AUTHOR'S NOTES: Pretty much a Yang chapter, and finally some air combat again! It was getting too long without it. This is "On RWBY Wings," after all, not "RWBY Political Intrigue." There's a little Weiss here too, and originally Blake was going to make an appearance over in Menagerie-but that'll have to wait until next chapter.
Stole a little from Top Gun in this chapter. I'm not sorry.
Signal Air Force Base
North Carolina, United States of Canada
12 June 2001
"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Major Oum asked Yang. They stood, both in flight suits, in front of Yang's F-23. "You've only been flying the Black Widow for four days."
"Four days straight!" Yang insisted, then added, "Sir." She wasn't exaggerating: she'd flown twelve hours a day since getting the aircraft. She patted the yellow nose of the F-23. It wore the SG tailcode and the patch of the 4th Fighter Wing, and as soon as she was able to, Yang had gotten some of the base crew chiefs to paint the nose yellow…along with the name Ember Celica the 2nd under the cockpit. They'd get to the wingtips when they could. Yang felt her confidence returning every time she took the Black Widow into the air. She hadn't even had the dream in a few days. Granted, that might have been due to sheer exhaustion. "Major, with respect," Yang told him, "I've got to start getting some dogfight practice in this baby. The cockpit layout's just like the '15! I got this!"
Oum gave it some thought, looking at the aircraft, then at Yang. "How's the hand?" he finally asked.
Yang brought up her artificial hand, concentrated, and rotated the wrist, before opening and closing the hand. "It's fine."
"All right." He sighed. "I'll need to arrange someone to go up against you. I'd do it, but I've got a hop scheduled down to Florida tonight. While I do that, you fill out the range request and the FAA reports so they can clear the airspace." Yang soured; she hated paperwork. Oum caught the look and snickered. "You still want to go up and tussle? Do the paperwork."
"Yes, sir."
"Glad you remembered the sir this time, Captain. Give me about an hour or so."
Yang saluted, then walked across the sweltering tarmac. She found a luckily air-conditioned office, printed out the forms, and began going through the mind-numbing ritual of writing out flight plans, then making phone calls to the local airports. The air combat range was over the Atlantic Ocean, away from the main air traffic lanes, but general aviation aircraft like Cessnas and such didn't use the lanes. They could be anywhere, and a midair with a Piper Aztec would kill her just as quickly as Adam Taurus. Quit thinking about that asshole, Yang commanded herself.
Oum stuck his head into the office. "Captain, I've got you an opponent. He'll meet you over the range. Got all the paperwork filled out?"
Yang signed a form with a flourish. In that respect, she'd always been ambidextrous; at least she hadn't had to learn to write again. "Yes, sir!"
"Okay, go have fun." Oum winked.
"You bet your ass, sir." Yang handed him the forms, and sashayed out to her aircraft. She ran through preflight, climbed into the cockpit—it was much less of a climb to the low-slung F-23—and helped her crew chief connect her to the aircraft: straps, radio hookup, oxygen hookup, ejection seat stirrups. Somehow, her helmet had made its way from her recovery by Blake and the Army troops at Beacon, through the hospitals, and ended up here. It was the only thing she had left from what now felt almost like a previous life.
Yang closed the canopy once the crew chief was clear and started the engines, plugged in the GPS coordinates to the range, made one glance around the F-23, and put her hands together, thumbs facing outwards, then moved them apart—the signal to pull chocks. The ground crew crawled underneath the F-23, avoiding the intakes, and pulled the chocks free. She followed the crew chief's signals to the taxiway, returned his crisp salute, and keyed her mike. "Ember Celica, request taxi to active."
"Ember Celica, Signal, you are cleared to runway 23 right via taxiway Echo. You are number one for departure."
Yang adjusted her straps and tried to get comfortable as she rolled out onto the active runway. She got her navigation clearance from the tower, winds aloft, air temperature, and such. It was hot today, so she would have to delay her takeoff for a little, though the Black Widow was running clean and light, with only fuel aboard. Signal was far enough away that GRIMM were no threat, and Yang was very sure that her gun was unloaded this time. Not making that mistake again. She'd been worried that the men and women of the 4th Fighter Wing would hold that against her, but apparently word had gotten out that Yang was set up somehow. The Air Force rumor mill was the fastest form of communication known to man. No one had mentioned her shootdown of Mercury Black, at least not to her face.
Yang smiled beneath her mask. "Signal Tower, request combat departure."
There was a pause. "Ember Celica, cleared for combat departure. Be advised of traffic to the west on climb out."
"Roger that, traffic to the west." She'd have to make sure her rollout was to the south and east. Signal was a little too close for comfort to Charlotte International Airport sometimes. One last check of the instruments, and Yang advanced the throttles until the twin General Electric turbofans were howling behind her, though it was quieter than the F-15. Then she released the brakes and Ember Celica shot forward down the runway. She eased back the stick, checked that her airspeed was good, then pulled the stick back into her lap. The F-23 stood on its tail and roared into the cerulean blue sky. Yang laughed out loud. It was good to be back. She made a quick check to the west when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye—it was the traffic she'd been warned about, but she was well clear of it. Huh. That looks like an An-12 Cub. Weird. Ruby would go nuts over seeing a museum piece like that one. Yang smiled as she rolled out at 35,000 feet. Rubes is going to be so pissed when she sees my new baby. She's still stuck with her poor little F-16.
Yang got onto the air corridor to the range, keeping her radar sweeping in front of her; the synthetic aperature radar was the same that had been on the Silent Eagle, so she was used to its sensitivity. If she'd wanted to, she could track individual cars on the freeway far below her. She also kept her head moving around. There was no threat over North Carolina, but it was a good habit to get back into.
It took half an hour to reach the range. The coast was a strip of white sand behind her, and Yang checked in with the range control, a group of Marines in a radar station at MCAS Cherry Point, to her northeast. She wondered if Oum had scared up a Marine or two as her opponent: dissimilar air combat training meant going up against something much different than her F-23. Since she had the only flyable one, that wouldn't be hard, but a Marine F-18 or a Harrier would be a different threat than the F-15s she was used to flying. Talking to the Marines made her think of Blake, but Yang put those thoughts out of her mind as well. One, she didn't need any distractions in air combat, and second, because she was not ready to think about Blake yet. One thing at a time, she told herself, a mantra Yang had been using a lot lately.
She loitered for fifteen minutes; luckily, she had plenty of fuel. Finally, she got a call from Range Control: her opponent had entered the range. Just before she switched off her radar, she got a hit off of whoever it was; they had come from Signal, about thirty minutes behind her. Yang's eyebrows rose. Huh. Wonder if Major Oum was lying his ass off about going to Florida. Man, I hope it's not him. He taught me and Ruby a ton of shit back in the day, him and Uncle Qrow. "Atlantic Range, Range Control, check in," the Marine at Cherry point called out.
"Range Control, Ember Celica," Yang replied.
"Good morning, Range Control," said the voice of her opponent. "The temperature is 85 degrees."
Yang's eyes widened. "Dad?!"
There was a pause, and Range Control radioed, "Ember Celica, say again your last?"
"No prob, Range Control; Ember Celica's just a little surprised," Taiyang Xiao Long said. "However, I don't think 'Dad' is an appropriate callsign, so we'll just go with 'Dragon.'"
"Uh, roger that, Dragon." The Marine cleared his throat. "Ember Celica, Dragon, you are clear for ACM, until one side gets a kill. No traffic this area. Your hard deck is 5000 feet ASL. Aircraft will maintain 2000 feet of clearance at all times. Dragon will set up east to west, Celica west to east. Check in when in position."
"Range Control," Taiyang radioed, "request heats and guns only."
Yang grinned. Her dad wanted a knife fight. "Range Control, Ember Celica concurs."
"Roger. Heats and guns only."
Yang turned to the west, flew about five miles, then turned back east. "Ember Celica, in position." She squinted. What's Dad flying? At this range, he was just a speck. It looked like a big speck. Holy shit, she realized. Oum contacted Dad! I bet he's in a F-15. Dad flew those after he got out of the backseat on F-4s. She flexed her hands; her real one felt sweaty all of a sudden. Tai had taught Yang and Ruby how to fly; he hadn't taught them how to dogfight. And despite Taiyang's age, he had a lot more combat time than she did. He'd forgotten more tricks than she knew. Yang felt herself breathing hard and forced herself to calm down. Okay, Pops. Let's do this. Starting head to head…I don't believe we're doing this. Dinner's going to be really awkward tonight.
"Fight's on," Range Control called out.
Yang pushed the throttle up to close the distance, then eased off a bit, realizing she was being too aggressive—what had almost gotten her killed against Adam. Tai had grabbed some altitude, giving him a look-down shoot-down situation, which the F-15 excelled at—but Yang knew that the infrared sensor on the inert Sidewinder he carried would have trouble locking onto the stealthy F-23, which mixed cold air with its exhaust. She was already set up for a gun pass, and watched her father as the speck grew into the twin tails of a F-15. There was the briefest of hesitations, then Tai broke right. Yang's hand—her artificial one—was already snapping the stick over to follow; she hadn't even realized her arm was responding to her without thought now.
Then Tai's flaps dropped as he came out of the break, shedding airspeed. Yang swore and threw the Black Widow into a climb, avoiding the overshoot, then almost immediately rolled out, hanging upside down and looking down at the sea. Sure enough, Tai was climbing as well, to cut her off, but he had not quite anticipated her to react so quickly. Instead of catching Yang in the climb, where he could fire a simulated Sidewinder from behind, they shot past each other, canopy to canopy. Yang stomped a bootful of left rudder, throwing the F-23 into a punishing eight-G turn. A gasp escaped her lips as the G-suit squeezed her, and vapor erupted over her wings in the humid Atlantic air, but as she snapped level, she growled in satisfaction: Tai had made a mistake. He thought she would break right instead of left, as fighter pilots tended to break towards their dominant hand, and now she was behind him. Her gunsight pipper centered between the F-15's engines.
"Fox—" she began, but Tai threw the Eagle into a barrel roll, sliding out of her gunsight. She followed, going high into a yo-yo to cut him off. Tai throttled back, nearly forced Yang to overshoot again, and then turned back into her. They ended up in a low-speed scissors, and Yang smiled again: the F-23 had the advantage here, as it was designed for this sort of thing. Tai realized it, and dived away for the ocean. It caught Yang a little by surprise, and she was a fraction slow in following. That second gave Tai enough time for separation, scooting out of Sidewinder range. Yang gritted her teeth and flew after him. He was low on energy as he climbed, scrabbling for altitude, and his daughter closed the distance rapidly. Once more, Yang centered the gunsight on Tai's F-15, this time on its broad back, and once more, Tai found a way to dart out of it before Yang could pull the trigger. She turned into him, but Tai cheated the scissors tighter than Yang could follow, and she was forced out in front.
Damn, he's good, she thought. She climbed, daring him to follow; he took her up on it. Right now, Yang thought, Dad's wondering why I'm climbing, since I'm in great Sidewinder parameters. Well, watch what the new and improved Ember Celica can do, Daddy!
As Tai closed into guns range, Yang yanked back the throttles. The F-23 was capable of this, the large wing and nose chines providing plenty of lift. Had Tai been following a quarter of a mile further, Yang would've simply made herself a large, stationary target. But now he had been just a tad too aggressive, and Yang had caught him out. The F-15 shot past, and though Tai was quick to push over into a dive to keep her from trying a snap shot, she was behind him again.
And this time, Yang stayed there. Taiyang had plenty of tricks and used them all, a dance of aerial prowess that left the Marines in Range Control stunned—but despite all that, Yang still managed to stay behind him, even if her arms hurt, her stomach ached with the constant squeezing of the G-suit, and her flight suit was soaked in sweat. Something had to give, and it did.
Yang pulled out of a diving turn into a roll, still behind Tai's F-15. For about the twentieth time—or at least it felt like that—she put the pipper on the Eagle. Suddenly, her father leveled out. Yang pulled off some power, ready for Tai's next trick, but nothing happened. He's quitting? I mean, I got him and we're getting low on fuel, but still…
Tai's voice came over the radio. "Ember…Ember Celica…I can't…something…" His voice sounded slurred. Then he suddenly let out a choking groan. The F-15 wallowed in the sky; the nose came up, the aircraft nearly stalled, and then went into a dive, the wings rolling drunkenly.
"Oh God, no!" Yang screamed, and dived after him. "Range Control, Range Control, knock it off! Dragon is going down!" What's wrong with him? she asked herself frantically. Oh no, he's had a heart attack or something! Oh God, not Dad too! The F-15 seemed to correct itself a bit, but they were already approaching the hard deck. Five thousand feet below that was the unyielding ocean. "Dad, get out of it! Punch out! Eject!" Yang tried to close the distance, to see what was going on the cockpit.
Without warning, the speedbrake on the back of the F-15 opened, then almost as suddenly closed; the nose came up as Yang flew past into the overshoot. Tai rolled, ended up squarely behind the F-23, and shouted, "Guns, guns, guns!" For added measure, Ember Celica's RWR lit up, showing that Tai had locked onto her.
Range Control's voice took a moment or two. "That's a kill, Dragon. Ember Celica, you're a mort."
"What the…what the fuck…" Yang leveled out.
"Dragon, Range Control," the Marine radioed. "Are you all right?"
"Fit as a fiddle, Range Control. That's what we in the Air Force call a sucker play." Tai flew up next to Yang and waggled his wings. "Dragon's tactical. RTB to Signal."
"Roger that, Dragon, Ember Celica." The voice paused. "Hell of a show today, Air Force."
"Thanks, Jarhead. Dragon has the lead." Tai led Yang up to a sedate cruising altitude. They had enough fuel and then some to reach Signal, but it was enough ACM for both of them.
"Dragon, go channel four," Yang radioed. When they were on a discrete frequency, Yang shouted, "Dad, what the fuck! You scared the bejesus out of me!"
"Sorry about that, kiddo. I'd tried everything else, and you were all over me. Just remember: lie, cheat and steal in the cockpit, and leave—"
"—and leave your dress blues at home. Yeah, yeah," Yang finished. Blake had said that, a few months ago at Beacon…which now felt like years. Apparently her instructors had known Tai's. Or had the misfortune of fighting against him.
"Yang," Tai said, somber, "you did damn fine today. Seriously. I know the Air Force won't clear you for a little while longer, but as far as I'm concerned, you're ready. I don't know how, but if that arm is causing you problems, you didn't show it today. You are one damn shit hot pilot."
"It hurts like hell," Yang replied, telling the truth. It hurt enough that Yang wished she could disconnect it for relief, but she was stuck with it. There was plenty of Tylenol in her future. She waved to her father. "But you know…the pilot shit?" She laughed. "I think I come by it naturally."
Charlotte International Airport
North Carolina, United States of America
12 June 2001
Rick Tardor looked over from inspecting the number one engine on the An-12 as Weiss came towards him from the cargo terminal. "Miss Schnee. Were you able to get hold of your friend?"
"No, they weren't home." Weiss joined him under the engine. "It's odd…I would've thought at least Yang's father would be there. I left a message. I didn't tell them our flight plan or anything," she assured them. "Only that I was okay and headed to Japan." She glanced at him. "No chance we can stay overnight? I'll call them back if we can."
"No, sorry." He thumbed towards the open rear ramp of the Antonov, where cargo was being loaded. "Spare engines. Seems a Delta Airlines bird blew an engine and landed in Phoenix. We'll rush one out to them, fuel up, and then fly to Tijuana."
"Tijuana? What the hell for?" Weiss had heard of Tijuana, Mexico. Despite butting right up next to a dead zone, where San Diego had been destroyed by a Soviet nuclear weapon, Tijuana had somehow survived. GRIMM were known to infest the area, but an odd combination of the US Navy, operating from carriers, the Mexican Air Force, and local air pirate bands actually kept the GRIMM numbers low. Tijuana remained, but it was lawless, only technically still part of Mexico in that there was a small military presence there. A small one, that pretty much let the gangs run the town. "Isn't that a bad idea? Why not fuel up in Las Vegas for the run?"
"Wouldn't leave us much reserve if we did that, not fully loaded. I'd rather not have to ditch this bitch anywhere, let alone the Pacific." He stepped over to look at the number two engine. "We can make Phoenix by midnight. I want to get an early start. We're going to be flying right over an air pirate zone, but if we hook through Tijuana, they'll usually leave us alone. And once we're out over the Pacific, the Navy will protect us. Don't like relying on the squids, but they've saved my ass before." He sighed. "And to be honest, Miss Schnee, Las Vegas isn't much better than Tijuana. It's half dozen of one, six of the other."
"Swell." A large drop of oil fell from the engine and landed right between Weiss' breasts. She had managed to change clothes in the An-12's alleged toilet, for all the good that had done now. "Oh, dammit."
Rick stifled a laugh. "I think we've got enough time for you to grab a shower, Miss Schnee. There's one in the terminal for flight crew deadheading overnight." He checked his watch. "There's some real beds in there, too. Just tell them you're the copilot on Intercargo Flight 917A. We've got some time."
"Thanks." Weiss sighed, went into the aircraft to grab her overnight bag, and headed back to the cargo terminal. Tardor gave the number two engine another once-over, decided it was just the normal leaking the old Antonov did, and walked over to the ramp. "How's it going?" he asked the ramp chief.
"Reckon about another five hours or so, cap'n," the chief drawled. He saw Weiss headed for the terminal, and took a moment to admire her derriere. He whistled. "That's your copilot?"
"Yep," Rick replied, casually. He put his hands behind his back.
"Damn. No offense, cap'n, but that's a nice ass. White hair color? She dye it or something?" The chief squinted. "She looks kinda familiar." Weiss wore her hair down, and her clothes were off-the-rack, not expensive, but there weren't too many white-haired people under the age of 50—aside from the Schnees.
"You heard of the Schnees, over in Germany?" The chief nodded after a moment. "Yeah, she's like a distant cousin or something. Really distant, to be working this job." Rick motioned at the An-12. "She's a good stick, though. Her daddy had a flying school or something," he lied. Rick had learned fast in covert operations, that the best way to tell a lie was to leaven it with the truth.
"Huh." The ramp chief watched Weiss a moment longer and then shrugged. "Welp. None of my business."
"Do me a favor, chief?" Rick asked. He pointed to the An-12's twin 23mm tail guns. "Can you check those? I'm going into pirate country."
"You bet," the chief replied. "I'll check your flare ejectors, too. Can't be too careful."
"Yeah," Rick said, as the chief walked off. Once the chief was on the other side of the ramp, Rick stuffed the length of rope back into a pocket of his flight suit. If the ramp chief had asked any more questions about Weiss, he would've had to suffer an unfortunate accident. "Can't be too careful."