Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them.
In a Blaze of Glory (Soldier)
Chapter 3: The Second Longest Day of My Life
"War is delightful to those who have not experienced it." - Erasmus
2LT Ricardo Villa
600 feet above Sand Island AFB, Osea and dropping
27 September 2010
2002 hrs.
Deja vu often has a way of sneaking up on people when they least suspect it. In my case, it jumped me, had its filthy way with me and left a 20 on the bedsheets while it smoked a drag just for not disappointing it.
I had an aged Sukhoi attacker in my sights, the missile lock and gun range reticule blipping on at the same time it had presumably had a lock on its land-based target. It was an easy kill, though I had only fractions of seconds to seize it before it dropped its ordnance.
But even that was much easier than it sounded, mainly because of what happened the last time I got an easy kill.
As rotten luck would have it, I had been in that exact same position before, literally hours earlier. And that time it didn't turn out so well.
Albert Genette
Crew Quarters
Earlier That Day
I felt like a kid in the principal's office after starting a fight, only I wasn't allowed to leave detention for the remainder of the week. Nobody gave me any clue as to when they would let me out, and as I suspected they had less of an idea what exactly happened a few days back. They certainly tried to tell me it wasn't my fault, but I couldn't help but figure that there was something in there that would have had me extraordinarily rendered, even as I continued to take a video diary of my stay.
Still, it wasn't all bad. I took Hamilton's advice and got to know the rest of the crew. And I finally got my interview with Heartbreak One...though it was probably more of a casual conversation than anything. He figured they had to have come from Yuktobania, though Pops pointed out that was probably more out of the hard feelings that led to his namesake. Apparently it was inevitable given his former reputation.
I'd also kept in contact with the Adjutant. He managed to get my camera back, even though I was forced to let his superiors keep the film. That was fine, I still had a few rolls left. But he'd also been contact with his superiors on the mainland along with probably a few other government agencies. The news had been getting more positive as the days rolled by, and the phone call he was making right now would hopefully have been the one that booked my flight back to the mainland.
"Well, we don't have any reason to hold you anymore," Hamilton suddenly began.
"What do you mean?"
"Yuktobania just declared war. Our naval port at Saint Hewlett is being bombed right now," Hamilton said, pacing out of the room without another word.
A jolt shot up my spine as I peered out of the venetian blinds. Three planes took off from the runway barely an hour after they landed. I'd heard Captain Jack Bartlett had been shot down and the rescue helicopter was already on its way out. In the meantime though, Port St. Hewlett needed all the air power they could muster, and Sand Island was close enough to tap fighters from...even if they could only get three. Before they'd gone over the horizon, my investigative senses seemed to kick in, and I bolted out of the room after him.
"Wait, they're actually attacking us?" I asked, following him.
"That's what I said," Hamilton replied, not frustrated at my surprise. "We're still trying to figure out why. We're not even 100% sure if those were Yukes that attacked us the last time, but they're probably blaming us for it."
"...is there anything I can do?" I asked almost unconsciously.
It was then that Hamilton turned around and stopped me in my tracks.
"Same as always. Don't report anything until they sanitize something for you," Hamilton replied, both jokingly and seriously. "In the meantime, just relax. It's not like they're going to come straight for us. You'll get your article soon."
I stood there for a few seconds, taking his answer in while he rushed back to the control room. The sound of my stomach grumbling got me moving again, out of fear and foreboding instead of hunger. But I went to the mess hall anyway.
It was the only way I could get any closer to whatever the hell was going on.
Mess Hall
1423 hrs.
Lunch was already over, but the mess hall was still full up. Even more startling was that everyone was gathered in a part of the mess hall they usually never were - in front of the TV that was never switched off Weazel News. I could hear mutterings among them, consciously restrained so as to not talk over what could potentially be an update.
But it was the sound of the voice they tried not to talk over that made me cringe. Anyone who ever watched the evening news could recognize that deep, dignified and solemn tone from afar even before they saw his face on the screen behind a Weazel News mic.
"...as I speak, there is absolute pandemonium in the harbor as Yuke fighter bombers continue to unleash...seemingly endless waves of bombs and bullets upon this city. We're hunkered down in this office building, it's pretty far away from the docks but you can just see that they're not leaving any part of the dockside area spared."
Jonas Stromberg was the kind of journalist that the viewers loved, and fellow journalists envied and despised at the same time. He was that guy that the big-name news outlets dropped smack-dab into the middle of a warzone to deliver a heart-wrenching monologue about the innocent victims involved. Or, as Weazel News standards went, a temper-flaring rant about how our troops were constantly fighting against the greatest evil known to man. That resulted in the cause of our envy: his prestige meant he could get dropped anywhere besides warzones, always at the forefront of the action, right there where the action is.
"We don't know how long we can continue to bring you this coverage of this day of infamy, as Yuktobanian aircraft have even opened fire on civilian targets...there is a coastal ferry just over there that just couldn't escape the dock in time..."
Amidst this envy, he was despised for the usual reasons related to single-handedly dragging journalistic standards down. He was the equivalent of a televangelist, spewing the news only his network's viewers wanted to hear. Teenagers and so-called pundits loved to cite his lines on online forums, blogs and chats. And his talking points - or rather, the talking points of whoever sponsored him - often defined his side of the national debate.
"You can see the destroyer McLane right there at the pier trying to escape through this wall of fire that has literally engulfed the port. Reinforcements are slowly arriving from all over the Pacific Coast, you can just see..." his voice was briefly and mercifully drowned out by the sound of jets flying overhead - "...bringing them from as far away as some of our Ceres bases..."
I cringed and decided to come back later. I would've followed through with that if not for a sudden exclamation from one of the gathered viewers.
"Hey look! That's our guys!"
"No shit, that's one of our Tigers..."
A single exclamation from one of the fire control crew in the back of the crowd then turned this live newscast into the equivalent of a Mega Bowl party. "C'mon Wardog! Kick their asses!"
2LT Ricardo Villa
5,000 feet above and 25 miles S of Saint Hewlett, Osea
27 September 2010
5 Minutes Earlier
The worst thing that could have possibly happened that afternoon was coming back to find our squadron's last surviving flight instructor in a bodybag strewn across a table with Colonel Perrault trying to swallow his pride typing out a notification letter to whoever his surviving loved ones were. Or at least, that's what I imagined as I found myself taking off for the second of three flights today.
The funny thing with imagining the worst thing that could happen is that it often comes second or third to the worst thing that actually does happen. And then it's not really funny at all.
"Thunderhead to Wardog. Edge, you lead the formation."
Our airborne early warning and control operator was the kind of guy that always stuck to procedure. No. Matter. What. And because Sand Island couldn't fit something as large as an E-707, he had to be flown in from McNealy in advance.
"Negative. You take the lead, Blaze. I'll fly on your wing."
"Excuse me!" I exclaimed, watching Nagase's Tiger II suddenly drop back behind mine.
"Second Lieutenant Nagase, follow your orders."
"Yeah, what he sai-"
"No. Blaze is leading. I'll protect his six o'clock. And I'm not gonna lose another flight lead."
The third worst thing was apparently taking the lead position for the second time today, in the same aircraft, barely an hour after we'd landed.
"C'mon Blaze, you did pretty good this morning for someone that drew the short stick," Chopper's words were almost encouraging given that I could just barely see the devastation up ahead.
"Okay, fine." I groaned, nudging the throttle forward to take the lead. "Fuck, I never wished Ford to come back so bad."
"Be careful what you wish for..." Edge muttered, haunting as ever.
"Quit screwing around, this is war!" came a sudden interruption on my radio, only seconds before a Tomcat rushed past us. "The enemy's all over and they're gonna eat you alive!"
"Ah, I'd better stick to the trail position, thanks," Chopper then added.
If we weren't in separate aircraft, and in a life-or-death situation, I would have laughed it off. But right then and there I wanted to give Chopper a good old Pac-Coast pimp hand out of spite. And that was long before the Tomcat's pilot became our wingman. Still, I wasn't just afraid or embarrassed.
"Fucking wish we had Tomcats right about now..." I muttered.
Our F-5s were freshly refitted with a pair of Sidewinders each from Sand Island's stock, made ironically more abundant by the lack of fighters tapping from it. We also brought along pairs of M82s just in case the Red Navy lurked off the horizon. But the Navy - or Maritime Defense Force as they were officially called - already launched their squadrons off of their carriers and nearby bases to help. Their aircraft could probably take on whatever the Yukes were throwing at the port better than we could.
That was of course unless the Yukes used their infamous tactics of quantity over quality.
Which, apparently, they were doing quite well.
"Blaze, you take the lead. I'll go trail and follow," radioed Edge, sounding determined and calm.
I tried - and probably failed to sound that way when I replied with a "Roger. Let's do this."
"Wardog, you are cleared to engage!" Thunderhead's call snapped me back at attention to the second worst thing that could have happened today.
The flight to Port Saint Hewlett only took an hour. And one hour was all it took for the Yukes to do quite a bit of their dirty work. Several pillars of smoke already rose from the port where attackers hit port facilities and ships indiscriminately, and we could just make out the tiny fly-like dots where a few still came back for seconds despite constant chasing from our own fighters.
In some twist of fate, their indiscriminate tactics ended up sparing our own mission's objective - the 3rd Fleet's flagship.
The aircraft carrier Kestrel was the pride of the Osean Third Naval Fleet. Or the Maritime Defense Force 3rd Fleet, as they insisted we call the Navy then. Back in '95 she led the charge the Futuro Canal to destroy the invading Kriegsmarine with Admiral Lionel Weeker at the helm. After that, Weeker went on to become one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff until he and the rest of them walked out on President Harling just after he announced that the Navy was to become the Maritime Defense Force. I guess he didn't like the name change either.
The Kestrel's replacement captain, I had heard, used the boat mainly for goodwill and aid visits and making sure the feisty locals that tried to take advantage of our other troop withdrawals by sending out their glorified trainer aircraft were reminded that they were still going up against the Osean military machine.
Now the Yukes were here to pester us, and we were the ones flying the glorified trainer aircraft trying to withdraw the Kestrel into safe waters.
"Hey Kid, you know how to give commands, right?"
"Yeah, I was paying attention," I replied, before clearing my throat. "Okay, we got ...uh.." I peered at my radar, in the direction of the bridge. "...a wave of attackers about to cross the Weinstock Bridge. Establish CAP over the entire bay, don't leave the water or go past Weinstock, and if you do don't go alone."
"Roger," Chopper and Edge replied in unison, as I eyed my radar.
"We got an enemy attacker flight buzzing Weinstock at 2-8-0, 5 miles. Let's take 'em out." The three of us banked our formation toward the bridge. My HUD lit up with the attackers' identities, and from what I could tell on the radio, so did Chopper's.
"Whoa, would you look at that." he chuckled, "Fitters and Floggers? What is this, 1976?"
I smirked, trying to make the best of a really bad situation. Which really wasn't saying much. "At least we're not outgunned this time either." Not like the Fulcrums they'd sent the day Svenson painted the runway with fire, more like the Fishbeds that came at us earlier that morning. "Let's take 'em out."
The three of us gunned the throttle as fast as our Tigers could allow and dove toward the formation, which suddenly broke into three suspiciously convenient pairs. I had a couple of Fitters all to myself, though those two quickly separated knowing there was only one on their tail. I stuck with the one that wasn't maneuvering as intensely.
The Fitter hastily dropped its payload between two empty docks and banked away with my craft in pursuit. Knowing I was on its tail didn't help his accuracy, at least from the lack of news about the transport barge at the dock after taking a direct hit. I managed to keep it in my sights, but it managed to stay just out of my cannon sights. Eventually I got frustrated and used one of my Sidewinders, turning it into a fireball.
I then banked back toward the other Fitter, which had also missed its naval target and incinerating a small warehouse instead. That one went down just as easy. Maybe it was that infamous weakness of the Yuke combat psyche - self-preservation is not a priority.
"This is the McLane. We've got a pesky fighter-bomber keeps making a run at us. We keep swatting him away before he hits anything but we can't shake him off forever!"
"I got 'em!" I replied, exuding conference as I banked toward the McLane.
Whoever was flying that Su-25 Frogfoot around what was one of the OMDF's more cutting-edge destroyers was doing a pretty good job at evading them at such close range. It was time to put an end to that streak. I gunned the throttle and caught up to the attacker just as it began to dive for another run, lining it up in my HUD with ease. The Frogfoot made a quick and desperate strafe with its guns before pulling up, no doubt noticing that I had a missile lock on him.
I wasn't going to let him come back for another run.
"Fox Two!" I cried out, letting off my last Sidewinder at the Frogfoot. I couldn't miss.
The Sidewinder's impact sheared the Frogfoot's tail section clean off, causing the plane to go into a tailspin. A small plume of white smoke erupted from the front of the plane as the pilot ejected.
"Thar she blows!" I shouted, clenching one fist in victory as I watched the burning Frogfoot corkscrew into the bay.
My celebration was extremely short-lived, especially when Edge pointed out exactly what the Frogfoot crashed next to.
"Oh God...oh God..." I suddenly found myself hyperventilating in my G-suit.
"Kid...did you see that?" Chopper asked.
"I...did I...I..."
I couldn't find the words to respond as I circled the Frogfoot's crash site, barely 50 meters from a burning ferry. The oil and debris that flew out of the Frogfoot's wreckage covered the water surrounding the ferry in flames.
And that included the people trying to escape from it. It was the kind of sight you'd only gotten on war documentaries about some hellhole republic out in Western Verusea. The kind of image that Oseans never thought would happen in the "developed world", except for that very rare terrorist attack by some crazed white supremacist militiaman or some "holy warrior" that snuck in through a border port.
I shouldn't have looked. But the fire was searing that image into my mind as badly as the voice inside that taunted me. I could see their faces - the ones that weren't charred from the fires I had burning. I wanted it to stop, so very badly. But my hands were fixed on the flight stick, and they weren't moving except to keep my plane circling my kills.
"Oh shit, I killed 'em..." I groaned. "That was me..."
The funny thing about imagining the worst thing that could happen is that it makes the very worst thing that actually does happen hurt you even worse.
In my case, that thing was potentially being directly responsible for the deaths of dozens of people. Whether it was accidental was beside the point.
"This is the McLane. We're dinged a bit but still sailing. Give our regards to the pilot that got that pesky bomber off of our asses."
"Uh, he's a little busy right now..." Chopper replied, before switching his attention to me. "Kid, get a hold of yourself!"
"We tracked what happened on our radar," the destroyer radioed back, "Those Yukes hit that dock before you guys got here. We can set up an investigation later but a lot more people are gonna die if you don't help our fleet escape right now!"
"I'm sorry, Blaze, but they're right," Edge replied, her voice contemplative, almost depressing, "All we can do is help get the survivors out safe."
I took a deep breath.
"Okay. Let's...let's regroup over the Kestrel."
"You want me to take the lead, kid?" Chopper asked. "You're still breathing funny."
Albert Genette
Sand Island AFB
2 minutes earlier
"That was one of our boys saving the McLane," Stromberg declared, as the camera followed the lone fighter rising from his kill. "Whoever that was, our sailors and their families have that pilot to thank."
Yet amidst the sudden celebration, there was that inevitable nagging feeling that someone among us didn't see a reason to celebrate the base's remaining fighters becoming heroes. It wasn't the lunch crew, who quickly denied that they would hold a welcome-back party much to the crowd's sarcastic dismay.
No, that someone was leaning in the far doorway, with a look of disapproval on his face. That I could tell what expression he wore on his face also meant that I could identify who that was...though it wasn't hard to notice Pops' rotund figure from as far back as the TV screen.
I'd already done a few interviews, so I figured I could at least tell what kind of disapproval that was before he looked at me funny for looking at him funny. If my sources were correct, he'd also flown in Belka. Which meant that he had an idea of what kind of war this could turn into.
But for now, the rest of us sitting pretty out in the middle of the ocean could indulge in a little heroic escapism. We didn't know how quickly the Yukes would attack, and less of an idea of how we'd react.
Perhaps fortunately, we'd find out exactly how that would happen only a few hours later. And only then would we know if they were really heroes or not.
After all, my life literally depended on it.
2LT Ricardo Villa
800 feet above Sand Island AFB, Osea
1959 hrs.
"Look at the hangar! Who the hell pulled that out?"
When I came back from Port Saint Hewlett later that afternoon I felt like my land legs had gone gangrenous and had to be amputated. We'd just managed to save the Kestrel from another flight of Yuktobanian bombers after it passed Weinstock Bridge. Chopper was glad that the three of us all managed to survive, though we spent much of the flight back to Sand Island trying to get me to rationalize the fact that the people around the burning ferry were probably already dead by the time I dropped a Sukhoi Frogfoot on top of them.
"This is Grimm! I was in the hangar helping out the mechanics! I'm taking off!"
Perrault commended us for a job well done, though he did have a few harsh words for Edge for not following Thunderhead's direct orders. In the end though, he decided to let it slide "for now," recalling the ominous accent with which he muttered those words. We were all still technically "nuggets" anyway, so he figured it was somehow natural that we'd be jockeying for our own position until they rushed Lt. Colonel Ford back from the mainland to put us in our place. His transport would land on the island this evening, and tomorrow it would be back to our own personal hells.
Unfortunately, what I did earlier that day was already haunting me even as Ford boarded his transport. Perrault didn't even have to mention it.
"The hell you are, you're not even out of replacement pilot training yet! Aren't there any other pilots around!"
I avoided the mess hall as soon as I got out of debriefing. The ground crews would be waiting there to throw us some kind of celebration for saving Saint Hewlett, but I ended up spending the rest of the afternoon in my quarters, staring at the ceiling and wondering how long I'd survive not in this war, but how long I'd survive in Las Violas returning as one of those PTSD-ridden "babykillers" they called virtually every soldier returning from a tour of duty.
"I didn't see any."
I couldn't even find any ironic relief in the fact that they still hadn't found Bartlett from when he went down this morning. The boat we tried to track must have picked him up first, and the Base Commander used the last part of debriefing to question Bartlett's loyalties. I just wanted it over with. I mean, it wasn't like I would imagine all the ways the KGB would try to squeeze Bartlett for information, right?
The one law that any soldier followed, of course, was Murphy's.
A loud rumble jolted me awake before I even fell asleep, followed by the non-stop blare of an air raid siren. I raced to the room's only window and looked out to find a small pillar of smoke on the far side of the base. The small dots approaching from over the reddened horizon clicked everything into place.
The Yukes didn't like us messing with their fun. This time, Sand Island was their target. It was an easy blip on the map that they couldn't miss.
Having just come back from battle, the three of us were last in the queue to take off. Apparently our deeds in Saint Hewlett inspired the rest of the nuggets to want to take off first to face the Red Horde. That was perfectly fine with the higher-ups, and as a result it was raining friendlies as soon as I'd climbed back into my Unlucky Number 19.
It was a classic tactic of theirs, forged in years of conflict with their own neighbors and glossed over when they lead the eastern armies toward Dinsmark. Make the enemy know death and destruction so vast and drive it in so deep that we would have no choice but to be dragged down to their level in order to survive. If they didn't think it was deep enough when I dropped their Frogfoot on a burning ferry, it was already six feet under when me and the rest of the Wardogs dropped a couple more of their fighter-bomber squadrons into the ocean.
But something else hit me as my plane whirred to life with Chopper panicking over the radio.
I couldn't protect all those people back at Port Saint Hewlett. And one horribly misplaced Frogfoot kill was just one aircraft out over the horde.
This wasn't the kind of thing I could just leave in the past. Yet the Yukes didn't kill everybody, even as they were killing everybody else right then and there. No, this was just the beginning. And the way things were going, I probably wasn't going to make it off the ground.
I did though, miraculously. But it didn't seem Airman First Class Hans Grimm would. The young Reservist often looked up to Pops and Bartlett where the rest of us just took their advice for granted. He had that kind of politeness and innocence that guaranteed he wouldn't last long in a conflict, and if he did somehow survive he'd be scarred so badly that he'd have to turn to drugs just to keep the nightmares out.
With Pops taking off under all that enemy fire toward God-knew-where, he'd have nobody turn to for advice. Putting it bluntly, it was pretty easy to see he was fucked three ways to Sunday down shit creek without a paddle.
But there he was, rolling out the last working fighter plane in the entire base out onto the ramp, probably flicking every switch like he had the instructions duct-taped to the canopy. I circled and watched him make his way out onto the ramp as another wave of Yuktobanian fighter-bombers approached from the horizon.
Was I going to let them take his life so helplessly?
Was I going to go down like Cap'n Fred said I would?
I knew my answer to all these questions - and Grimm's - before I'd even took off that evening.
"No. Let's help 'em out," I replied, spotting some Floggers on my HUD. "Move barrier CAP back to the island. Don't let them get this close again."
"Roger, let's give 'em a hand."
"Control systems are...okay..." Not only did he probably have the checklist taped to the canopy, he was probably reading them for the first time, too.
Not that I had time to worry about his memorization skills (or for that matter, not that Chopper had time to whine about his rock 'n roll records) when the attackers still orbiting around the island began competing to see how little of that list he could read before they blew him sky high.
"I got Floggers and Frogfoots closing in. Chase 'em out."
"This is Grimm. I'm about to take off, can you see me from up there?"
From half a mile away from the island in the sunset, his plane was a barely visible dot. Fortunately, there was radar. "Yeah, I can see you, now get off the ground already!"
"I'm in takeoff position on the runway. Engines, full power!"
"Just fucking go!" I shouted, my radio deliberately turned off for that moment as I returned to help Chopper and Edge chase down their own targets. Or rather, one of them was actually trying to chase Edge down. Another burst of cannon fire spooked the Fitter off of her tail, and Chopper finished him off. It was then that another attacker - an Su-25 Frogfoot like the one in Saint Hewlett - dived past me and made a break for the runway. I banked away to pursue it.
I was expecting deja vu to hit me harder than it should have. Perhaps because I'd found my resolve to never let it happen again. But with the memories still hours-fresh in my mind, I asked myself that question again anyway.
My inevitable response came in the form of a sustained burst of M39 cannon fire tearing into the Frogfoot's thrusters. The attacker tried to pull up as soon as it was damaged, but it was only good enough to give the pilot time to eject while the wreckage plummeted onto the beach where I'd been hoping to enjoy a piña colada since we got here.
For all I cared, deja vu could take its 20 and shove it.
And with my radar showing Grimm taking off, well, deja vu could shove it right up his-
"Grimm! Get over here and cover my six!" Chopper shouted.
"Bitch, he's mine!" I replied jokingly.
Grimm gave a "Roger," though each of us thought he was directing it specifically toward either one. And the skies weren't actually clear until the control tower confirmed they were.
"This is Airman First Class Grimm, callsign Archer. Control Tower and all planes, I will be joining the Wardog Squadron."
"This is the control tower. Roger that. Blaze, take care of them for us!"
I grinned from ear to ear. "That's right Chopper, he's mine."
"Pffft. I'll get the next one!" he replied.
"Will you two stop joking?" Edge added sternly, "The fight's not over until Ford gets back."
So maybe I wasn't worried about deja vu as much as I was getting what we wished for. The next transmission over the radio was from a voice I swore I hoped I wouldn't hear at least until Christmas.
"This is Wardog Leader. Sand Island, I'm out of fuel. Requesting clearance to land."
I knew that voice anywhere. It was hard to forget the sound even if he'd been gone for two months for bureaucratic wrangling. He couldn't have picked a worse time to come back. And that meant
"Negative, Lieutenant Colonel Ford! We're under attack! You can't land!"
"All friendly aircraft, cover me while I land." Two months of bureaucratic wrangling easily corresponded to two months of pent-up stubbornness and rage that we definitely wouldn't live down by Christmas.
"Great fucking timing," I groaned to myself, checking my radar and steering my plane in Ford's direction.
"...what are you, insane!" Chopper replied, following up.
"Second Lieutenant Davenport, is that you?" At that moment I was ironically thankful that I wouldn't get the worst of it. Even if he was my friend.
"I'll be sure to write you up after I la-" was probably the last thing out of Ford's mouth as his transport was suddenly incinerated. For a few moments Chopper and I hoped it was spontaneous combustion...until a trio of MiG-29s suddenly blipped onto our HUDs from behind the fireball. These fighters were modern at least compared to the stuff we'd encountered up to a few seconds ago. And the very sight of the kind of fighters that could easily outperform our Tigers meant at the very least that we wouldn't have any time to celebrate Ford's demise.
"Third wave closing fast!" Edge shouted.
"Let's finish them off." I ordered back. My hands were trembling on the flight stick. "Edge, take Chopper and go after the bombers. Grimm and I will keep the fighters away."
"Roger." Grimm replied, his enthusiasm not dampened in the slightest. "Stay calm, stay calm..."
The enemy formation quickly broke off, and I ended up stuck with two. Knowing that one of them would have to follow Grimm sooner or later, I picked the one flying past my left and banked out to pursue, hoping that the old Tiger II could at least match its turning circle.
I fired off my one Sidewinder. For a Fulcrum, splashing it was easier than I thought it was. Maybe I was already used to being and/or flying one of those heartless killing machines, but I suppose my newfound experience managed to balance out my fatigue...if not make it worse.
"Okay...one down, two to go." If that one wasn't pursuing Grimm...
"Bogey on my six!" came an almost frantic shout. 'Archer' still had time to figure out the proper terminology in the middle of his first scramble. Hell, if he died then and there I would've given him an A for trying. It was better than my reply.
"Fine, I'll save you," I muttered, air-braking to catch him.
This one was almost easy by proxy. Grimm was using every evasive maneuver in the book, which meant the second Fulcrum was using every pursuit maneuver in the book. And that meant that I could use my own textbook maneuvers because he wasn't evading. The last Sidewinder found its mark, and the Yuke pilot probably didn't even know it until it hit him.
But speaking of knowledge, I definitely knew what I was thinking as the HUD suddenly blipped red to indicate the other Fulcrum had a missile lock on me, but I'm pretty sure it consisted of more expletives than half the sailors on the McLane say in 24 hours.
"I got him!" Grimm shouted. Right then and there I knew I was dead in the air, efforts and grades be damned.
"Jesus, hurry up and kill him!" I shouted, my mind briefly finding religion again before my fingers could find the countermeasures switch. Just as well, warning alarms went off as a missile began tracking me. I just managed to find the chaff switch and deploy it right as I noticed the Fulcrum breaking off pursuit. A couple extra gallons of blood in my head later, the alarms stopped ringing, my peripheral vision flaring up as the chaff caught the missile in its tracks.
That and Grimm apparently scored his first kill...and the last one of the night. Chopper and Edge definitely did their jobs, easy - or easier as they were. If I tried to breathe a sigh of relief, I would've been hyperventilating in my flight mask.
"Control tower to all aircraft. All bombers confirmed destroyed. Thanks for protecting our base, everyone!"
"...Was my flying all right?"
"Well, you're not dead, are you?" I joshed, sarcastically faking pilot's pride. "And you actually saved my ass in return. So we're even."
"Heh. Thanks. It was because of your support."
At that moment, through the effects of the lingering G-forces on my body, I could feel myself blush. Not just out of embarrassment or flattery. I'd have to save those for the photo ops. But it was then that I realized something.
I couldn't protect everyone. No human on earth could possibly do that. But I also realized that it didn't mean that I couldn't protect anybody at all.
I had consciously chosen to take Grimm under my wing, and in that I unconsciously vowed to protect him. That vow became mutual. On the one hand, I had to be thankful for that, and such camaraderie would have to be beneficial in the future.
On the other hand, I just never realized it would start turning into something a little more than that.
"Come on! Let's get a welcoming party going!" the control tower boasted.
"Fuck you, I'm going to bed."
"Heh. I hear ya man," Chopper added. "Definitely got a reason to sleep soundly tonight..."
Albert Genette
Crew Quarters
28 September 2010
1302 hours
I'd already been awake since sunrise, but there were three things keeping me happy and active.
The first was that I survived last night alive and unscathed. The first wave of aircraft were actually intended to clear out whatever escorts we'd sent their way, so Blaze's squadron was up in the air to catch the actual bombers. The base was still combat ready after the local atmosphere had cleared.
The second was my newfound freedom - in a sense. I woke up that morning to find I was now assigned to the Press Corps. Captain Hamilton had phoned in the request right before the raid started...almost as if he'd expected my inadvertent firsthand coverage to win the Pulitzer. I wore my new ID like a medal, and relished the thought of actually one-upping Jonas Stromberg at his own game, as much as the usual lunch crowd was still glued around the mess hall TV to catch the action replays of Wardog's heroism.
I took a deep breath as I knocked on this particular door. They told me there was no way he couldn't have been awake at this time of day, but I wasn't so sure until he replied.
"Come in..." came a miserable groan from inside. The door was unlocked, and I stepped in trying to make as little noise as possible.
He had close-cut black hair, the first stubble of a goatee and bags around his eyes. Come to think about it, he definitely didn't look photogenic enough for another attempt at the group pic we took that morning, right on the regrettably last frame of my only roll of film left. Despite all that, Second Lieutenant Ricardo Villa was able to force a smile as he sat up on his bunk bed, dressed only in a tank-top and boxer shorts. He vaguely resembled his former flight instructor under the lighting.
"Oh, you're that reporter guy that's been lurking around here," he said with a smirk.
"Excuse me, am I disturbing anything?"
"Does it look like you are?" he groaned, waving it off. "Don't worry 'bout it. Oh, and congrats on your new assignment."
Apparently he'd noticed my shiny new ID too.
"Oh, thanks." I replied jokingly. "Talk about an ironic stroke of luck."
"Stroke of luck my ass, I was just happy to get that photo over with," he grumbled, leaning his head back on the pillow. "That all you came to me about?"
"Not quite," I asked, taking out my notepad, "Would you...uh...mind a little interview?"
"Sure. Long as you don't tell my mom what I did," he said, looking at the underside of the top bunk with a snide smile. "She'd be furious."
The third reason I was happy was that after five days and a shelling I finally got to write the story I'd been looking for since I got here. But the one I sent back to the Journal that night was only the first salvo - pun perhaps intended - of the expose of a lifetime.
The following article is reproduced from the 29 September 2010 issue of the Journal.
The Four Wings of Sand Island
by Albert Genette
It is hard for me to believe that the world, let alone my assignment, was so much different when I arrived at Sand Island only a week ago.
But this Osean Air Defense Force base, based on a small tropical island that takes less than two hours to walk completely around, has become the country's first line of defense against a brutal offensive launched by the Union of Yuktobanian Republics. In one fell swoop, the climate of peace so painstakingly built since the end of the Usean Conflict in 2006 was shattered in the face of many, for reasons known to so few.
Many of these faces athered around the big-screen TV in the mess hall to watch the live coverage of the Port St. Hewlett raid. They cheered on their fellow pilots as they helped the MDF's squadrons defeat what seemed like endless waves of Yuktobanian fighter-bombers.
It was something quite short of a miracle for a squad that had lost their flight instructor only hours before taking off. In an even more cruel twist, that instructor was the initial subject of my assignment here. But wherever he is now, I'm sure he's looking down on his students' handiwork with pride.
The staff collectively sighed in relief as the Third Fleet escaped the port, and prayed that the casualty totals remained lower than feared.
I tried - perhaps half-heartedly - to at least pull through with my original assignment despite the disappearance of its main subject. But no sooner had I sat down with one of them, when the air raid sirens went off.
The war had followed them here.
I spent the entire evening of the 27th hunkered down in the crew quarters, trying to recall what I learned from earthquake drills, though no amount of ducking and covering would have been able to stop a well-placed bomb from completely immolating the building.
There was nowhere to run, either. Sand Island was at least 100 miles from the tip of Cape Landers, and the air routes were obviously closed. It would be hours before the OMDF would arrive to evacuate anyone.
But against all odds, I emerged late that evening unscathed, finding the base crew already hard at work cleaning up the mess. OMDF vessels had just arrived, and were patrolling off the coast of this tiny island for wreckage, survivors and potential prisoners of war.
The Wardogs had prevailed against overwhelming firepower once again, and this time they were not alone. I learned later on that a young airman bravely commandeered a spare fighter plane in the midst of the chaos to join them in combat.
That night, the Three Wings became Four.
Yet despite what they have endured to ensure the safety of the country, it is important to remind ourselves that they, like everyone else serving in the armed forces, are only human.
Today, they may be heroes, tomorrow, our martyrs. And it is something that everyone here in Sand Island, from the pilots to the mechanics to the mess hall cooks, have accepted as fact.
Indeed the Wardogs would not have been able to fly as well as they did were it not for the diligence of the ground crews. The "Doghouses," as the hangars are called, are where the 703rd Maintenance Company makes their residence. It is thanks to their maintenance regiments that the 108th's aircraft are able to withstand so much stress.
"Wars can break out any time, for any reason, anywhere on the planet," one of the senior mechanics explained.
One of the Army's dwindling number of war veterans, this senior mechanic has endured conflict before, and he speaks from the heart.
"Ultimately, it's up to every one of us in the armed forces to end these pointless conflicts before too much blood is shed."
Needless to say, the pilots of Wardog also have their own opinions about a war they had no choice but to fight.
"Even if these wars happen without warning, we have to live them day by day," said the squadron's only female pilot. "We make our own choices, in the air and on the ground, and we have to live with their consequences."
The base buzzes with activity non-stop now. Fighters shuttle in and out of reconnaissance duties, with the occasional transport shuttling new staff to and from the mainland. As I write this, the four Wardogs have concluded their latest briefing and are getting ready for another crucial mission to the war effort.
As a new recruit of the Press Corps, I signed an agreement with the Department of Defense stating that I cannot reveal the details of any of these missions, out of the understanding that it would endanger their lives more than they already are.
But I can say this: as I watch the Four Wings of Sand Island take off for parts and conflicts unknown, I know that they are ready to face their destiny with pride, if not without a little fear.
The cadet who hosted me in his room for the past few days told me as much when I asked him.
"Am I scared?" he said, trying half-heartedly to force a smile as he headed to the briefing room, "Of course I'm scared. You'd have to be crazy not to be scared."
Fear isn't the only thing they're feeling though.
"I'm angry as hell," their flight leader told me, "Not just at the Yukes but at myself, for all the lives we couldn't save."
This otherwise unassuming young cadet from San Adrian State looked shaken as he talked to me. Having led his squadron's flight over Port Saint Hewlett, he even admitted how much of a toll his suddenly newfound duties are taking on him. Yet coming from a part of the country whose representatives in Council have often been the most vocal critics of any Osean military operation, these emotions do not clash with his duty, or his language.
"All I can do now is fight on for the lives we can still save," he continued, "All we wanted was our peace. But if it means those f- Yukes will try to conquer us for it, then we'll fight to the last man if we have to."
I do not know if this will be their last flight, or the first of many more to come. But I can hope that they will live to learn what truths may lie behind this war.
Our pilots, soldiers, mechanics and sailors deserve that much.
To Be Continued
A/N 1: In order to get to the third pilot of the story I've decided to limit the number of chapters per "half." For a game with 27 missions this means squeezing more than one mission into the same chapter. Please let me know what you think.
A/N 2:I also decided to get a little creative with the supporting cast. In case the name doesn't ring a bell, I got Jonas Stromberg's inspiration from that one journalist in the first two Die Hards. As for the destroyer McLane, look for it to return in future naval missions.