AUTHOR'S NOTES: After the big Nuckalevee fight, this chapter is a bit of a cooling off. For those of you who are airplane nuts, Cinder is flying a very old MiG-21PF model, with the forward hinging (pilot killing) canopy, terrible forward vision, and only two missiles instead of four. In this world, the Soviets never got to produce the more advanced, considerably deadly R-60 "Aphid" heat-seeking missile, so Salem's MiGs are equipped with Sidewinders-the K-13 "Atoll" was rear-aspect only. Poor Cinder's got enough problems without having to use those.

Near Mount Yamantau

Ural Mountains, Russian Dead Zone

8 June 2001

Cinder Fall took off from the camouflaged runway near Mount Yamantau, and immediately firewalled the throttles of the MiG-21. As an interceptor, it had a superb climb rate, and she used it gain altitude. Once at twenty thousand feet, she leveled off, pulled off the power, and immediately began scanning the sky around her. "Dammit," she said into the oxygen mask. The MiG-21 had remarkably poor visibility: her front windscreen was obscured by the large radar scope, and there was no vision to the rear aside from the mirrors set into the canopy bow. She'd been missing her F-22 since she regained consciousness, but this was worse. If she didn't figure out how to overcome the old fighter's limitations, she would be dead. The MiG-21 was designed to be guided to its targets by ground control, but Cinder did not have that luxury: she'd have to rely on her wits, flying ability, and the radar. At least that had been upgraded: she picked up two targets approaching from head on. Two Beowolves from their flight pattern, she thought. All right. Let's see what I can do with this old piece of shit.

Cinder saw that the Beowolves were in combat spread, so she turned to the right. The MiG only carried two missiles, plus an underfuselage gunpack. Both missiles were direct copies of the AIM-9L Sidewinder, so she could engage from head on if necessary. As she pushed the throttle forward a little, she reached forward and locked on the radar, which took several seconds longer than it had in her Raptor. Stop, Cinder commanded herself, the Raptor's gone. That little whore Ruby Rose took it.

The thought of losing her aircraft and being crippled by someone she regarded as a kid made her temper boil, but Cinder fought it down. As she'd expected, the Beowolf detected her radar lock, and twisted away, trying and successfully breaking the lock. Which was fine; she didn't have radar-guided missiles. The Beowolves' mutual protection was now broken, so Cinder snap-rolled to the left, going after her real target: the second Beowolf. It had begun turning to come in behind her, and now was head-to-head. Her Sidewinders growled as they picked up the heat of the sun reflecting off the Beowolf's fuselage. She fired a half-second later, then fishtailed the MiG's tail around to be able to see it guide. Luckily, it did, and the Beowolf exploded. Even as it did, Cinder stomped the right rudder pedal and turned hard, then dived; whatever the MiG lacked in visibility it made up for in maneuverability.

If the Beowolf's computer brain could think, it would realize it had been had. As soon as it had broken the lock, it had come back around to engage the MiG—only to find the MiG was not where it was supposed to be. Cinder's dive had thrown it off for a precious half-second; she gained another when she climbed. In that moment, the Beowolf was outlined against a cold, cerulean blue sky: a perfect, warm target. Cinder fired her second missile, and the other Beowolf joined its erstwhile comrade in another explosion.

No way that's it, she thought, breathing hard into the mask. That was too easy—there's got to be something else. She kicked the tail around again, and saw the Beringel coming in hard for a gun pass, directly behind her. The Beringel's computer was smarter than the simpler Beowolves: it could actually evaluate a combat scenario. The GRIMM had kept its radar off so that the radar warning receiver at the base of the MiG-21's tail would not detect it. It was going to kill her with the gun, and since this was no simulation, the cannon rounds were live. Cinder swore. If she turned, the Beringel would easily compensate; if she dived, it would follow her into the dive, and it was better in the vertical than she was.

That left one option. Cinder pulled the stick into her lap and pulled the throttle straight back, turning the MiG's delta wing into a giant speedbrake. The MiG hung in midair, but the Beringel couldn't compensate in time: it shot past her. Screaming, Cinder rammed the throttle forward and the nose down. The GRIMM had dropped its flaps to slow down, but that left it a superb target. Going mainly by instinct, Cinder held the trigger down. The 23 millimeter shells lanced through the Beringel, tearing one wing off, and the GRIMM went into a terminal spiral that terminated in the forest below.

Cinder pulled the throttle back, did a quick look around the sky, and saw no other enemies. She sucked in oxygen from the mask, waves of agony radiating up the remains of her left arm and into her shoulder and chest. The new arm had worked well, but the nerve endings were still raw. She bit back another scream of pain, and instead tried to focus on the pain, to block it out.

"Test One, Base One," the radio crackled.

Cinder took a deep breath before replying in as steady of a voice as she could manage. "Test One."

"Test One, RTB. Boss says that's enough for today."

"Base One, roger that. RTB." Gratefully, Cinder turned back for home. She made a lazy approach and landed, keeping the nose up as long as she could, and popping the dragchute to slow the MiG-21 down. Once that was done, she jettisoned the 'chute and taxied under the camouflage tarps, where she shut the engine off. She opened the canopy—which oddly opened forward—and relaxed as the crew chief climbed up and helped her unstrap. Shakily, she made her way down the ladder and pulled off her helmet. Her hair was sticky with sweat, and for a moment, it pulled away from the ruined left side of her face. The crew chief saw the pink burn scars, the skin grafts that would never quite match the rest of Cinder's face, and the black eye patch. Cinder's remaining eye glared murder at the crewman until he turned away.

"Well done." Cinder turned towards the voice as she brushed her hair back down with her free hand; her artificial one cradled the helmet under one arm. Salem stood in her usual black robe; she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of them. "I watched your combat on radar. Exceptional."

"Thank you," Cinder puffed, her voice raw. Her throat had healed from the burns, but her voice was still returning; it sounded and felt like she had been gargling with razor blades. The pain must have showed on her face, because Salem's smile faded. "Does it still hurt?" she asked. Cinder nodded. "Are you tired?" Another nod. "Ruby Rose wouldn't care. Neither would her friends."

"So you keep telling me," Cinder said.

Salem stepped closer. "I thought you were the girl who came to me wanting power. Did you lie?" The other woman shook her head. "Then do not complain about pain and fatigue." Then, to Cinder's surprise, Salem put a hand on her shoulder. "That said, you did well today, despite the limitations of the older MiG-21 design."

"I'll never beat Ruby or anyone else in that thing." Cinder thumbed back towards the MiG.

"I'm quite aware of that. There is—" Salem broke off as another aircraft appeared overhead, turned into the downwind circuit, and landed. "Well," she said sarcastically, "the prodigal returns." Cinder looked and saw Tyrian Callows' Skorpion taxi towards them. The once pristine black finish was pitted and patched with bare metal.

"He was in a fight?" Cinder asked.

Salem nodded. "Day before yesterday. He had to make an emergency landing at one of our outposts; it took him this long to get back. Without Miss Rose, or much of anything else, for that matter." She waited, her robes billowing behind her in the wind as the Skorpion's engines wound down. The canopy opened, and Tyrian did not wait for the ladder to be placed: he hopped down, took off his helmet, and tossed it to a ground crewman, but not before Cinder noticed the huge dent in it. He walked towards Salem and threw himself to the ground, both hands before him, his head bent to the concrete. "Forgive me, my queen," he begged. "Please forgive me."

Salem watched him for a moment. "Get up and follow me. Both of you." She turned and walked into the huge hangar carved into the side of the mountain. Tyrian instantly leapt to his feet and followed the woman like a dog hoping to be fed. Cinder felt a wave of revulsion go through her, handed her helmet to the crew chief, then followed.

They went to the conference room, what the rest of them had begun calling Salem's throne room. She sat in her high-backed chair, waved Tyrian and Cinder to their seats, then folded her hands on her lap. "Report," she said to Tyrian, in a flat voice.

"I followed Reaper Flight as instructed," Tyrian said, his head in his hands. "I followed them through Canada. But they were already being followed—by Qrow Branwen!"

Cinder noticed Salem's eyes widen just a fraction at the mention of that name. "I see. Continue."

"I tracked him to Juneau, where he met with his sister, Raven. It was her band that destroyed the second Nuckalevee, the one you dispatched to western Canada earlier in the year!"

Salem raised an eyebrow. "Ah. So that is who destroyed it. Curious; it was a newer design with more armor and firepower than my older one. I'm surprised the Branwen tribe had the firepower to bring it down. Oh well. How did you learn this?"

Tyrian suddenly smiled, an insane smile that made Cinder instantly want to leave the room; if Salem hadn't been sitting there, she would have. "There was a waitress that was sweet on Mr. Qrow, and overheard him talking to his sweet sister. She wanted to take him to bed, but he refused. Well, she didn't refuse me. I left Mr. Qrow a little message."

"God Almighty," Cinder could not help but whisper.

"You raped her?" Salem's voice did not change; it sounded like she was discussing the weather.

"Oh, no, my queen. I considered it, but the DNA would show that it was not Qrow Branwen. I tortured her and killed her." Cinder felt her stomach flip at the glee in Tyrian's voice. She considered herself without conscience, but Tyrian Callows made her look like a saint. "I had hoped the Juneau Police would frame Mr. Qrow for the murder, but I was wrong. Still, I sent him a message."

"Continue," Salem instructed.

"Per your orders, I and the mercenaries you had waiting at Chuguyevka ambushed Reaper Flight over Sakhalin—"

"Where Reaper Flight promptly wiped out the mercenaries and nearly shot you down," Salem interrupted.

Tyrian immediately bowed his head, not looking at her. "I know I have failed you, my queen. I am so sorry. I mistimed my ambush—"

"You botched your ambush. The mercenaries were of no consequence, but that Skorpion was not easy to obtain. And now you have partially shown my hand. Thanks to your ineptitude, Ruby Rose is not here and is still alive—as is the rest of her flight."

Tyrian began to cry. "But—Qrow Branwen! I shot his Nighthawk down and killed him—"

"You did no such thing. He is alive and in Japan. Even his F-117 survived." Salem's voice had remained steady, but now it took on steel. "You did nothing but fail, Tyrian. And now Reaper Flight knows they're being hunted, by me."

Tyrian's head fell to the table as he continued to weep. "My queen, please, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." His head came up, eyes wild. "I'll do anything to make up for it. Anything!"

"Anything?" Salem's voice lost its anger. "Do you still carry that knife, or did you screw that up as well and leave it in Juneau?"

"No, my queen." He reached down into a thigh pocket of his flight suit, and withdrew the knife. It was long and serrated, a knife designed for only one purpose.

"Good. Cut off the thumb on your right hand." She nodded at the knife. "Now."

"Yes, my queen." Tyrian stripped off the glove on his right hand, took the knife in his left, and placed the blade on the knuckle. "Lower," Salem snapped, and he moved it down to where the thumb joined the hand. Once he had done so, he looked to her. She gave a single nod. Tyrian bore down with the knife, and Cinder felt like she was going to vomit.

"Stop!" Salem put up a hand, just as blood flowed out from under the blade. Tyrian halted. She stood and walked towards him. "Very well, Tyrian. You've proven your loyalty. I won't require your thumb—this time."

"I'm forgiven?" he blubbered pitifully.

"Yes. This time," she repeated.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" Tyrian fell out of his chair, and began kissing Salem's feet through the robe. She stepped back. "That's enough. Leave." Tyrian nodded quickly, grabbed the knife, and walked backwards out of the door, bowing as he did so.

Salem returned to her chair, shaking her head. "My apologies, Cinder. I'm sorry you had to see that, but occasionally Tyrian needs a lesson."

Cinder let out a breath. "He's insane."

"Yes. A complete psychotic. Still, he has his uses—even if he did manage to thoroughly botch things." Salem sighed. "Well, he's out. I'll need to send someone to meet with Raven Branwen now, and it can't be him. He's liable to try to cut her throat if Raven looks crosseyed at him, and the Branwen tribe will feed him to the sharks." Salem regarded Cinder. "I think another few weeks, and you'll be ready."

"As I said, I'll need something better than that MiG."

"You will." Salem smiled. "And I think you're going to like it very much."

Signal Air Force Base

North Carolina, United States of Canada

8 June 2001

Rissa Arashikaze stood, hands behind her back, as the P-51 Mustang taxied to a stop. The propeller windmilled for a moment, then began slowly coming to a stop. A pair of grinning USAF airmen waited until the propeller came to a halt, and as the canopy was slid back, chocked the wheels. Then they stood back, not bothering to disguise their pure avarice at the shining bare metal machine. Rissa could appreciate the beauty and fine lines of the old fighter, but to her it was just a pretty weapons system; she wasn't much of an airplane person.

Yang and Taiyang Xiao Long climbed out of the fighter, taking off their helmets and headsets, then their parachutes, and leaving them in the two-place cockpit. They left their sunglasses on, to protect from the glare of sun on tarmac. Rissa stepped forward, putting out a hand. "Captain Xiao Long, I'm Rissa Arashikaze. I'm sure your father has mentioned me."

"Yeah." Yang took the hand and had hers shaken once; it was a good grip. She was surprised: her father had mentioned that the CIA woman was short, but Yang had a good foot on her. "Sorry I didn't meet you when you were, y'know, talking to Ruby."

"That's all right. You weren't doing too well at that point." Rissa smiled up at Yang. "I'm glad to see you're doing better. How's the arm?"

Yang flexed it and turned the wrist; there was the faint whine of gears. "Pretty good. Starting to get the hang of it." She thumbed at the P-51. "Flew that baby down here."

"Good, good." Rissa turned and shook hands with Taiyang. She noticed it was a much warmer handshake this time; he even gave her a grin. She also noticed his eyes flick downwards. Rather than fry in the North Carolina humidity and heat, Rissa had chosen to wear a short-sleeved blouse and a skirt that ended above her knees; Tai was admiring her legs. She actually blushed a little, and turned away before Tai caught it. "Well, follow me." She motioned them towards a hangar.

Yang easily caught up to the diminutive woman with two strides. "So, uh, what's all this about? You called last night."

"Yes, and I'm quite pleased to see how fast you're coming along," Rissa answered. "When do you think you'll be ready to get back in a F-15?"

"Oh, not too long, barring anything bad," Yang said. "Maybe a week or two. Probably two. There's a big difference between a Mustang and a '15."

"Unfortunately you won't be requalifying in a F-15."

Yang missed a step. "Why not?" She motioned around. Signal had dozens of Eagles, both single-seat F-15C models and two-seat F-15Ds and Es. "I already checked with Major Oum last week. Hell, he said he'd be my IP." Realizing that the CIA might not know what IP meant, Yang said helpfully, "Instructor Pilot."

"Let me amend what I said. You may be requalifying in a two-seater, but you won't be flying one operationally. A F-15, I mean."

"Oh." That shocked Yang a little, but she supposed it made sense. There were only so many F-15s to go around, and McDonnell Douglas wasn't building any more of the fighter version. She wouldn't want to bump another pilot. In the end, Captain Yang Xiao Long, USAF, wasn't all that important; she'd been shot down, after all. The USAF wasn't just going to hand her another F-15; Yang considered herself lucky not to have a letter of reprimand for losing her aircraft—or for that matter, a court-martial. She hadn't heard anything about her shootdown of Mercury Black, so she'd assumed Ironwood or someone—maybe even this shorty walking next to her—had smoothed that out, but it was still a possibility.

Rissa said nothing more as she walked to a door set into the side of the drab-painted hangar. Two USAF Security Police stood there, in fatigues, both with slung M16s. She reached into a pocket and showed a badge, then motioned to the two people behind her. "This is Captain Yang Xiao Long, and her father, Captain Taiyang Xiao Long, retired. They're with me. I will vouch for them."

The airman nodded, then both policemen saluted all three. "Very good, ma'am." Both men had been told to deny Rissa Arashikaze nothing, unless their next guard post wanted to be in Shemya, Alaska. Rissa opened the door and walked inside, the Xiao Longs following.

The door closed behind them, the temperature in the corridor dropping about twenty degrees in the air conditioning. Rissa wiped her brow. "So hot down here. I don't know how you stand it." She stopped at the door leading into the hangar and speared Yang with a cold look. "Before we go any further, Captain, I need to know something. Are you planning on joining your sister and the others in Reaper Flight?" A small smile. "That's what they're calling themselves now."

Reaper Flight? Yang thought. Badass. Good one, Rubes. "Yeah. Hell yeah."

"They're on a very dangerous mission. One that has already almost cost them their lives." She looked past Yang to her father. "I received a message from Japan this morning. Major Qrow Branwen was badly wounded in a dogfight over the Sea of Okhtosk, and both Captain Rose and Major Nikos' aircraft were shot up. All of them are fine and Branwen will recover, but it was a near-run thing."

"Qrow?" Taiyang asked. "What the hell was he doing there?"

Rissa didn't answer, but returned her attention to Yang. "You should also know that a similar mission cost your adopt—your mother her life." She caught herself in time. "I want you to know what you're agreeing to."

Yang smiled. "Like I said, ma'am—hell yeah." She didn't see the pain in her father's face. The knowledge that Ruby and his brother-in-law had almost been killed in the same general area as Summer was tearing him up, and it was all he could do not to show it. And now Yang was agreeing to fly into the same area.

Rissa had caught the pain, and apologized with her eyes. "You're sure?" she asked Yang.

"How many times do I have to say it?"

"Very well." Rissa unlocked the door and walked into the hangar. She stood aside to let Yang see what waited alone within. "As I said," the CIA director remarked casually, "there were no F-15s readily available. I hope this will do."

Yang stepped into the hangar and stopped, her mouth hanging open.

She'd often said that the F-22 Raptor didn't look like something of the earth, as it was so advanced. This aircraft was even more so. The nose somewhat resembled the Raptor, but that was where the comparison ended. The short fuselage blended back into two flattened engines, surmounted by twin, outwardly canted tails; below the engines and forward, two intakes slanted backwards, barely visible. It sat low to the ground, as low as a F-22, the diamond-shaped wings giving it the impression of being flatter than it was. "It's…it's…holy shit," Yang stammered. She looked to Rissa for confirmation. "A Black Widow? A F-23?"

"I guess," Rissa shrugged, though it was obvious she knew exactly what the aircraft was. "That's what they told me, anyway. Not a pilot, myself—well, not a fighter pilot."

Taiyang stepped forward, less hesitant than Yang, and ran a hand over the thin wing. "She's a beaut," he murmured.

Yang was still rooted to the spot. "You mean…you're…this is going to be mine?" She looked back to the F-23 in the same way a bride would look at a groom on her wedding night, only with more lust.

Rissa inspected her fingernails. "Well, the nose hasn't been painted yellow yet, but yes, she's yours."

"Holy fucking shit." Yang took a few steps forward, and touched the wingtip, as if she didn't quite believe it was real. "Holy fucking shit. I thought they only built two of these things before it lost out to the Raptor!"

"We're not saving them for museums," Rissa commented. "I take it you're suitably impressed?"

"'Suitably impressed?'" Yang repeated. She went over to the cockpit. The canopy was closed, but she'd read somewhere that it was based on the F-15's. It would not be hard to learn how to fly the Black Widow at all. "Are you kidding me? Who do I have to blow to thank for this?"

Rissa laughed. "That would be me, but I'm afraid you're not my type." She watched with a smile as the Xiao Longs walked around the F-23, commenting on it with the attention of experts. Tai was every bit as stunned as his daughter. She waited patiently until they were finished. "We don't have enough Raptors to go around as it is, and while I was lying about the F-15s—I'm sure the USAF would provide you one—your highly dangerous, and highly secret, mission is going to need something with a little more capability. I would vastly prefer that both you and your sister return to your father alive, and if getting this Black Widow out of mothballs will do that, then so be it."

"So I'm not in trouble for getting my ass shot off?" Yang asked.

"Not that I know of." Rissa's smile faded. "Captain, we all screw up sometimes. I will let you in on a little secret—on my first mission, I was the only survivor." The façade dropped just a little, and both Tai and Yang saw the human face behind the one Rissa Arashikaze normally wore. She suddenly looked smaller and older. "While this country doesn't reward failure, we also don't punish someone for the attempt. At least I believe so." The mask returned, and she pointed to Tai. "As soon as he says you're ready, you can take this thing up. However, if you wreck it, you'll be joining your sister in that antique parked out front, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Yang tossed off a half-assed salute.

"All right, I—" Rissa was interrupted by a ringing from her pocket. She pulled out a flip phone, excused herself, and moved back into the corridor. Yang went back to admiring the F-23. "Dad, can you believe this? Holy fucking shit! Gad, I could kiss that little gal!" She ducked down, looking in the intakes. "Man, this is better than sex!"

Tai covered his eyes. "Yang…"

"Oh, sorry, Dad." Yang grinned at her father. "Almost better." She saw Rissa come back in. "I apologize," the CIA woman said. "I have to leave for England immediately. Feel free to drool over your airplane for as long as you like, but don't tell anyone about it. It will remain under guard until you're ready to fly it—and you'll be the only one allowed to fly it, no matter how much Major Oum begs you. He knows about it, by the way, but he and a handful of others on base are it. Understood?"

"Yes," Tai answered.

"You betcha," Yang replied. Then she sobered a little. "Miss Arashikaze?" She stumbled over the Japanese a little. "If you're going across the pond, could you…could you maybe see how Weiss and…well…Blake are doing?"

Rissa hesitated, then nodded. "I'll see what I can do, Captain."