Original story based on characters and material created by Project Aces. The author takes no for-profit ownership over them.
Chapter 6: Trouble When You Walked In
Valais AB, Ustio
Rec Room
15 April 1995
1822 hrs.
The walls of the rec room were a dreary off-white and the room itself was lit just enough to avoid any unnecessary dark spots. There was a large-ish screen TV by one wall where most of the seated furniture and their occupants converged, topped with a jury-rigged antenna. Right now the TV was stuck to the United Kingdom of Nordland's NTV-1 and its coverage of the war, its announcers going on in glum tones of the Nordland armed forces' mobilization and the instability of Yuktobania's hastily-assembled eastern coalition as it fell to the Belkan war machine. On other days the Westerners could avail of Osean baseball and South Osean futbol matches.
The Easterners and Sotoaners were covered by the rec room's other similarly spartan amenities, such as tables for cards and even a barely-working free play pinball machine. There was also a small shelf that served as the library, containing leisurely and dated reading material in Nordlish and Ustiansh, along with whatever material pilots had brought with them from town - or "donated" after they had died.
Neither Western nor Eastern convenience particularly interested Benjamin Smith any more than the envelope in his hand. Especially after the base had declared itself dry for the war effort.
The attack run in Galatia had seen Smith finally truly absorb himself into his favorite line of work, but in the days afterward he'd absorbed himself into something that could help him pass the time. Eventually, there came those times where he needed something else to do between sorties, repairs and of course, the trips to town for rest and relaxation. Times when the maintenance regiments were able to get their repairs done - or get someone that was officially part of their regiment to help them out to make sure the bosses weren't giving them suspicious glances.
The want of such an opportunity invariably and finally led him to the rec room.
At least Smith could avail of mechanic's coveralls that actually didn't feel like they were one size too small. Not that they could mask the smell of oil and sweat wafting off of him as he walked into the room, but the various odors that permeated the rest of the smoking-permitted room seemed to that just fine. Right now he just needed a nap and the rec room was closer than the barracks.
He had expected to be disappointed when he went in, and wasn't disappointed in that.
"Oi, kid. I'm tryin'a aim!" came the exclamation in a thick Mid-Nordland accent from Smith's right as he made his way past the dartboard.
The Sotoan stopped mid-stride and took a step back as a small, black projectile whizzed harmlessly from right to left and into the wall. His eyes tracked it to its destination - a dart into a dartboard with a newspaper picture pinned to it with a thumbtack.
"Did I scare ya, mate?" the Nordlander asked. Smith turned to face the voice, a brown-haired pilot in dress casuals about 4 inches shorter than him and the Union Jack of the United Kingdom of Nordland patch on his left arm and a cheeky grin on his face
"Nah, you're good mate," Smith shrugged, tilting his head.
"Good," he replied, offering a dart. "Y'wanna help me give Der Führer there his makeover?"
The dartboard itself had seen better days, but he noticed there was now a photo pinned to it, covering much of the inner ring and bullseye. "That's him?" Smith said incredulously as he took the dart and pointed it at the picture, "That's the big baddie we're fighting?"
The profile photo of a bespectacled, bearded Belkan in his late 50s had fared little better than the dartboard it was currently pinned to. There was a concentration of pinholes around his forehead and between the eyes, although the overall spread was wide enough to reflect the throwing accuracy of everyone that used the room.
"Chancellor Wilhelm Fuckin' Drexler's ugly mug, yeah," the Nordlander replied. "They're tryin' to bring back the old Reich again."
Smith squinted at the picture and raised an eyebrow. For an important Western politician Drexler looked fairly ordinary, almost as if the picture could be used as an ID or passport photo for a middle executive or some other salaryman. "I've seen scarier," was his dull remark.
"Wot, like warlords eatin' babies or somethin'?" the other pilot asked with a dismissive laugh, before lining up another shot.
Smith walked up beside the Nordlander, who wore a name badge with "Robertson" stitched on it, and muttered ominously. "Oh yeah, definitely some blood drinkin' now, for luck and other unholy shite like that. Human blood was only for special occasions though." The way he described it so casually blurred the boundary of being serious that the Cerberos pilot couldn't tell if he was joking.
"You ever had a taste?" with that in mind, Robertson's blurring of the lines between actual curiosity and racial condescension was more easily readable to Smith.
Smith chuckled and explained his answer with enthusiasm. "Once, yeah. They spiked it with some crazy dagga though to work them into a battle frenzy. Next thing I remember I woke up arse naked and roasting in a wrecked lorry."
The Nordlander tried and mostly succeeded at trying not to look disgusted. "Sorry I asked then."
"Oh, you should be glad I didn't describe how I got my clothes back," Smith laughed and shrugged it off as he threw the dart, which landed right under Drexler's nose. "This your first time out of Nordland, Officer..."
"Robertson. Cerberos 2. Yeah, but I'm still fightin' for us," the Cerberos pilot snarled before throwing his next dart into the picture's jugular. "Even if fookin' Parliament doesn't want us to."
"Ah," Smith nodded, "You were flyin' the Danerns?"
"A little too young for that unfortunately, though I was handlin' the Troubles over in the Springs for a couple years." the Cerberos pilot sighed. "Now I'm here 'cause not even the bloody Independence Party wants to take on the Bosch until they're climbin' over the Queen's fence."
The two of them walked up to the dartboard to reclaim their darts. "Not a bad shot, eh. What brought you out'a the bush?" Robertson asked as he plucked the darts out of the mugshot.
"Money and thrills," he replied as they walked back to the throwing position, flashing the envelope he held in his hand. "Same as everyone not from this continent."
"You sayin' you had too little thrills down in the bush?" Robertson smirked before tossing another dart.
"Actually, you're right," Smith laughed, waving it off. "Was runnin' out of work down there."
"So's that your pink slip?" Robertson asked, pointing at the envelope in Smith's hand.
Smith looked at the envelope and waved it. "My first ever bank statement, actually."
The slightly crumpled envelope bearing the return address and logo of the Ustio National Bank was probably the only incoming non-official snail mail for days to Smith's knowledge. The mail room looked even more worn from disuse than the rec room did from actual use, although in the mail room's case it was through no fault of their own.
At least the envelope hadn't been otherwise tampered with. When it was probably the only incoming mail for a non-Osean mercenary at this base, bundled in a fairly thin stack for the domestic staff, there was really no worry about it getting lost.
Smith figured his current Western-sounding name had a lot to do with it.
"Bank statement?" Robertson definitely didn't think Smith was being serious. "What, you learned to use a bank?"
"I'm not stashing my money under the communal mattress up here, fuckwit," Smith guffawed. "And I don't have fancy offshore accounts like the rest of you either."
"Not sayin' its a bad thing, you savage," Robertson deduced. "You wouldn't be keepin' it in Ustio if you didn't believe we were gonna win."
"I might be the only one keeping it here then," was Smith's curious reply, "Seeing as how you and I might be the only ones thinking we'll win."
Wiring money from Ustio to other countries on the Osean continent was not much of a problem despite the Belkan occupation, as it simply took a little longer than normal due to rerouting through Ratio. The wiring process took even longer to get off the Osean landmass to Yuktobania or other offshore havens - and for the most remote places, the only way that the money would have a chance at getting there were networks of couriers.
"You know what?" Robertson lowered his darts. "Give us a look at how much."
"Why not," Smith nodded, as he slid a finger under the lid and ripped the envelope open.
He unfolded the statement. The ink was faded as if the printer they used had run to the end of its ribbon. The listings showed both the original Osean zollar amounts and the total converted back into Ustian schillings. Despite the government-controlled exchange rates and suspended interest, Smith easily held a schilling balance in the lower hundreds of thousands.
"Bloody fuckin' 'ell!" Robertson exclaimed, peering at the raw numbers, "They're payin' you that much?"
Smith was forward about sincerely denying it. "Tch. I might be the top man on base but I bet five'a these six digits they're paying you whiteys more than this in your hazard bonuses alone."
"Y'know the only reason I might agree is that the fuckin' Belkans are making us earn it," Robertson replied. "So what are you gonna do with your money after we kick the Belkans out?" he then asked, before going over to the dartboard to retrieve the darts again.
Smith opened his mouth to speak, but stopped.
It occurred to Smith that he hadn't exactly itemized what he was planning to do with the money he earned outside of investing it. In fact it actually occurred to him that while he was familiar with how natural resources came out of Sotoan soil to Western factories, he had little if any idea who took responsibility up and down the production chain apart from the few familiar household mining names and the various armed groups contracted to protect them.
Not that it was at the top of his priority list when he was having this much fun, but down in Sotoa there was never really much room for long-term luxury.
"Fuck, that's a good question," Smith eventually said.
"Maybe you'll get your farm back or something," Robertson suggested. "And be the owner this time, kick back, relax and get some unlucky whitey to do your dirty work."
The racial irony wasn't lost on Smith. Hadn't been for a long time.
"Well, I'll definitely need to kick back and relax right the fuck now. I'm gonna have a nap."
"All right then. Hey, if you're up in a couple minutes me and the Thanatos boys'll be playing pin the missile on the Minister."
Briefing Room
20 April 1995
0821 hrs.
The morning of the 20th saw Smith, Larry Foulke, and the three pilots of Habrock make their way into the base's briefing room where Kluge had already set up the projector to the regional map of the area. Smith was particularly chipper about being called up to fly again, though not necessarily awake enough to do so. The five took their seats in the front row on their respective opposite sides of the aisle.
"Good morning, pilots. We trust you'll all be ready for a challenge today."
Smith responded by half-sarcastically letting out a loud yawn and stretching his arms. Kluge rolled his eyes as he adjusted the projector map to Ustio's northwestern border.
"Head Operations has issued an emergency order for a reconnaissance mission to be conducted in a sector of disputed airspace in the northwest, in order to gauge enemy air response for future operations."
If Foulke hadn't fully awoken by this point, he was certainly intently paying attention to the area highlighted to the map. The Habrock pilots were also more than interested at their current assignment, now displayed on their screen.
"You are to engage in a combat patrol above the Granplatt, which currently lies entirely within Belka's Federation Strategic Airspace B7R. Those of you versed in fighter pilot mythos will know this area as the Round Table."
Colonel Kluge's dismissive behavior when introducing the Round Table was not lost on most of the assembled pilots. Foulke seemed surprised and almost honored while the Habrock pilots were already trying to jog each other's knowledge about it.
Smith on the other hand did not seem to get it, not least because the only mythologies he put any reasonable faith in were the ones directly involving himself. That he didn't display any visible reaction to the Round Table and its mythology was mostly due to his own mythology's still-insignificant presence on the Osean landmass.
The view zoomed out to include air bases located close to the Granplatt and their projected aircraft capabilities. These "capabilities" now included Erusean-derived Mirage delta-wing fighters amidst the F-20s that the group had previously fought.
"Expect strong opposition from enemy squadrons, who will fight to keep their southeastern frontier secure. Furthermore, the Granplatt area is rich in subterranean resources, causing a magnetic field which can interfere with radio communications."
The next view of the map actually did get Smith's attention, causing him to sit upright. The projection of the southeastern ridges that formed the Round Table included large discolored blobs that indicated the natural resource deposits causing the magnetic field. He knew enough about map scale that these deposits were about as large as the ones found in the dark hearts of Sotoa, and that they probably hadn't been dug up yet because it was still somehow cheaper for Western corporations to get them from his side of the world.
"You are authorized to engage any enemy planes on contact. Should you get shot down, you are on your own in finding rescue."
And speaking of the dark heart of Sotoa, the threat of ex post facto banishment did not seem to faze Smith or any of the other mercenaries, though it did apparently quiet their chatter. The air power seemed to be lightly sprinkled across the map, although they would easily be facing at least 2-to-1 odds.
"The time has come for your skills to be tested. Dismissed."
Habrock got up and departed single-file as the projector turned off. Foulke followed them with Smith close behind.
"You've seemed pretty relaxed about the whole thing so far, buddy," he commented, turning his head to give Smith a side-glance.
"Hey, I'm always up for a challenge," Smith waved it off, tilting his head and smiling casually. "Besides, I think I might be having alcohol withdrawal. That challenges you to keep calm, my buddy."
10 mi. SW and 2000 ft above the Granplatt, Ustio
1120 hrs.
It was not hard for the Granplatt - Grand Plateau - to earn its name in Ustiansh. The area was simply a large swath of red rock as far as the eye could see, even from the height that the three Habrock Drakens and a pair of F-15 Eagles cruising in formation could spot. For most the aircraft's pilots, their name for the place was derived from something more historically significant.
"Do you know why they call this place the Round Table, Cipher?"
"Table? The map says this place is more of a pie plate," Cipher replied matter of factly. "Big-arsed ring of mountains around it."
"How the fuck have you been flying this long without knowing what the Round Table is, bru?" Steamer exclaimed.
"Ease up, man," Pixy replied, before Akers suddenly spoke up.
"Okay, Cipher. The quick story is that it's all down to this aerial knighthood that they believe in up here." Akers was sarcastic enough about his emphasis to still be convincing.
The connection was obvious enough. The Round Table did have its place as the table of knights in old Nordland before it became the United Kingdom, when it had territorial holdings in Erusea and long before "New" Nordland was established in what was now the capital region of the Osean Federation.
"Belka always brings their wars to the skies above the Granplatt," Akers continued, "Pure unrestricted dogfighting. The only thing that matters up here is being the last one standing."
Cipher nodded. "Well, I think I might just like it up here then." The thought of being mentally injected with some good old fashioned pure fighting thrill turned the treasure buried underneath the Round Table into something to earn.
The metaphors were apt enough - that of the knight slaying the dragon to steal its hoard. To Cipher, however, the analogy was flipped on its head: here was the Dragon coming to acquire his hoard from the knights defending it.
"Heads up, the local patrols are sniffing you out," Eagle Eye reported.
New blips started appearing on Cipher's radar, putting his eyes on a quick swivel.
"Fun times about to begin, boys! All planes, you are now weapons free," he ordered. "Engage all Belkan aircraft on sight before I get 'em."
Two finger-four formation patrols were merging and heading toward them. One flight had Phantoms, the other had Tigersharks. Their two flight leads, however, flew Mirages.
Designed by Erusea's Dassault group, the Mirage's delta wing configuration and then-superior avionics made it a staple of its air force and a formidable combatant in its own right as the Cold War developed. Dassault found export customers all over the world among those that refused to take sides between Osea and Yuktobania, such as the Belkans, who were more than happy to apply their own modifications to the venerable multirole.
"What's our strategy, boss?" Steamer asked.
"Pixy and I will focus on the bossmen, you'll keep the flies off our asses," Cipher replied, his eyes twitching glances between the two sets of aircraft. "Once we break them, it's free pickings."
"Copy that, boss!" Steamer replied enthusiastically.
"Only 2-1 odds? Works for me." Wrench pitched in.
The two formations then split evenly.
"I'll go after the one on the right," Pixy suddenly added, banking away.
"Go for it. Someone tag along with him and keep him company, yeah?"
"I'm on it," Akers barked, his aircraft hastily adjusting to tail Pixy's.
Cipher perused the motions of the planes behind the leading Mirages. Their flying seemed so precise, so perfect, that the only logical explanation was that they just had to be rookies. Their squad leaders were probably taking them on a tour of the Granplatt like it was one of those controlled game hunts.
The formation split once it became clear that Cipher was heading right into them. While Steamer and Wrench quickly matched themselves to the tailing two Tigersharks, Cipher clung to the third Tigershark and the leading Mirage in a sharp upward loop, and the Eagle followed close. He couldn't immediately hit the Tigershark between him and the Mirage, as it was flying against the bottom of his HUD and thus "under" his cannon range. The faded white disc of the sun in the overcast sky contrasted the Mirage into an almost cataract-like dark triangle.
Not that he intended to. The Mirage, still caught off guard, could not loop as tightly as the Eagle. That allowed Cipher to gun the brake and draw a line of cannon fire almost straight over the Belkan lead plane's fuselage, right to the cockpit. The Tigershark following him had managed to right itself at the top of the loop and was already kicking in the afterburner in a hasty attempt to escape.
"Not today, fuckboy," Cipher chuckled to himself as the Eagle quickly caught up to firing range of the Tigershark. He figured the pilot had been scared stiff as the Tigershark didn't even flinch when Cipher shot the smaller plane out of the sky with another burst of cannon fire.
He did, however, flinch himself when several tracer rounds suddenly flew above and past him, corkscrewing the plane downward to draw whoever it was toward him.
"That's my bad," Wrench suddenly called, "Bastard tried to get you in his way."
"Fine by me," Cipher replied, leveling the Eagle out and heading toward another cluster of blips on his radar. "I'm gonna go save my goddamn replacement."
The other dogfight was barely a mile away, but Cipher was able to read it while leaving Steamer and Wrench to handle their respective Tigersharks. Pixy was expectedly busy trying to make sure Akers could chase down his prey with a clear six. He was doing a good enough job of it too, as one of the second flight's F-20s was already spiraling toward the Granplatt in a cloud of smoke.
His eyes darted between the cluster of blips on his HUD and the planes ahead, flicking the missile ready switches as he did. The Eagle's radar immediately latched onto one of the F-20, which immediately tried to break away from chasing Akers. A Sidewinder was already on its way from Cipher's aircraft, however, punching a big enough dent in the F-20's fuselage to render the controls useless.
By the time Cipher caught up to it, Pixy, Akers and two of the other three planes in the flight were safely away, allowing him to personally finish the job with a burst of cannon fire to the engines. The second Tigershark had disengaged from pursuing Pixy and was actually heading back to save what was left of the other flight.
"That should make things a little easier for me and Akers here," Pixy commented as Cipher pulled a half-loop up and leveled out to pursue the third one.
"Slotted my rookie good eh," Steamer chimed in as Cipher could make out two smoking fireballs falling out of the air.
"Same here," Wrench replied. "Mine had the good sense to eject."
"Well you'll have to race me to this last one!" Cipher replied boisterously. "Oops, too late!"
The F-20's pilot had already decided that taking on three fighters was suicidal enough as it was. But in the course of trying to bank away from all three, the F-20 had exposed its entire topside to Cipher, allowing him to take it apart with a quickly-locked Sidewinder.
"Still two more for us, at least," Steamer groaned as his and Wrench's Drakens buzzed past either side of Cipher's Eagle. "Wait a tick, looks like Pixy got one."
"Okay mate, one for all!" Cipher's best attempt at humor was nowhere near as sharp as his fighting instinct right now, as he gunned the brake and pulled a long turn to rejoin Pixy and Akers.
"Shit, he evaded my missile!" Akers shouted. Cipher spotted the Mirage's countermeasures as it looped high above both Akers and Pixy, immediately pulling back on his flight stick to try to catch up to the last of the enemies before the competition did. With five aircraft going after one, Cipher quickly found it a matter of personal pride more than anything with Akers still in pursuit.
He pushed his throttle up to afterburners for only the few seconds that were needed to catch up to the Mirage in descent. Once Cipher's cannon sights reached the cockpit in a tight left-hand turn, it was all over. A short burst of cannon fire made even shorter work of the pilot and his plane.
Cipher had almost leveled out before another transmission reached his headset.
"Warning! Radar shows additional aircraft approaching Area B7R at high speed."
"Good timing," Cipher groaned with the intercom off. "I'm still in fucking heat here."
"And you owe me one," Akers grumbled.
"Galm 2, to Galm 1. Enemy reinforcements, probably the main force."
"Okay, ammo check. Still got plenty left," Cipher added anxiously.
"Galm and Habrock Teams, we cannot authorize a retreat. Intercept them."
"I figured you'd say that, this is going to cost you extra." Pixy sighed.
"Confirmed." There was a slight delay from Eagle Eye before he continued with a palpable sense of dread. "Enemy aircraft identified as four MBB 909 bearing zero-three-zero."
"Shit." was Akers' response almost as soon as Eagle Eye mentioned the aircraft type.
"M-B-B-what?" Cipher seemed more curious than dumbfounded.
"Belka's newest toys," Pixy replied quickly, "They're definitely going to have to pay us extra."
Cipher could barely make out the 909s' delta-wing silhouettes as the newcomers also broke formation, swarming around them in a larger and faster circle.
"All right then, let's earn it," Cipher replied ambitiously. "You wanna stick to us, that's fine by you."
"Right. We'll try to distribute ourselves," Steamer replied,
"Gray and Red, Pixy, do you know these fucks?"
"Probably Rot Team," Pixy replied after a few seconds. "If it's them, they're known for their long-range attacks. Be careful."
Careful having never been a word in Cipher's combat lexicon, he quickly took the order to mean get up close and personal. His eyes narrowed as he caught his set of two aircraft about to complete their circle toward the Drakens.
"What the hell, how'd they get missile loc-" was the last transmission from Habrock 3, followed by static. Cipher gunned the throttle out of reflex, but the destruction of Akers' plane had snapped his attention.
What the 909 lacked in raw speed compared to the Eagle, it more than made up for in maneuverability. This meant the surviving pilots had to read the 909 pilots' evasive maneuvers as they were making them in order to keep up. Two of them were circling wide, keeping watch over the two that were going after Steamer and Wrench's aircraft.
"Slotted 'er good eh, I'm punchin' out!" was Wrench's last call before his ejection seat punched right out of his burning Draken's canopy, leaving Steamer on 2-1 odds.
Least you helped me get close to him, mate, Cipher thought with a glare as he corkscrew-dodged the Draken's corpse, pulling right onto the newer fighter's tail. "I'll work on Steamer's tail," Pixy shouted over the radio barely a few seconds after.
The 909 immediately pulled belly up and then downward, intending to draw Cipher into a dive.
It would only be a matter of split seconds before both planes crossed the threshold to recover with their velocity before hitting the ground. Cipher knew that the 909's pilot knew that his newer aircraft could breach that threshold after the Eagle did. That meant the risk Cipher was now running through his head had an almost impossibly small window - made even smaller by the sound of an impending missile lock.
The moment he reached that window, his vision seemed to flash.
He squeezed the trigger before he pulled the flight stick practically to his chest. The Eagle's cannon punched a line right down the top of the fuselage, the last shell blowing apart its thrusters. The crippled and smoking aircraft continued on its turning radius, eventually stalling as Cipher passed it on his way upward. The pursuing 909 had to overadjust to stay on his tail, giving him enough time to glimpse the tail end of a heavy black smoke trail leading to Steamer's Draken.
"I can't keep 'er steady. Just keep my seat at the bar warm, mate!" Steamer chuckled over the radio before his comms shut off with the loud whoosh of an ejector seat deployment.
Cipher quickly returned his attention to the skies behind him when several tracer rounds whizzed past him, and he banked the Eagle into a corkscrew turn out of reflex.
"Got one. Steamer's been avenged," Pixy announced between heavy breaths as the 909 suddenly slid into view about a hundred feet above and relative to Cipher's canopy. "That'll even the odds!"
Long-range attacks 'cause you don't like 'em when they get up right on your arse... Cipher forced a smile between a clenched jaw as he focused on the 909 now trying to outmaneuver him.
Suddenly it felt like his gaze formed an invisible tether to the 909's exhaust pipes. His hands adjusted the flight stick with every maneuver as if to make sure the tether didn't snap the F-15 in two, his neck straining to make sure he never lost sight of the aircraft he was following.
Oh, you love squirmin' in my grasp don't you, Cipher curled his lips into a snarl as the agile 909 pulled into a climb and then an Immelman to try to shake him, You must be the big boss if you're so obsessed with me.
It was Cipher's focus that allowed his Eagle to keep up with the 909 as it gained some distance on him. What the Eagle lacked in outright agility he could compensate for by pointing the aircraft in the 909's direction almost as soon as it moved, the delta-wing's dark gray and red silhouette contrasting sharply against the bright sky and orange rock. This also resulted in less strain on Cipher's body from the G-forces he experienced during pursuit as compared to the 909 pilot's more intense evasion.
After about a minute, he memorized enough of the 909 pilot's maneuvers to be able to jump the gun on whatever technique the enemy pilot decided to use next.
He jammed the trigger as the pursuit was about to enter an inverted loop, cannon shells punching directly into the 909's exhaust, shattering the engine and other mechanics from the inside. Cipher pulled away to avoid the shrapnel, knowing full well that even a newer fighter could not limp back to base with that kind of damage.
Only one of the gray-and-red aircraft remained, already fleeing toward the edge of the Round Table and the safety of Belkan airspace. Cipher's mind was already tracking it, his eyes darting between the radar and the small black speck in the distance as he pushed the throttle up to afterburners. The transition of focus from one enemy to the next was interrupted only by the ground he had to cover - for all intents and purposes, Cipher had only shot down his target's body double.
"Time to make these guys history," Pixy noted. "Galm 1, let's wrap things up here."
It was a comment that Cipher virtually ignored as the Eagle on afterburners quickly covered the distance on the slower 909. His missile indicators began tracking the last reinforcement as it tried to begin evasive maneuvers of its own.
"Locked." he mouthed silently, calling out the lock to himself only a split second before the HUD registered it.
Cipher's thumb clicked the fire button almost as soon as the indicator went off. The Sidewinder did not have to travel far before tearing the last delta-wing's fuselage open and sending it corkscrewing to the ground in a disintegrating fireball.
"All Belkan reinforcements confirmed down. Mission complete. Return to base."
The only thing that had surprised him in the last few minutes was the fact that the final enemy to go down did not use countermeasures, perhaps out of fear of the two planes that had so thoroughly eviscerated his comrades.
With the skies now clear, Cipher's body eased out of the intense focus he had put himself in as he leveled out his Eagle and banked it southward, allowing Pixy to return to formation at his side. The first thing he could feel as his internal organs began to work out the effects of the G-forces was a smile from cheek to cheek under his mask.
If these were Belkan aces, then he was satisfied to have finally been able to actually work hard for his pay.
"Incoming message from Allied Forces OPCOM: Allied Naval Force has begun its advance. We appreciate your work."
"Looks like we were just a couple of decoys...Yo Buddy, still alive?"
"Yeah, thankfully," Cipher panted, realizing that the Belkans had taken that bait and were dragged to their doom. "Those 909s, some kind of new Mirages?"
"No. Messerschmitts." Pixy replied. "Had to be Color Guard too, if they could get at us like that."
Rumor of an advanced Belkan fighter did indeed penetrate mercenary flying circles all the way out in Sotoa, although the technical specifications were almost purely speculation. Erusea's Mirages, Surdavia's Dravecs and South Sotoa's indigenously-modified equivalents were about the most modern fighters flown over the continent, although occasionally a Fulcrum or two could be found among Gran Adama's intervention forces.
"Messerschmitt? Come on man," Cipher said in casual disbelief. "I've flown in clunkers almost twice my age but you're talking Second Great War, early Cold War here."
"Oh they've been busy," Pixy explained, having gotten over most of his disbelief. "They were developing a fighter aircraft with Erusea and Eastern Osea. But when the Fatherland party took over...I can't believe they got it done that quickly."
"Too quick for the boys to break in, huh," Cipher sighed, double entendres almost natural for him.
"Yeah. The 909s made our older fighters into mincemeat, but even if these pilots are Color Guard, they haven't figured out how to push these aircraft to their limits yet."
"Well we shot 'em down same as the rest of 'em didn't we," Cipher's tone turned chipper as he looked down at the Granplatt, "Gonna have to buy them some top shelf shit if they make it out from there."
"You don't really need special forces survival skills to make it out of the Round Table," Pixy replied, with a tone of hollow solace, "Most of the time, the real corpse is the will to get back up and fight."
"I bet we'd both survive then. Easily," Cipher added, sounding almost smarmy before turning off the radio and sighing to himself. "Not like we haven't been knocked down before, is it?"
Briefing Room
Valais AB, Ustio
1626 hrs.
The weather over Valais had not changed from the slightly drizzly overcast it had been when they left.
Colonel Kluge was already in the briefing room standing by the projector as he usually did, waiting for the mission's two survivors when they returned and parked their aircraft. He had a stern look on his face that showed he had not only expected the attrition, but was actually prepared to deal with the emotional response from their surviving comrades as they walked in with their flight suits still on.
"Welcome back. I'll be sure to let High Command know that the two of you shot down a squadron of enemy 909s."
"We were decoys though. And we lost Habrock," Foulke explained, more concerned about Habrock's loss.
"This was expected given the equipment we encountered, unfortunately." Kluge powered the projector to the same briefing map as before, only illuminated with more arrows across the western theaters of combat. "But you were part of the opening salvo of our counterattack."
"Those...are a lot of decoys," Smith commented.
"Operation Choker One involved multiple coordinated reconnaissance missions across several significant corridors that could be used as an attack, with the express aim of spreading out and thinning down available Belkan air assets."
The map zoomed in on the northwestern border region where B7R was located.
"Naturally, B7R holds much more symbolic value than functional value, as demonstrated by the presence of nothing less than a squadron from the Luftwaffe's Color Guard."
A single squadron insignia appeared prominently on screen, depicting a red and white bird perched on a coat of arms. This was accompanied by a file picture from a Belkan newspaper of the 909s parked on tarmac during their ceremonial unveiling.
"Rot. I knew it." Foulke said. "They really would send the Color Guard against a few mercenaries."
"Hold the fuck up. Red Squadron?" Smith knew a little Belkan from mercenary circles. "Fuck kind of name-"
"Decorum, please," Kluge interjected sharply, and actually pleased with himself for that. "They routed a Color Guard squadron to your area when they realized that their local patrols were being massacred. Fortunately, they didn't expect their attempt to protect the Round Table's "heritage" to backfire spectacularly."
Neither did you...I bet my next check you'll be crying when you sign our payroll.
Kluge shut the projector turned off and walked over to the light switch. "We are barely a month into the war and you have already put a large dent in their national pride by taking out one of their Color Guard squadrons. The Ustian Air Force can now genuinely look to you for inspiration as we prepare to liberate our land." His tone brightened quicker than the lights turning back on.
"What about Habrock?" Pixy asked.
"All three pilots are currently MIA. In the worst case scenario, their surviving loved ones will be notified," Kluge replied procedurally. The lifted spirit from their victory did at least give him an air of genuine concern. "And in such case, they gave their lives in the service of Ustio."
Foulke nodded and replied "Alright," but Smith could read his face.
Smith knew that this was the last that the Ustian military establishment would mention of Habrock and their pilots before their possessions were disposed of. That was the way of the mercenary world. But at the same time, while Smith could actually concur that it was a cause worth fighting for - at least for himself - he could see Foulke had the look of someone that was buying 98% of that kind of bullshit, which wasn't a bad sign in and of itself.
Virtually every pilot, every professional soldier that threw off their national flag to fight solely for a paycheck still brought some form of idealism with them to the cause they were hired to fight for. And Foulke had that inevitable look on his face of not buying the other 2%.
This wasn't necessarily a bad thing in itself. It was really more of a phase of transition that led to multiple endings. Many of the older mercenaries he'd worked with represented the most common fate among those that lived - the ones that made a career of their soldiering for hire, ideology be damned. There were many more that also took their denial to the grave with them. Only a few, if any, could make it out with that idealism intact.
Either way, Smith knew that victory was an effective salve. He was confident that an Allied victory would erase that doubt, and perhaps get Pixy a form of standing army work with Ustio. And a shining tour of duty on his resume would distract Smith from having to itemize what he was going to do with the accumulated wealth if he lived.
"You did good, boys," Kluge said, walking between the two and patting their shoulders simultaneously. "This war's not over, but you two can go rest up. You've earned it."
Kluge left the room first, followed by Foulke. Smith stayed behind for about a minute, before throwing his head back and chuckling as he walked out.
The only thing that mattered now was how soon that victory would come. And, perhaps as a reflection on what transpired only hours before, whether they would be able to keep up their fighting spirit to the end.
Author's Notes
1) The East Danerns War was a brief campaign waged by the Republic of Aurelia against the United Kingdom of Nordland in 1985, shortly after the end of the Expansion War. The Republic of Aurelia attempted to seize and invade the East Danern Islands, which Aurelia claimed as the Islas Sergas. However, Nordland decisively routed the invasion force, humiliating Aurelia. It remained the last major military action taken by the UKN until the Erusean blockade of 2006.
2) The Second Great War is another term for Ace Combat's equivalent of World War II, lasting from 1938-1943 and resulting in a truce resulting from a successful coup by the Strangereal equivalent of the 20 July Group. Belkan air development was not driven to as much desperation as Germany was in the later stages of the war, meaning less Papierwaffe/Wunderwaffe concepts and more functional jets similar to early-cold-war American designs including the Bm 335, and that means smaller available RLM-equivalent numbers.
3)The Messerschmitt 909 is a hypothesized production model of MBB's real-world TKF-90 concept for what would later turn into the Eurofighter. In the Condorverse, the competition for a 21st century fighter involved the TKF-90, Dassault's concept for the Rafale, and the concept that would become the EF-2000 Typhoon. Here the Typhoon is referred to as the EastFighter 2000, developed by Nordland, Ratio and Wielvakia.