AUTHOR'S NOTES: Sorry about the delay. With everything going on in the world-all my teaching switching to online, and slightly obsessively checking the coronavirus outbreak a lot-it took me longer than I thought with this chapter. Then again, it also turned out to be one of the longest chapters in "On RWBY Wings," so there you go.

The Battle of Beacon begins here. As usual, I tried to be as accurate as possible, but I undoubtedly got some details wrong-especially when it comes to how a computer virus works. I'm very much not a tech guy, so I'm just guessing here. Hey, it works that way in Hollywood.

Many thanks to Top Hat Guy for his creation of 2 Troop, C Squadron. They're in here, THG, and will be for the rest of the battle.

Transient Aircraft Ramp

Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada

14 May 2001

1310 Local

Ruby Rose was walking aimlessly. She had been at the Officers' Club, getting lunch and watching coverage of the B-1 Paladin mission. And she had watched one of her best friends die, in living color and on live television.

In the chaos of that, as pilots had left the club, she'd walked out in a daze, unnoticed, unsure of where to go or who to talk to. She was crying, but it wasn't bawling; the tears just drifted down her cheeks, barely noticed. First Ruth Lionheart, now Penny Polendina. Her uncle Qrow had warned her that a fighter pilot's career was marked by tragedy as much as triumph: flying high-performance aircraft always left a small margin of error, and pilots died with depressing regularlity. She'd barely started her career and already been to one funeral, not counting her mother's. And now she'd have to go to another one.

She realized she was walking towards the dispersal area, and half-smiled: of course, when she needed comfort, she would gravitate towards her aircraft. Stop this, Ruby told herself. Penny said the B-1 could be remotely piloted. That means someone hacked it. We need to find out who. Stop moping around and find out who did this, Ruby Rose. Penny didn't just die in an accident or die in her sleep; she was murdered. And by God, I swear I'm going to find out who did this. Then Ruby remembered Yang, and how she'd been set up. She turned on one foot, intending to run to Ozpin's office, but then the sound of a jet engine caused her to look up, as Pyrrha Nikos entered the downwind leg to land. She heard a roar of chattering behind her, and saw a small horde of news reporters and cameramen heading for the dispersal area, kept back by a rope.

"Ruby!" She turned and saw Coco Adel and Yatsuhachi Daichi running towards her. "Did you hear?" Then Coco noticed the tear stains on Ruby's cheeks. "Oh."

Ruby dried her tears on her sleeve. "Guys, those media guys are going to tear Pyrrha apart."

"Not if we have anything to say about it." All three headed for the dispersal.

Air police were holding back the media as Pyrrha landed and began taxiing to her hardstand. A ground crewman diverted her to the transient ramp, back to where she had been parked before, though now Glynda's F-22 was parked where Penny's B-1 had been. She taxiied in and shut down the engine, and her crew chief put the ladder on the canopy rim as soon as she opened her canopy—away from the press. Cameras whirred and clicked like locusts as she unstrapped, got out, and unsteadily made her way down the ladder.

Ruby ran towards Pyrrha, as Coco and Yatsuhachi peeled off, forming a guard line of sorts behind the air policemen. Pyrrha got to the ground, then leaned against the ladder. "Pyrrha?" Ruby asked.

Pyrrha looked over, her face drawn, tears still running down her face, her eyes puffy and red. "Oh God," she said, at the sight of Ruby. "Oh God, Ruby, I'm so sorry. I killed Penny. God help me, I killed Penny. I killed—" Then she hurriedly stripped off her mask, fell to one knee, and vomited.

Ruby knelt beside her. "It's okay, Pyrrha. It's all right. You didn't kill Penny. It wasn't your fault." She rubbed the other woman's back. "It wasn't your fault, Pyrrha."

"I have to—have to report to Ozpin…" she struggled out. Pyrrha glanced up at the media. "Oh, no. Oh, no. They'll want to talk to me—"

"We won't let them. C'mon, Pyrrha." Ruby helped her to her feet. The crew chief pulled a rag out of his back pocket. It was dirty, but it was better than nothing, and Pyrrha wiped away the last of the vomit. She then took off her helmet, put it in its bag, took a deep breath, and nodded to Ruby. They began to walk towards the equipment room.

"Let me through! Dammit, let me through!" Jaune fought his way through the crowd of media, and was stopped by one of the air police; he was in his uniform rather than a flight suit. Coco, who was in her flight suit, stepped forward. "It's okay!" she shouted. "He's one of us." The policeman nodded, and raised the rope enough for Jaune to duck under. One of the reporters tried to get under as well, only to find himself confronted with six and a half feet of Yatsuhachi. He quickly shrank back under the barricade.

Jaune ran to Pyrrha's side. "Are you okay?" She didn't trust herself to speak, and it was something of a stupid question; he regretted it the moment he said it. Still, she nodded, and squeezed his hand. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"It wasn't your fault," Ruby repeated.

"She's right," Jaune agreed. "Whoever made that broadcast—they're behind this. And we have to make sure they don't…" He suddenly went pale. "Oh, merde."

"What?" Ruby asked.

"Pyrrha. The gun camera pictures. Cinder's gun camera pictures. What if that wasn't an accident? What if she was trying to kill Fox and Velvet?"

Pyrrha didn't answer, but Ruby's eyes widened. "And Mercury was the guy Yang shot down. If she was set up…"

"We have to get to Ozpin." Jaune began to lead Pyrrha away. They had to pass a corner of the barricade, and the media gravitated to that side quickly. "Major Nikos!" a reporter shouted. "Why did you kill Penny Polendina? How does that make you feel?"

Jaune didn't even stop walking. He merely turned and punched the man in the face. He went down, and Jaune pulled back bloody knuckles. "What the hell is wrong with you people?" he yelled. "We just lost a damned good friend, and you vultures want your damn story?" He spit. "Fuck you! Fuck all of you!"

Then he rejoined Pyrrha and Ruby, and they began running towards Ozpin's office.

Regency 26 (E-3A AWACS)

Eberle Line Track 4, Near Charles City, Iowa, United States of Canada

1320 Local

Airman 1st Class Heather Cummings walked back to her station, glad to stretch her legs and use the bathroom. There wasn't much room to walk around in the E-3, even though it was a converted airliner airframe. She yawned, cracked her back, and resumed her seat. "I got it, Jeff." She put her headset back on, and felt the aircraft begin a gentle turn as it began to come around on its patrol track, a long oval from the Mississippi to midway across Iowa. Unlike a few days before, it was now back further from the Eberle Line, which degraded its radar a little, though it could still "see" across Minnesota. She picked up a blip at the northern edge of the radar's reach. She looked at the data block. "Wolf Den 34, this is Regency 26, state, over."

The voice that came back had the slight accent of the Canadian Plains. "Regency 26, Wolf Den 34 is a Charlie 130, heading to Beacon from Vancouver. Authorization is Tango Hotel Golf, over."

Cummings ran her finger down a list of authorizations on the side of her scope. "Confirmed, Wolf Den 34. You are clear through Minnesota. Be advised Vytal Flag exercise is complete for the day." And then some, she thought. Regency had heard the radio conversation between Pyrrha and Penny. Poor thing.

"We heard, Regency. Wolf Den 34 out."

She leaned back in her chair. Her back felt stiff; even cracking it hadn't really worked. She tried again, and this time it really popped, loud enough that the entire tracking crew stared at her. Cummings grinned sheepishly, but at least her back felt better. Now there were two blips on her screen, another one in northwestern Minnesota. "Regency 26, Rock 22," her radio crackled. "Request airspace clearance, over."

"Rock 22, Regency 26," she radioed back. "Course and heading?"

"Regency 26, Rock 22. Our course is three five zero to MOL, then southeast to ORD." Cummings translated that as that Rock 22 would fly to the Moose Lake waypoint, then southeast to Chicago-O'Hare. "Is Beacon airspace open?"

"Roger that, Rock 22. Do you have authorization?"

"Wait one, Regency." There was a pause. "Authorization is Romeo Tango Whiskey." Her finger went down the list again. It was at the bottom, but it was there: the flight plan had been filed that morning, from Hector to O'Hare, then to the aircraft's home base at Little Rock.

"Roger, Rock 22. You are cleared. Be advised of traffic that will be to the north in thirty minutes at about ten miles; that will be Wolf Den 34."

"Understood, Regency. Man, are we glad to get out of your guys' hair. That place was getting pretty lonely."

Rock 22 was not supposed to be so chatty, but Cummings let it go; she could imagine the crew was pretty relieved. "Keep the channel clear, Rock 22—"

Ahead of her, she saw one of the other controllers suddenly sit up straight. "Unidentified contact, bearing one two zero, heading zero one five." Cummings' eyes darted to the sector, but she kept her mouth shut; that was not her assigned sector. Even so, she saw nothing on scope but the two C-130s well to the north. She could hear the other controller trying to contact the bogey, to no avail. She spotted the blip on the second sweep. It was gone again, then back. Her chest tightened: that was almost the same thing she'd seen before the air pirate attack. Her fear only eased slightly a second later. The senior controller had seen it as well: he dashed down the aisle and stood over the controller in front of her. "Classify new contact as a Nevermore. Bearing one two zero, heading now zero two zero, speed four hundred, angels twenty."

"Where the hell did that come from?" Jeff whispered to Cummings. She shrugged; stealthy GRIMM like the Nevermore could usually evade ground radar. That was the purpose of the AWACS patrols. It was detected now, though.

"Beacon Control, this is Regency 26," the senior controller was radioing Beacon. "We have a Nevermore heading for the Barrier."

Cummings flipped on her radio. "Rock 22, Wolf Den 34, be advised, GRIMM to the south, range two hundred. Wolf Den 34, maintain course; Rock 22, shift your course north twenty miles, acknowledge."

Crow 13

Near Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, United States of Canada

1325 Local

Qrow Branwen took off his oxygen mask and massaged his face. He regretted not shaving that morning; his oxygen mask really didn't have the best seal unless he did. He was also breaking regulations by not shaving for four days, but Qrow had always regarded regulations as being basically suggestions. It was one reason why he was flying for Ozpin more or less directly rather than being assigned to any unit, much less the USAF's dedicated F-117 unit at Holloman in New Mexico.

He checked his navigation suite and came right a bit. The Nighthawk had an autopilot, but he preferred to hand fly as much as he could. It was a nice day out, and he was skimming along at around fifteen thousand feet. His radar transponder was off, and the faceted fuselage of the F-117 made him more or less invisible to radar—including that of the AWACS. Qrow liked doing this, to see if he could slip past the Eberle radar. Today, it wasn't a lark, but a test, to see how the F-22 might have sneaked up on Regency 26. The Raptor had a radar signature slightly greater than the Nighthawk, but only slightly. Still, he might get picked up by the AWACS, if the radar got enough of a return from the F-117. The design of the aircraft scattered radar signals in all directions, but it was still possible to get a return. He remembered a time over Yugoslavia when a SAM battery had locked onto him.

Then he heard the radio call from Regency 26 about the Nevermore. Qrow fastened his oxygen mask and thought a moment. He was supposed to fly to Ellsworth and take over the investigation on the Torchwick escape from Glynda, who had returned to Beacon, but GRIMM were GRIMM. His F-117 was modified for air combat: it carried four Sidewinders and a gunpod, all in an expanded internal weapons bay. Not ideal for engaging a Nevermore, but it would be a start.

Qrow reached forward and touched a button. On the spine of the F-117, a small panel popped open and activated a transponder, giving away his position; the last thing he needed was the AWACS thinking he was another GRIMM. "Regency 26, Crow 13, I'm in the area. I can intercept." He pushed up the throttle and turned north.

Base Headquarters

Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada

1330 Local

Ozpin, Ironwood, and Glynda Goodwitch—still in her flight suit—were gathered around Ozpin's desk. He had gathered them together to go over what had gone wrong with Penny, expecting the phone call from the Secretary of Defense at any moment. Dreading might be a better word: Ozpin knew that, after the incidents with Ruth, Yang and now Penny, a summary relief was not out of the question.

The phone rang and Ozpin put it on speaker as he picked it up, but it wasn't the Secretary. "Captain Ozpin, this is the tower. Regency is tracking a Nevermore headed in our direction, about a hundred miles off."

"Anything else?" Ozpin asked.

"Not at the moment, sir."

"Very well. Who is on alert five?"

"Cardinal Flight, sir."

"Scramble them now." Ozpin quickly consulted a list he kept by his computer. "Has Funky Flight departed yet?"

"No, sir, they're still here," the Beacon controller answered.

"Tell them to backstop Cardinal in case they're needed." He grabbed a pencil, and quickly scratched off Bronze Flight; they had left Beacon the day before for home, their part in the exercise over. Coffee, Sun, Funky, Auburn and Indigo were still on base, as well as Glynda and her F-22 and Ciel Soleil with her F-15. And there was also Ruby Flight.

As Ozpin hung up, Ironwood looked at him. "Ozpin, no reason to scramble anything else. We've still got the Barrier, you know."

"I know." Ozpin had never really had much confidence in the four SAM batteries covering the Mississippi from Prairie du Chien to Superior; they hadn't been much use in the Battle of La Crosse because so many friendly aircraft were in the area.

Someone began knocking on the door. "Come in," Ozpin called out. Ruby, Jaune and Pyrrha burst in. "Captain Ozpin, we've got something we need to tell you, right now!" Ruby yelled.

"No reason to shout, Lieutenant; I'm right here." He saw Pyrrha. "Major Nikos. Let me be the first to say that what happened this afternoon was not your fault."

"Actually, you're about the third person to say that," Pyrrha sighed. She felt the old black cloak of depression settling over her: she'd killed again.

Glynda caught the expression on Pyrrha's face. "Major. Pyrrha. This is not your fault. You saved hundreds of lives today."

"I couldn't save all of them."

Ruby gave Pyrrha a reassuring look, then stepped forward. "Captain, sir, there's something you need to know."

Ozpin turned his attention to her. "You have the floor, Lieutenant."

Ruby spotted the envelope on Ozpin's desk. She quickly opened it and shuffled out the prints. "These were taken by Major Fall—Cinder Fall's gun camera over La Crosse. Ruth found them." Glynda, Ozpin and Ironwood peered at the photographs.

"That's Fox Alasdair and Velvet Scarlatina's Tornado," Glynda observed.

"Right." Jaune got up next to Ruby and held up the note Ruth had written. "Ruth was in charge of getting gun camera confirmation of everyone's kills. She found these. According to her note, she confronted Cinder with it and Cinder said it was friendly fire."

"Yes, Lieutenant Arc, we can read," Ozpin said.

"Yeah," Ruby replied, forgetting rank, "but what if it was deliberate? What if…oh, shit…" The truth dawned on Ruby. "Ruth—"

"Ruth Lionheart was murdered," Ironwood finished. "That stays in this room."

"So first Ruth, because Cinder was trying to kill Fox and Velvet. Then Mercury, because someone forged the form to load Yang's F-15 with live rounds—"

"That was Cinder as well," Ozpin interrupted. "All right. Unfortunately this does us no good, Lieutenant. Cinder Fall has disappeared. She drove off base yesterday—undoubtedly to evade capture. Emerald Sustrai is confined to quarters; we haven't determined if she was in on this yet."

"She has to be!" Jaune exclaimed. Then he remembered where he was. "Sir. When Emerald 'shot down' Coco during the exercise a few days ago? Coco said she never picked up Emerald's radar signature before Emerald fired. Coco was flying my Mirage, sir, and there was nothing wrong with the aircraft."

"He has a point," Glynda said to Ozpin.

"Very well. Lieutenant Rose, I want you to go to the Security Forces guard on your barracks room. Tell him he's relieved. As of this moment, Ruby Flight is restored to flight status. Major Nikos, wait outside. You as well, Lieutenant Arc."

Ruby grinned from ear to ear. "Yes, sir!" She gave him a salute—although they were inside, and it was against regulations—and dashed out the door. Pyrrha and Jaune followed her, closing the door behind them.

"It all fits," Ironwood said. "We were infiltrated from the beginning. Cinder, Mercury, possibly even Emerald. The question is, who are they working for?" He answered his own question a moment later. "Salem."

"They were probably supposed to help the White Fang attack Beacon, but Ruby Flight tripped the attack early. They stayed undercover and kept sabotaging Vytal Flag," Glynda put in.

"And getting the people of the world to lose faith in the military and their governments." Ozpin nodded. "Salem's modus operandi from the beginning."

The phone rang. Ozpin picked it up. "Captain Ozpin!" Secretary of Defense Jason Terasoma's voice crackled. "What in the hell happened today! You're in big—"

"I'll call you back," Ozpin replied calmly, and hung up. Ironwood and Glynda shared his smile. "Always wanted to do that." He picked up the phone again, and dialed Base Ordnance. "Major Logan. I want every aircraft we have loaded. Full fuel and weapons; load air to air. We're not going on alert just yet, but I want everything ready to go. Understand? Good man." Ozpin put down the phone.

Ironwood headed for the door. "I'm putting Emerald under arrest and getting her into the stockade. We don't know who we can trust now, and they might try to kill her to keep her from talking."

Battery Charlie, 167th Air Defense Artillery Regiment (Wisconsin National Guard)

Near Trempeleau, Wisconsin, United States of Canada

1345 Hours Local

Lieutenant Spencer Kelly finished his cigarette and tossed it into a mud puddle, making sure it was out. The last thing they needed was another grass fire. He then walked into the control van for Battery Charlie. "How's it looking, Sarge?"

Sergeant Brooks Quinn looked over his shoulder. "Pretty good, LT. It's a single Nevermore. Should be in range in three minutes."

"We have authorization to shoot from the SADCO?" Kelly referred to the Sector Air Defense Commander, in this case located on Regency 26.

"Yeah. Just waiting for the word from the major."

Kelly sat down in one of the three seats in the van. Battery Charlie consisted of six launchers of MIM-104 Patriot surface-to-air missiles, with a total of 24 missiles. They covered the zone from La Crosse to Buffalo City, along the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi River. Stationed with the battery was the guidance radar, which had already picked up the Nevermore, though it was having trouble locking on. Each crew was drawn from the Wisconsin National Guard, who were rotated through the Barrier every month, and Kelly's battery was eager. They'd had to hold fire during the Battle of La Crosse, and the Air Force and the Navy had gotten all the credit. They usually did. Now the Army would get its chance.

That reminded Kelly of something. "Beacon scrambled its CAP, right?"

"Yes, sir. They're holding east of us. If we don't kill the bastard, they'll finish it off."

"Good." The fighter pilots tended to get too eager for kills, and though friendly fire incidents weren't rare, they also weren't unknown.

"Battery Charlie, this is the TD." Kelly slipped on his headset. It was the tactical director, a major at La Crosse.

"Battery Charlie, go."

"You are authorized to engage the Nevermore." The order was terse and to the point.

"Roger. Engaging." Kelly turned to Quinn. "Sarge, engage." Quinn nodded, and switched the Patriot system from standby mode to operational mode. He selected two launchers, Bravo and Charlie, which trained out from their fixed positions. "Locked on."

"Shoot."

Quinn switched the mode to ENGAGE. "Birds away." The ground shook as two of the batteries ripple fired eight missiles. It was automatic from this point: an uplink in each of the missiles' tails picked up targeting information from the Patriot's radar, and they curved up and west. Each missile carried two hundred pounds of high explosive, enough to hopefully bring the Nevermore down. Quinn's fingers hovered on Charlie and Delta launchers, preparing to fire them if it was necessary.

Crow 13

Near Former Rochester, Minnesota Dead Zone, United States of Canada

1350 Hours Local

Qrow tailed the Nevermore from ten miles. The Nevermore had radars that faced in every direction, and had he been flying a non-stealthy aircraft, it would have picked him up by now, but the F-117 was not dectected. His transponder was retracted, not just so the Nevermore wouldn't pick him up, but also against the small possibility one of the Patriots would.

He could see the white trails of the missiles. The Patriots had climbed to nearly 75,000 feet before they would descend on the Nevermore. He wondered how many would get through: the Nevermore's stealth might defeat some of the missiles, while the gun batteries on the GRIMM would account for more. He had no intention of closing in unless he had to; let the Army earn their pay.

One of the Patriots had already lost lock, and was going its own way, harmlessly curving to the north. The other five stayed locked on. Qrow climbed a little, so he could see how many survived the barrage of antimissile fire.

Strangely, there was none.

All five missiles hit, tracing a perfect pattern of hits down the delta wing of the Nevermore. Flames burst from hits, and the GRIMM lost altitude. Qrow got ready to let Regency know the target was destroyed, but then the GRIMM struggled back up to almost its original altitude and kept flying.

Battery Charlie

1352 Hours Local

"Still on scope," Quinn said. "We've got five confirmed hits, but it's still up there."

"Hit him again," Kelly ordered. Quinn switched on Delta and Echo launchers.

Unknown to either man, deep inside the computer system of the 167th ADA, the Black Queen virus was already active. Since Cinder had uploaded it weeks before, it had lurked inside the main computer at Beacon, disguising itself as an antivirus program. The actual antivirus system recognized it as friendly, and did not go after it. It then slowly replicated itself, infiltrating a number of systems, not just at Beacon, but across the Army units as well. It wasn't as successful as Arthur Watts hoped—it actually infiltrated only a few systems, having been written to avoid detection more than to infect. One of the systems the Black Queen had infected, however, was the 167th ADA's radar and control systems. It had lain dormant, until the system was switched on to engage the Nevermore. Now the Black Queen woke up, and took control.

Quinn had not pressed the engage switch before Delta launcher fired three missiles, then rotated around to the north, and fired one more. Alpha launcher suddenly trained itself out to the east, and fired four missiles as well.

"What the fuck?" Quinn yelled.

"What happened?" Kelly asked. "Did you shoot?"

"No! I don't fucking know! It's engaging on its own!" He checked the radar. "Oh shit. It's reading every contact as enemy."

"Oh, Christ!" Kelly screamed. "Shut it down!"

Quinn reached out and switched the system back into standby. This worked: the launchers resumed their initial position. "Do not turn that fucker back on!" Kelly was out of his seat, and thumbed the radio channel to Guard. "All aircraft, La Crosse area! Bittersweet, repeat, bittersweet!" This was a warning to every friendly aircraft that SAMs were in the air and a friendly fire situation was developing. Then he looked at the radar data. "Buddy lock! All aircraft, La Crosse area, buddy lock!"

Crow 13

1354 Local

Qrow saw the Patriots rising up again. Two curved towards the burning Nevermore, but one shifted from its track, towards him. The radar had gotten just enough of a hit to classify him as a bandit.

"Shit, not again!" Qrow yelled. He didn't break away just yet: he waited a precious two seconds as the missile closed in. Then he rolled over and dived hard, away from the Patriot. The missile, unable to compensate for the sudden turn, and without a decent lock to begin with, flew harmlessly past. Qrow came out of the dive and looked to his left: the Nevermore was hit again, and this time began to break up, losing huge pieces before it almost gently went into a shallow dive and hit the side of a ridge.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked no one in particular.

Cardinal Flight

1355 Local

Cardin Winchester had been alternately bored and excited, if that was possible. Engaging a Nevermore was never a fun prospect, but those three kill marks beneath his canopy were getting lonely. Instead of rocketing over the Mississippi and engaging the Nevermore, he was stuck in a holding pattern with Russel Thrush, Dove Bronzewing, and Sky Lark, waiting for the Army pukes to wake up and do their damn job.

He'd seen the missiles launch—Charlie Battery was below and to the right, and it had disappeared behind him as he made his circle. He craned his head around and followed the missile trails, but he couldn't see if they hit or not; the Nevermore was still not in visual range. He didn't hear a splash call from Regency or the Army, so Cardin assumed they'd screwed it up again, either a clean miss or a damaged. He hoped for the former; no way in hell was Cardin Winchester going to share a kill with some groundpounder.

Then, as he came around, he saw the four missile trails reaching out for him, and heard the buddy lock call. "Fuck!" he screamed. "Cardin, buddy lock!"

"Dove, buddy lock!"

"Sky, buddy lock!" Their voices were overriding and overlapping each other.

The flight instantly fell apart. Russel alone was not engaged; the missile fired at him just happened to be the last, and it malfunctioned when the battery went into standby mode. The missile flew to parts unknown, but the rest of Cardinal was in trouble.

Cardinal did as Qrow did: he waited until he felt like his rear end was grabbing his backbone and his bladder was about to let go, then flung the F-15 towards the missile. Like Qrow, the missile could not compensate for the sudden change in aspect by the target; it detonated anyway, almost in hope that it might fulfill its programming, but the fragments missed Cardin entirely.

Sky timed his turn and dive a fraction too late. He was flying a borrowed USAF F-16, and he was just unfamiliar enough with its flying characteristics, compared to the Hawk he had flown before, that he reacted too fast. Instead of the missile losing lock and missing, it compensated, and exploded just behind the F-16. Most of the tail was torn off, and the engine absorbed even more damage. The F-16 pitched up. Sky looked at his instrument panel, which was lighting up with fire and system loss warnings. Sky rolled his eyes, tightened his straps, and for the second time since he'd been at Vytal Flag, ejected over the eastern shore of the Mississippi River.

"Cardin, you're clear!" Russel called out. "Sky's hit!"

Cardin breathed a prayer and leveled out, looking for both more missile trails and his flight. He saw Sky's F-16 in a flat spin, headed for the water, but as he watched, a parachute blossomed above the smoke column. He turned and flew past; Sky waved both hands to show he was all right. "Beacon, Cardin," he called out. "Sky's down near Trempeleau. Dove, where are you?" There was no response. He couldn't see the CF-18. "Dove, Cardin, come in."

"Cardin, Russel." Russel's voice was heavy with emotion. "Dove's gone." Cardin then saw the fourth smoke column, one that ended in a fireball that hit the trees and turned into a black mushroom cloud. "No beeper, no chute."

Cardin called out helplessly for another minute, but Dove Bronzewing never replied.

Wolf Den 34

Near Durand, Wisconsin, United States of Canada

1355 Local

Major Jacob Gagnon stared out the circular window of the C-130 Hercules, watching the St. Croix River slide by below. Most of his men—2 Troop, C Squadron of Delta Force—dozed in the mesh seats that lined the interior of the C-130; the troop's equipment was stowed in the middle. Bored, he decided to unstrap and go up to the cockpit. He enjoyed flying, but if he had a choice, he'd be in something with jets. The C-130 was ironically nicknamed the European Whisper Jet, and crews claimed it was pressurized to keep the noise inside. His men had been issued ear protectors, but because Gagnon wanted to chat with the crew, he took his out. Instantly, he was assaulted with the roar of the four Allison turboprops.

He stepped up to the cockpit; the view was much better there. The flight engineer turned to him. "Afternoon, Major. We're still about thirty minutes or so out from Beacon. Might have to circle a bit; they just had a scramble."

Gagnon sat down in the jump seat, and grabbed a headset slung over a hook behind him, so he wouldn't have to yell. "What happened?"

"A GRIMM was sighted over southern Minnesota. A Nevermore. They're going to get it with Patriots, and—"

"What the hell is that?" The C-130 pilot said, and pointed upwards through the eyebrow windows of the glasshouse cockpit. A smoke trail was heading towards them. Then he heard Battery Charlie's warning. "Oh shit! Wolf Den 34, buddy spike!"

Gagnon's eyes widened as he saw the smoke trail suddenly disappear, which meant the missile was now pointed directly at them. The pilot grabbed the throttles and rammed them forward, then pushed the control wheel hard to the right and down. The copilot hit the C-130's countermeasures; luckily the aircraft had been configured with them. Flares poured out of launchers towards the rear of the aircraft, leaving a smoke pattern like that of an angel's wings. Gagnon, who grabbed both straps of the jump seat and held on, knew it was a useless gesture: the Patriot was radar-guided. He closed his eyes and murmured a Hail Mary: the C-130 was a transport, not a fighter, and even a fighter would struggle to dodge a Patriot.

But then the crew of Wolf Den 34 got a break. When the radar was switched to standby, it lost lock on the C-130. The missile's electronic brain still remembered generally where the target was, and remained on course until it detonated. Instead of the missile's warhead tearing the C-130 apart, most of the fragments missed. Two hit the tail for superficial damage, but more hit the port wing.

"Help me hold the bitch!" the pilot screamed, and the copilot grabbed the control wheel. With their combined effort, they got the C-130 back to level flight, but as the pilot went to pull back the throttles, the transport suddenly heeled to the left. Both crew fought the controls, and once more it leveled out, but Gagnon, opening his eyes, could tell they were fighting it.

"Bob, tell me some good news," the pilot yelled over his shoulder.

The flight engineer looked at his panel, and although Gagnon was not a pilot, even he knew there wasn't any good news. "We got problems, babe. Number one's gone, and we're losing oil pressure on number two. Don't have much longer on that one. Got fire lights." He pulled both extinguishers. "Losing fuel, too."

"Yeah, I can see that. Okay, feather one and two. Shut two down." The pilot tested the controls as the copilot yanked back the throttles for the two engines on the port wing. "Other than she keeps pulling towards the dead engines, I think we can hold her."

"Fire's out," the flight engineer reported.

The pilot was now leaning into the controls. "Fuck. We're not going to make Beacon." He hit the radio switch. "Beacon Control, Beacon Control, this is Wolf Den 34, declaring an emergency. We've got two engines out and heavy damage. Cannot make Beacon, advise."

Through the headphones, Gagnon could hear the reply. "Wolf Den 34, Beacon. Understand you are declaring an emergency. Can you make Eau Claire at zero-nine-zero?"

The pilot glanced out the window to the left. "Negative, Beacon; I think we'll lose the wing if we try."

"Wolf Den 34, Beacon. Bloyer Field is at two-zero-one, your one o'clock low. It's got one runway, but you should make it in. That's the nearest field, over."

"You want to get picky and make it a field?" the pilot chuckled. "Roger that, Beacon; we can make Bloyer. Make sure they know we're coming. Wolf Den 34, out."

Gagnon pulled off his headset and jumped down to the main cabin. It was a mess: none of the men had been strapped in, since they were not on approach yet, and they had been thrown around the cabin. Luckily, none of their gear, lashed to the deck, had broken loose. He shouted over the engine noise. "Check in! Everyone all right?"

He saw thumbs up and yells of confirmation. None of them seemed to be badly hurt, though Master Sergeant Hopkins was looking at his arm, working his fingers to get feeling back in them. The troop's medic saw him and went over to check.

"Major!" Gagnon turned to see the flight engineer waving for his attention. The lieutenant pulled off his headset and cupped his hands to make himself heard. "Get your men into crash positions! We're coming in hard!"

"That's what she said!" Hopkins yelled out, then yelled something else more earthy as the medic straightened his arm. Gagnon evaluated the wound expertly: it was a broken arm.

He helped his troop into the seats, then resumed his own, watching out the window. He saw both engines on that side stopped, the propellers feathered, smoke still streaming from them, along with a clear liquid he knew was fuel. He tightened the straps as the ground got closer and closer.

"Brace!" the flight engineer shouted. Gagnon crossed his arms in front of himself and leaned forward.

The C-130 landed in the overrun, the crew taking all the runway they could. They held off on throwing the remaining propellers into reverse pitch, which could throw the transport into a deadly groundloop. Instead, both pilot and copilot leaned on the toe brakes, and a screeching noise resounded through the cabin, and Gagnon's view was obscured by white smoke. There was a bang as one tire blew, and then the crew reversed the propellers. The C-130 began to fishtail and slew, but somehow the crew kept it roughly on the centerline. The skidding noise lessened in volume, the aircraft began to slow, and finally it came to a halt.

Gagnon was already out of his seat. "Get out! Leave the kit!" The back of the fuselage opened as the flight engineer lowered the loading ramp, while Gagnon grabbed the crew door on the opposite side of the aircraft and levered it open. He then counted off his men as they ran out the rear ramp or out his door. Once he was sure they were out, Gagnon jumped out the door himself. The crew was right behind him, the pilot—as custom—the last to leave the aircraft.

They moved away from the C-130, half expecting the overheated brakes to touch off the fuel. Army personnel were swarming the aircraft with handheld fire extinguishers; Bloyer Field was on Fort McCoy, but it evidently wasn't used for more than helicopters.

A tall brunette dressed in tanker fatigues ran up to him. "Major! Are you all right?"

He read the nametape, and quickly looked up; this Captain Karelia Bighorn-Vlata's figure was not hidden by the fatigues. "I'm fine, Captain. What's your unit?"

She abruptly remembered to salute. "Sir. 2nd Battalion, 37th Armored."

Gagnon returned the salute. "Well, Captain, assuming the C-130 doesn't blow up, we're going to get our stuff off, eh? We've been ordered to Beacon by General Ironwood. Can you secure us transport?"

She smiled. "You bet, Major. Be right back."

The medic came up to Gagnon. "No injuries, sir, other than Sergeant Hopkins. I think he's got a greenstick fracture. Nothing serious."

"Okay. Carry on." He shook his head. "That was a hell of a way to arrive."

He looked up at the sound of turboprops. It was another C-130 in the distance, headed for Beacon. He wondered who it was.