Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them.
On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)
Chapter 3: First Encounter
"For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!"— George Gordon Byron, The Destruction of Sennacherib
9800 feet over Route 413, Ustio
31 March 1995
1751 hrs.
"Dammit! Dammit, dammit!"
"Weiss 5, give me your status. Can you keep airborne?"
The invasion of Ustio was nearing its completion at the end of the very first week, and all of us were still excited to lunge into battle.
The pickings had gotten a little better in the past few days, in both senses of the word. With the Color Guard shipped off to more fruitful pastures after the Ustian Air Force's destruction over Directus, we had all of the remnants to ourselves. Better yet, with our army approaching their borders with Ratio, their flying style had grown more desperate. And that meant they made mistakes that we could take advantage of.
"Affirmative, it's spraying everywhere but I can still keep her level."
That, unfortunately, did not give them a complete monopoly on mistakes or rotten luck. It was on a rather dreary afternoon above the Ustian countryside that my F-16 took an unlucky cannon shell to the fuel lines, too far from the base we took off from.
"Weiss 5, set course for bearing 3-2-5, Depardieu Municipal at 50 miles. You should be able to touch down there."
"Copy Schalke. Bugging out."
"Remember Nachtigall, if you can't make it then eject safely. You can get a new plane, but we need our heroes alive."
The nearest base was a municipal airport that we had only seized the night before. It had been rapidly converted into a supply and refueling base for aircraft in transit toward the front.
It was also where I would prepare to find what I had been missing since the war began.
Depardieu Municipal Airport, Ustio
1 April 1995
1032 hrs.
I was sweating like my cockpit had turned into a sauna, as the plane eventually shuddered to a relatively smooth stop on the airport's lone runway. I put all my concentration into easing the plane into the hangar, with the fire trucks already out in force just in case my plane finally decided to give up the ghost.
I gasped for air as I shut off the motor and raised the canopy, the emergency staff already having the ladder out to get me a safe distance away. As I left, one silver lining in the clouds: I could hear the staff mention the leaks had stopped, so the repairs could begin.
I drew a long, forlorn sigh as I gazed upon the metal hulk of the bomber parked beside my crippled F-16. The Belka Maschinenfabrik BM.335 Lindwurm had been the staple of our bomber fleet since the jet engine was invented. What it lacked in speed compared to the Osean B-52 or Yuktobanian Tupolevs it made up for in armor and payload, though the armor wasn't quite as strong as it was before thanks to improvements in interceptor firepower.
My fighter looked pathetically microscopic in comparison, but at least it only required a couple of airmen to repair while a full crew prepped the ancient bomber just to take off, loading bombs into its massive underbelly. They didn't look particularly hopeful that they could get my own F-16 back to work any time soon though.
But the biggest disappointment lay ahead. As soon as I got my bearings I was asked to report to the airport's security office - which had turned into an impromptu command room. There I learned I was to be temporarily reassigned...but not to another fighter squadron.
"A bomber crew...sir?"
For the first few milliseconds I had expected the base commander to surprise me with an April Fool's prank. He had already gotten me shocked enough for him to think I'd fallen for it.
"That is correct," he replied, without any of the joviality, "As you may have noticed, KG 719 is here and preparing for Operation Javelin - the destruction of the last major Ustian Air Base in the Grensbergen mountains. They're also short one tail gunner."
I obviously wasn't relieved that it wasn't a prank. "But I don't have enough bomber hours," I pleaded.
"The gun used in the tail position of the Lindwurm is mostly similar to the vulcan cannon found in most fighter planes. Your crew already have more hours on them than you accumulated during academy. They'll help you out if you're not familiar with something."
"With all due respect, sir..."
The base commander leaned forward to impose. "Lieutenant Zweig, I understand how humiliating it must seem to you to work with a crew, but our mechanics are already working hours past their shifts just to cover all our bases, and we need as many people in the air as possible until Ustio has been fully repatriated."
I took a long sigh.
"Commandant, surely there are spare planes available in the hangars. I would not object unless the plane is propeller driven."
"Or civilian? This is still technically a civilian air facility. Apart from your squad and our bombers, there aren't any other aircraft here apart from airliners and private jets."
I put my hand to my face, utterly dejected. "All right...if I don't have a choice. I will accept the assignment."
It was then that the commander took on a more relaxed tone of voice. "You have my personal assurance that once Operation Javelin is complete, your aircraft will be waiting for you back here. If we haven't repaired it, I'll have KG 719 drop you back off in Directus."
"Sir. I understand."
"Don't fret too much over this, Lieutenant. By this time tomorrow you'll be ready to fight the Oseans. I'm sure you'll find them more of a challenge than the Ustians. Dismissed," he concluded, with a thoughtful smile.
I gave a trembling salute and walked out of his office.
Hangar 3
1101 hrs.
My jaw was clenched from the moment I stepped out of the base commander's 'office' to the moment I stepped into the briefing area just inside the open hangar.
"Lieutenant Zweig?" came a slightly over-excited voice from at the front of the crowd. I caught sight of a bomber pilot who appeared to be almost as old as the BM.335 itself.
I saluted. "Yes sir, I've been assigned to this flight."
My little announcement elicited a few chuckles from the assembled flight crews, and I felt my face redden a little.
"Welcome to KG 719, Nightingale. Please have a seat, we're just about to start the briefing."
Fortunately, I found a seat in a row close to the back and sat down before the chuckling continued. A few of the crew still took brief glances at me, but I tried to ignore them and focused on the map.
We were all gathered beside a bulletin board that had been hastily pinned over with maps for our briefing. Suddenly it was like we were in one of the old Great Wars, preparing for the great bombing Blitz.
"All right, let's get started. Our target today is Valais Air Base, located here." The commander pointed to a spot on the map of Ustio buried in the mountain range. "It is the last major airbase for the UAF and a source of headaches for our ground forces as they make their way toward the border of Cittino Province currently held by Ratio."
The flight commander then clenched and clasped his fists. "Our objective is simple: we're to beat the Army to the punch and blow it the hell up."
A couple of the other crew members cheered in the background, clearly enthusiastic over their mission.
"Our flight's callsign is Otto. We will take off from Depardieu and rendezvous with our escorts from Drossel Squadron here," he continued, pointing at a town about a quarter of the way between the base and the mountains.
As I listened, I tried to console myself to the idea that this would only be a simple bomber flight and I would be back at base for dinner.
"Furthermore, according to our intelligence, opposition is expected to be fairly light," the officer continued.
"You mean they're still trying to shoot back?" one of the navigators quipped, to which the flight commander responded with a smirk in kind.
"I'm sure the fighter pilots among us will know that Ustian air 'power' is for all intents and purposes nonexistent," the pilot replied, in a tone that seemed as reverent as it was sarcastic. "With that in mind, the Ustian government-in-exile has hired mercenary pilots for last-ditch reinforcements, so we cannot be entirely sure of the threat level."
"Mercs? Our escorts will handle them easy." the gunner replied, before turning to look at me mischievously. "I bet our new tail gunner won't have a problem, either."
"I'm sure you're already aware then that the Nightingale of Weiss Squadron will be replacing Lieutenant Decker while he's recuperating." the commander explained before nodding at me. "I expect you to extend the same honor and courtesy that you do for your other male pilots. You are all dismissed, and happy hunting!"
We stood up, saluted and went to gear up. While the crew were excitedly chattering among themselves, I grumbled all the way to my gunner seat.
I never thought highly of these soldiers of fortune during the war, because I never found anything particularly admirable about them at the time.
Mercenary pilots were a breed of pilots that had only come into being at the dawn of the Cold War, when the great powers began to fight their wars by proxy. Like their land-based counterparts, their only loyalty was to money, and specifically to who offered more of it than the other entity. Loyalty was temporary and skill ultimately came second to the paycheck. They were neither beholden to nation nor corporation except when it would make for a good reference on their resume.
By contrast, we had been educated in the "old order" of the rules of combat outside the requisite National Workers' Party propaganda. Bound to serve through thick and thin, monarchy, democracy and authoritarianism, and educated not just in tactics but in honor. All soldiers fighting for a country's flag adhered to these unwritten rules...or were supposed to. Times changing as they were, it seemed like fewer and fewer people saw the value in honor as compared to the value of hard currency.
And the Ustians, having only been independent for less than a decade, clearly failed to grasp this concept altogether with their economic boom granting them abundant reserves for wages. It was a failure that Belka believed they would pay for with their sovereignty.
My comrades had already started celebrating our impending victory with a rowdy breakfast at the mess hall earlier, but I would have none of it. I simply sat quietly at my table, trying to swallow my pride and my rations, and trying to put my mind past today to my next flight with Weiss Squadron.
5000 feet above Mount Sant-Petri
North of Valais Air Base, Ustio
2 April 1995
1330 hrs.
It was a cold and snowy day.
If there was one positive thing that I could derive from the long flight out to Ustio's mountain range it was the fact that I was somehow able to get some sleep until the battle began.
Still, our embarrassment and frustration had dogged me all the way out into these frigid mountain peaks. Apart from our aging bomber fleet, our escorts consisted mainly of relatively inexperienced pilots on their very first mission. It was almost as if we somehow expected them to be better than whomever the Ustians had hired to pilot whatever aircraft they had left.
To make matters worse, as the plane's tail gunner my only control panel consisting of the fire and reload buttons of a vulcan cannon. I could swivel around in my seat to get an almost 180-degree field of view, but it felt more like a guided tour on rails. I couldn't swivel all the way around to get a view of what was going on ahead of us. That and it had to be much colder in this bomber than it was outside.
"This is Otto 5, my IFF is out of commission. Unable to carry out duty. Withdrawing from operation airspace."
"Roger Otto 5, withdrawal orders received. Exit combat airspace bearing zero-two-zero and RTB."
It came as a relief, when the bomber's IFF gave out over the mountains. I had not even fired a single bullet, and it seemed my mission was already over before it began.
"So we're done here?" I asked, making sure we had already disengaged. I leaned over in my seat to compensate for the aircraft tilting away from the group.
"Unfortunately, yes," the pilot radioed back, "But you're not gonna relax in the seat until the radar's clear. If they try to shoot at us we can shoot back."
But as our bomber broke off from the pack, the battle slowly slid into my field of vision. I could see a swarm of different-colored dots swarming about the infinite blue, their contrails weaving a tangled web as they pursued each other. And for the first time since the war began, I started to feel scared about the battle's outcome.
From the looks of things, we were actually losing. Bright flashes of fire and smoke erupted where I estimated our bombers' flight path took them. Our faulty IFF managed to excuse us from that carnage, however a pitiful reason that was. But the malfunction was only the start of our trouble.
Only seconds later, I caught my first glimpse of him.
"We've got a bandit approaching bearing 1-7-0. Zweig! Take care of it!"
A single plane had broken off from the furball and raced in a beeline directly toward us. From its silhouette, I gathered that it was an F-15 Eagle, a premium fighter even for the Ustian Air Force. I huffed a little, figuring they really did save their best aircraft for last, and I had to encounter them in a bomber instead of having a proper duel. It was painted a standard light gray, with blue-tipped wings and stabilizers. At the range he pursued us, it was an easy target to fire at...or at least it was supposed to be.
I took aim with the vulcan cannon, trying to estimate where he would fly so I could lead him.
But even though I couldn't see his face, I easily imagined him smiling and licking his chops from the way he seemed to approach our disabled plane. His F-15 slid from side to side, as if showing us all the angles with which he could shoot us down, almost like a kitten toying with its food.
I could feel the cannon's vibrations working their way up my arms and into my body as I jammed the firing button, sending high-explosive rounds hurtling toward its target. But all of them only found air. The way he maneuvered his plane to avoid the rounds and still have my turret in his own gun-sights was a sign of great, almost unnatural skill.
"This guy is good..." I muttered to myself. "Shame I have to try shooting you down with just this."
"Where's our fighter escorts?" the navigator screamed through the radio.
"They're all busy back there! Two of the Ustio mercenaries-" the co-pilot's voice was quickly drowned out by another burst of gunfire that the mercenary's plane evaded. "...trying to get the side gunners to help you back there!"
"Goddammit! Why won't you go down!" I shouted to the fighter.
After what seemed like several spent magazines, the enemy pilot seemed to break off his pursuit.
"Is it pulling back?" the pilot radioed.
"I think he is. Lucky us. I think my gun's jammed," I replied, leaning back in my seat to give the old gun a good kick.
"Good, that should give us some time to-" the pilot couldn't finish speaking as alarms suddenly went off all around the plane. "Christ! Missile inbound!"
"Deploying counter-measures...they're not working! It must be radar-guided-"
The missile slammed into our engines, effectively ripping one wing from the fuselage and knocking the navigators out of their seats. The plane started to lurch over, sending the crew tumbling about as it entered its death spiral.
"Everybody off the plane NOW!" the pilot shouted to me. I had weathered the shockwave by clinging to my seat, so it didn't faze me as much as it should have.
None of us replied verbally, but we all started climbing for our parachutes as the plane started to break apart. We had all silently resolved to take our chances in the icy mountain frontier rather than face certain death in fire.
I closed my eyes as I let the wind pull me out of the plane's emergency exit. As I fell from the sky, I briefly imagined myself truly growing wings and flying away from this madness, but reality managed to hit me long before the ground did. I opened my parachute and maneuvered toward a snow-covered plateau where my crewmates also chose to land.
Halfway down we could feel the rumble of the plane and its ordinance slamming into a nearby mountain face jolting our parachute-suspended bodies like puppets.
The force at which the wind slammed me into the snow left me dazed but still conscious. My breath had been knocked out, and I felt dizzy as I struggled to unfasten my parachute. But once free, all I could do was stare up into the sunny sky, holding my arm out to block out the sun's glare and view the smoking battlefield from below.
The battle was already over...and we had lost. Our own aircraft and the enemies we had killed left thin, dusty black trails lingering in the atmosphere long after they had been shot down. There was a sort of eerie peace left behind as the surviving Ustio fighters withdrew toward Ustio, their path heading right over us.
One of them, however, stayed for a while.
I could just see his plane, circling around us and the plumes of smoke from our bomber's burning remnants like a vulture before heading back into the fray.
And I could make out the silhouette of an F-15 Eagle with darkened wingtips.
I clenched my fist around the shape as if I crushed a fly for the moment before it slithered back into my field of vision. I was hurting, angry, and hateful. But at least I was alive and conscious.
And I realized that I had finally found what I was missing.
Chambeau Army Base
Medical Ward
3 April 1995
0021 hrs.
By some miracle, all of us aboard Otto 5 had survived our bomber's fiery demise, luck extended only to a few of the other bomber crews or our escort fighters. Each of us had equipped rescue beacons that we activated once our parachutes had deployed.
Even more miraculously, a nearby helicopter flight was alerted to our rescue beacons and they plucked us out of the winter wilderness before nightfall. It was especially good timing, as they had informed us that the Ustians had actually managed to attempt a counterattack.
"Who knew what they would have done to us if they had claimed us before the cold," the navigator bemoaned during the flight back.
We were still shivering when they checked us into the ward back at the nearest base. A couple of us had broken and dislocated bones, but the worst I had was a little frostbite. I was told I would be back in the air by the end of the week, but that was little solace for the frustration that continued to linger.
I could hear the doctors conversing with the crew nearby. They sounded as incredulous as they sounded angry over our tale of survival.
"...all got destroyed by two enemy fighters. Two!"
"They'd even shoot down an aircraft that's out of commission? Despicable."
"All that skill and no morals? It's like they've hired...hired demons or something!"
"They haven't met our ace squadrons yet. When it comes to dogfights, you need skill and heart. And you know what they say about deals with the devil."
The metaphor was quite apt.
I could feel a new rage burning inside my chilled heart, and it wasn't the cup of hot cocoa they'd given me. It was if someone had conspired against me, plucking me out of my cockpit with a stray bullet, and placing me in the path of a rampaging demon. I didn't know if they were preparing me for something or were merely toying with me for their sick pleasure.
I imagined the mercenary laughing it up back at base as he received a bonus for shooting down crippled aircraft, their crews falling helplessly to an icy doom. I even imagined it in such lifelike detail - including the hideous caricatures used by the National Workers' Party to describe their 'enemies - that it semi-consciously caused me to crush the emptied paper cup in my hand.
After I snapped out of it, the only thing I knew was that once I got back in the air I would find him and use my talons to slay this 'demon' once and for all. I swore to myself over and over that I would do so for pride, honor and country.
But mostly - as I realized that night - for me.
The Ustian fighters I had fought on the way here were no match for me - and that was exactly the point.
I needed a challenge, and I realized in those snowy mountains that it was something only the Demon Lord of Ustio could provide.
I just never realized what it would cost to gain such an opportunity.
To Be Continued...
Author's Note: If you're an earlier reader, you may have noticed that I added a little more background and combat to Zweig's backstory. Be sure to check out the new Chapter 2 for more.