On the Job Training

An Ace Combat 5 story

Author's note: First of all, I'd like to thank all my readers and especially reviewers. I know that the Ace Combat section is a fairly barren section, and to get so many reviews and views is a real treat for me as a writer.

But on to the point that I feel I should warn you about. Simply put, I've tried to make my dogfights realistic, and I intend to keep on doing the same. But to make the missions flown in the story match up with the game simply isn't possible. A fighter aircraft just can't carry so many weapons. So I'm afraid you're going to have to suspend you disbelief some when I introduce the reason missile loads are so high in the world of Ace Combat. I know that the tech levels are inconsistent.

It had begun now. With the declaration of war by Yuktobania, our aerial skirmishes were suddenly real again, admitted to by the brass. My kills were tallied at eight, not zero. Kei had four, and Alvin had two. Our metaphorical blades were blooded, and we had lived past the statistical pitfall for nuggets, that five to ten minutes of combat that so few were good enough to get through.

Yes, we were proven fighter pilots…I was even an ace by that point, and Kei wasn't far behind. But we had lost our flight lead, and we soon found that things were changing…fast.

Firstly, when we landed, we saw four basic gray F-16C Fighting Falcons sitting empty on the tarmac, ground crews bustling about them under Pop's expert direction, working frantically to make sure they were totally ready for this mission.

As we taxied into our spots on the apron, ground crew members were already sprinting towards us, intent on switching us over to the Falcons as fast as they could. I nearly questioned the wisdom of putting us in new and unfamiliar planes right before combat, no matter if they were more maneuverable.

That was when I saw the cylinders on the wingtip rails. It wasn't nearly so big of a mystery after that. You see, there's a major flaw with fighter aircraft. Specifically, they can't carry enough ordnance to play a major tactical role on the battlefield. They can dogfight for a limited time, and perhaps make two tactical ground strikes, but that's it. There just isn't enough space on the wings, or enough power in the engines to let them carry so much and still be effective.

That's where the cylinders come in. In all honesty, they should be flat-out impossible. Absolutely, totally impossible. Though no larger than a missile, they function as a gateway to a very, very small 'pocket dimension'…one large enough to store say…thirty-four missiles in, for the ones that were loaded on the Falcons. Two of them gave a pilot a grand total of 68 ATM-9X active lidar-guided missiles to work with, along with four Mk 82 Slick 500lbs bombs under the wings and a belly tank of extra fuel.

No one is quite sure how those cylinders work, but there isn't a major power that doesn't know how to make them, and doesn't grasp exactly what they mean. Suddenly, a fighter aircraft can be loaded with an unholy amount of firepower, while keeping its maneuverability and speed. A light plane is turned from a highly effective delivery system and destroyer of same into a veritable angel of death.

The trade-off is…well, they're expensive in the way that space travel is expensive. The price for even one is exorbitant. And the huge load of missiles does nothing to offset a fighter plane's innate fragility. So, each one is a gamble. Can the pilot keep himself alive while effectively spending the huge budget he's just been given, or is he a waste of a plane and two of those oh-so-expensive weapons?

So, hand planes armed with these to Wardog, and you're making each worth a squadron or more. Hand one to a lawn dart in waiting and you've just spent a lot of money on a plane, the cylinders, and 68 fairly expensive missiles as well.

There's a reason peace is much cheaper. Really good pilots are RARE. The cylinders were a kick in the nuts. This wasn't a border skirmish anymore. It was now war, with all the connotations that carried. As I slid into that small cockpit with the reclined seat, offset stick, and bubble canopy, I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. This wasn't what I wanted. Yes, I loved air combat. I loved combat in general, that sublime flow of attack and defense, position and energy. But I hated fighting. I hated the thought that I had killed men, sent them to their deaths. I was a warrior. I hungered for combat, but prayed to never taste it.

But the feast was here, set in front of me. Knife and fork were in my hands, and should I not partake, who knows how many more would die.

Someone once said "War is about doing things that you don't like to people you like even less." I agree. I didn't like what I was about to do one bit. But I certainly didn't like the idea of those things being done to my comrades and those we have sworn to protect.

So when my eyes opened, my face was hard and in my eyes danced the fire that had given me my callsign. It was time. On tails of flame, three gray-feathered Falcons rose to the azure sky.

The port of St. Hewlett was a relatively new development. Where St. Hewlett is now used to be somewhat inland, with a hilly coast. But during the Ulysses 1994 XF04 asteroid planetfall in 1999, one of the rocks that speared through the atmosphere and made it to the ground impacted on the coast. The resulting explosion carved what would be a bowl-shaped bay into the coast. It wasn't long before the military decided that they had just been given a fine natural harbor, and built a naval station there. A civilian city grew up around it, and a gigantic bridge spans the bay as of now. 10 years, and already an integral trade and military point.

10 years, and already receiving its first aerial attack, its second war.

We flew in our three-plane formation, feeling paltry when compared to the 596th, who had already flown ahead in fully-loaded F-14D Super Tomcats, their trade up from F-4E Phantom IIs. But the faint radio chatter from up ahead still held a frantic undertone, growing stronger as the signal did.

Then the double beep of an incoming message caught our attention. "Wardog Squadron, this is Thunderhead. Due to the circumstances, we will be issuing an emergency in-flight briefing."

It wasn't anything that was particularly surprising. As was obvious, the port was under attack, and the ships of the 3rd Osean Naval Defense Force Fleet were doing there best to escape…including the flagship, the aircraft carrier Kestrel, lead ship of the Kestrel class. We were supposed to make sure that the fleet was still combat-capable by nightfall, and to keep the Kestrel afloat at all costs.

Definitely an easier said than done thing, though. With four 500lbs Mk82s hanging off the wings, providing weight and drag, even such a supremely maneuverable fighter as the F-16 becomes a bit sluggish. Thankfully, our inbound course took us over the small Yuktobanian flotilla that had been detailed to mop up the remains of 3rd Fleet. So our first order of business was to bomb the key ships in the task force. I started to reach for the radio controls when Thunderhead's voice cut in again.

"Wardog Squadron, you are approaching the combat zone. Prepare to engage. Edge, you are to take the lead."

Okay then…considering how things had gone in the air before, I had kind of expected to be the one in command. Mentally, I started to rephrase what were going to be orders into a suggestion for Kei. But she beat me to saying something…and forced me to change the phrasing back to the original.

"Negative. Blaze will lead. I'll stay back and cover his six."

"Follow your orders, Second Lieutenant Nagase!"

"He's certainly qualified," she objected mulishly as I increased my throttle a bit and slid into the number one position.

Just then, a friendly F-14A shot right over our formation, piloted by one Captain Marcus Snow. He certainly wasn't happy with us, arguing command chain while his carrier was under attack. "Shut up! This is war! Stop playing around, or you'll die!"

"Yeah…I'll just stick with the trail position, thanks." Okay…Chopper's comment was somewhat amusing.

As Snow engaged Thunderhead's attention and more radio chatter from the battle filtered its way to us, I started highlighting targets on the tac map. We would do this right.

"Blaze…you'll take the lead right? Please let me cover your tail."

"Don't worry. I'm fine with it, Edge. I'm shooting you guys our targets." I had chosen the cruiser and three missile destroyers that seemed to form the core of the task force. The cruiser I designated one, the destroyers two, three, and four. "I'll take target one with three bombs. Edge, three bombs on target two. Chopper…"

"Three bombs on target three, right?"

"Yeah. Then we execute a combined attack on target four with the last of the bombs. From there we can burner in and cover Third Fleet. I don't want to be dogfighting with bombs on my wings. Okay. Jettison the drop tanks and start your bombing runs."

Toggling my weapon systems over to bombs, I suited action to words, jettisoning my belly tank as I pushed the stick forward, stooping in on my target. Dive bombing wasn't necessary in this day and age, what with the abundance of guided air to ground weapons, but every once in a while it just works. Besides, no one expects it, and it makes it a lot easier to aim 'dumb' bombs.

Hitting what I thought was a good altitude, I pulled the trigger three times, calling out my drops with the word 'pickle' as I pulled up and added throttle to get me out of the zone. My mouth formed into my trademark wolfish grin as three fireballs erupted behind me, then three more to my four o'clock and yet another three on my eight.

The final destroyer got a much more conventional drop, if a low-altitude one. We flew in trail, each dropping our last 500lbs bomb before engaging our afterburners. Wardog had just finished its first ground attack mission, and the heart of an enemy task force blazed behind us. But we had work to do in the skies.

It was a bad sight that greeted our eyes when we made it to St. Hewlett. Ships were blazing and our fighters weren't in the best condition. Perhaps seven friendly Tomcats quartered the sky, doing their best to keep the waves of A-6E Intruders from making it through to attack our ships. Unfortunately, they were by and large tied up with the F-20s and F-5Es that the enemy so thoughtfully provided.

It was a mismatch. Tomcats are extremely good interceptors, and they can dogfight, but in close, an F-20 can turn and burn with an early-model F-16. And these F-14s had already been engaged in what amounted to knife fights in telephone booths. Not good at all. My teeth gritted as I watched one of the Tomcats take down a pair of Intruders before an AIM-7 shot sent the big plane spiraling towards a watery grave.

"Wardog, split and engage! Take the heat off of the 596th and carrier jets long enough for them to disengage and regroup!" I ordered, already scanning the sky for the first enemy fighter pair to bounce.

"Blaze…wouldn't it be better if I continued flying support…"

"No…not now." I had already found my targets, and was maneuvering towards them. Chopper had let himself drift out of formation some, but was still staying close. Edge was still on my wing.

"Kid…we're still rookies. Single-ship fighting is dangerous for us, especially against these odds."

"Please Blaze…I don't want to lose another flight lead."

"Split and engage," I repeated. "It might be dangerous, but right now, those Tomcats need our help. As soon as we've saved them, we go back to supporting each other, but not now. Split and engage, Wardog."

They followed my orders. Reluctantly, but they did. Each of us took a sector of sky and cut a swath through it, surprised Tigersharks falling from the air in front of us. Four fell to my missiles and guns as I shot my way through the densest concentration of enemy fighters. Edge took one with a missile shot, then waxed his wingmate with a gun burst before banking in to loose yet another missile that forced another Yuke to disengage, missing a good chunk of wing. Chopper got two with missiles, but missed with his guns.

And then we were through and banking back around for another pass. But this time, this time the Yuke pilots were aware of us. They knew the main threat wasn't the Tomcats. The F-14s were easy meat in the battle we were engaged in. Only our three Falcons had the close-in maneuvering ability to really pose a threat. But we didn't have the numbers. The OADF and ONDF had exactly nine fighters in the air over St Hewlett. Three of them were well-suited for the furball. The Yukes had twenty-four fighters in the air, along with fourteen A-6E Intruders. And that was after our runs.

However, our head-on attacks did give us some payoff. The breaks in the patterns they were flying to box in the Tomcats let four of them disengage and fire on the Intruders. Six of the attack planes fell from the skies, flares of rockets carrying their pilots and B/Ns free on columns of flame. Well, in some cases. It's a recurring theme in this narrative, but war's a dirty business, even up among the clouds. There were deaths.

Another F-14, piloted by Swordsman as a matter of fact, didn't take the opportunity to go after the Intruders. Instead he used the breaks in the pattern to get into an advantageous position and smoked a trio of Tiger IIs with a pair of ATMs and an AIM-7.

That was about when things got crazy again.