The pilot walked up to her plane, flight helmet in hand. She climbed up the F/E-18's ladder and started flipping switches as if guided by instinct- a cold start was second-nature at this point. Would she get up there in time? She wasn't sure. Cold starts usually weren't quick.
As she tuned her radio to the right frequency, the CIF pilots seemed to have regrouped, holding their own. Scattered callouts of "Fox two!" and "Guns, guns, guns!" hung against the eerie radio static, popping in and out of existence like a verbal game of whack-a-mole. Nicole caught a glimpse of gunfire ricocheting off the runway across from her hangar, most likely sprayed at a passing fighter.
"ALCON, Armstrong Tower. We've got an extra pilot for you," the smooth voice of the ATC was a comforting distraction from the chaos of battle as she wrapped up her pre-flight procedures. "Lieutenant Khoury, your new radio ID is Polaris Six. You are clear for taxi. Readback and acknowledge."
"Roger, Armstrong Tower. This is Polaris Six, callsign IRIS. Heading to taxi." She prayed silently that no Federation fighter would put a quick end to her CIF piloting career with a lucky bomb or a quick strafe of the runway.
As she gunned it down the runway and pulled back on the stick, she climbed almost directly into a battle. No sooner did she have her landing gear up than she had her radar warning receiver drilling missile alerts into her skull, and she started letting her training kick in and take hold.
"Hang on a sec," a woman's voice identified as Polaris 1, BASH, came in over the radio. "They sent the Fed up to fight with us?"
"Oh, fuck me," the man from the cafeteria, who the radio ID'd as Polaris 5, Burn, chimed in. "She's just gonna kill us and fly away with her friends."
"No," the Federation defector replied. "These bastards aren't my friends."
"Oh yeah?" Burn retorted. "Prove it."
"ALCON, ALCON," the tower interrupted their chatter. "Cut the chatter. Four of the F/E-15s inbound vectoring hot on the hangars. Polaris Five and Six, Take 'em out before they can drop ordinance."
The squadron acknowledged the order. "Well, Fed," Burn snarled. "Looks like you're my wingman. Try not to get me killed like ya did my brother, okay?" The other four pilots converged to cover the two, keeping the Federation fighters in the furball off their tails.
She didn't reply. "Polaris Six, tally four fast-movers. Engaging with Polaris Five."
She took a deep breath. This is it, right? Maybe the Feds won't execute me if I surrender. Maybe just jail. Jail hasn't been so bad.
But what the Feds were doing was worse.
She flipped the Master Arm switch. Fight's on.
As she fiddled with her radar, she got solid locks with her MLAAs and fired. "Polaris Six, Fox 3 by four." These wouldn't miss, unless the F/E-15s wanted to back off from their attack runs. They were already too far committed in her eyes, and as the flight met their demise at the hands of a volley of missiles, she knew now that the Federation would never let her live if she ever wound up under their authority again.
Do or die. No other choices. "Polaris Six, splash four."
"ALCON, ALCON. All air-to-ground threats neutralized," the tower spoke up. "Quick work, Polaris Six."
"That shit doesn't count," Burn pouted. "They had already committed to their runs. Clubbing 'em with an MLAA salvo ain't exactly hard."
"Kills are kills, Burn," BASH said. "Eyes on the prize."
Burn sighed over the radio. "Fine. Kills are kills. But you wasted half your MLAAs."
"You say wasted, I say shedding weight."
"Hmph."
"Cut the chatter." BASH did her best to quash the bickering. "We've still got to clean up the escorts. Split into elements. Stick with your wingman. Good hunting."
Burn's F/C-16 peeled off and turned towards the developing furball over the base, and IRIS followed suit. She weaved and dodged the plane through missile alerts and tracer trails, watching as the ten-on-six furball intensified.
The swarm of fighters carved through the skies, and they were closing to a dangerously close range. This is going to be a knife fight. She sighed. Those are never pretty. She cued up the standard dogfighting missiles, checked her JHMCS helmet's HUD, and dove into the fireworks after the Fighting Falcon.
Alright. She thought to herself. What would Zmei do? First rule of a knife fight is to always stay calm. Second rule is to always stay alert. She swept her head around the Super Hornet's canopy, tallying up the enemies she could see against the ones on her radar. Third rule? She thought. Third rule of a knife fight is… what did Zmei always say… Oh yeah! Shoot the sonuvabitch. She picked out a Sk.27 from the crowd and decided to go after it. The other Polarises called shots and kills as they came.
Missile alerts blared as she went defensive, forced to break off her mark. One of the Fed Sk.27's friends was on her tail, and tracers carved open the sky over her canopy. Fuck, she thought. She threw the plane around, evasive, and eventually the other pilot overshot. She felt the sorry excuse for a sandwich bounce around in her stomach and thanked her lucky stars she didn't get airsick.
Good. She smirked. Just where I want you.
Now, the tables had been turned, and she squeezed the trigger on her stick. "Polaris Six, guns, guns, guns." As the Federation Flanker burst into flame, she pulled away, sighting a new target. "Splash one." She checked her radar.
Pulling her plane onto another Sk. 27's tail, the two dogfighting missiles sat on her wingtips as she waited for the heatseekers' lock tone. The missile growled once it identified the fighter's engines, and a push of a button lit the rocket motor to send the missile on its way. The Flanker went defensive, cutting back on the throttle and dumping flares. Damn. She watched the missile curve off into the distance as missile alerts forced her into a defensive turn of her own. Shot wide.
"Polaris 5, splash one. How's that for a National Guardsman, Fed?" Burn seemed satisfied with himself. IRIS made herself ignore his boast.
Just a few enemy contacts remained, and one of them was squarely in IRIS' sights. The fighter was pulling her away from the others, vectoring squarely towards the nearby valleys of Karyavin. Trying to get me in the valley, huh? Bold choice. The terrain would mask radar locks and make approaches difficult. Looks like it's another outing for the good ol' Vulcan.
She dove into the valley behind the fighter, slicing through the skies close to the terrain. The curves of the valley obscured the other plane as it gunned it through the canyon, and even squeezing off bursts of the autocannon, she couldn't keep her nose on the Sk.27 long enough for a kill. After disappearing behind a particularly sharp corner, the fighter climbed out of the canyon and found itself on IRIS' tail. She pulled hard, pressed back in her seat, trying to shake it. The other fighter didn't let her.
She dove for the deck, hoping the enemy fighter would take the bait as she felt a weightless feeling in her stomach. It did. She just needed to get the plane into her off-boresight angle. Then she could shoot off a missile and force the defensive if not outright kill it.
The Sk.27 just barely stepped into the missile's killzone, and she took what little shot she had as the plane overshot her. The missile careened towards the plane, and missed— but it did its job as the Flanker careened onto the defensive, dumping flares and speeding away from her. It was quickly out of guns range, but she had another option as the Sk.27 swung around to vector hot on the F/E-18 again, readying a missile launch of its own.
"Polaris Six, maddog Fox 3!" The missile didn't have a lock. It didn't need one. The Flanker and her were the only planes this far out from the base, and as the missile's onboard guidance took over, it knew where it was— and where it needed to go.
The missile carved an orange path across the sky, erupting the Sk.27 into a ball of fire. "Polaris Six, splash one."
"Polaris One, splash one. Are we all clear, tower?"
"Polaris One, Armstrong Tower. Radars are clear across the board. RTB."
IRIS smiled to herself. Nice to know I've still got it.