Spitfire, the World's Deadliest Mercenary?
Spitfire, the Future of the Mercenary World?
All headlines had something similar to it, amazing how he hadn't heard of the young mercenary before. She was there, pictures of her standing by the nose of the jet as it's flames shone in the light. One image where she stood under the snow covered treetops, her G suit was different though, highly advanced it seemed and the chest piece centre glimmered blue. In a few videos he watched, Spitfire had a strange heavy breathing in her chest. She winced occasionally.
He was rather intrigued by this fighter pilot, reading up on her gave him a whole new approach to the world of a young fighter pilots, how there were pictures taken by family in her cadet uniform, eagle perched on her shoulder as they both stared at the camera quizzically. She was pretty for her age, no make up ever accompanied her looks at all, but she was part German, what was he to expect? There was one where she stared back at the camera, grey green eyes glistening under the sunlight, she looked just as majestic as the eagle that flared out her wings, screeching in the photo to the sky.
It was a deep, dark blue.
Does the colour of the sky mean anything...rather special to you? It does to me, very much, who wanted to live in a world where the sky was some flashy hot pink or some atomic, post apocalyptic orange? When I close my eyes, the sky in my dreams is either a bright sky blue or a deep dark blue like the ocean's deathly, watery depths. I rest my hand under my SU-33's snout, I treated her a lot like family, I felt like I was the machine, that I'd bonded with her over our few months together; my big girl was everything to me. She was a sleek dart like fighter that took down even the greatest of Tomcat pilots, I didn't feel remorse obviously.
Humans were a naturally violent species, just like the animals around us, we were truly like them whether we wanted to admit it or not. Things like PTSD in my mind were just stress responses, it made us remember what things we stayed away from although it was traumatizing to re-witness again and again. As a German I felt some weird superiority complex over many people, especially Slavic, somedays I'd laugh at them they were rather foolish in my mind.
I pull my hand away from the jet's cool nose, rubbing my index and thumb together like as if I were expecting some reaction to it, I wasn't really. No pyrokinesis for me at all, it wasn't even possible for fire to combust in this temperature. I hear the warning alarms blare, it's time to take off again. I get into my jet, lowering the canopy and strapping myself in, activating the G suit I wore that allowed for me to actually breathe properly. It was hard to, but the Russians built a specialized flight suit that allowed for better air combat maneuvering, and for me to take on more G force than a normal pilot could, plus for me to actually breathe and my heart not skip beats like it often did.
It was common in my family though, and God did I secretly hate them for it, but with this G suit, I felt normal. I'm in the air in under two minutes, flying towards the fleet of Tomcats that threaten this naval air base's extinction, I would easily take them down but I let my Soviet friends have their fun too. I bank around sharply, chasing one of the Tomcats and launching a missile at him, but the bastard releases chaffs, making my attack useless. I switch to guns, firing it at the jet, and it starts to smoke from the wings.
I feel a sense of accomplishment as I take him out of the sky, rocking my jet from side to side, following another as it flies for the air base, and I fire it out of the sky, watching it splash into the freezing depths below. Russia wasn't the warmest country. I move around to engage with any other possible aerial vehicles, then I see their B-1 bombers approaching the airspace, it was easier to take them out with my S-13 rockets since this thing could barely outmaneuver me without killing almost everyone in the cockpit. I fire my rockets at the black bomber, shredding its wings to make it unable to fly.
I feel guilty as I see it fall to the side, slowly going wing first into the cold ocean, but happy at the same time. I look forward, getting a lock on a rather stubborn Tomcat that tried hightailing it back to his carrier. I apply my afterburners, rushing towards the silver glistening aircraft as it tried to bank around before almost stopping midair-he knew he would never be able to fight back against me. I launch a heatseeking missile at him, the jet exploded into a flaming fireball, metal pieces scattering across the icy blue sky. I laugh, "Tomcat down!" I say.
A mercenary's job was never pretty, let me tell you that. It was full of betrayal often, where your own kind would backstab you because pay was higher in another air force. The dogfight was so peaceful and for a moment I felt like retreating but then again I remembered where my allegiance was lying currently, the Russians needed and wanted my help so I gleefully gave that away in exchange for aircraft maintenance and repairs that I couldn't do on my own. Along the way I wasn't afraid to admit that I, as a sixteen year old may have had a small crush on one of their lowest officers.
Ironically that meant he was young too. Stereotypical Soviet blonde hair and blue eyed, he was the standard height for a fighter pilot and his aircraft was the Fulcrum. I often saw him walking around the base or discreetly watching me; he always had an interest in the mercenary business. After the fight that lasted only a few more minutes we all go to land, I am the last, rounding up the seemingly lost pilots. The one in front of me is him, I have no idea how to pronounce his name at all but I'll grow to figure him out, I just like to call him "Angel".
I'm lying on my Flanker's wing when he walks up and tries to climb up and join me, his English isn't too good but he tried at least. Probably because he was among a mercenary, most of us were all required to at least speak it or some form of English, even write in it.
"Spitfire," He says, nodding at me.
"Privijet," I say, a casual Hello in Russian since I can barely remember the formal way of saying it to which he says it and laughs at my confused expression.
He sits by me, taking a bit of time to remember the words correctly and playfully pushes me a little once I sat up with my legs crossed over the other. "You will remember soon."
"You will remember IT soon," I correct him.
He gives me that look, and I laugh a little. It's a look of teasing sadness, he's mocking that of a puppy and I find that weirdly adorable. Let me tell you, people in the military weren't cold hearted people a lot actually were fricken hilarious.
"You are no fair," He tells me, playfully though. I know he's uncomfortable by the fact that English can't express very much at all.
"I'm perfectly fair," I tell him.
"No," He shakes his head.
"Da," I say.
"Nyet." He says.
It goes on like this for a few minutes before we hear some weird cooing and aweing from his wingmen below us, staring up at the two of us. I glare down at them, and they scurry away, chuckling.
"So what did you find?"
Iceman stares up from the computer, having been fully engrossed in the topic of mercenaries and The Devil of the Skies herself, it was hard to even imagine what she'd seen. He wondered how long Slider had been there for, watching his wingman with a smile. The room was dark, very dark. Night had hit and he hadn't even realized it. He stared at the computer's internal clock, in small white littering it wrote 22:30, it had been ten thirty at night.
"The commander was right-this pilot is scary skilled, she could shoot him out of the sky without having to spare another missile," Iceman explained in a shocked voice. "NATO calls her 'Devil in the Sky' because of her air combat maneuvering-how can a pilot be that good?"
"Ever heard of ADHD?" Slider asked.
"Yeah, neuordevelopmental disorder, part of the brain stops grow-" Slider shut him up.
"She has it, if it's harnessed properly it gives one a survival mentality, that means you can kill almost anyone, Kaz," Slider said.
"You know I hate that nickname," Iceman said.
"That's the only way to get you to damn listen," Slider told him, walking over to the lights to switch them on then lean over to see the computer screen.
"It's not much, just news coverage reports of her. Sightings. The Demon, all of her nicknames. They're scary, Mitchell had to see her once." Iceman switched topics.
"And someday we will too," Slider was barely the best at making his friend feel better. "That's why we're training here."
"We will be taught how to fly against her?" The naval officer asked.
His friend hung his head at his Slavic friend's stubbornness. Kazansky was too stubborn for his own good, that ego and pride would get him killed by the younger pilot. That always swam in his head, seeing his friend's skull cracked as bullets shot from the Sea Flanker had embedded into his head, blood pooling around the controls. Slider didn't want to see that outcome, it would be terrible and terrifying to witness. He looks out the window where the sky is dark blue with cloud formations and little crackles of light-a storm was coming; metaphorically and literally.