AUTHOR'S NOTES: I had some other ideas for tonight, but the chapter was starting to get long, so I made an end before I got carried away. Blake fans, rejoice-this is pretty much her chapter, aside from Oscar's meeting with Ironwood.

More notes at the end.

SACEUR Tactical Headquarters

North of Poznan, Republic of Poland

24 August 2001

James Ironwood bent over the huge map of Poland he had set up in his command tent. Unknown to the pilots just a few miles south of him, he had come to a similar conclusion: the GRIMM attacks were overwhelmingly on his flanks, rather than across the board—but the attacks had been sloppily executed, and Salem was not known for being sloppy.

His thoughts were interrupted by an aide sticking his head into the tent. "Sir? Sorry to interrupt you, but Ensign Pine is here to see you. He says it's urgent."

Ironwood tossed a pair of calipers on the map; he probably wasn't going to get anywhere else going over it for now. "Show him in."

Oscar walked in and came to attention. "Hello, Oscar," Ironwood greeted him, and motioned him to a seat. The general had found himself growing to like the young man, who was so like his father, and so unlike him. He respected the fact that Oscar was willing to speak to Ironwood straight—too many officers would dance around a problem, or even ignore it entirely, more concerned about their careers than telling the truth. Ironwood despised yes-men and sycophants, but one tended to attract more of them the more stars a general got.

"Good afternoon, sir." Oscar took his seat. He looked down at his boots for a moment before forcing himself to look at Ironwood. "Sir, I'm afraid I have to turn myself in for breaking regulations. It was entirely my fault and no one else's." On the drive over, Oscar had decided he would keep everyone else's name out of it. If Ironwood—or Arashikaze—was looking for someone to hang, they would have to settle for Ensign Oscar Pine, US Navy, one each.

Ironwood leaned forward, leaning on the map table. "Explain."

"Sir. When we were in Almaty, after escorting the Silk Road train, I activated JINN. I did it somewhat inadvertently—apparently my father programmed her to respond to my voice—but I did not switch JINN off. In fact, I used the system to ask some questions."

Ironwood's face was unreadable. "Such as?"

"Who my father truly was…and who Salem truly is." He shrugged. "I didn't even know Ozpin was my father until a few months ago, and none of us knew Salem's true identity. I wanted to know. And I wanted to know who we were up against." Oscar sighed. "But that's an explanation, sir, not an excuse. I was instructed by Director Arashikaze to never switch JINN on, and I did. So I submit to whatever punishment you deem appropriate."

Ironwood was silent for a moment. He picked up the calipers and tapped them against the map. "What did JINN tell you?" he finally asked.

Oscar told Ironwood everything, though he was careful to leave out any mention of Ruby Flight and Qrow being in the same room with him—though Oscar was fairly sure Ironwood had figured that out already. He also told him about showing JINN to Etienne Legrand in Algeria. The general listened patiently, his expression never changing. When Oscar finished ten minutes later, Ironwood pushed off of the map table and began pacing. "You do realize that you broke a major regulation. You are not cleared for information at that level. The President isn't cleared for information at that level."

"Sir, if I may ask, are you cleared for information at that level?"

Ironwood smiled a little. "Ensign, I knew the story already. Ozpin told me after the Norway operation. We got drunk one night and he got pretty weepy. Of course, who wouldn't, knowing you were the man who accidentally started World War III and killed over forty million people? I imagine he began his relationship with your mother very soon after that." The smile faded. "Nonetheless, it is not general knowledge that Ozpin and Salem were the ones to inadvertently kick off a nuclear war, and it should stay that way." He walked over to Oscar and stared down at him, though the look was more curious than unfriendly. "Who else knows?"

"No one, sir." Oscar kept his eyes facing the tent wall. "All I showed Colonel Legrand was JINN herself, nothing more than that."

Ironwood leaned down. "You're lying, Ensign. You know I do not like liars."

"No, sir. I'm telling the truth," he lied.

"And if I have every member of Ruby and Norn Flight in here and interview them independently? Captain Rose isn't a very good liar, Ensign. Neither is Lieutenant Valkyrie."

Oscar knew Ironwood had caught him, but he was determined. "I'm sorry, sir. You're only going to be able to get me."

"You know there's a possibility that JINN can be tracked by Watts or Salem herself. You might be responsible for those Nevermore attacking Algiers."

"Yes, sir. I am aware. And I am prepared to accept full responsibility for my lack of control."

Ironwood was silent again, then he walked back around the map table. He massaged his temples. "You said that JINN was programmed to respond to your voice?" Oscar nodded. "That means Ozpin anticipated that someday, you'd come looking for answers, and wanted to make sure you had them…even if something happened to Ozpin himself."

"I guess so, sir."

Ironwood nodded. "I guess so as well." He put his hands behind his back, looking at the map. "Ensign, I'm not going to prosecute you. Hell, if it was me…I probably would've done the same thing. What you did in Algeria was a little questionable, but I don't think anyone will believe Legrand even if he did tell someone." The general laughed. "You know that's one reason JINN is naked, right? If someone starts going around talking about naked blue genies, they'll be dismissed as crazy."

"So…no court-martial, sir?" Oscar asked.

"No, Ensign. But don't do it again." Ironwood hesitated, then crossed over to a battered looking desk; Oscar realized it was a type that could be broken down quickly for travel. Ironwood took a key from around his neck, unlocked a drawer, pulled out the JINN laptop, and handed it to Oscar. "This is going to sound pretty damn strange, giving this back to someone who just confessed to using it without authorization, but I think I can trust you not to make the same mistake thrice, Ensign." The general smiled. "Or to use JINN when she is needed the most. Besides, it's probably safer with you than me. No one's going to suspect a US Navy ensign to have it. Salem doesn't even know you exist, after all."

"I sure am glad about that, sir." Oscar took the laptop and got to his feet. "That was all, sir. I just…I wanted you to know."

"I appreciate that, Oscar. Dismissed." Oscar came to attention and turned to leave, but then Ironwood spoke. "And Oscar?" The ensign turned back. "No more surprises. I don't think I can take another one." Ironwood was smiling, but Oscar saw the mask of command slip for a moment, and saw a middle-aged man who desperately needed a rest.

Poznan-Krezesiny Airbase

Poznan, Republic of Poland

24 August 2001

"I'm going to sound dumb," Yang said as she crouched beneath Gambol Shroud's wing, "but just what the heck does TARPS stand for?"

Blake gave the pod a shake to make sure it was secure. "Tactical Airborne Reconnaissance Pod System," she answered.

"Oh." Yang's eyebrows rose. "That actually make sense."

Blake laughed. "I know, right? Some of the military's acronyms are just weird." She crabwalked out from under the F-14 and resumed her preflight, Yang following her. "You know, Yang…I can do this on my own."

"I know. Just nerves. On my part." Yang stared off to the east for a moment. "I asked Uncle Qrow about this—y'know, when the last time anyone ever flew into old Russia. He said the last time he could remember was when Strike Flight did it back in the 70s."

Blake checked both exhausts. "Yeah? The one where Ozpin met She Who is Not to Be Named?" Her ground crew was within earshot. "They got out okay."

"36 went in, Blakey. Five came out—Strike Flight, and Ozpin."

Blake looked over her shoulder. "If you're trying to make me feel better, it's not working. At all." She walked towards the nose of the Tomcat, and ducked under the short pitot tube on the tip of the nose.

"What kind of gun are you carrying?" Yang came around the other side of the aircraft.

"What kind of question is that?" Blake patted the shrouded snout of the 20 millimeter Vulcan in the lower nose of the F-14.

"No, stupid. On your person."

"Standard issue 9 mil, why?"

"There's feral wolves and bears down there." Yang reached into her shoulder holster and pulled out her .357. She had recently acquired it. The other pilots gave her hell about carrying an enormous and somewhat outdated revolver—Ruby asked her sister jokingly if Yang was compensating for something—but Yang wanted something heavier in case of cannibals. Nora was the only one who didn't rib her about the gun: if Nora had been taller, she'd remarked, she'd pack a Desert Eagle. Yang held out the revolver to Blake.

"Good God, Yang. I take that thing with me, and I'll need to leave a Sidewinder behind." Blake hesitated, had a nightmare vision of being chased by a giant bear, and exchanged pistols with her friend.

"Gut check." Blake held out her hands. They were steady. "Shit." Yang held up her hands, and they were shaking. "They breed fear out of you Jarheads, or what?"

"I think I stopped being afraid after Adam almost killed us."

Yang nodded. "That was pretty bad." She reached up and checked the buckle on Blake's lifejacket. "I'll be with you the whole way. You look good, honey."

"Thanks, dear." They shared a snicker, and Blake grabbed the handholds set into the Tomcat's side to climb into the cockpit.

Half an hour later, Ruby Flight was approaching the Vistula River. Norn Flight was fifty miles to the south, holding at the river barrier; Ace Flight was to the north at the same distance. Ironwood, once he had heard about Blake's flight, had notified Robyn Hill and the Happy Huntresses around Kalningrad. If Ruby Flight came out of Russia with a horde of GRIMM at their heels, they would have 20 aircraft tearing east to support them. It made Blake feel better.

She held up her hands. There was a slight tremor in them, nothing more. Blake had gotten good at internalizing fear. Some of it was her experience with the White Fang, and some indeed had been her Marine training. And she hadn't lied to Yang: the knowledge that Adam Taurus wasn't on the earth somewhere, hunting her, was helpful to say the least. Even Salem's GRIMM couldn't compare to Adam.

Blake checked her navigation display, then pulled out her paper map and checked it against that. Her route was simple: they would cross the Vistula at a place called Gora Kalwaria—which Weiss had helpfully translated as Mount Calvary, which did not make Blake feel better—go about 280 miles northeast to the ruins of Brest, formerly Brest-Litovsk. She would then turn back west and come back direct, whichever way was closest and depending on just how many GRIMM were in pursuit. Her reconnaissance runs, there and back, would be made at 20,000 feet. If there were any antiaircraft guns, that would keep her out of range—but not out of the range of GRIMM or surface to air missiles. Yang would remain with her for the entire run, with Ruby and Weiss holding high and behind at 35,000 feet; Ruby's F-16 and Weiss' Typhoon had shorter "legs" than the F-23 and F-14. Blake herself was traveling fairly clean: two external fuel tanks, two AMRAAMs, and two Sidewinders, plus the TARPS pod on the centerline.

She folded the map back up and stuffed it into the clear knee pocket, tightened her straps, and tried to relax. At least I don't have to fly through a thunderstorm this time, she smiled to herself. Aside from scattered cumulus, the weather was good; the earlier thunderstorms had headed off to the southeast. She looked out to her left, and saw the ruins of Warsaw: Poland's former capital had been hit with three tactical nuclear weapons in succession. She'd heard that there were still thousands of people living in the ruins, farming the old parks and refusing to leave their homes, even over successive generations.

Enough, Blake told herself. Get your head in the game, Belladonna. She took a breath, cracked her neck, and hit the mike switch. "Haisla, Ruby Three. Feet wet." Normally, it was a call pilots would give when crossing over the ocean. If any of Salem's more human helpers were listening—such as one Arthur Watts—it might fool them into thinking that Ruby Flight was headed out over the Baltic.

"Ruby Three, Haisla. Understood feet wet. Your code is Luna, repeat, Luna." It was the go code: Ruby Flight was clear to enter the dead zones.

Right, then. Blake throttled back a little to save fuel, and descended to 20,000 feet. She kept her radar off; Yang would have hers on, and so would Weiss. She checked her friend's position—a mile to her right, right where she was supposed to be. Blake smiled again, at what had happened this morning with Yang accidentally groping her. Blake had never made friends easily, and it felt good to have someone like the boisterous blonde around-though maybe not that close. She craned her head behind, but couldn't see Ruby and Weiss—but she knew they were there. Her smiled widened at poor tired Weiss almost going commando; she'd been so tired she'd passed out after her shower. And Ruby sneaking off to get her ashes hauled by Oscar. Blake found that she was laughing and made sure the radio button wasn't down. She'd only known Ruby Flight for about five months, but they were already her best friends. It was strange how that had happened, but she was glad for it. Blake knew if that she was up here alone, or with strangers, she'd probably find a reason to cancel the mission and head for home. Her friends gave her strength, the old sense of camaraderie that had kept fighting men and women going since the Spartans: the other person over there doesn't look nervous, and if they can handle it, so can I.

They were past the Vistula and reaching the midpoint between that river and the oddly-named Bug River, which had formed the Polish-Soviet border before the war. Blake switched on the TARPS pod, starting its cameras. "Ruby Four, Ruby Three, we're rolling," she notified Yang. They had decided on using their normal callsigns rather than their tactical ones, which were their first names, after all. Salem might know who they were by now.

"Roger, Ruby Three. No threats to the force." That meant that Yang neither had anything on radar, nor on her RWR gear either. Blake looked at three lights on her instrument panel, marked IR, RADAR, and SAM. All three were dark, and on the scope, there were no spikes showing radar looking for her.

And much to Blake's surprise, that was the way it was for the next half hour. The tension ratcheted up higher and higher as she crossed into what had been before 1962 the Soviet Union. Below was forest and the Pripyat Marshes, wild swampland that had been a hindrance even to the Germans during World War II; Blake remembered reading that anti-Nazi partisans had hid in those marshlands. It was even more overgrown now. She'd noticed intact towns here and there, where people eked out a living, despite the everpresent threat of the GRIMM, but most of it was a lush forest, where animals undoubtedly thrived, freed of any human interference. It was beautiful, and yet terrible, because Blake had no idea what might be beneath it.

Before she knew it, she'd reached her last navigation waypoint. She wiggled her wings, dropped her near-empty external tanks, and turned west. "Ruby Four, Three. Anything?"

"Negative. No threats to the force." Yang sounded puzzled.

As Yang would say, this is super weird. "Roger that. Ruby Lead?"

"Clear skies, Ruby Three." Ruby sounded just as confused as her sister.

"Ruby Four, I'm doing one orbit. Wait one." Blake put Gambol Shroud into a lazy circle while she pondered her next move. There was nothing. She'd watched the ground for anything that looked artificial, or out of place, but there had been nothing like that, either. Maybe we were wrong? Blake thought. Maybe Salem isn't as smart as we thought. Or maybe she's doing the old GRIMM wave tactic on the flanks, and never intended to hit the center. She's certainly wearing us down. Eventually she'll do enough damage to find a weakness. Still…I'm 20 miles inside Bad Guy Land, and I haven't even seen a Beowolf.

Blake checked her fuel. Still plenty. Then she took her hands off the stick and throttle and flexed them. She knew what she was going to have to do, and knew she was greatly increasing her chances of never seeing her parents again. Or much else, for that matter. "Ruby Lead, Ruby Three. Egressing. Dropping to base altitude." For once, they'd changed the base altitude to five thousand feet.

"Uh, say again, Ruby Three?"

"Egressing at base, Ruby Lead." Yeah, I know, Blake added mentally. I'm going out at 5000 feet. I'll be in range of everything from GRIMM-based SAMs to some pissed off Russian with an old AK.

"Ruby Three, Ruby Four. That is a super hard pass." Yang did not sound pleased.

"Ruby Four, I either do this or some other poor bastard has to do it tomorrow." Yang didn't respond to that, but Blake was fairly sure the other woman was sparing her some choice curse words. Blake didn't wait for Ruby or Yang to approve. "Dropping down and going in."

She pushed up the throttle a little and pushed the stick forward. The F-14 went into a shallow dive. Finally Ruby came back on the net. "Ruby Three, holding high. Be careful; remember, you've only got cameras."

Blake didn't need the reminder, but she chuckled all the same as she leveled out at five thousand feet. "I'm only going to take pictures, but look how mad people get." The ground was generally flat around here, rolling forested hills, but she watched her altitude all the same. She kept her head moving constantly, watching the land around her, occasionally glancing at the sky, but leaving that to Ruby, Weiss and Yang. A quick glance behind: Yang wasn't there. Blake's heart leapt into her throat for a second, but then she saw the F-23 drop down two miles ahead of her. She actually felt tears in her eyes: Yang was trolling, flying ahead, drawing any potential flak onto her first.

Blake went over a shallow ridge. Still nothing. Fifteen minutes passed. She was going to feel stupid if she was out here scared, with her best friend playing moving target, if there was nothing down there but deer and bears—

"Blake, Ruby! Three o'clock low!"

Blake's eyes instantly went to that sector of ground—for Ruby to switch to tactical callsigns, that meant combat was imminent. Yet Blake didn't see anything. It made sense that, with Ruby's incredible eyesight, she might see something that Blake couldn't, but the Faunus saw nothing.

Until a half-second later. There was something square there, in an area where there was supposed to be nothing square. And next to it was something else that was square. And more than that. Then in front of her, there was yet another oddly-shaped object. As she grew closer, she saw the top of it move, and realized she was looking at a Goliath, underneath camouflage netting. Worse, it was now looking at her.

The world exploded. That was what it felt like to Blake: one moment, it was calm, a beautiful summer day, and then a single stream of tracer rolled upwards, almost lazily, well off and to the right, no threat, probably fired by the aforementioned angry farmer with an AK. It seemed to be a signal, however, because then every gun within a mile suddenly opened fire. The air was filled with exploding lead and shrapnel, crisscrossed with red and green tracer, and smoke trails. The sky disappeared, replaced by black and orange and gray.

"Blake, Yang!" Ruby screamed. "Get out of there! Get out of there!" To Ruby and Weiss, far above, it was like a black thundercloud had just happened, with Yang and Blake right in the middle of it.

Yang shouted something unprintable and climbed, dropping flares and chaff in her wake. To her horror, however, Blake didn't follow. The Tomcat began jinking, up and down and side to side, Blake's hands never idle as she moved almost randomly—but held her course and varied her altitude only enough to keep from getting immediately shot down. She felt shrapnel pinging off the fuselage, but tried to ignore it and hoped it wasn't hitting anything vital. Get the pictures, she told herself over and over. Get the pictures. Whoever was shooting at her—GRIMM or human—they didn't seem to be leading her very well, and if she could just stay ahead of the flak, she'd be all right. A missile lofted over her head; she was too low for it to arm, and her left hand little finger was hitting the flare button once every two seconds.

Then a tiny pinprick hole appeared in the canopy next to her right shoulder. She didn't feel anything, but suddenly the pictures became secondary. Blake pushed the throttle to the stops, hauled back on the stick, and climbed Gambol Shroud with every pound of thrust General Electric could provide, and then some.

She thought she'd made it when she heard a thump behind and to the left. She looked in that direction: the wing, raked back, looked fine. Then the Tomcat made a groaning noise, and warning lights lit up her instrument panel. Her left engine was losing oil pressure, and she heard and felt grinding. Blake waited a precious second and then shut the left engine down. "Blake to Ruby Flight. I'm hit." She kept climbing, passing through 30,000 feet before she leveled off. "Yang, are you still with me?"

"Somehow." Amazingly, Yang's Ember Celica hadn't received even a scratch.

"Check me over."

Yang clicked the mike twice in response, and came in off the left side. She slid underneath the Tomcat as Blake slowed down. "Blakey, I got some bad news. You've got holes all over the left engine. Couple of small ones in your left stab…you got control?"

"Checking." Blake moved the stick and rudder pedals. "Roger. They're good."

"One hole in the right engine. Oil stains on both; worse on the left. No hydraulic fluid that I can see."

That was something, at least, Blake thought. If Gambol Shroud lost hydraulics, it would be all over but the ejection sequence. She checked the gauges all the same. Hydraulic pressure looked good; oil pressure in the left engine was at zero, and the right engine was below where it should be. "How's the TARPS?"

"Wait one." There was a pause. "Yeah, looks good. No damage forward of the ventral fins."

"Roger. Thanks." Yang scooted out from under the F-14 and took up position on Blake's right. Ruby and Weiss came into view on the left, behind a little. Blake checked her map. She'd been hit by someplace called Lukow, about fifty miles east of the Vistula. She was going out the same way she came in. Another check of the oil pressure in the right engine; it had lost more. I'm going to flame out before I get back. She checked diversion fields—there was a base at Lask, near Lodz, but Blake wanted to get the pictures back to Poznan, where they could reach Ironwood immediately. She did some quick mental figuring. "Rubies, I'm climbing." She pulled the stick back—gently, this time—and increased her altitude to 45,000 feet. The temperature on the right engine started to rise, so she leveled out there. Then she keyed her mike. "Haisla, Ruby Three. Declaring emergency. I've lost one engine; may lose the other. I'm going to try to make Poznan."

"Roger that, Ruby Three. Will notify Poznan and Lask."

"Ruby Lead, feet dry." They were at least over the Vistula.

Blake put the stick between her knees and did a quick personal check. Her gloved fingers came back with no blood, and she felt no pain, so she hadn't been personally hit. She checked the map again. So, evidently, had the E-3. "Ruby Three, Haisla. Steer one-two-zero for Lask."

"Negative, Haisla. Will try for Poznan."

They flew on for five minutes, Blake trying to will her right engine to stay operational. It didn't work. The oil pressure fluctuated, then steadily dropped to zero. Just before it did, Blake shut the engine down, to keep from ruining the engine any more than it already was. "Haisla, Ruby Three. Flameout." As her cockpit lights dimmed, Blake threw a switch. A small fan dropped out of the bottom of the Tomcat and spun in the slipstream: the ram-air generator restored enough power to run her instruments.

"Roger, Ruby Three. Understand flameout. Safe bailout zone is pretty much anywhere; rescue forces and ground teams notified."

"Negative, Haisla. I'll stay with the aircraft and try to glide it in." If she ejected, the TARPS pod would be destroyed when Gambol Shroud hit the ground. Once more, Blake did some calculations. She was headed for the ground, but with the Tomcat's wings still providing lift and trading altitude for time, she could glide into the base. The trick was keeping the nose up and generating enough airspeed to keep the heavy F-14 from dropping like a brick.

"Ruby Three, Ruby Lead. Recommend you bail out." Ruby's voice was full of concern.

"Negative," Blake repeated, tersely.

"Ruby Lead, Ruby Four," Yang radioed. "Recommend you and Two head for the barn and land first. That way if Three blocks the runway, you don't have to divert." Ruby and Weiss had dumped their drop tanks when the shooting had started, just in case; their fuel was lower than the F-23's. Yang would have enough to make a divert field—barely enough, but enough.

"Roger," Ruby replied, sounding not at all happy with it. She wiggled her wings at Blake and accelerated away. Weiss flew up a little closer, looked over Gambol Shroud, threw Blake a salute, then left as well.

"Not going anywhere, Blakey," Yang said. "I'll take you all the way in."

"You always say the nicest things," Blake replied. The controls were starting to feel a little heavy. She felt sweat tricking down her back and sides. She opened the fuel dump; with both engines shut off, she didn't need it anymore, and it was a fire hazard. Oddly enough, with the engines off, it was very quiet in the cockpit; only her breathing made noise. If it hadn't been for the fact that she might die in the next ten minutes, it would've been actually relaxing. The altitude steadily decreased, but not alarmingly so.

"Ruby Three, Poznan. How do you read?" It was the control tower at the airbase.

"Five-by."

"Ruby, you are twenty miles out. Do you have flaps and gear?"

Blake reached out and pulled down the landing gear lever. There was enough power to do so, but even if there wasn't, the landing gear would drop down through gravity once the landing gear doors opened. The question was if they would lock into place.

Yang was already on it. The F-23 dropped out of sight and then rose back up again. "Three down and locked, Blake."

"Roger. Break. Poznan, Ruby Three. Gear down. Negative flaps. I'm gliding."

"Ah, roger that, Ruby Three. Ruby Lead and Two have landed. Clear runway; fire and medical ready."

"Blake, checklist," Yang said.

Blake ran through the pre-crashlanding checklist—the Navy had a checklist for everything. She tightened her straps as much as she could without cutting off circulation, and kept her visor down. If there was a fire, it would give her eyes some protection. She pulled off her mask, because fire could ignite the oxygen and the rubber might melt.

She peered over the nose. "Field in sight."

Now would be the tough part: the runway at Poznan didn't face directly west-east, but northwest-southeast. "Poznan, Ruby Three. Going to have to side-slip. If this doesn't work, I'm punching out." Blake felt fear grip her stomach. She remembered a friend of hers from flight school, another female pilot. Her Tomcat had flamed out on approach to the carrier, and she and her backseater had punched out. The backseater got one swing of the parachute and a bumpy landing. Blake's friend, ejecting one second later, had been fired directly into the ocean and killed instantly. When the Tomcat stalled, it fell out of the sky, and after looking at her airspeed, Blake knew a stall wasn't far off.

"Understood, Ruby Three. Altitude now one thousand feet. Ground wind speed four miles an hour from the southeast, temperature is seventy degrees, barometer steady. You need not answer further calls." The controller was letting her concentrate on landing. Yang had been silent as well, hanging on a quarter mile off Blake's right wing, not wanting to distract her friend. Blake was good with that: just having her there was reassuring.

"Okay, here we go," Blake said aloud. She gently moved the stick to the right as she came level with the runway in the distance. Her heart pounded in her ears, and sweat now ran down her face. She ignored it. "Come on, Gambol, come on," she chanted. "A little more. Just a little more, girl. You can do it." Slowly, the aircraft turned as Blake kept the runway in sight.

The Tomcat wallowed, and for a terrified second, Blake thought she would have to eject. Then it leveled out. "On glidepath," the tower told her.

"You've got this," Yang radioed helpfully.

Blake watched the runway approach, pulling the nose up, but not too far. She dared just a little bit of flaps, then the runway threshold went under her nose. She said a brief prayer and then felt the main gears connect, the oleo struts compressing as hard as they would hitting a flight deck. She let the nose drop, felt like she was getting bounced out of the seat when the nose gear touched the runway, then stood on the brakes, dropping flaps and opening the speedbrake: she had landed well above the F-14's safe landing speed, and the runway at Poznan was not that long. Smoke streamed from the abused tires, and one of the nose wheels blew. Fire! screamed Blake's mind, and she began to steer the Tomcat into the grass. Luckily, by the time she did, Gambol Shroud was almost stopped. It slid to a halt.

Blake was already unbuckling her straps and raising the canopy; she could blow it off, but decided against it. She was barely to the pulling out her radio and mask leads when there were hands to help: Blake looked up into the face of Ruby's crew chief, Arnold Vogelmord, who was pulling at a strap with one hand while the other put in the safety pin for the ejection seat, so Blake didn't accidentally and fatally launch herself into the canopy. Then other hands were pulling her out of the cockpit and depositing her on the ground—how so many people had gotten there so fast and found handholds she didn't know. As she executed an excellent parachute fall and roll, Weiss was there to pull Blake to her feet, and they ran from the smoking Tomcat, in case the fuel fumes touched off and blew it apart. Firemen were already dousing the landing gears with foam.

Blake stood back and watched, but there was no fire. Quickly, other crewmen reached into the TARPS pod and removed the film canisters, rushing them away. Blake took off her helmet and collapsed on the grass as Yang landed smoothly. "My poor Gambol Shroud," she said.

Ruby had arrived by that time. "It doesn't look too bad," she remarked, taking in the damage to the F-14 with a professional eye. "New engine, some sheet metal, and some new tires, and ol' Gambol Shroud will be kicking ass and taking names like the best of them."

"I suppose." Blake, with the help of her friends, got to her feet. "Damn. Got all the way through Beacon and all the way here without a scratch." She massaged her neck; her flight suit was dark with sweat, and she felt like she was in shock, which she probably was. "This sucks."

They led her towards the equipment room, where Blake stripped off her flight gear, then into the locker room, where she stripped off everything else and went into the shower. "I am taking a Hollywood shower," she declared loudly, which made little sense, because Poznan didn't have a water restriction like a carrier, and Blake could stay in there for an hour if she wanted to. She nearly did, sitting against the shower wall, letting the water stream down her. Ruby and Weiss left her to go debrief, realizing Blake needed some time alone to decompress.

"Yo, Blakey!" Yang stuck her head around the corner. She walked into the open shower bay, still in her flight suit and boots. "That was some of the most fucking awesome flying I've ever seen! Are you real? Are you a goddess, descended from above?"

Blake smiled tiredly, closing her eyes. "Hey, thanks. Think you could go buy me a bottle of something strong and filled with alcohol? I think I need a drink."

"Hell yeah. We can get fucked up tonight if you want." Yang reconsidered. "Though since we just found the fucking GRIMM army, maybe that's not a good idea."

Blake's eyes opened in alarm. "The film—"

"On its way to Ironbutt."

The Faunus relaxed. "Let's just hope it's in time. Those GRIMM seemed awfully close. How the hell did they get there without anyone noticing?"

"Nobody was looking." Yang reached into a pocket of her flight suit and tossed something metal to Blake. "By the way, here you go." Blake held it up. It was a bullet, fired from an assault rifle of some kind. It was deformed and mushroomed. "Yeah, Ruby's crew chief pulled this out of your seat. I thought I saw a hole in your canopy. Didn't hit anything vital in the seat, luckily—or you."

"Where…where in the seat?" Blake whispered. Yang told her, and the Faunus girl swallowed in fear. The bullet had missed her head by two inches. Had whoever fired it been a second faster, the bullet would have gone through her visor, through her eye, and Blake Belladonna would be dead. "Oh God." She dropped the bullet onto the shower floor and burst into tears.

Yang was instantly by her side, getting soaked by the shower but not giving a damn. "Blake? Oh shit, Blake, I'm sorry—I just thought—"

"It's okay," Blake sobbed, all of the fear and emotion and tension demanding a release. "Not mad…I'm just…I'm just…I need to cry..."

Yang pulled Blake into a hug and let her friend cry into her shoulder. She rocked her like a child. "Cry all you like, Blakey," she whispered, and kissed her friend's hair, between her cat ears. "I'm here. I'm here."

AUTHOR'S NOTES, PART II: Bursting into tears might not seem like something tough fighter pilots do, and maybe it seems "girly"...but I've read accounts of P-51 pilots coming back from tough missions so mentally fried that they couldn't even get out of the cockpit. Not a few of them cried as well. Blake's friend is based on Kara Hultgreen, who was killed in exactly that fashion described in 1994. Her death was and remains controversial, but I'll allow the reader to make up their own mind on that.

And yes, I did borrow a little from Top Gun and moreso from The Bridges at Toko-ri-which is an old movie, but still very good.