Thankfully, it seemed Bluejay had learned his lesson. Not about storytime, of course. She knew better than to even hope for that. Far better.
"And how do you know I didn't, huh? You all said that about the hunting story and look at how that turned out for ya," the voice, now little more than particularly unpleasant white noise, mused. Dagger, of course, gave him what he so eagerly awaited; a reply. "One time," she said, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "No, no, Bluejay, I think the simplest answer is that you did not lead a one-man prison riot."
"Dunno why, Bluejay, but I think Dagger's right. You? Take on how many armed guards?" Jackal scoffed, on his face a shit-eating grin that after having been through this much together, his fellow pilots would have to be blind to miss, visual or no. "C'mon, man. You don't have the guts, let alone the 'ceps."
"Oh, I got the guns," the AWACS replied, confident as ever. "I got Ass- on the left and -Whoopin' on the right."
"Damn," IRIS chuckled over the radio. She'd earned a chuckle by now. "So you've been talking out of your left bicep this entire time?"
The CO's groan filled the airwaves, eyes rolling. "No wonder that muzzle didn't work."
"Well damn, BASH, I didn't know you were into that." The AWACS briefly glanced over to his beeping console. "New contacts… again. Coming in cold on us. Holding identical vector and attempting IFF." Bluejay's tone usually dropped it's casual flexibility around now, but today, they knew the drill. "Aaaand… another grouping of friendlies," the AWACS launched back into his story for a second. "So I swing, like wha-bam! And the guard doesn't know what hit 'em—" He glanced back at his display. "Yo, that's Cygnus!— Cygnus One, this is the marvelous AWACS Bluejay on your very-own frequency! Missed me?"
She didn't need to hear the groans.
The tanker operator kept their eerie radio silence, and she kept her hand on the stick steady; the throttle, hopefully, should do most of the work. The Hornet's throttle quadrant held up its end of the bargain, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the drogue officer's voice over the intercom gave her that beautiful, beautiful word: "Contact."
All she had to do was hold this position, and that she could do. It was decently simple; maintain zero relative velocity, and maintain a relative position that was far enough. She made small talk with the refueler; far more awkwardly than she had hoped, but it was over soon enough, and she rejoined her squadron's pattern— soon, they were on their way.
The five planes of Polaris pulled into formation with the remaining Tomcats of Cygnus Squadron. She had been shocked to see them again— she had been shocked to sortie at all, to be fair— but that anyone had survived operating out of a dirt strip without taking foreign object debris to an engine, especially this late into the war, was a pleasant enough surprise. They had long since passed the tanker by now; the endless blue of the skies was all that stood between them and Presidia.
How long have we been waiting for this? She shocked herself— we? She hadn't expected to catch feelings for a country. As much as she had flown with them, they had made it pretty clear that she was not one of them. Had her callsign not been enough? Spook. The implication was clear. Spy. Maybe even, traitor.
Do I want to be Cascadian? The question hung in her head, and for that, she had finally found her answer. It was an answer forged in necessity— at least, she thought so. Where else do I have to go?
"Hey, Bluejay," Reluctantly, she smiled into the radio. "Are we there yet?"
"Hey, pilots," the AWACS sounded giddy through the radio static, beaming with excitement. "We're a hundred-seventy-five miles out. We're almost there, Polaris, Cygnus. Ready to take back Presidia?" He whistled. "Holy shit, we're really doing this."
"I don't believe it either, Bluejay," BASH replied. "Just this, and the war's over."
"You better believe it," behind his console, Bluejay flashed finger guns. "Just a bit more flying. Mind if I play some music?"
"Sure," the Major replied. "It'll pass the time."
The sounds of rock guitars and radar alarms filled the airwaves, and IRIS couldn't help but bob her head a little— Hey, it's catchy. "Y'know, Bluejay," Jackal spoke up on the radio. "Apologies for insulting your taste in music, this shit's good. Did they sample a radar lock?"
Something clicked in the AWACS operator's head. "Wait," he almost tripped over his words— for once, the chatterbox was speechless. "No, they, uh, didn't. That's just… fuck."
"Bluejay," Dagger's voice was on-edge. "Whaddya mean, 'fuck'?"
Anxious panic crept into his voice. "Those are just, yeah, uh, radar contacts. Seven inbound. Fed IFF. Hot on us… Polaris, Cygnus, break, break!"
"Do we have an ID?" BASH got to business. "Bluejay, talk to me!"
His voice had turned professional, a welcome change of pace. "Tally four Agile Eagle, F/S-15; tally three Super Hornet, F/E-18." The AWACS gulped. "No other Federation contacts."
Wait. No. No no no. "Bluejay," IRIS said. "Confirm, only three Super Hornets?"
A simple "Affirmative," and she knew exactly who they were up against.
"That's them," she replied. "Peacekeeper Squadron Midnight."
"Old friends came out to play?" Burn snarled. "C'mon, then, we'll show them a fight!"
It ends here. She knew what had to happen. Not many other chances to end this… but can I?
"Fight's on." The formation of CIF fighters scattered as the seven Federation planes did the same, and her Radar Warning Receiver screamed their discordant symphony into the pilot's ears.
"Alright, Spook," Bluejay cocked his head, punching keys on the comms terminal. "You've got the keys, why don'cha let us in?"
"Little busy, Bluejay!" She reached down for the radio controls and tuned in the Fed comms. "That work?"
"Sure did. Receiving Federation chatter now." Bluejay smirked. "Keep yakkin, ya Fed bastards."
Those 'Fed bastards' were my best friends. She pulled the stick, her stomach by now used to the constant cycle of G-induced abuse. Can I really put a Sidewinder between Gabi's eyes? Between Phil's? Between Chris'? Her hands briefly shook, the plane responding in turn before she quieted the tremors, the aircraft leveling out. Between Aleksandr's?
The Fed radio chatter crackled to life. "Midnight One to all aircraft. Disperse and engage at will. Pilots, I expect you to drive these insurrectionists to their graves." Aleksandr's— Zmei's— words gave her a semblance of an answer, another answer forged in the crucible of necessity. It's them or me.
"Polaris Six, engaging." She breathed deep— in and out, over and over. Keep your head. You have the skill to keep up.
She didn't know, though, if she had the skill to win. She decided it was better if she didn't think about it.
The radio lit up with launch callouts. "Polaris One, Fox Three times four." "Polaris Three, Fox Three times three." The CIF launches did not go unanswered; the Super Hornets and Agile Eagles flinging high-explosive arrows from their jet-engined quivers.
Her HUD and her radar told her what she needed to know— MLAAs had lock. "Polaris Six, Fox Three times four." From both sides of the fight, rocket exhausts kicked trails of freshly formed clouds into the afternoon sky. One of the Peacekeepers' radios crackled— Chris. Noble, a pilot from her country, one who she had trained with, drank with, and gotten into so much trouble with, was now a pilot she was doomed to fight against.They all were, but she and Noble had been especially close friends; it was only due to his mercy— or his mistake— that she had managed to escape the Federation alive at all. "Midnight Eight, Fox Three times four!"
"Polaris," the Major shouted into the radio. "Go evasive, inbound MLAAs on overlapping tracks!"
The squadron agreed, much to the disdain of their insides; and IRIS turned her plane, dropping chaff, entering the sweet spot to evade the radar seeker— just enough to watch her CO's plane burst into flames.
"Polaris One, lost from radar!" Bluejay was sweating up a minor flood. "Shit, shit, shit!"
Shit, shit, shit… me too, Bluejay. She rolled her plane, and was cursed to watch her radar as one of the missiles— her missile, or at least she thought so, shot fast and true at her old friend, not a second after the same ordinance had ended the life of a new friend. She denied herself the view her front-row ejection seat provided, electing to instead glance at the sky above, too far away to see the work of her hands. No. She shook her head, and forced herself to watch the radar. Her former comrade, that cocky asshole of a mildly-disheveled brown-haired rascal— they had always shared so much in common— evaded, dumping chaff; attempting to make that perpendicular angle, that notch. The blast-fragmentation warhead seemed to think the effort cute, and sent steel rain through her best friend's rudder as the radar tracks connected.
"Midnight Eight, I'm hit, but I'm still in the fight. Yaw authority compromised." His tone was rushed, but level; just as Zmei had taught them. Taught her.
"Negative, Eight." The voice of her mentor was calm, assured. "Break away. Head south, join the evacuation. Do not engage at Presidia. Evade as possible and bail out over the evac point. I have taught you far too well to lose you." The CIF radio crackled, but she couldn't be bothered to pay attention. Not while he was speaking.
"Under… understood, Zmei. It's been an honor—" A distant blast, the orange blossom of that deadly flower replacing where Chris once was, and then static.
"That was for Jake, you motherfucker," Burn snarled over the comms. "For Zip. For BASH. Bluejay, splash one Peacekeeper."
All she could think was, no. Not him. She grit her teeth, and decided it was better if she didn't think in the first place.