IV: THE ONE-EYED MAN IS KING

The operational life of an IDS Tornado is spent at low level, down in the weeds where also lived the A-10, the Grach, and various attack helicopters. The aircraft which began life as a quad-national program and was known initially as the Multi-Role Combat Aircraft had three main variants, an attack model (the IDS), an interceptor version (the ADV), and a filmless reconnaissance iteration (the GR.4A, specific to the Royal Air Force) that was a late addition to the stable. The mud-mover was among the best in the world at what it did, and had won several bombing competitions over its more well-known rivals in the 1980s.

But there was no denying that it was growing a bit long in the tooth, what with the basic design being frozen in the early 1970s, and the advent of fifth-generation fighters like the Eurofighter Typhoon, the Dassault Rafale, and the Saab Gripen. So, to bulk up their order book in the early 1990s, the Panavia consortium had offered various new and second-hand examples at a discount to the Asranians, who didn't need stealth or the very newest technology, but required an aircraft with more capability than their aging Phantoms and lightweight Hawks. The air arm snapped it up, and consequently (for reasons of commonality and parts availability) the IDS could also be found among Iffa's mercenary squadrons, where it was a familiar sight on ground-attack missions.

One such example, a late-build GR.4, was zooming one afternoon low over the tan-brown desert sands, flying nap-of-the-earth in an effort to avoid being detected by its target and the numerous sentinels guarding it. Crewing it were two ex-RAF aviators, who forty minutes into the circuitous, workload-filled low-level flight were busy sniping at each other.

"Hey, Motts," said the Weapons System Officer, "better increase throttle. Look at the TEL."

"I see it, you bloody idiot," snorted the front-seater. "I'm worried that Shin Kazama fellow's going to release his missiles any time now and we'll end up flying though a whole bunch of them."

"Relax, I don't think that'll happen."

"Huh. Who asked you?"

"What will happen if you don't move it is that every 2S6 and Shilka in the target area's going to be homing in on us because we'll be the only ones left to shoot at. I'd personally like to come back to Iffa without sixteen 9M311s shoved up my arse, please. That makes it hard to sit down for dinner."

"Right, right, keep your skullcap on." Philby Motts keyed in an increase to the Tornado GR.4's Turbo-Unions. The ACDR Autothrottle display reflected his adjustment, and the ground-skimming attack craft flew faster towards the next turn point.

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

"Today's PM Go target is one of the rebels' main fixed radar installations," the attack Warlord—the guy in charge of the main mission—said several hours earlier. "We would have gone after it sooner, but we've changed the attack plan slightly so—" the man diplomatically cleared his throat "­­— Mister Simon and Mister Kazama may participate in it."

The Warlord went over the basics of the plan developed by Asranian targeteers and weaponeers, referring to the giant satellite photo projected onto the big auditorium screen. It involved a pincer by two attack packages—known as Astra Blue and Astra Gold—against the radar transmitter. Each package consisted of six Panavia Tornado GR.4s, six BAe Hawk 200s from the Royal Asranian Air Force as additional bombers and escorts, and Shin and Mickey's F/A-18Es. Because of the sudden scarcity of aircraft—most of which were involved in a sortie surge against a major rebel offensive far to the south—all the attack aircraft were armed with anti-radiation missiles and heatseekers along with their bomb loads. In addition, each package's Five and Six aircraft were devoted solely to defense suppression, having nothing to strike other than known AA installations. The radar facility was considered a very hard target, hence the large number of attackers, to ensure a reasonable Probability of Kill—no one wanted to have to go back and strike it again just because some GP bombs or BSU-49s had dribbled off the sides of the wedding-cake structure and failed to destroy it; semi-armour-piercing bombs, much better suited to that type of building, were in short supply at the Iffa depot. A newbie nicknamed Bug had come up with the idea of using a BLU-109B penetrator against the site, until he was asked if he wanted to be the one to come in against it at medium altitude so it could deploy properly. He declined the invitation.

Shin and Mickey's jobs were to drop four JDAM munitions equipped with a new, higher-dB GPS link against peripheral targets, and try out the as-yet-untested Wide-Area Anti-Radiation Missile pods they had brought along with them. Their F/A-18Es actually were a sort of proto-Growler, having some of the electronics of the projected future Wild Weasel version of the Hornet installed in them, and the WAARMs were a spin-off of the never-built WASP missile of the 1980s. The concept was to release a cloud of small loitering ARMs in the target area to provide continuous suppression. Personally, the two thought that idea was full of holes, but they weren't there to criticize, they were there to do empirical tests and report their findings.

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

"IP! Here we go!"

The Tornado reefed itself into a dangerously tight turn—dangerous for a 16-ton aircraft 200 feet off the ground, traveling at 550 knots with wings swept at their maximum 67 degrees—and settled on its new and final course towards the target.

"Check switches," David Fulton reminded his pilot.

There was a moment's pause. "Confirmed." The Time Early/Late indicator was showing them just a hair late, less than a second. Their threat warning indicator was full of lights, all showing SAM and AAA radars tracking them. A sudden line of tracers zoomed up into the bright desert sky.

"I've got Hot Shot to starboard," Philby Motts said.

"Yeah. It's not pointed at us. ECM's on." The Skyshadow pods on the outer pylons of the Tornado's wings were radiating.

The time ran down, and the ground rush was loud in the cockpit as the Tornado neared its release point.

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

Some 20,000 feet above and a few miles to the south Shin Kazama and Mickey Simon fired their first shots in anger. Each F/A-18E dispatched four small missiles with large wings, which rocketed down to their preprogrammed loiter area.

"This is Lancer Flight," Shin transmitted. "Missiles away."

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

"Bombs away, bombs away!" said the pilot of the last of the Asranian Hawks as he dumped his own ordnance on a power relay substation due southeast of the radar building. He swore as the Tornado he was accompanying suddenly swerved off course, away from him. He didn't waste breath trying to contact the mercenary: there was just too much to do, this low, trying to stay alive.

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

"Motts!"

"Hold on, I think I saw something."

"Well, for God's sake let's not get shot down just because your bloody ass got itchy!" Fulton shouted.

"Did you get our BDA?" the pilot calmly asked as he raised the Tornado's nose to get above the rest of the incoming attack tracks. Deconfliction of aircraft running in by altitude was considered, but quickly discarded: no pilot in the strike package wanted to be at two or five thousand when everyone else was at one thousand feet, five hundred, and two hundred. With everyone dropping their loads more or less at the same time, lateral separation was the only real option, and the one the Asranian planners had selected. And now, for Motts and Fulton, there was no sense in colliding during the operationbecause they had gone off their preplanned route and time It would be embarrassing, to say the least. The British aircrew had their pride, which still rankled at adopting a Luftwaffe pilotten tactic for this attack. Never mind that virtually every major jet air force in the world had its own version of the Knobbelsdorf, which they just called by different names.

"Of course not, you twit! Not with the stunt you pulled!"

"Well, get it now. We're leaving."

Fulton shut up and held onto the canopy handles as he twisted to look out the top of the canopy at their target, which was coming back into view because of Mott's sudden turn.

"No BDA, O Great One. Too much dust and smoke."

"Ah, shit," Motts grumbled as three tracer streams began to rise from the ground, trying to give them a tungsten-pellet-and-shrapnel hosing. He jinked the Tornado vertically by adjusting his ride height, and twice was able to avoid the deadly 30mm explosive projectiles. A new stream came up from their forward port quarter, and he was just about to slap the autopilot off and honk the attack aircraft into a turn when the tracer stream was suddenly cut off. There was an explosion at the antiaircraft fire's point of origin. It looked like a tiny version of a mushroom cloud.

Thank you, Shin Kazama, Mickey Simon, Philby Motts said silently as he slid back down to 200 feet AGL over the brown desert and back on track. He was pretty sure it was one of them. It could've been someone firing a HARM or an ALARM, but there were no indirect ALARM launches scheduled any time during this mission, and anti-radiation missile explosions didn't look like mushroom clouds. The only munitions he knew that had that signature were the Durandal anti-runway bomb and its Russian equivalent. True, the Asranians had that French munition in stock, but it no one was possibly fragged to carry it today...

In the hazy distance he spotted a dot flying away from him, also at low level, and knew it was his wingman, the RAAF Hawk. He pushed the throttle to catch up with it, warning its pilot of their approach from his lower port rear.

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

Philby Motts and David Fulton stood at attention in the debriefing room as the attack Warlord laid into their asses.

"Just what sort of stunt were you trying to pull, eh, Motts?" the Warlord said, pacing in front of them, his voice becoming more clipped as he grew angrier. "You put everyone in danger with your unauthorized actions. If you wanted to die, why didn't you just tell me beforehand, shit-for-brains? I could've just blown your head off with my sidearm and be done with it. No need to go risking an expensive aircraft or a rather important mission."

"Sir, it was for a very good reason," the pilot replied, unperturbed. Posturing bantams like the Warlord didn't bother him.

"And what might that be?"

The ex-RAF flier began to explain.

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

"Aw, you've got to be kidding me," said Mike Derwent in disbelief as he pulled the tab on a Coke and chugged it down. He was lying on the rec room couch in shorts and t-shirt, having just come back from the south of Asran with almost everybody else. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was already on its way to setting over the desert. Outside, there was the chest-rumbling roar of engines as two F-15s began their takeoff roll, on their way to their CAP stations. "You expect me to believe the rebs are trying to use those subsurface attack craft again?"

"Yeah," seconded Saffoni as he looked up from the billiard table, where he was playing a game with two of his fellow A-10 pilots, Gary Heberlein, and Super Tomcat pilot Tommy Gisette and his RIO, a dour, silent fellow by the name of Kahn. "Didn't Vashtarl install a geophone system to prevent that from ever happening again?"

"Hey, if you don't believe me," said Mickey Simon, leaning back against the doorframe of the rec room entrance, "check the Predator photos out at Intelligence. That Tornado pilot saw a tunneling machine setup alright."

"Well, maybe the rebels were digging for oil," said Gisette, trolling for comments.

"Horizonally, and near their precious radar? I don't think so. If Astra hadn't destroyed the transmitter they would've been months releveling the site and recalibrating their precious radar, with all that digging going on." They remained silent as the billiard game continued and the noise of the Pratt & Whitneys faded into the distance.

A throat was cleared, and Mickey looked up to see Mina Desai standing just outside the door.

"Well. It's good to see ops security doesn't suffer when you're around, Mister Simon," she said acerbically, stepping into the room. She was dressed as spiffily as ever, in a chartreuse blouse and pale tan pants. "I'm surprised you're already fraternizing with this bunch. I thought you'd be keeping to yourself, like your partner Mister Kazama."

Mickey grinned lazily. "Shin's a misanthropic wallflower. Always was, always will be. Me, I'm totally different."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah." He got off the doorframe and pushed his hands into his flying suit's pockets. "Like are you free later? I'd like to go out to dinner, and what better way to spend a quiet evening than with someone as smart and attractive as you?"

From the billiard table came one last click of a ball being hit as everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Mickey and Mina. A hush descended over the room as the two continued to exchange words in voices so quiet no one else could hear what was being said. The nerve of this old fart, was the collective thought of all the Iffa pilots.

"Alright, but strictly on business," Mina Desai said finally. Listening to her, Derwent thought with a flicker of glee that she had somehow finally been put on the defensive. It had always irritated him that she was never as affable as the previous liaison had been. "Oh, and I came to tell you, one of the Hercules commanders wants to see you. And the rest of you people: there's a briefing at oh-six-hundred in the auditorium. Be there."

"What did the Herky commander want to see me about?" Mickey asked, never taking his eyes off the dusky woman's.

"He didn't say." She returned his gaze for a few seconds, then left.

Mike quickly got off the sofa and discreetly looked out the window. After he had seen Mina Desai board her Humvee and drive off, he howled in glee and turned to Mickey.

"How'd you do that?" he exclaimed. "She hates guys, especially us pilots."

The blond-haired man just smiled and leaned back against the door.

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

Shin watched the telemetry readout from his Hornet's specialized Data Transfer Cartridge scroll across the CRT one last time before returning his hands to his Tempest-cleared Mission Planning System terminal, switching pages, and pecking a few more words into his report. The 'PC in an ugly olive-green box' was an essential part of their Super Hornet's equipment, as it was needed to program the aircraft's avionics in order for it to fly. Shin had chosen to set the terminal part of the MPS here in Magicland for the moment, where he could be reasonably sure it would be safe from tampering yet still be available for his use. Things were happening so fast, the rooms they and the USAF contingent would use as their offices were not even set up, but he needed to fire this report off as soon as possible.

He felt satisfied that evening. The WAARMs had worked as advertised, which would make one manufacturing group very happy, and while the attack crews suffered some hits and injuries (which included an idiot who, on an adrenalin high after evading so many SAMs, forgot that the inner doors leading to the equipment room were made of clear, bullet-resistant plastic and had slammed into them at full force, almost breaking his nose), no one was downed. Shin had to search far back into his memory before recalling an attack mission in the old days as major as this one that went without at least one loss.

The door to the office he was using opened, and in stepped Suzanne McCoy, bearing two Styrofoam-packed meals and two bottles of beer.

"Hey, Shin."

"Hello, Suzanne. Thanks for letting me use your place."

"No problem. I hate writing reports as much as you do, so better to get it over with quickly, right?"

"Yeah."

McCoy placed a package and bottle beside Shin's laptop. He opened the beer by slapping it against the table's edge, then looked up at the boss of Iffa's Magicland.

"What?" McCoy asked, slightly unnerved by the steady blue eyes scrutinizing her. "Is there a booger on my nose?"

Shin chuckled. "No, it's just that you remind me very much of your uncle."

"Well, as long as I don't get a face as wrinkled as his, that's fine with me."

Taking a swig of his beer, the old veteran eyed the acoustic tiles in the ceiling.

"What're you thinking about, Shin?"

"Nothing much. The guys here are quite different from the ones I flew with."

"How so?"

"They aren't so grim and gloomy, like we were." He set his beer on the table. "They're more sophomoric than we used to be, playing practical jokes and acting like a bunch of kids out on a dream vacation. I guess the world is made up of all kinds of people."

McCoy was silent for a moment. " I wouldn't call it a vacation, but yeah, they are kinda kooky, aren't they? I've often wondered at it myself. I guess the only explanation for their being cheerful is that almost all of them are people with nothing to go back to, and nothing to lose. You had Ryouko to think about, and yet you almost didn't get out of Asran yourself, according to Uncle."

"Yeah." McCoy thought the old pilot wanted to say something more, but he kept his mouth shut.

"You ever think of getting out of this business? There aren't a lot of you McCoys."

Suzanne sighed. "Right, go home and have kids, a whole houseful of them. I'll never hear the end of it from you chauvinists. How would you feel if you were forced out of the cockpit, hmm?"

Shin just stared at her.

"See? Lay off me and we'll get along just fine." McCoy cracked open her own bottle and raised it. "To absent friends," she said.

Shin tapped his brew against hers. "To absent friends," he echoed, and they both drank, to the ones who were not there, the ones who were there but wished they were somewhere else, and the ones who had joined that stream of warplanes making their eternal way across an infinitely clear blue sky.