Original story based on characters and material developed by Project Aces. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them. The author would also like to credit Anzac123 of "Resistance" for his contributions to the combat scenes.
Chapter 2: We Didn't Start The Fire
Sant-Charles County
20 mi. S of the Ustio-Belka Border
1532 hrs.
For a first world country, Ustio's otherwise pastoral scenery could have stood to be much less dreary. But it was just above the cloud cover on this overcast late-winter day that "Benjamin Smith" alias "Cipher" first took to the skies as a pilot outside of Sotoa.
"Habrock Leader to Habrock 2. Looks like we got enemy flyers, mate."
For a first world country on the brink of war with a wannabe superpower, Smith was also expecting more excitement than what appeared to be a trio of Belkan F-4 Phantoms lurking just inside Ustio airspace.
"Yeah, I got them on my scopes too, Cipher. Can you confirm?"
The lead pilot squinted through his helmet at the HUD. The Saab Draken he was flying had been kept in much better condition than the aircraft he was used to flying back in the Sotoan brush, but he still had to get used to looking at an IFF system that actually worked. And then there were his teammates in Habrock Team, flying one to either side of him.
"Affirmative Steamer, confirmed Belkans trespassing on the IFF bearing zero-seven-five. Cipher to Sant-Charles, awaiting orders."
"Sant-Charles Air Control to Habrock. You are not cleared to engage at this time. Please issue surrender notice."
And of course, there was the ground-based air control center miles off in the opposite direction.
"Fuck me with a..." Cipher sighed, before switching frequency on his radio to the channel used by the Belkans. "Attention Belkan aircraft. You are in territorial violation of Republic of Ustio airspace. You are ordered to change course immediately."
Sant-Charles then repeated the same warning in Belkan, just in case the bogeys didn't understand Nordlish. There was silence for a few unnerving seconds before Air Control responded in a manner like they had clearly expected this - and experienced it before. "No response from bogeys. Send another warning."
"Roger that," Cipher groaned. "Attention, Belkan aircraft, this is your final warning. You are in territorial violation of- okay, here we go!"
The pilot was clearly more relieved than surprised when the F-4s suddenly broke formation, and with a few deft flicks of some of the switches he activated the Draken's weapons systems. Of course, machines being more reliable to respond than humans, his attention was quickly diverted elsewhere.
"They're breaking formation!" came Steamer's reaction across the radio.
"I can see that," Cipher confirmed, having gotten used to the frustration of having to work with others on contracts years ago. "Break formation and get the fuckers, work on 'em 1-to-1."
"Copy that," Steamer replied.
"Wrench to Cipher, good copy," added his other wingman. "Let's slot 'em good."
The three Drakens broke off in a flawed synchronized harmony, Cipher pulling up with Steamer and Wrench going in opposite directions. The middle F-4 also banked around before pulling up after him only a couple of miles ahead.
When they leveled out, Cipher and the lead F-4 found themselves headed directly toward each other in a game of chicken.
Cipher grinned as he pulled the trigger on the Draken's cannons, sending bullets straight at the cockpit of the Phantom.
'Welcome to my pit.'
Valais Air Base, Ustio
Several Days Earlier
"Welcome to the ice pit..." the man currently named Benjamin Smith grumbled to himself from the back seat.
The off-white late model Age taxi pulling up to the base's front gate wasn't nearly the first one the base's security had to check through after its hourlong trip from Valais township. In fact they'd gotten to know the two or three drivers making the trip on a first name basis.
Nor was the paying passenger stepping out of it wearing a jacket decorated with the devil patch of an Osean sports team the first Sotoan the security guards had to check through.
But the grin plastered across Smith's face as he observed his surroundings while the guards checked his papers reeked of the disappointment of starting anew. Especially in a part of the world where his reputation would not immediately precede him.
Nestled in the Tiran Mountains, Valais Air Base was nowhere near any perceived front line if war broke out with Belka. That made it a base that the government didn't pay too much vital attention to, and that reflected on the condition of the base itself. A particularly dry winter had left the surroundings so bleak it almost looked abandoned, but the buildings showed enough signs of life that the base's military machine would continue to roll until someone stopped it by force.
At least it was an actual military base with an actual concrete runway, which could not be said about the typical Central Sotoan "airfield."
"Hey, which way to the...orientation?" he asked the nearest guard, who responded by gesturing to a comrade driving a jeep idling by the gate. He climbed into the passenger seat, keeping his suitcase close as the jeep accelerated across the tarmac. The late winter breeze ruffled his hair as it flooded through the jeep's open sides.
The local sights proved to be far more interesting for Smith than the mountains, which lost their magical appeal about 20 minutes in. He recognized the unique shape of the Saab 35 Drakens parked in one of the hangars, near what appeared to be F-5 Tigers. Saab 105 trainers and light transport aircraft were also parked along the tarmac, waiting for their turn at maintenance.
But the next hangar over appeared to be in much better condition - and much busier.
It was apparent to him that this was due to the presence of what appeared to be flight crews and maintenance tending to F-14s with Osean markings. He raised his eyebrows in slight wonderment, as this was the closest he'd ever gotten to seeing Osean aircraft and the tidy state of maintenance that could only be afforded to a first world air force.
That was not to say the Drakens and Tigers weren't also afforded similar privileges for a first-world-ish country under that superpower's care. But where Osea treaded militarily, like every superpower, they got first priority.
So it looks like we're not the only ones bailing the Ustians out.
He then furrowed his brow as he recalled Ustio's security situation. Triple Spectrum was contracted to fill out an entire air division, but the Oseans wanted to at least let Ustio know they weren't fighting alone.
Or rather, that when it came down to it, money was secondary to a cause worth fighting for.
Nobody told that to the warlords that hired us.
Given the equipment the mercenary groups had to work with, he could only hope the people who were crazy enough to volunteer to defend the Republic were skilled enough to make some kind of difference.
As the jeep finally pulled up to the building, he also hoped that the Ustian government would also make it somewhat worthwhile if he survived.
He took his time making his way to the briefing room, mentally recording the surprised or suspicious glances he got from the Ustian officers he passed. He let out a half-chortle as he figured they'd never seen someone like him on base before - or at least someone who looked like him, with what he was wearing.
Smith's first sight of the twenty-odd Triple Spectrum pilots gathered in the briefing room also confirmed suspicions he didn't have. While they looked like a veritable melting pot from behind, the telltale flag patches as well as the accents and terminology used drew a dividing line down the two sets of seats.
The "Westerners" sat to his left. Oseans a little too bored with or a little too old for the AFO they now shared a base with, a few assorted ex-Belkans or "Ostlanders" who fell afoul of the Federation for one reason or another, Nordlanders, Emmerians, Wellowans tired of neutrality. Professionally trained, without the professional restrictions on their ambition.
To his right were, well, his "crowd." If he could call them that. The mix of Sotoans, Yukes (and Yuke separatists) and Veruseans that made up the larger majority of the mercenary market. Rambunctuous rebels, paupers instead of princes. People who loved what they did, sometimes a little too much, and whose styles were defined as much by raw camaraderie as much as their "creativity."
Of course, Smith had little time to come up with these conclusions as he could suddenly see and feel all the eyes on him as he stood in the doorway of the briefing room. Putting down his suitcase almost felt like dropping a boulder in a cave as he moved his hands into his pockets, the thumbs sticking out as he shrugged casually.
He could hear the whispers. "The Dragon," or "The Goblin," or even a few nicknames that comprised the only words that he knew in those particular languages.
"I was told there would be a room and warm fucking coffee up here?" he began with a feral grin, spreading his burly arms out. "Come on, don't tell me you never seen a monster before."
The mention caused a dark-brown-haired pilot in on the lower end of twice his age to suddenly stand up from his seat among the "Easterners" close to the front and walk slowly up to Smith. His footsteps seemed to echo across the crowded briefing room.
The flag of South Sotoa, specifically the one used by the country prior to the arrival of the new leadership, was proudly emblazoned on the sleeve of his pilot's jacket as he stopped barely inches from smith and looked him in the eye, hands confidently on his hips. 'Verhoeven,' as the name badge read, was only a couple of inches shorter but no less imposing.
The kind of imposing figure that embodied the domination of people darker than his skin color for centuries.
"So, Baron Rijnders' little halfling got the nerve to climb out of his cave, eh?" Verhoeven began, that kind of imperial aggressiveness not lost on his voice.
"Yeah, got too bored with all the sand," Smith replied casually, scratching the back of his head but not wincing or flinching at Verhoeven's glare. "Thought I'd get out and see what snow is like before I die."
The response he got was a firm slap on the side of his arm. "Then welcome to the goddamn cold, brother!" Verhoeven exclaimed, his face suddenly brightening into a smile as he spread his arms wide for an embrace. "So good to have you join us!"
This was accompanied by cheers from a couple of the pilots.
Such was the irony of mercenary life. The only "black and white" that mattered was the black ink on the white paper, the only color that mattered was the color of the check or the cash or whatever item of intrinsic value they were paid with. Racial boundaries broke down quickly when people learned they were all the same mesh of dark red and pink when wounded or killed.
But that didn't steal the color from their choice of words.
Despite successfully facing down someone who only a few years ago would have bragged about being his superior in every way, Smith couldn't help but flinch when someone showed up behind him and harumphed. That person of course was a slightly diminuitive Ustian Air Force colonel that clearly looked like he could handle himself in a fight, causing Smith to pick up his suitcase and hastily take the nearest available seat to his right, second row from the front.
The colonel passed him like an obstacle successfully willed out of the way, and the room went quiet as he switched on the room's screen projector like a teacher on the first day of class.
The symbol of the Axe & Hammer operating system displayed on the red screen. The English version of the Yuktobanian military operating system was likely the socialist union's primary contribution to the Ustians.
"At ease, gentlemen. Good morning, and allow me to give you your formal welcome to Valais Air Base." The colonel maintained a stern, almost fatherly expression on his face, a feat considering the pilots under his immediate command. The first picture on the screen was the logo of the Ustian Air Force. "I am Colonel Merrill Kluge, Ustian Air Force liaison to the new 6th Air Division under the auspices of Triple Spectrum Risk Management. Most of you have already been introduced to Base Commander Severin and Adjutant Major Larson.
I want to begin by extending our thanks to all of you as well as Triple Spectrum Risk Management for your assistance in these circumstances. The situation with Belka is rapidly deteriorating, and your assistance is greatly valued and appreciated."
Smith looked over to find that a couple of the mercs on the left side of the room seemed to take that last comment quite dismissively. To be fair, it wasn't as if the feeling wasn't mutual.
"You may also have noticed the presence of personnel from the Air Force of Osea as well as Ustio aircraft with dual insignias on this base. Jackdaw Squadron is the official fighter squadron assigned to this base as part of our mutual assistance agreement with the Osean Federation."
In other words, sacrificial lambs to the slaughter too.
"Although they have their own aircraft separate from ours, they will also have first priority to replacement aircraft and repairs."
The explanation elicited several groans and mutters from the mercenary audience. Smith simply nodded.
"This, however, should not be regarded as unexpected. The UAF personnel operating from this base also have first priority as well. This will not leave Triple Spectrum without their own allotments however."
Of course, we're the dogs taking the scraps.
"The Ustian Air Force has seen fit to allot a fair selection of fighters which will be allotted based on experience." The colonel set up a menu on the projector detailing what types were available.
The list itself was surprising. He recognized the Draken and the Tiger, though the Saab 105 was also there. They were definitely the leftovers when Ustio leapt at the chance to accept slightly newer Osean leftovers as part of their so-called modernization program. There were also plenty of transports. The surprise, however, was not in either of those lists.
The surprise was the trio of F-15Cs at the top of the list.
"Part of the reason for your selection, of course, is your experience handling these fighters as well as those of similar mechanics from your countries of origin. Training and refresher courses are available for those looking to re-familiarize themselves."
Nordennavic-made Saabs were hardly familiar to him, but their relative vintage meant he wouldn't have to spend so much time getting through the manuals. Familiarity issues aside however, Smith became inwardly giddy at the thought of flying something so modern.
"Now we get to the section I am sure many of you have been waiting for: remuneration."
Smith bit his lip, grinning in anticipation. If the thought of fighting in modern aircraft got him hungry for action, he could almost sense himself salivating at the thought of how much he would make shooting down Belkans in modern aircraft.
"Firstly, base pay is contingent on the successful completion of a mission. For those assigned to transports, standard pay rates apply."
A new menu came up, with symbols corresponding to aircraft and other targets next to numbers. Cipher leaned forward, his eyes brightening like a kid in a candy store or an arms dealer in a former military armory.
"For fighter and attacker pilots, standard kill rates are as follows: 1,000 Osean Zollars for a fighter, 500 for helicopters and 3,000 for a bomber." The colonel explained, lighting them up on a screen step-by-step. "Ground and naval targets will vary, and lists will be updated on a regular basis. Anti-air emplacements are also particularly valuable, although risk might not correspond to reward."
Smith crossed his arms.
More for Zeuses than Oerlikons. Gotcha.
"Finally, there will be bonuses that will vary depending on the scale of the mission. These will be worked out on a case-by-case basis with Triple Spectrum. All remuneration will be issued by checks drawn on the Ustio National Bank unless alternative arrangements are arranged."
That is, as long as we make it back, we get a little extra for our trouble. At least we get paid.
The screen quickly reverted to the logo of the Ustio Air Force alongside the three-colored stripes that represented Triple Spectrum. The UAF logo was slightly more prominent, if only to remind the mercs who their current masters were.
"We are all at ground zero of the biggest potential conflict on this continent in decades, gentlemen," the colonel said, almost defeatedly. "But you have volunteered to come here knowing the duress you will be placed under. Should you succeed, and the people of Ustio have as much faith in you as they do with our comrades in the Ustio Air Force..."
Bullshit.
"...you all stand to make history."
If I do well, I stand to become a fucking rich man unless you fuckers decide to ditch me in the snow.
"Preliminary team and rotation assignments have already been posted outside. Briefings will begin tomorrow evening for those first in the rotation." With that, the scanner was switched off. "Triple Spectrum representatives are also onsite to assist you with financial arrangements ."
Well, I'm going to need a place to keep my cash.
"On behalf of the people of Ustio, I wish all of you good luck, godspeed and good hunting."
There was a small, half-hearted round of applause as Kluge turned off the projector and exited the room with his entourage. It took a few moments after he left before the pilots got up on their own.
Cipher had intended to follow the crowd out as they left. However he found more than a few of the Eastern pilots smiling at him or even giving him a friendly pat on his shoulder. He sat with his arms crossed, pretending not to notice despite his ominous figure standing out like a sore thumb and his smirk betraying him.
In fact, he enjoyed this attention, the fear that his reputation hadn't followed him abroad now assuaged somewhat.
The team postings stood out among others down the hall, outdated notices and bulletins on the board because they appeared to have been printed quite recently. Smith waited behind the small crowd as they took a quick look and made their way to the nearby mess hall for breakfast.
There were five squadrons in total, two each for the Western and Eastern pilots and a single two-man squad that was implied to host the most experienced pilot from either. There were other pilots contracted to work with the Ustians with transports, as well as reserves and maintenance.
Smith's attention quickly darted toward the two-man squad, and the first sight of it caused him to curl in his lips.
66th AFU / Triple Spectrum
Galm Team, F-15C
Galm 1 - Verhoeven, Kristian "Culler"
Galm 2 - Foulke, Larry "Pixy"
"Well fuck me, the geezer's got top priority," Smith grumbled. "And who the hell is this fairy?"
"Careful, halfie," Verhoeven interjected as he walked up to Smith, placing his hand on his shoulder. "I don't mind being called a geezer, but that fairy's right over there."
Verhoeven pointed to a slightly-more-sullen tall man in a pilot jacket talking with the other 'Westerner' pilots at the back of the mess hall line. He'd already gained enough attention for wearing a Belkan Air Force jacket, although the other pilots were either impressed or just trying not to be offended.
"Still. What's special about him though?" Smith gestured dismissively at the pilot, and then the list.
"Got one of his wings completely sheared off during one of Belka's little provocations against Osea a year back," Verhoeven sounded like he was almost respectful, as he gestured a ripping motion with his hands "Belka dumped him after that for some reason, and Ustio got Triple Spectrum to pick him up."
"Speaking of picked up..." Cipher muttered as he looked down the list. "I hope I'm not in...oh."
He quickly took solace in the fact that he wasn't on the reserve or the transport list.
67th AFU / Triple Spectrum
Habrock Team, Saab J 35U Draken
Habrock 1 - Smith, Benjamin "Cipher"
Habrock 2 - Julick, Dan "Wrench"
Habrock 3 - Morane, Armin "Steamer"
"Cipher? That's the name they gave you?" Verhoeven inquired humorously.
"I'm sure it's another of their race jokes," Smith chuckled. "Typical Westerners, ah? Least the Draken's a reliable old bird."
The notion caused Verhoeven to laugh. "Don't worry about it. Maybe Pixy'll kick the bucket and we'll get to kick some Belkan ass together."
"Or you get demoted and have to be my bitch on the squad."
"In your dreams, bru." Verhoeven snickered. "Anyway, I'm going to see if the Ustians cooked up something edible. See you soon."
"Yeah..." Cipher trailed off as he watched Verhoeven leave. Once he was sure Verhoeven was out of sight, he went the other way, following the signs to the area where the mercenaries would be housed.
To say the living accommodations were spartan was an understatement. The surge of new recruits meant that a pair of erstwhile unused warehouses had to be hastily reconditioned to accommodate them, meaning they got the same olive-drab spring mattress bunks as army grunts.
For Cipher, however, having an actual mattress to sleep on was at least a small improvement from sleeping bags and blankets stretched over gravel, although he was starting to miss the relative privacy of his cottage back in Central Sotoa.
He slid his suitcase under one of the bunks closer to the back of the warehouse and climbed onto the mattress. He could hear the springs creaking to accommodate his bodily contour as he lay supine with his arms crossed behind his head.
His legs twinged in relief as he splayed them out with his other limbs. They had been used to the cramped confines of a cockpit, but upwards of 24 hours in a plane and assorted buses and taxis had taken their toll, and he was finally glad to let them relax.
Making history be damned, he would need all the time to relax that he could if he wanted to make this sojourn one to remember in a good way.
At least it's warm in here...
6200 feet above and 15 mi. S of the Ustio-Belkan Border
20 March 1995
1533 hrs.
Tensions had continued to rise for the few days in which Cipher was subjected to a crash course on how to fly the Draken. Ustio had kept their hand-me-downs in working shape, though it took Cipher more than one training flight to ease himself back through the state of paranoia that accompanied the more unreliable models that he was more familiar with.
It seemed ironic that it was harder for him to get used to an aircraft that wasn't prone to mechanical failure that required it to be pieced back together with fabricated spare parts. But at least there weren't too many bells and whistles to memorize compared to whatever aircraft the "dominating" powers were currently using.
Once he was finally certified, he and the rest of Habrock Team were sent up for a simple assignment: patrol the northern end of Sant-Charles county, near the Belkan border.
Cipher had expected to get a kill out of his first mission just to establish himself in the pecking order of the West's fighter pilot heirarchy, but even he was pleasantly surprised at the manner in which he'd gotten it, which began with one of his favorite games: airborne chicken.
He fired first, a swift burst of 30mm cannon shells tearing straight through the Phantom's cockpit and back into the fuselage before he was forced to jerk the control yoke to his right. The Draken snapped to its side just as the crippled Phantom streaked by.
"Think you knocked him off. Bastard damn near rammed himself down your throat." Steamer confirmed over the radio.
Heh. I know that feeling.
"No joy on that, Cipher." Wrench added. "He's trying to circle around you!"
Cipher clenched his jaw in frustration.
The Belkans weren't just an aircraft-manufacturing country. Much of their current inventory was license-built from other powers simply because of the money to be made in building them better than the superpowers could. So every shell would have to count.
He secured his oxygen mask and looked over his shoulder before checking his radar.
"Worry about your own damn floppies, I got this one," Cipher said, spotting the Phantom seconds before it disappeared into the clouds. "I don't think so." he muttered at the aircraft.
With one hand he pulled the throttle back and buried the yoke in his belly. Cipher felt himself get heavier as the nimble fighter's nose slid parallel to the horizon. Right when he figured he was oriented in the right direction he jammed the throttle forward as far as it could go.
The Draken's airframe shuddered as its Mach-2.2-capable engines went into full afterburner. Cipher dialed back after a few seconds as his bogey came back into view just above cloud cover. The Phantom hadn't gotten far. It was in the middle of a lengthy turn that would have put him on right on Cipher's tail had he done nothing.
However, Cipher's current course had the Phantom passing right in front of him a mere mile in front of the Belkan, spitting distance for a fighter pilot. The Belkan tried to roll over and dive but it was too late. Just as the bogey completed the first part of the maneuver Cipher let loose a two second burst, messily tearing the dying Phantom in half.
"Sant-Charles to Habrock, confirmed kill on a Phantom. Two bogies remaining."
Cipher wasn't worried about something as trivial as confirmation. Watching an expensive piece of airborne machinery disintegrate into molten metal without an ejecting pilot was confirmation enough for him.
"Habrock Team report." he ordered as he descended below cloud cover again.
"Wrench here. These fliers aren't playing any games. I can hardly stay on this guy's six."
"Steamer copy. These goffels are flying like they're mad." Steamer added. "But you must've got their leader 'cause they're trying to flee back to Belka."
Cipher scanned his radar to find out where they were. As he did he said, "The fuck if I'm going to let them run back to mommy. Keep them close, I'm goin' down to help you guys."
Four contacts displayed themselves on the HUD. His IFF transponder identified two of the contacts as friendly and superimposed their outlines blue. Cipher didn't need the IFF to tell him which of the aircraft weren't friendly. Even from six miles away he could make out the slanted wings of the Phantom.
"Got it, boss!" Steamer and Wrench replied in unison.
Heh. Feels good to be the boss again.
Cipher pulled up to 9,000 feet and leveled out. His wingmen were on the tails of the Phantoms about 3,000 feet below and five miles in front of him. From time to time a line of tracers would streak towards the Phantoms who jinked and rolled every which way to avoid the deadly flashes.
A quick check of his fuel gauge showed that he had just enough to execute a plan he'd literally come up with on the spot. He'd be running on fumes by the time he got to base but it would be more than worth it to add another two tallies to his kill count.
Cipher felt himself pushed back into his seat as the afterburner kicked in. The scenic landscape below became nothing more than a blur as the Draken accelerated to Mach 2.2. Keeping a close eye on his radar and fuel gauge Cipher worked the pedals that controlled the direction of the aircraft to make sure he stayed on the proper interception course.
It was a struggle for the nimbler but slightly slower Draken to catch up with the Phantoms. The F-4s had more powerful engines, but these were compensated for by their constant maneuvering.
Cipher made a quick calculation as he pulled ahead of the Phantoms. If he didn't get them now the faster Belkan fighters would outrun the Drakens. It wouldn't be an easy thing to pull off - but "easy" was not in his vocabulary except for when it came to money or an escape route.
With a flick of the wrist Cipher rolled the aircraft belly up and pulled back on the control yoke. Fighting the immense G-forces, Cipher lifted his head up and spotted the Phantoms. They'd be passing right under him.
"Habrock team, you are approaching Belkan airspace! Disengage immediately!" Sant-Charles shouted frantically over the radio.
It was only then that Cipher became aware of multiple threat receivers blaring, from the anti-air missile batteries the Belkans had parked near their border. He flipped a switch downwards and the annoyance stopped. He'd need complete focus and alarms wouldn't help that at all.
As he closed in he believed that he and the other members of Habrock could take care of anyone else that showed up. Right now though, he had to worry about the two right in front of him.
Cipher drowned out everything in his mind except for the two bogies, the adrenaline rush helping him process the situation faster. The low chirp of the fire control radar was the only sound he let through his mental filter. His HUD displayed a red blinking triangle on one of the Phantoms as one of his AIM-9 Sidewinders locked on.
The missile leapt off its rails and converged on the targeted Phantom, the enemy pilot reacting too late to deploy countermeasures, but Cipher had already jammed down on the pedal and yawed to his left to go for the other Phantom. Just as the missile's warhead implanted itself into the first Phantom's large air intake and exploded, Cipher squeezed the trigger firing off the last of his cannon rounds in a steady stream at the other Phantom, severing its fuel lines and setting it ablaze.
Cipher was able to catch a glimpse of the first Phantom bleeding smoke as it plunged out of the sky at the same angle he was diving. The ground seemed to get larger and more detailed as the Draken struggled to level out. With all of his might Cipher pulled up on the stick, the Draken's frame shaking violently as the G-forces built up
The aircraft leveled out only a split second before the trees shredded it, and he pointed southward back toward Ustio.
The remains of the last Phantom passed him on the way back up. The only thing Cipher noticed was the canopy clearly stained red.
When the blood cleared out of his ears, Cipher could hear himself laughing.
"He got both of them!" Steamer exclaimed as he pulled his aircraft to Cipher's eight o'clock.
"Damn, I'm surprised you're not a smoking hole in the ground, mate." Wrench commented pulling around to Cipher's four o'clock. "Guess they were right about the legend."
Cipher calmly replied, "I thought these Belkans would put up more a fight, eh."
"Habrock One, what do you think you were doing?!" Sant-Charles demanded, the irritation in his voice impossible to miss.
Cipher vectored his fighter in the direction of the base, reactivating the systems he'd turned off.
"I think I did, what you're paying us to do, eh?" he replied bluntly, to the sound of Steamer chuckling. In less than two minutes he'd downed three enemy fighters. Accomplishing that in a still unfamiliar aircraft was a testament to his skill. "Oh, and you might want to tell the boys in Valais to get some paint ready. Habrock Team out."
Valais Air Base, Ustio
1929 hrs.
Benjamin 'Cipher' Smith returned triumphantly to the briefing room with Steamer and Wrench to either side of him and smiling, like they were in formation behind him. This time, his entry was greeted by applause from the Eastern group. The room was half-empty nonetheless as only those pilots that had taken part in the day's patrols had arrived, and there weren't any empty seats apart from the three that Habrock Team quickly took their seats in.
'Culler' Verhoeven and Pixy sat at the front, separated by the aisle, while Colonel Kluge was already turning the projector on for the debriefing. Once the lights went out, so did the crowd noise.
"Good evening. I will now conduct the debriefing for this afternoon's missions." Kluge did not sound like he was impressed from the results, or perhaps that all the mercenaries returned. "From 1000 to 1500 hrs, the 65th, 66th and 67th Air Force Units conducted combat air patrols around potential flashpoints near the border with Belka."
Smith made a mental note of the 65th, made of the Westerner pilots in the room. The other neighbor of the twin beasts.
"Galm Team and Habrock Team successfully engaged Belkan border incursions in their respective combat zones," Kluge began, bringing up the results on the projector screen. "Galm Team scored 2 kills before the intruding aircraft exited the combat zone. Habrock Team destroyed all three aircraft in their sector."
There was a small round of applause and cheers from the "Easterner" side of the room. Smith crossed his arms and smiled contentedly.
"We have sent a message to the Belkan Federation that our sovereignty is to be respected," Kluge continued, briefly clasping his hands together. "However..."
Smith glared and smirked. He knew this part of the briefing was coming, but he wasn't expecting it to develop as it was about to.
"During the course of the mission, Habrock Team leader Benjamin Smith pursued the Belkan aircraft despite repeated warnings from Air Control to withdraw. Although the Belkan aircraft were ultimately shot down within Ustio airspace, Air Command has determined that Smith's behavior is in breach of protocol."
Smith's enthusiasm quickly died out, and he leaned back in his seat hoping it wouldn't be as bad as he expected it to be.
"Due to the circumstances of his conduct, his flying privileges are suspended until further notice. Sgt. Michael Akers from reserve will be assigned to Habrock Team as Habrock 3 effective immediately, while the other team members will move up. Alternative assignments will be made available to Smith on request, and standard pay rates will not be affected."
Smith cringed and buried his face in his hands, under a heavy sigh and the sound of a couple of the Westerners stifling laughs. Wrench patted him on the back, but the disappointment had already set in.
He'd made his first impression outside of Sotoa, and it would be very hard to shake off.
Interim Crew Quarters
1 hour later
Z1,500.00. Fifteen Hundred and 00/xx Cents.
Paycheck serial number 092058, drawn on the Ustio National Bank and made out to Benjamin Smith.
Staring at the fine print and security details on a paycheck he held out and upward with both arms certainly wasn't staring at the sky, but that was better than staring at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity on his bunk.
Getting grounded after his first sortie wasn't the way he wanted to start his first soujourn outside of Sotoa.
But he cringed as he tried not to consider the disappointing possibility that this would be how it ended. And it wasn't just his trip ending prematurely, it was the fact that Z1,500 was barely enough for the return trip back to Willemsburg.
Previous employers had stiffed him before, their rejections accompanied with torture and execution attempts. But they were familiar, which made it something he could expect and handle when he also had plenty of safehouses to escape to and connections to help him out when things got hairy.
There was none of that here, and he realized that the shark out of water metaphor fit perfectly. At least for a few moments, there was nobody to rub it in.
"What's the matter, halfie, never spent Ustio schillings before?" Until Kristian Verhoeven entered the room, hands in his flight jacket and curious to meet the 'monster.' There was a cheeky smile on his face, as if he wasn't expecting to see a monster that frequently bathed in the blood and tears of his enemies suddenly emasculated by a piece of paper.
"Fuck off, Kris," Cipher snapped back without batting a glance. "And it's in zollars."
"Hey, Steamer and Wrench are trying to vouch for you," Kris replied exasperatedly, before sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. "The only way you'll get sent back to Sotoa is if the war doesn't happen."
"What war though? I thought these fucking fascists would put up more of a fight." Smith referred to the ideology non-chalantly. From his personal experience, the only 'ideologies' that held sway were the ones baptized in the most blood. "Don't they want their precious land back?"
"Could be that," Kris shruged dismissively. "But you know why Belka really wants Ustio back so bad?"
"Guessing it's the same reason why wars get waged all the time," Smith muttered dismissively, as if he was trying to recall a lesson from school. "Some government or corporation wants something the other won't give, and they pay us a share to make them give it up and hold onto it for them."
"Exactly, halfie," Verhoeven nodded knowingly, before leaning forward. "The Oseans discovered plenty of minerals and gold in the hills a few months back, and we have a chance to get in on more than just that share."
"-Like they keep saying about the wild though," Smith concluded, with a brief furrowing of his brow. "Only thing we get is paid, laid and-or shot. Not that we're not unnecessary."
"Heh, you're still more forceful than your old man," Verhoeven chuckled, crossing his arms. "But this is Osea, not Sotoa. For one, there are roads here...and stock markets."
Smith turned his head to face Verhoeven, the look on his face straddling bewilderment and curiosity. "...stock markets?" The concept was fairly alien to him, mentioned only by his father in passing or on the phone with clients or benefactors whose names currently escaped him.
Verhoeven looked around and then leaned forward as if to tell Cipher a secret. "You ever wonder how your old man could pull so many favors?"
"Sleeping with the factions to get jobs?" Cipher asked half-sarcastically, sitting up on the edge of the bed. "Lord knows I tried, but yeah, I do still wonder sometimes."
His adoptive father had taught him how to make do in the most barebones of survival situations with even the most ratty of AK-47s and FALs and Nordland-made ex-colonial surplus aircraft. But the ex-aristocrat always seemed to be able to acquire weapons and gear for his work that were usually better quality and make than could be acquired at the flea markets and other channels. As perverted as the young mercenary's mind worked, it wasn't surprising that getting such equipment down there required more than a close connection to a local warlord.
"I'd imagine that's something he wanted his son to learn on his own," Verhoeven quipped. "But he always arranged to get a stake in the companies he worked for, not just his usual paycheck. So they benefited from what he did for them..."
Smith raised his eyebrows. "And got paid twice. Connections. And stashed it in offshore accounts because the hell if he was gonna keep it under our mattresses."
Verhoeven pointed a confident trigger-finger at his comrade. "Exactly. And when he used his favorite equipment, the gun makers sent him replacement parts free of charge...barring the delivery time out there."
The mention of wealth caused Cipher to look to his side and chuckle grimly. "Wish I'd gotten some of his connections when he kicked the bucket."
"Well..." Verhoeven was suddenly cut off by someone calling from the door.
"Hey, you two!" A member of Hex Team stood at the doorway, a South Sotoan or other Sotoaner from the sound of his accent. Hex was the other squadron in the 67th Air Force Unit. "A bunch of us are gonna get some sundowners in town, you want to come along?"
"I'll meet you out there in a tick," Verhoeven called back. "Keep the motor runnin' for us."
"Okay man," the Hex member replied, "Oh, don't let them get you down, Little Rijnders. They haven't seen the adze at his best, yeah?"
Smith grinned at the use of his adoptive name, as well as the nickname of a particularly gruesome vampiric shapeshifter. "Hey, they definitely don't want to see that monster at his best," he laughed before waving off Hex.
"Like I was saying," Verhoeven resumed once the Hex pilot left the doorway, "I think he would have wanted you to carve out your own stake in the world. Start from scratch so you're not spoiled like the ex-Nordies."
"Or you?" Smith raised an eyebrow.
"Hah! At my age, I wish." Verhoeven guffawed, leaning his head back a little in regret. "I was, once, but now I'm down here with you. I had the rest of my life set before the new government threw me out on my ass because they wanted 'inclusion.' Now there are fucking slum babies from Wilburg and Centuria flying my plane around for half the pay."
The mention of slum dwellers caused Cipher to burst into laughter. He started to wonder how many of those kids in the new "air forces" of the intact and recently-healed nations got their flying inspiration from him, as well as how many would end up disappointed in the lack of action in the "legitimate" field.
"Hey, don't laugh," Verhoeven responded flatly. "I still managed to build up my own circle of friends up there, including folks who probably fought with you or your father. That's how I got here."
Smith rubbed his face and folded the check into his pants pocket. "Ah, look man, I'm just bummed that this isn't turning out to be the new start I wanted."
"Lemme give you a little advice, halfie," Verhoeven replied, getting up and stretching his arms, "Get to know the folks around here like you did the guys back down there. Oseans, Ustians, whatever. And you can start..." he sighed, "by getting those shumbas with us."
Smith was still smiling as he helped himself up and reached for his jacket. "Fuck me, I needed a drink anyway."
"Hey," Verhoeven suddenly pointed at him, "I still don't swing that way, boy."
"Works for me," Smith shrugged as he put his jacket on. "Let's glide."
To Be Continued...
A/N: So I may or may not be inspired by Far Cry 2 when describing further exploits of Cipher's back in Sotoa. Or rather, how Cipher is going to thrive because the war in Belka isn't much different from Central Sotoan clusterfucks apart from the weapons used...