as an airborne director, so he gets to fly more frequently than the rest of us. You might've noticed that the Royals lack any planes with real good long-range radar capability, except for a few piddling Hawkeyes that are in serious need of overhauls and have to be positioned south and east."

"Yeah. Lots of old Soviet stuff, from what I read in an intelligence report before I got axed."

Derwent nodded. "You'll find out that they're still big on the 'positive control' stuff too, even though all the Royal pilots I've talked to hate it. We're 'foreign barbarians,' so they usually allow us a lot of leeway, though. But tell me something. Did you really think this thing over before you flushed yourself down the toilet to come here, or are you just plain looking for a way to kill yourself?"

Heberlein steadily met Derwent's suddenly critical gaze. "A bit of both. I didn't go through RIO school just to be booted out of the Navy a few years later. Besides, I like fighting."

The old man slowly grinned. "Put her there, pard," he said, extending his hand. "You want fighting, you'll get more than your share of it. Especially since the ruling family's had a major snit and is quibbling over the throne again."

The RIO examined the hand as if it were an animal he had never seen before. Then he took it and gave it a pump, joining his fate to a stranger's.

------oOo------

"Of course you'll have to have an IFF system that's compatible with the one the Asranians use. You probably won't need it much, since everyone who's been dumb enough to leave theirs on while conducting a mission is probably dead already. Yes?"

"I was wondering," said the blond-haired, Teutonic-featured pilot who had raised his hand, "what recreation there is for us available."

The woman conducting the orientation smiled, as if she had been expecting the question. "There is, offbase, a couple of bars and entertainment places available. Much to the displeasure of the locals, Saki Vashtarl's maintained them to provide you and the tourists who come here a place to blow off steam, as you say."

Another hand, this one belonging to a slim, dark-skinned youth with close-cropped hair as curly as steel wool. "I do not understand. So we cannot leave unless we serve for six years, or pay 2 million dollars?"

"Or desert." The black eyes behind the frameless, gold-pronged eyeglasses crinkled. "In which case you'll get shot. I'd like to point out to you how far it is from here to the nearest border."

At the back of the room, seated beside one another on the aluminum folding chairs, Heberlein whispered to Derwent. "Mike, who the hell is this broad again?"

"We call her Miss Britannica. Mina Desai. She used to be a pilot, but a crash several years ago put her on the disabled list. Since she had family up in the Air Force hierarchy, they couldn't get rid of her, so they compensated by giving her the crummy duties, like base beautification, orientation seminars, and notifying families of their loved one's death."

"Doesn't she get censured for wearing that?" Heberlein was referring to the form-fitting maroon dress she was wearing.

"Why, you complaining?"

"Not at all."

"Only don't bother going after her, pard. She doesn't like men, from what I've heard."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. A couple tried to change her mind, but ended up singing falsetto parts in the Dresden Opera House." Derwent grinned.

Heberlein tuned back to the lecture in time to hear the black-haired lecturer say, "There will be an orientation flight for each of you newcomers the day after tomorrow, so get yourselves settled in and try and get your equipment today if you can. If not, well, you'll have to arrange for your own orientation joyride sometime." There was a mirthless, shark-like grin that showed off perfectly even teeth between the thin lips. "Preferably before you set out on a mission. Any more questions? Good, if you have any that come to mind you can ask your fellow pilots or call me on extension 138." She picked up her things and left, leaving the room abuzz.

"What was your last pilot like?" asked Derwent out of the blue.

"A screw-up in the beginning," Herberlein answered, his face going sour at the recollection. "On one of our first sorties he almost got us killed when he got vertigo in a cloud during a bad-weather night CAP and went inverted. Good thing the ceiling was high and he was able to recover. Other than that, he was okay."

"Pet peeves?"

"Hey, what is this? Twenty questions?"

"Look, I need to know. I'm about to trust you with my life in combat. All I know about you is what I've read in your dossier."

"Pet peeves, hm? Let's see. I hate people who think they can tell me how to operate my set, and I hate people who smoke."

"Oops," chuckled Derwent.

"And I hate screamers. There was this one time we were flying in a section on a low-level recon over Bandar Abbas, and some AA comes up and sprays us with fragments. All of a sudden there's this almighty scream over the radio from the two plane pilot, saying he's been hit. We all got palpitations and escorted him back to the boat, only to find him coming out of triage with a band-aid on the back of his neck. A frickin' band-aid."

"Yeah, well, you'll get those days. I'd rather have a screamer than a guy who goes in without saying a word. That disturbs me."

Heberlein was silent for a moment. "I also hate pilots who treat me like a voice-commanded radio tuner. If that's part of your gig, fine, but don't go telling me to change freqs every thirty seconds or so."

"Hey, man, that's supposed to be part of your duties."

"I know, I know. Still..."

"Hey, look. If you can get your gear from Supply and get yourself settled, we can go aviating by tomorrow."

Heberlein grinned. "Now that's something I like." As they got up, he said, "Wait a minute. What about your hang-ups?"

Derwent lit another ciggie and turned to go. "I don't like tattletales," he tossed over his shoulder.