"Europe. It's about time," America mused.
"Stay focused, Al," Canada admonished quickly as his brother began to veer his jet to the right, breaking formation.
There was a groan over the static, "You're no fun, Mattie. Come on, I haven't flown in ages."
Canada said nothing, too over joyed at hearing some semblance of the old America coming through the intercom. He couldn't help the wry smile working its way to his lips as he looked over and saw that America was once more in line. While he wanted to let America go buck wild in the sky, now was just not the time.
They had all, miraculously, decided on a joint plan to push through the enemy forces. The Spanish coast would be bombed to hell and back while infantry with accompanying air support would push through the western border of Ukraine. There had been few fights while concocting the plan, mainly stemming from Ukraine denying the need for assistance. It was well known within their ranks that, while Belarus and the others were holding fine, Ukraine was being hit hard. Canada had readily agreed, eager to assist the woman.
"I can't fucking wait."
"I know, Al, I know. Keep the connection clear, we're almost there."
"Yes, mom," America grinned. "Want me to check in on Russia and them?"
"Yea, go for it," Canada answered.
He had to smother a bout of laughter worming its way up from his throat. Of course America would think to check in on Russia of all people. He really saw no need and, while they should have been keeping all the air waves clean for the moment, he would allow America just a little more leverage. After all, what could possibly happen?
"Hey, big guy, you dead yet?" America asked cheerfully, looking over the side of the F-15 Strike Eagle to get a look at the ground. Flat lands and nothing else: peaceful, serene. "Shit, you should have come with us. Belarus could've led the ground assault, you know."
"Are you worrying over me, America? I am touched," Russia answered. There was a sort of playful quality to his voice, a sardonic kind of innocent hate. "How much longer?"
"Not much. Once we clear you guys, Canada'll take the bombers and some fighters and go to Chisinau and Iaşi. I'll stay back here," the American answered carelessly. He was completely relaxed in his seat, uncaring and almost bored even as his heart hammered and his face began to ache from smiling. "Just like planned, no worries."
"Your 'no worries' mean trouble, America." Russia laughed, leaning back against the T-90 tank.
"Whatever man," America laughed too. "Well, gotta cut this short, babe. Canada wants silence."
"Ah, then I will speak to you later, da?"
"Da, ya dumbass."
A last laugh and America cut off the conversation, letting only static prevail. Soon, so very soon, all hell would break loose. He was excited; he was thrilled. He was terrified. That fear only served to further fuel the pure adrenaline slowly flooding his veins. The chemical was choking out any uneasiness as his hands stopped their shaking and he planted himself more firmly.
The fight really came just as the adrenaline began wearing off in America's system. Canada had already broken off towards the designated drop sights, leading a large chunk of the aerial force westward. America signaled for those left to circle with him as they waited for the ground battle to commence before they dropped down and began the assault.
They came from nowhere, descending quickly and opening fire. It was a cloud of Mirages and Panavia Tornadoes, moving swiftly and already breaking up the carefully formed lines of the American fighters. America growled, pulling hard to the right as a Mirage came out from the cloud coverage. America cursed.
"Fuck you guys," he seethed.
For a moment, his world seemed to slow as America let in a breath and slowly blew it out. Sure, he loved pulling out a gun and blowing an enemy's head off, but aerial superiority wasn't nearly as easily attained. It took skill, concentration, and quick wits: things America generally lacked in day to day activities. When he was up in the air though, there was no one better. Least, in America's mind, that's what he liked to fancy.
He barked a few orders to the others. Break formation, engage enemies. Fire at will. Then he began to follow his own instructions as he pulled to the left and entered the center of the fray, unafraid and ready to do some damage. He could only hope Russia would be fine on the ground while he rid the skies of just a few gnats.
The analogy made him snicker as he opened fire with the cannon and knocked a Mirage out of the sky. The thing went down in flames, quickly diving to the fields below. America pressed on, going in for one of the Tornadoes when a sickening jolt nearly had him face first in the control panel. A quick check and, sure enough, there was already a Tornado on his rear.
Memories of decades past came to mind. World War II had been his favorite, by far. The dogfights had been intense and action packed, everything he craved from watching all those Hollywood movies. While the popularity of dogfights in war had waned, he never stopped wishing for another real dogfight. Not just the mock training sessions sort: the real deal. And here some British pilot was giving him the chance.
"Oh hell yes," America purred, pushing the jet to go faster, faster, higher, higher.
The Tornado followed, keeping in close even as America pulled his own jet up and up and up. Higher, higher. America secured the oxygen mask tightly, having let it hang loose recklessly before. The air was getting thinner, getting harder to breathe. Higher, higher, higher.
The fire fight became a deadly game of chicken. America weaved, making himself a difficult target as he continued to climb upward. He was nearing the edge of the safe flying altitude range. Higher. He knew he should stop. If he kept going, things would get exponentially more dangerous, fighter on his tail or not. America couldn't find the will to care. Higher.
The Tornado began to pull away, quickly turning. America watched and followed suit, literally giggling in the cockpit as he began a quick descend to close the gap. He never chickened out.
"You lack balls, dude," America chided, chuckling as he clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
He opened fire with the cannon again, releasing ammunition in quick bursts as he tried to follow the other jet's movements through the air. They twisted and turned, a deadly dance of catch me if you can. America was loving it. The rush of blood droned out all noise, even the roar of the engine, as he quickly caught on to the others movements. He lined up the shot and let out another quick burst, cursing as the other changed its course from the usual pattern and pulled a hard right.
"Not happening."
America followed, quickly catching up once more. Whoever the guy was, he was good. Nearly as good as America. Instead of aiding to the nagging sense of dread and fear and anxiety, it made the nation smile. Smile, smile, smile because this was more fun than he had had in a long while.
The fight continued on, America stubbornly clinging to his role of predator as he chased his prey relentlessly. Along the way, another Tornado had come to the others aid, attempting to shake America off and trap him. The nation could only laugh as he swiftly ducked down and slowed, effectively coming up behind the too close jet. He opened fire and dropped the plane before resuming the chase.
"Sir! We're taking heavy fire!"
"So fuckin' keep on them. We need to do some serious ball stomping to help out Russia. Order the others to weave down to the ground assault and drop your bombs then engage the enemy fighters," America commanded coolly, pulling left again.
The line went silence once more, least, he thought it did. He couldn't tell anymore. The roar of the engine, the pounding of his heart, the rhythmic clinking of the cannon. It was all too much. He could feel it moving over him in a wave, crashing down and crushing all coherent thoughts and dulling his senses to anything but the jet before him attempting to escape.
The control stick beneath his gloved fingers was warm, his hand was sweating. The mask was suffocating him, pressing down and making his already too hot body swell with warmth. He yanked the thing off, revealing the insanity fluttering across his features. His eyes were clouded over, now a stormy shade of midnight blue but glinting with something much more than elation and mirth. His mouth curved upward dangerously, revealing rows of white as his lips were pulled thin and cheeks ached from being stretched for so long.
His chest heaved. His nostrils flared. He landed a hit.
The Tornado dipped to the left dangerously, the wing slowly being consumed by flames as the jet continued its downward slope. America followed, unrelenting. He fired again, taking out the right wing before he pushed faster and came up just behind the other jet before firing again and taking off the tail. He threw his head back and laughed, reveling in the fact that he had won.
In a mocking gesture, America pressed his Eagle forward, just above other jet, as he looked over into the cockpit. He stared down. The other pilot stared up.
"England."
The Brit flashed the bird before directing his attention back towards the instruments within his plane. His hands worked frantically, trying to pull the jet out of the leftward slant and level out. He was failing horribly as the plane continued to dive down dangerously. England was screaming curses, mainly at America, as he seethed and attempted to salvage his aircraft.
America had already pulled away when England looked up again. The nation had gone to rejoin the fire fight before diving down and releasing several bombs on the rear of the enemy forces.
America was laughing and couldn't stop. There was no way he could stem his laughter and keep it from bubbling up across his lips. His arms were shaking, hands clutching the control stick as he tried to remain in control. He laughed and laughed. How could he not have seen it before? No one else could have survived a dogfight with him that long, no one unless they were England. But England had lost and now he was, hell, America didn't even know where the jet went. He assumed it crash landed into the field just as the Mirage he just shot down would.
Whatever, he couldn't find the will to care. The way England had looked at him in those short few moments, the hate, the loathing, the utter contempt. It made him laugh. He couldn't stop. The distaste. The disgust. The humiliation. He had embarrassed England again. God, did it feel good too.
Somehow, he composed himself and returned to the fire fight, finding it much more mundane than the earlier confrontation between he and England. Two more Mirages and a Tornado. The sky was quickly clearing as jets engaged one another. From what he could see, his men had taken heavy losses as well but as far as he saw, England's forces were dealing with much worse.
"Come on boys, we're fuckin' Americans! Lay these European ladies out!"
There were a few whoops responding to America's out burst. It made him proud. His boys were fighting well and even the few of Canada's were fairing well so far as he could tell. The fight wasn't looking too horribly bad.
America dropped down again to release the last of his bombs, aiming for the tanks and heavy artillery pieces below. Another metal clink sounded as he watched a hole get ripped through the bottom of the cockpit. The bullet cracked the glass of the windshield above before exiting. The nation cursed again, pulling away from the ground with ease. He secured the mask once more as he found his way back into the fray and opened fire mercilessly. After all, they had damaged his precious little Strike Eagle. No one harmed America's jet.
He emptied the last of his ammunition into the cockpit of a Mirage before finally pulling away from the fight. Over the air waves came other voices, those of his men, as they relayed details of the waning fire fight. Most were out of ammunition but still pressing forward, unwilling to let the enemy in on that little secret. All had dropped what bombs they had and it seemed the enemy jets were beginning to pull away.
America ordered his men to pull back and allow the enemy to retreat if their ammunition was exhausted. He told them to return to flying altitude and head back to Kiev for some well earned rest. A few sounded overly pleased as they began to circle in the air till the enemy jets disappeared into the cloud line once more. Soon they gathered into formation once more, gaps quickly closed by those left. America lead them back across the Ukrainian border before giving command to another pilot.
He pulled back, turning over and flipping upright once more as he went back towards the battle. He set the jet down on a stretch of barren land just outside Chisinau. He hopped from the plane, yanking the mask off as he grabbed up his M-4 Carbine from the cockpit and took off towards the city. The sounds of battle raged on far ahead and he was dubious that he could make it before things were wrapped up. The radio at his side sprang to life.
"I am sorely disappointed with you, America," Russia growled out.
There were screams from behind Russia, the sound of gunfire, his own heavy breathing. America laughed and pulled the radio out, replying lightly, "Yea, totally my fault. Just chill the fuck out. I'll radio in another division to come help. Hold on."
"You had better."
The line went dead once more and America slipped the little device to his waist once more, going at a steady run as he neared the city. Just on the out skirts of the town lay the burning wreckage of another plane. He recognized the design and laughed once more; it was a Tornado. Given the utter ruin the jet was in, he guessed whoever had been inside was long dead.
"Good riddance," he breathed.
He pulled out the radio once more, holding it close to his mouth as he tried to gain control over his breathing as he called out, "Canada. You read?"
Silence. Static. Screeching.
"Yea, I'm here, Al. We're on our way back. Ran into some nasty fire."
America snorted, "Yea, same here. If you guys got anything left, unload it on a ground assault. Russia's in need of a little help."
"Can do, see you soon, bro."
He didn't bother saying good bye. America hooked the radio to his side once more, running past the jet wreckage. He went into the city, finding bodies crowded on the streets and streams of red running into the gutter. The air was heavy with the scent of copper and iron. He rather liked the smell. Nothing like a city of corpses to remind a guy he was alive. Besides the intense rush the sight provoked, it at least meant Russia was making progress and pushing the enemy forces back. America didn't take into account how many of their own men were scattered about the streets.
A/N: Oh my god, I am sorry if this is suck fail. But holy shit. It's so hot. I can't think, seriously. The heat and humidity here has thoroughly killed my brain and any semblance of intelligent thought. That is all. Well, that and I suck at fight scenes and know nearly nothing about the above things. Wikipedia became my friend quickly. Read, review, sorry for the lack of sex.
