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 6: Tooth for Tooth
"If you are going to do good, do good all your life. If you are going to do evil, do evil all your life." - Joseph Kony
Albert Genette
2 November 2010
Sand Island AFB, Osea
"Hey Genette, you heading home already?"
Blaze's voice almost caught me off guard when I left the Crew Quarters with a filled backpack in tow, to find him and Chopper suited up and heading out as well.
"Uh...not quite, guys. I'm going to Yuktobania, apparently," I replied shyly.
Osea's first amphibious landing operation in decades had been a rousing success thanks in no small part to the Wardogs. With the front already advancing swiftly away from the first beachhead, the new command center had opened its doors for a statement and press conference for Osean and a few international news reporters.
And having volunteered, the first e-mail I got the previous evening was an order to get over there and take part.
"Hey, that's where we're headed! You want a ride?" Chopper laughed.
"Ugh...no thanks."
My stomach grumbled almost in reflex as I immediately recalled my last plane ride. I already hoped that whoever was flying the chartered transport that would bring me there wouldn't try any dangerous maneuvers even if we were fired on.
I was already wearing the "complimentary" kevlar and helmet the Air Force provided me when I first arrived more than a month ago to interview the still-missing Captain Bartlett, and my journalistic bravado had almost done a good job at suppressing that part of my conscience that begged me to return or face the wrath of my inexperience.
"Little Albert's gonna be a front line reporter now, eh?" Blaze laughed, nudging my shoulder with his elbow. "Shit, lemme see if I can rustle you up a parachute to go with that gear."
"Hey guys, any chance you'll take me along?" Another familiar face joined us on the way to Hangar C.
"Holy fuck Shadow, you got out?" Blaze exclaimed, before the two embraced briefly. "Fuck, looks like it wasn't all for shit now."
Damien 'Shadow' Madison, one of the few surviving nuggets from the Scinfaxi battle, looked almost manically cheery that day, though there was something in his eyes that betrayed a sense of worry.
"Yeah, and they reassigned me. Check it out."
He then turned his shoulder to show a new patch sewed onto his sleeve, just above the Wardog patch. The larger black-and-red patch appeared to show a snake with its jaw wide open lunging at the viewer. The three of us took a look at it, but it didn't strike any of us as familiar.
"413th Special Fighter Squadron...Venom? Never heard of 'em."
"Me neither, until I got my new assignment papers. They had the other survivors transferred back to reserve, so we'll be the ones keeping Sand Island safe while you guys are gone."
Blaze put his hands on his hips. "Well, that's a relief," he replied with his now-familiar razor smirk. "I take it you're not the leader."
"No, I'll take you to meet them now if you're not in a hurry."
"Sure, we still got a couple of minutes," Chopper shrugged, and the three of us followed him to Hangar C.
Unlike its still-sealed neighbor, Hangar C's doors had been wide open since the start of the war. After Grimm took Captain Bartlett's old craft, it remained empty until yesterday. But even I was surprised at what the OADF had filled it up with.
Six brand-new F-22 Raptors were lined up in the hangar, three to either side. By the look of how busy the flight crews were in re-arming and refueling them, they appeared to have only gotten here this morning. But the appearance of such modern aircraft on the island clearly had Blaze frowning and clenching his fist in envy.
"What the fuck man, you hit your head and they give you a fucking Raptor?" were the first words out of his mouth.
"Wasn't my choice!" Shadow pleaded, genuinely sounding like it was all a misunderstanding. "I'm still going through the manual on that thing!"
"So who the fuck is teaching you?" Blaze continued, crossing his arms.
Shadow pointed to a man in a flight-suit standing next to the plane numbered 401 like he was blaming someone else for a spilled drink. "There. That's Vinny Ramirez, our squad leader-"
"Wait a minute. Vincent "Scorpion" Ramirez?" came Chopper's sudden interruption.
The name got Chopper's attention a lot more than it did mine as he suddenly glanced at a tall, slender yet firmly-built man with slicked-black hair near one of the F-22s. Obviously there was something famous or notorious about Ramirez that caused Chopper to react almost like a movie star's fan.
"...who's Vinny?" Blaze and I suddenly asked in unison.
Shadow put a finger to his mouth in thought. "He was one of Osea's top aces from the '95 war that didn't join the anarchists. Been in a reserve squadron since."
"Yeah, and a real cocky bastard according to everyone that flew with him, too," Chopper replied. "Come on, Blaze, even you should've heard of him."
"I heard his name a couple times but I figured he was already out to pasture since we're now the Air-fucking Defense Force." Blaze sighed, staring back at the F-22s.
"Well yeah, he's really stuck-up. Treats me like a runt, too," Shadow bemoaned. "Not like you guys."
"Dude, you only flew that one time and hit your head on the way down." Blaze remarked. "You deserve that."
"I guess. Then again I'm still kinda green compared to my new squadmates anyway."
Damien waved out an arm to a group of four pilots: eerily enough, three men and a woman conversing near one of the planes on the other side. Two of the men were blonde, and one of them with the wilder hair wore what appeared to be a pair of aviator sunglasses. The other two had black hair. Unlike Damien though, each of them wore a second, smaller squadron patch under the black Venom one, and no two were alike.
"Wait, is that...Donald Stryker?" Chopper suddenly pointed at the one with the glasses.
"Yeah. And...Ross Landry, Jacob Englebert, and...uh...Chase Callender." Damien continued to recite. "Dee-Jay, Martini, Ecto, and Husky."
"No freaking way, they're all your squadmates?" Chopper seemed almost as aghast as Blaze became more confused.
"What is this, the fucking Justice League?" Blaze then asked with a raised eyebrow. "The fuck are these guys?"
"Actually, they were up-and-coming aces from their respective squadrons during the old war too," Damien continued, sounding almost like an elementary school student reciting poetry verse. "They stuck around after the downsizing, so I guess I'll be learning from the best at least though."
"Man, you're lucky," Chopper added, "What I wouldn't give to fly with those guys."
"Yeah, well..." came a deep yet snarky voice from one side. "A squadron's only as strong as their weakest pilot."
Blaze suppressed a chuckle at the thought, but Scorpion's comment seemed to offend Chopper as the squadron leader approached us, helmet in hand. The word 'weakest' also caused Shadow to recoil in humiliation.
"Oh! ...Captain, these are-" Shadow began.
"Osea's new heroes?" Scorpion concluded, like Shadow wasn't even there. "And their personal paparazzo."
"That's us. You must be Scorpion?" Blaze began, extending his hand. Scorpion confidently completed his handshake.
"Call me Vince," he replied. "I guess I gotta call you Ricky, eh? Heard you're already quite the BAMF."
"'Blaze' is good enough. Anyway welcome to Sand Island, stick around a couple months and you'll get your own camera junkie too." Blaze added, finally letting his chuckle out. "Maybe you'll get a fully-licensed Vinewood stalker instead of this tabloid clown."
Now I was starting to feel offended, but in a more embarrassed way.
"Yeah, well, if Damey here doesn't get us killed first," Scorpion replied, smirking even more sharply than Blaze could as he tossed a side glance and a dismissive thumb point at Shadow.
"Hey man, leave the kid alone." Chopper then said as he glared into Scorpion's eyes, clearly fed up with what Blaze and Scorpion were spewing as he stepped forward to confront the rival squad leader.
"Looks like somebody can't take a joke," Scorpion scowled.
"Yeah, dude, lighten the fuck up." Blaze added, before positioning himself between Chopper and Scorpion in case of a fight. He then turned to Scorpion and put one hand up to wave it off. "Anyway, Scorpio my man, I got a sortie to attend to and Albert here has a flight to catch."
"No prob, kid. Hey, come talk to me when you wanna trade up," he added as Blaze began to shepherd us out of the hangar toward the open sunlight.
"I will when I stop feeling bad about leaving them with two rookies, okay?" Blaze quipped as he left, before waving and smiling almost sadistically at Shadow. "Later, Damey!"
Edge and Grimm were already waiting outside for us, and both of them looked like they'd heard our little squabble. The first thing I did, however, was check my phone for the time. My own 'flight' to Yuktobania was about to start boarding any moment now, but I couldn't board without leaving one matter unsettled here.
"For the love of...Blaze, I told you we're not a tabloid." I huffed.
"It's just a little joking between buddies," Blaze muttered. "Shit, if you really wanna get offended go interview the Navy. Those pissy sailors probably won't even let you publish that shit."
"I'm just glad that's over..." Chopper huffed, taking another look back into the hangar before clasping his hands behind his head and arching back a little. "Guess it's not worth it to wanna fly with 'em after all."
"I told you, lighten up," Blaze replied, putting one hand on Chopper's shoulder. "Look at it this way, 'least they're playing second fiddle to us."
Chopper then brushed Blaze's hand away. "Tell that to your new buddy Scorpion."
"Guys!" Grimm suddenly exclaimed as he stepped forward, "Can we just...leave this for later or something?"
His voice faltered after his initial exclamation, but unlike Shadow he didn't seem to lose his posture. And unlike Shadow and Scorpion, he wasn't left alone.
"Grimm's right," Edge said, as she also stepped toward them to help keep Grimm from losing his confidence. "All their star power means nothing if they only think of themselves."
She briefly glared at Blaze as if to direct those last few words at him, then glanced over at Scorpion and Shadow's other squadmates, as they welcomed their squad leader into the chat. She seemed to frown a little, and my inner macho instinct guessed it was because she'd gotten a look at Chase Callender. For a female fighter pilot, Chase's figure seemed to be almost too curvaceous for her flight suit.
"You know what? Fine." Chopper put his hands in the air disarmingly. "Let's go show Mister Scorpio that we can walk our talk too."
"Finally, buddy, something we agree on," Blaze sighed, before turning to me. "Ain't you got a flight to catch?"
Unfortunately, I'd also gotten distracted with Chase's figure to notice I was running late. Blaze's remark snapped me out of that little trance, and I blushed a little for having been caught out.
"Yeah, sure. I'll see you guys later," I replied, forcing a little smile as I quickly waved and turned toward the twin-rotored CH-47 Chinook waiting for me at the far end of the tarmac.
I took one last look into Hangar C before I started walking away though. I could barely see Ramirez slapping Shadow over the head for something, and two of his other squadmates appearing to derive some kind of entertainment from it. Again, Blaze snapped me out of that trance.
"Sure you don't need an escort?" Blaze called out, as the four of them had already started toward their own planes across the tarmac. Their F-16s were already parked outside and the refueling crews were already removing the nozzles from the tanks.
"Nah, I'll be more worried about you guys not being here when I return." I shouted back.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about us fucking up!" were the last things I heard before the ambient noise of jet engines drowned them out. I broke into a jog toward my own transport, and I could already noticed the ramp down and the flight crew frantically waving their arms as if to get me to run faster.
My worries, as it happened, turned out to be pretty well-founded.
1LT Ricardo Villa
Osean Federation Courthouse
Oured, CD
4 November 2011
1032 hrs OET
Suffice it to say, we fucked up.
As a racial minority growing up in the L-V-O, the one stereotype that definitely held true was that constant lookout for hormonal police officers and racist neighborhood watchmen looking to take out their frustrations on helpless civilians with beatdowns and planted drugs. Years of riots didn't discourage them. Instead it only resulted in less police funding, which meant more pigs trying to engorge on a smaller trough.
Of course, that was mostly also the governors' fault.
However this war still wasn't short of any unpleasant surprises, or unpleasant first times.
So I never thought the first time I would ever be summoned to court as the defendant was for the charge of crimes against humanity.
Sure was a step up from jaywalking tickets.
The previous 16 hours of my still-short active duty career were spent in transit to this very room, most of it on a transport plane to Redford National. Then were shuttled downtown and locked in this depressingly well-lit room reserved for juries deliberating the fate of some sex offender who'd been busted streaking.
Hell, the fact that they brought us straight to the Capitol instead of some regional hall of military justice meant that we'd fucked up in a manner bad enough to have severely compromised national security.
I could practically smell the sweat soaking through my dress uniform as the four of us waited in what was supposed to be the jury deliberation room for our respective turns on the stand. One by one my squadmates got called in. They left afraid and a bit flustered, returning frustrated after what felt like hours.
Edge got called in first, then Grimm, then Chopper. And if their increasing frustration was any sign, I didn't want to know what would happened when I got my turn on the hot seat.
"Damn, am I glad that's over," Chopper began as he stepped in, stretching his arms out.
"Lemme guess, they didn't buy the 8492nd thing either, right?" I groaned.
"Hell no!" Chopper huffed, before taking a seat beside me. "They acted like we were hallucinating again!"
"It's just not right. Committing an atrocity like that will only drag this out further..." Edge added as she stared out the window at the cityscape, now deep in her contemplation. "...but why blame it on us?"
Right then and there the last place I wanted to be was between my squadmates and what were probably the Joint Fucking Chiefs of Staff. And that was because right then and there I could feel the blame of an entire fucking nation resting on my shoulders, tribunal secrecy be damned.
"...freaking fine already!" I grumbled, before standing up and leaning forward, my arms shakily propping the rest of my upper body on the table. "I shouldn't have wanted to fuck 'em up so badly? Dammit, I'm sorry..."
Even I knew I probably didn't mean it. But goddamn did my chest feel clear.
"Look..." Grimm then spoke up, leaning toward me from his seat, "Blaze...did you really want them to die?"
"Ye- no- I just, I-" I slumped back into my seat. "Fuck...now I don't..."
The next thing I felt was a slightly burly arm around my shoulders. "Ricky...dude, even you couldn't have done it if you wanted to. I'd have shot you down first."
I laughed, just barely stifling back tears. "Yeah...thanks, I guess..."
"Lieutenant Ricardo Villa?"
At the sound of that almost monotone voice I slowly turned to find one of the MPs in the doorway. I knew right then and there that my time had come.
"Yeah, I'm coming." I sounded like a freaking zombie demon from outer space.
"Good luck out there..." Edge murmured.
"By the way...didn't Hamilton say he'd get over here to help us?" Grimm then asked.
"Yeah, but he's taking the long way over," Chopper replied, before looking at his watch. "I thought an adjutant base commander like him would at least fly business or something."
"Ah well, see you in the brig." I sighed.
I took a deep breath and faced the door.
Then the alarm went off as soon as I took my first step toward it, like I stepped on the wrong tile in some secret installation. The one thing I noticed that told me that I wasn't entirely screwed was the fact that the MP also looked like he took the wrong step too.
The second thing I noticed was the door opening to reveal a scruffy-looking Brigadier General of the Air Defense Force, the look he gave us giving me the suspicion that he was one of the judges.
"All right, Wardog, we've got an emergency here."
I sat down reflexively.
"Our armies are bogged down with the Yuktobanian invasion, so we're short on operational aircraft." The colonel then put his hand to his chin out of frustration. "Unfortunately, as a result we're going to have to request that you flying aces take off for us."
"Take off for...what?"
"That depends. Which mission would you like to take on?"
"Wait a minute," Chopper exclaimed, "You said 'which.'"
"That's right, the capital's got more than one attack to deal with right now."
"...oh, fuck." I staggered back into my seat. "How bad is it?"
"The DCC alerted us to a chemical weapons attack in Bana City right before we were gonna call you up. The only way to neutralize it en masse at this point is by aerial application."
"Okay, that's pretty bad." I groaned, slumping a bit.
"Then just as we were about to sound the alarm, Yuke aircraft showed up on radar in Gurnard headed straight for Apito International during peak travel hours."
"That's...very...very bad." I was almost hunched over like a mad scientist's assistant.
A sneaky smile crept across the Brigadier General's face. "Gettin' squeamish, eh? Well then, how 'bout we use this to decide?" he asked, as he pulled out a coin from his uniform's inner pocket. "Call it."
"Are you kidding me? A coin toss?" Chopper exclaimed, suddenly standing up from his seat.
"We don't have a choice, Chopper," Edge lamented. "It's as bad when they do it as when our side does."
"Okay then..." I concurred. "Heads, we shoot down some more Yukes. Just so you don't make us fall guys for this bullshit."
The Brigadier General then arched his eyebrows and tilted his head in agreement. "Fair enough. Lieutenant Villa, I'll see you tomorrow morning if you succeed."
At the time I didn't know who was really to blame for what got us here in the first place, but I damn well hoped I could prove that we hadn't been too consumed by unfathomable bloodlust to do our jobs right. And I hoped that I could prove that by doing what the hell I proved I did best over the past month.
In short, as the Brigadier General flicked that tiny slab of cupro-nickel alloy toward the ceiling, I hoped for heads.
3000 feet above Bana City, SL
Three Hours Later
"I can't believe we had to flip a goddamn coin for this mission! This isn't funny, man!"
"This is what we're reduced to, buddy...if it means we can show that FFIC we're not fucking war criminals."
Unlike the movie cliche, I'd already accepted the fact that clearing our names was going to be a pretty tough thing to do. Hell, it was a necessity growing up in a world where being on the wrong side of the street at the wrong time could cost you the rest of your life. Or where one frisky night out could undo a lifetime of community service.
It didn't even have to be your goddamn fault.
"Capital to Wardog. You'll have to fly at cherubs to deploy the neutralizer. Estimate two-seconds should be more than plenty to allow DCC to start cleanup. Start spraying before your nose hits the gas."
"Roger. Gee, thanks for the step-by-step instruction there."
That afternoon the Yukes decided to pull off an opera house rescue, only using the entire city as the goddamn opera house. Before long an entire college town was doused in piss-yellow smoke, and it was going to stick around unless someone, that is, we could do a damn thing about it.
"Captain Davenport, we've heard from the front lines that you like to shoot your mouth off on the radio."
"...uh, Davenport is too busy carrying out his mission to answer you at this time, sir."
"At least your sidekick finds it funny." I added, hearing what appeared to be muffled chuckling over the radio.
The DCC managed to get to one of the nerve gas devices before it detonated and identify the compound they used. Then while we were commuting to Mordecai AFB just outside the capital, they figured out what we might have in our inventory that could somehow counter it.
So that left it to us or rather, the folks at Mordecai to decide how we were going to get it there in large amounts in a few hours.
As luck would have it, the OADF had been refurbishing the few OV-10 Broncos we had left in our stock to give to the Aurelians or the F.G.I. for whatever COIN antics their leaders needed to pull off that month. A pair of glorified giant spray cans on the wings contained enough neutralizer to gas whatever the Yukes hadn't yet (or half those damn college Reds, as the man explaining all of it to us quipped).
Finally, each of us got paired with an observer to help us point the plane in the right direction and make sure we didn't shear our wingtips off on the buildings.
"Blaze, our radars won't be able to help us target the gas."
"Copy that, that's what we got our sidekicks for. Break formation and prioritize the ones closest to you."
"Okay, Lieutenant Villa," my own 'sidekick' began. "Bring 'er down over the waterfront. Shit...that's a lot of smoke."
Coming out of a brand new F-16, I was surprised that the old Bronco didn't lurch like it had rusted through as I brought it down over the Bana City waterfront. Then again, it probably only weighed half as much as my old Falcon, and was only carrying two glorified spray cans on its wings along with 4 wing-mounted M-60s. For "self defense," as it were.
To find a word, the plumes of piss-yellow smoke had gone flaccid, leaving what appeared to be a very low-hanging fog over the affected areas, including the waterfront. Apart from some of the rides at the local amusement park, I didn't have to worry too much about becoming a terrorist martyr myself.
"Ready aerosol," my sidekick continued, completely from protocol. "...now!"
A flick of the button that would've normally dropped some ordnance on an insurgent's hammock instead resulted in a low hissing sound. I'd been advised that was a good thing, as it meant the aerosol neutralizer was deploying as expected.
I snickered a little as I also wondered how this "aerial application" could have been applied en masse to the type of folks that would've been filling the squares during politically charged times like these.
"Good spray on waterfront, Capital," my sidekick confirmed.
"Capital to Wardog 1, good spray. Clearing DCC to move into the waterfront."
"One down, the rest of the damn city to go."
"Just keep cool," my sidekick continued. "There's another one, 11 o'clock. Frontier Plaza, 1 mile."
I shuddered at the sight of the next cloud, not because it was larger than the last but because they just had to deploy it between a row of buildings that fronted the Morris River.
"Okay, ease up on the throttle a little, and nudge it left on my mark...now." My sidekick, on the other hand, was probably a member of the Blue Angels or both, because he didn't seem to be bothered by it.
"Whoooa-ly crap!" Grimm's exclamation broke my concentration, and I almost pulled away from the route as if it was me about to crash into a building.
"Archer? What the hell happened?"
"Hernandez to Blaze," came the voice of Archer's almost-as-surprised observer. "Just a little low-altitude scare. We got it under control here."
"You'd better. I'm not having a martyr on my conscience today," I groaned, before squinting at the oncoming yellow fog and readying the trigger.
"Now!" called my observer.
I was half-expecting the fog to suddenly rear up and try to swallow me like a million-zollar CGI effect, but the spray was deployed as expected and two seconds later I'd saved a broad swath of cement and trendy coffee and tea shops for the next day's protests.
"Right..." the observer added, "Next nearest one is over SLU, just across the river."
Turning the Bronco to face halfway toward the direction whence we came, the city apparently looked a little safer for the hippies to hug their trees, as there were now multiple white clouds staining the atmosphere where once there were piss-yellow ones. Bodily fluid references notwithstanding, I thought we were doing a pretty good job until my observer got back to me.
"Blaze, incoming from Capital."
"Yeah, what now?" I muttered.
"Capital to Wardog. BCPD have spotted the terrorists' getaway truck and they need assistance. Apparently all of their available helicopters are still monitoring the evac and they can't get 'em near the gas clouds."
"Well that's convenient..." I muttered, as I almost leisurely pitched the plane north toward the next gas cloud.
"They just need at least one of you to help keep an eye on them."
I turned to face my observer. "Well, what do you think?"
"Lived here for 20 years and went to Santo Lorenzo U," he replied solemnly. "I'm not gonna let those bastards get away with gassing my alma mater. I'll help you find 'em."
"All right then," I replied, before activating the receiver. "Blaze to Capital, we can tango."
"Capital to 1, good copy. Patching you through to BCPD Central now."
"This is BCPD Central Dispatch to Air Defense Force. We are currently unable to provide air support for officers on a Code 3 chase involving suspected terrorist elements. Requesting immediate top cover, over."
My mouth stretched upward into a grin when the thought occurred to me that for once in my life I'd be the one in the ghetto bird keeping an eye out for the thugs and gangstas.
"Affirmative Dispatch, let's do this."
"10-4 ADF. Patrol members be advised, 10-89 suspect vehicle has been sighted southbound on SR-22 passing Lennox Avenue exit."
"2-Charlie-11 here, can you give me more details on that call?"
"Suspects are in a white container truck."
"Copy dispatch, I see 'em about to hit Grissom interchange, Code 3 chase."
"State 22 and Grissom...let's see, that's Northeast, 2 miles." my sidekick then added, to which I almost over-eagerly banked the old Bronco in that direction and eased into the throttle.
It was only then that I actually started getting frustrated with not piloting an actual jet, as the OV-10 had only been built for COIN speeds. That was good for circling around and monitoring some pick-up trucks loaded with jihadjis in the mountains of Clavistani buttfuck nowhere, but not for catching up to them quickly.
That's what I apparently had my observer for.
"Okay, they haven't said they've left the highway yet so they'll be about a mile down by the time we get there. Ease right a little."
Without any clouds of vaporized piss left to extinguish in front of me, time began to stretch further than the distance I had to cover to reach the damn truck. The only thing I could do was chill out to the radio, though the first transmission reminded me that I wasn't exactly getting the best of the Pac-Coast rap scene over the airwaves.
"Hey Banner, isn't today your daughter's birthday?"
"3-Bravo-7 be advised, redirect all non-essential calls to Tac 3."
"Well I can't just sit around and do nothing, Jones! Let's do this. Switching channels now."
"Gotta be one unlucky girl to have a birthday on the same day of a terrorist attack..." I muttered to myself. At least she'd have a story to tell about her dad being one of the few cops that found something else to do between harassing minorities on a daily basis.
In broad daylight, the tradeoff to being able to spot the buildings easier was not being able to see where the damn cop blinkers were. Fortunately for me, I had my observer to help.
"There it is!" my sidekick exclaimed as we caught our first glimpse of the culprits. "Shit, look at all the chasers."
"Wardog 1 to central, got eyes on the tangos, over," I replied, dialing the throttle down.
"Affirmative Wardog, you do not have permission to fire on the truck."
"Oh come on!" Chopper whined, "Not even just a little?" Having tuned into our frequency meant he could at least be entertained by our chaos.
"Negative. We don't know what they still have in there."
I didn't even have to remember protocol or the movie cliche to wonder what they still 'had in there.' Contrary to the oxymoron, I was actually expecting them to pull some kind of surprise out of their sleeve.
"Only a great hatred could drive them to do something like this," Edge bemoaned.
I would've sliced and diced that comment had I not known for once that she was actually right.
Albert Genette
Sand Island AFB, Osea
Crew Quarters
5 local minutes earlier
The war was raging hundreds if not thousands of miles away, but I was frantically pacing about my quarters like the Yuktobanians would try yet another attack with the Wardogs out of the way, trying to piece together the new info I'd brought back from my trip.
The room I shared with Chopper had itself become a bit of a command room if one could call a fairly-outdated laptop switched onto live streaming with my smartphone plugged into the side a "command room."
Still, I had to give the base credit for having a fairly strong connection though, as I was able to get a view of both scenes of chaos ravaging New Nordland in almost-real-time. I still had to mute one or the other so I could pay better attention though.
KPAR, one of the OBC's affiliates, was broadcasting live from the ground and clearly at a distance as fighters had been scrambled to take on a massive squadron of Yuktobanian aircraft that had appeared over Apito International Airport. Meanwhile, KBNC was taking part in a live police pursuit for terrorists that had set off dirty bombs across Bana City.
"We now have word that the Air Defense Force will be taking over pursuit from the police due to a lack of available helicopters."
But it wasn't these attacks I was worried about as much as what caused them.
The word had been going around the base that the Wardogs had been called to some kind of military commission in Oured after their last mission a precursor to a potential court martial.
I missed their return, having only gotten back yesterday evening for time advancing quicker heading eastward, and I already knew it had to do something with what got the press conference called off.
"Civilian flights are being diverted north to Elliott Fulton Airport in Flounder, and the AAF advises that loved ones check the EFA website or contact their airline's representatives for arrival times."
The social networks and official Yuktobanian sources monitoring the 'defense of the Motherland' were abuzz with allegations that a squadron of fighter planes had bombed a civilian target, inflicting heavy casualties.
"Hold on, it looks like the display's lit up with what appear to be explosions coming from the runway of the airport."
That the collective social mass were probably quicker at piecing a puzzle together (reliability be damned) than I could wasn't what got me tense though.
The one thing that both the "warmongers" and "peaceniks" on both sides of the ocean could agree on was that the planes that did it belonged to the Osean Air Defense Force. What they couldn't agree upon was which squadron it was and the Wardogs were one of the likely candidates for being on the front line.
"We're currently over State Route 22 where units of the Stockdale County Sheriff have also been called in to aid in the pursuit. They are currently keeping their distance as the terrorist suspects have opened fire on them."
And that seemed to make a lot of sense, even as the defense forums were edging them out of suspicion through their relatively expert analysis of grainy video footage smuggled out through Yuktobanian internet blocks. The planes responsible were F-15s, while Wardog flew F-16s.
"...unconfirmed reports of armored combat vehicles on the runway of Apito International. We are now hearing what sound like large explosions, flashes of light along the runway-"
Despite it all, this was still a war where both sides demonstrated their ability to raise the ante. The Yukes were no doubt raising the ante with these attacks in response to Osea raising the stakes through their destruction of the facility.
"BCPD SWAT has stopped the truck over the Marvin Bridge and...What's that beepi- holy crap!"
And what got me worried the most is that at least one of the Wardogs seemed to want it to happen. Maybe he didn't want it to, deep down. But if this spiral of raised stakes continued along its path, there was no telling where it would lead.
The sudden burst of activity from KBNC's feed gave me an idea though, and it filled me with dread.
"That's a freaking missile coming at us! Turn it! Turn it! God-"
By the time my gaze had flicked over to the other side of the screen, KBNC's feed went completely dead.
"Marcus? Marcus? Uh...we are apparently suffering technical difficulties with the live broadcast from over Santo Lorenzo U."
Perhaps there was some kind of grim solace to be found in the fact that my brief exposure to the Weazel News feed of both crises did not reveal Jonas Stromberg stoking the flames on either.
1LT Ricardo Villa
500 feet over the Bellamy River
Bana City, SL
"5-7 to units on that Code 3, we got a roadblock ahead of your position, bring 'em in."
The past few minutes I'd spent in the front seat of the OV-10 were the closest thing to R&R I'd had in the last three days. I barely noticed the stress of the impending tribunal hanging over my head amidst my new role as a ghetto bird.
"Suspect is slowing down, we got 'em."
This despite the fact that we were literally on our own as every available strike fighter in New Nordland had been scrambled to take care of an entire Yuke armored battalion that had manifested itself on Apito International's runway.
"Central Dispatch to Capital, DCC has cleared hazard teams east of Bellamy River."
Over here, where things were relatively calmer, my teammates had done a pretty bang-up job of limiting the gas dispersals. It was actually almost relieving to hear Grimm's own sidekick calming him down by helping him imagine some kind of flashing trail marking where to fly and when to activate the "aerial application."
But this wasn't a video game. And ultimately, the fewer people died that day, the less that the tribunal would make it weigh down on my conscience.
"Good copy, Central Dispatch. Got the all-clear from DCC over west bank area too. Nice job Wardogs, you've saved the city."
After enough circling to rival a theme park roller coaster, the cops finally managed to corner the perps over the city's famous Marvin Bridge. Obviously, these cornered animals would not go down without a fight, but from up here we still didn't have permission to give them a good strafing.
"10-80, 10-80, airborne explosion reported over Marvin Bridge."
"Shit, what the hell happened?"
"Looks like they shot down a news helicopter!" Capital came back, as I spotted the contrails of the missile that blew it up dissipating across my line of sight. "The missile came from up the river!"
"My radar's lighting up like a Christmas tree!" my sidekick shouted, as I pulled the plane to face up-river. "Looks like helos!" My HMD lit up with a single enemy aircraft an Mi-8 Hip plodding its merry way toward the bridge. The Yukes churned out the old 8 like toys, but apart from the occasional anti-tank missile, they were hardly a threat against a Pac-Coast SWAT team armed to raid a cartel boss' mansion.
"The hell you mean lots of helos, all I got is a Hi- oh."
The sudden appearance of a flock of incoming Hinds and the buzzing of the missile lock finally snapped me out of my entertained trance. At the distances I'd spotted them, they looked almost like wasps that could launch their stingers.
"Report to command! Yuke helicopters have breached our airspace! Repeat, multiple attack helicopters in our airspace!"
"I'll take care of countermeasures, you just keep those missiles off our asses!" my sidekick added, as I pulled my Bronco up and to the side. "How the hell'd they get so far inland!"
"Fuck if I know, but we're not gonna let them rescue their comrades!" I replied, pulling the Bronco around some of the skyscrapers dotting the Bellamy's west bank.
"Central to Capital, our officers are not equipped for surface-to-air combat. Requesting immediate top cover for units ASAP!"
"This is Capital. Wardog, you are clear to engage the helicopters."
"That's what I've been waiting for!" Chopper shouted.
"Right on, buddy. Time to show the top brass our powers of precision," I added, edging the throttle up until I ended up behind the pack. "Pick 'em off one by one, but stay together."
I hung a hard right past the last skyscraper in the block and came out to catch a Hind literally bringing up the rear.
At that moment I pulled the hardpoint trigger out of memory, then proceeded to utter a combination of several expletives at once as I realized that I actually fired the aerosol dispensers.
That didn't stop my Bronco from shorting out the tail rotor of a Hind the hard way with a burst of M60 machinegun fire.
"Guess I should've told you where the machine guns were, Blaze. Sorry," my sidekick added. "I'll fire 'em for you, just point away."
"Heh. Sure- Fuck." The appearance of a swatter got the swarm's attention, and soon I had another missile lock. "You got the flares back there too!" I shouted as I nudged the plane downward among the strip malls and coffee shops.
"I'm on it!" my sidekick shouted as I eyed my radar.
My squadmates had dove headlong into the fray and I wasn't the only one trying to pull evasive maneuvers. As soon as the missile lock warning went off with the dull ka-chunk of a deployed countermeasure, I swung the Bronco up and around what looked like some kind of clock tower to bring the line of lights back into my HMD.
Bana City's finest hovered around my ten o'clock, and I had as much time as it would take for the Red Air Force's pack of Hinds to save their asses. Our planes kept most of them busy, leaving the front chargers mostly to myself. Of course, this wasn't the ocean. It'd be harder to apply our newfound experience at shooting down combat helicopters here.
"Damn these guys are squirrely!" Chopper shouted, his craft probably the friendly one looping upward out of the pack to avoid a missile lock. "If it weren't for these damn buildings..."
That and it would be easier for four fighters to take out a fleet of attack helicopters than three.
"I'm coming!" I replied, pushing full power into the OV-10's turboprops and leveling out along the river heading north and right into the path of several of the helicopters. "Let's round 'em up and bring 'em home. You gonna spot me?"
"I see ya, kid!" came the reply as Chopper looped back down into the swarm, "I think I can get the jump on 'em!"
"You're heading right into their line of fire, Blaze!" Grimm called out.
"This is Edge, I've got you at my one o'clock and I'm gonna follow you in. You're not gonna go in there alone."
As frenzied sprays of machine gun fire began to whiz past my incoming aircraft, my mind blanked out for a split-second in realizing Edge's double meaning.
And I smiled. Not as sadistically as I liked, but damned more genuine than I had in a while.
We didn't have anything close to what us Las Viola os callled 'rep' anymore. We flew shit aircraft against an equally- or better-equipped horde that seemed to be one step ahead of us. And outside of the combat zone I seemed to be doing everything in my power to drive us apart.
But goddamn if we weren't in this together. Whether we wanted to or not. For better or for worse.
And if that meant going down together, I preferred to go down in flames than into jail.
"Jesus, you tryin'a kill us!" my sidekick began to plead.
"Yeah, I guess I am," I huffed. "You wanna live, fire like there's no tomorrow anyway."
"I got eyes on the pack from below," Grimm replied. "Hernandez is about ready to do it."
The next twenty seconds felt like crossing into a portal to some old war movie as four streams of M-60 bullets speared several Yuke helicopters like fish in a goddamn barrel. The sheer adrenalin rush of the moment numbed my conscience realizing that neither the Bronco nor the Hinds fired tracer rounds. And that meant a single unlucky shot could end my quest for justice before my brain could notice it had been spread across my sidekick's visor.
Of course, my brain was still worrying that it wouldn't notice being spread across my sidekick's visor even after we'd skewered right through the pack of Hinds. All of a sudden the radar looked a lot more clear and more noticeably, everything seemed a lot more...quiet.
"Hot diggety god damn, guys!" Chopper cheered, dispelling the notion that I'd indeed been killed and sent to some Elysian sky where all was quiet.
"Blaze, you're hit!" Edge suddenly added, also dispelling the notion that everything okay.
I gazed out my starboard side to find tiny trails of black smoke from where a few lucky shells embedded themselves in the wing.
The sight of smoke was, in retrospect, probably a lot better than getting my brain spread across my sidekick's visor.
"That's it? Pfff."
"Holy hell, we made it..." my sidekick sighed. "Looks like we can still make it back to base after this."
"It'll buff out. We've sent worse things to the Aurelians."
"More like the Grasyans," my sidekick countered, "Bad enough they don't have jets right no-"
Any contemplation and associated snickering that might have followed the idea that my smoking heap of junk was definitely the best aircraft the Air Force of the Fort Grace Islands was interrupted by a transmission from Capital.
"Nice job guys, only one attack helicopter left."
"Well dick," I replied, jamming the joystick to port and pulling the Bronco in a wide-arc to catch the fleeing Yuke bird.
"Blaze, your plane!" Edge pleaded as I nudged the Bronco up to full power.
"I'll be fine. Ten of those fuckers only dinged me, what's one more?" I replied, swinging the Bronco back above the Bellamy and gunning it toward the single attacker blip on my HMD.
The little Hip was also highlighted, but with most of its buddies floating down the Bellamy the SWAT teams would probably give it hell.
"Turn and face me, you fucking commie fuck," I snarled, as my plane began to wobble from the extra stress. I already had the Hind lining up in my HMD. "Hope you know how to fucking swim."
"Blaze, you want us to smash into him?" my observer pleaded. "Slow it down!"
"I won't."
In hindsight pun half-intended perhaps I was a little too impatient when it came for waiting for them to face me. The moment their cockpit glinted in the sunlight, my sidekick unleashed four streams of M-60 machine gun fire at the helicopter. I wasn't sure which part of their helicopter got hit first, but the whole damn thing went down in a corkscrew of smoke.
"Helicopter destroyed, Wardog 1," Capital confirmed. "BCPD choppers are moving in and their getaway ride's turning tail and bugging out. SWAT's kept the LZ a little too hot for them."
"Good copy, Capital. Wardog, that's mission accomplished."
I turned away from the river and eased up as I approached the bridge. My HMD marked a single Mi-8 turning tail and scurrying away from the surrounding flock of BCPD ghetto birds with its tail rotor practically between its skids. Had I not known they were the enemy, I would've almost thought it was a kid that some bullies let run away after they had their way with him.
"That's right, you Red fucks. Thought you'd gotten rid of us with your little frameup?" I muttered to myself, taking one hand off the flight stick to give the truck and its surrendering occupants a little homegrown 'good luck gesture.'
The moment my middle fingertip aligned with the bridge was also about the same time half of the surface road went up in a ball of orange flame. I immediately banked the plane to the opposite direction and hoped it didn't suddenly fall apart from the shockwave.
After spending what felt like a minute levelling it out and letting it stabilize, I turned back to see exactly what the hell just happened.
"The hell!" my sidekick exclaimed, having approximately the same thought.
"10-80, 10-80, Marvin Bridge is gone!" The same with Dispatch, too. "What the hell happened!"
"Sweet Jesus! 3-Brav- Banner, come in! Goddammit You okay?" And the cops whose escapades I'd been following.
"10-2 please repeat, I can't hear a fucking thing and I think I just lost half the goddamn skin on my body!"
"Fuck, how the hell are we still alive?"
Figuring they'd die rather than get captured, their little suicide bomb was strong enough to punch a hole right through Marvin Bridge, the suspension drooping and dangling near where the road had been obliterated. The giant stone columns still stood strong, though probably not without body parts and metal shards embedded in the bricks and mortar.
But what stood out larger than the bricks and mortar if only just was that piss-yellow cloud rising from where the gap was. The BCPD helos, somehow surviving, backed away from the scene to avoid fanning it out.
"...fuck, I'm not spraying that." I muttered.
3-Bravo-7's daughter would have a helluva story to tell about her dad. It'd be better than the one I'd tell the next day.
Osean Federation Courthouse, Oured, CD
5 November 2010
1200 hrs.
"First Lieutenant Ricardo Villa. Callsign Blaze. 108th Tactical Fighter Squadron Wardog, based at Sand Island AFB."
"Yes sir."
Sweat beaded down my forehead as I tried not to focus my glance on any particular member of the Joint Fucking Chiefs of Staff staring me down. Every branch up to and including the damn Coast Guard had their representatives here to express their displeasure at whatever they thought we did.
And this time, I was alone in the arena with four unsympathetic emperors waiting to throw me to the crowds baying for blood. I'd been shuttled here alone, so I wouldn't have a shoulder to cry on before I was sacrificed.
Going down together my ass. They were going to make sure I was the one that took them down with me. They just had to soften me up for the blow first.
"First things first," the Admiral began, "We'd like to commend you for your bravery in thwarting the terrorist attacks yesterday. The BCPD and Stockdale County Sheriff have also extended their regards, despite the...ignominious ending."
"Th...thank you."
"Now," the Admiral continued, "I take it that you understand why you're here."
"Yes...sir." Here came the fun part.
"Do you understand that the events that transpired in the last 24 hours can be construed as direct result of those that you stand accused of today?" It sounded like he was reading from a list.
"Yes sir."
"Very well. This commission has been convened to determine whether you will be subjected to courts-martial under the general article of the Code of Military Justice. This is not currently a criminal case, and legal assistance is not required to be provided."
I'd gotten the idea that reading out my rights were a useless formality back when I was a civilian. That didn't stop me from wishing I'd gotten my legal representation, paid for by the same tax zollars that also paid my salary.
"Lieutenant Villa," the Brigadier General from yesterday began, "Please describe the events of your sortie on November 2 from takeoff to landing."
"We took off from Sand Island AFB at 0800 local time, arriving in sector 12-Tango-42, Dresdene Valley."
"Spare me the dialogue," One of the other presiding officers one of the Army upper brass sounded like he'd heard it before. "Let's get down to the incident at 1015. Did you or did you not hear communications from the so-called 8492nd Squadron?"
"Yes, I did." I put both hands on the front of the stand and leaned forward, as if I was explaining this to my mom.
"All three of your wingmen have also claimed the existence of this 8492nd unit," the Army man continued.
"Yes sir," I replied, suddenly backing down.
I probably shouldn't have been surprised. Not so much by how Colonel Napoleon had been trying to shut me down before three words left my mouth, but by how much I felt cornered and genuinely intimidated by it. Hell, I would've guessed that anyone from a typical Jefferson City anarchist or freshly-minted LVO gangsta would've felt pretty much the same way during their first time on the stand.
"You should also be aware as are the rest of your squadron by this point that the 8492nd AGRS was decommissioned in 2000."
"No sir, I am not."
The Air Force Brigadier General apparently had enough. "Save us the formalities, Villa. You are denying attacking a civilian target in violation of the Sant-Mikael Convention, even though your squadron was the only one in that operating sector?"
"Yes sir."
"Hundreds of Oseans are dead because of what you did out there and you think you can just play-"
"That's enough, General." the Admiral then continued. "We're still not the goddamn prosecution. Just let the kid talk and then you'll get your turn to shout him down."
"Fine." The Brigadier General threw up his arms in frustration. "Let's get this over with."
By this point, I was hyperventilating from not being able to break my good manners. "Well, as you see, I-"
"Sorry I'm late." came a damned-near heaven-sent voice from behind.
The sight of Captain Hamilton adjusting his tie as he briskly paced into the courtroom might have finally made me put my faith in something supernatural after all its efforts to persuade me. Or rather it would have were my attention not diverted to a toolbox-sized container that he was exerting quite the effort to carry in one arm.
"The hell's the meaning of this?" the Army General exclaimed. "Are you authorized to be in here?"
"Captain Hamilton is their legal representation," the Admiral responded, trying to contain his frustration, "Late as he is."
"Had to request something from McNealy for the court date," he muttered to me as he set the large container on the table and began to remove some machinery from it. Unfortunately they only gave me one little pencil-pusher to find it since everyone else was busy with what happened yesterday."
"And that thing is going to clear me from this shit?" I asked in a voice louder than a mutter, hoping it wasn't another psyche-out.
"It had better. It's the full recording of Thunderhead's black box and transcripts for two sorties."
My jaw hung open for a second. "That thing wasn't fried? And the hell you mean two missions?"
"These 'things' can withstand a head-on crash into the mountains," Hamilton continued to explain, not batting any of the sweat trickling from my own forehead as he finished setting up the device. "A little ECCM is barely anything on this."
"Captain Hamilton," the Admiral then intervened, "I trust that what you have there is pertinent to the matter at hand?"
"Yes it is, Admiral," Hamilton replied, as he withdrew two folders from the 'toolbox' before walking up to present them to the committee. "Because I believe these matters are fabricated."
"Excuse me!" the Brigadier General interjected.
"As I said, we will hear them out. Protocol." The Admiral was clearly starting to sound like he wasn't a fan of protocol either.
"All right then," Hamilton then added, walking back to the black box and activating it.
"Captain...thanks..." I muttered to him as the recording began to play.
There was a grim sense of deja vu in hearing my own voice played back to me, snarky comments and everything.
I could only hope that the judges could bear with it long enough to understand what I also hoped would pass as the whole damn truth.
Albert Genette
Three Days Earlier
Volna Beach, Skladka Oblast, Yuktobania
The telltale thud of the helicopter landing on the beachhead didn't just snap me awake and to attention, it reflexively caused me to hold my camera case like a standard-issue rifle. In fact, I had thought we were going to go straight into combat until the moment my eyes cleared of the glare from the light outside after the Chinook's ramp opened.
I was just as surprised to see the beachhead's new command center still under construction without any active combat nearby to endanger it. That didn't mean I wasn't hyperaware as my boots hit the sand, camera ready to document the flight of every single projectile that wouldn't bring a sudden end to my life. At least until an MP greeted me to escort me to the press conference about to begin within this base.
Shipping crates bearing the square logo of the North Osean industrial magnate Grunder Industries were strewn across the loading docks, bearing shiny new weapons systems to defend the new command center as well as monitor the movements of every brigade on the field.
But what caught my eye more than the military equipment going into the buildings seemingly sprouting up all across the beachhead and nearby roads were the people making sure they were built. Construction crews were busy turning this place into a minor city, and they had brought along their own security detail to make up for the lack of available troops and MPs.
Their "branding" made it clear that neither the construction nor the security were affiliated with the public sector.
Kronus International had arrived in Yuktobania ahead of me, and the moment I recognized their outfits I hoped the Man in the Tropical Shirt hadn't followed them.
I felt the urge to seek shelter almost immediately before he found me, that sense of his presence nudging my life into some kind of fast forward. I found myself snapping pictures of almost anything with the logos of Kronus and their affiliate Gründer Industries on it against my better instincts as I was drawn to my own main objective. And it felt awkward stepping into the tent while trying to switch out another roll of film.
The tent where the press conference would be held was not too far from the command center. And this being the 21st century, it even came with its own air conditioning. It had to in order to keep the journalists, the cameramen and all of their equipment, and the speaker and their assorted background props from overheating in there.
Fortunately, it wasn't hard to find a seat too far from the front with everyone else setting up their equipment. While the big networks finished calibrating their HD video cameras and satellite connections, I prepped something a little more last-century: a mini-cassette recorder. Just because I was the Oured Journal's only representative at this press conference didn't mean that I couldn't come prepared.
And it meant that I'd already gotten my notes and hopefully the question I wanted to ask as soon as a gray-haired and strongly-built General took the press conference stand.
"Due to current circumstances, we have been forced to set foot on Yuktobania with weapons in hand," he began, his voice exuding confidence.
As a Lieutenant General, Paul Howell personally oversaw much of the Osean advance into what was then South Belka in 1995. The advance was made even more rapid by the southern cities' demilitarization, and by the beginning of June the Allies were poised to race to Dinsmark against the armies of the Eastern Osea Collective Defense Yuktobania's name for their own half of the coalition.
"However, our true enemies here are the government and military that started this unjust war."
Unfortunately, he was halted before he could continue by the nuclear detonations. He had complied initially, focusing his efforts to evacuating fleeing civilians. And he was only willing to do so knowing that his Yuktobanian counterparts would do the same.
"It will inevitably be said that we are here to oppress, to take away the people's rights, and perhaps their resources."
Yet General Oleg Ivanovich Pushkin, who commanded the northern contingent of the EOCD, won that race with a surprise raid on Dinsmark three days after the detonations. To add insult to injury, it was also rumored that Chancellor Wilhelm Drexler was really assassinated by agents of the KGB headed then as now by his close ally Kiril Tarasovich Semyonov.
"But the people have suffered under the yoke of the bureaucratic elite for too long."
This war, therefore, was the perfect stone with which two metaphorical birds. Pushkin was now Yuktobania's Defense Minister, and would no doubt be back in command of his army. He would not only finish the job he started fifteen years ago; it would be against the same officers that had taken his glory.
"Therefore, I ask you, citizens of Yuktobania: Do not fear us, but rather join us in throwing off the shackles of a government that has only delivered oppression upon empty promises of equality. And join us in leading Yuktobania through to a new era of democracy that will bring that egalitarianism to you at long last."
Predictably, there was little applause before Howell opened up the floor to questions. Perhaps it's because they'd heard more cliched fire-and-brimstone spewed from some of Osea's more infamous Councilmen. In any event, my hand went up with about half the others, and it was clear they'd preferred the big networks' questions first.
"Brian Eagleston, GNN. How long can we expect this invasion to last?"
With my recorder on, I took a quick look around while the General answered. There was a Weazel News camera in the tent - but no Jonas Stromberg to accompany it.
"We will march forward and we will not lay down our arms until the Yuktobanian capital has fallen," Howell continued. "I cannot give an exact date but at our current pace we expect to accomplish this by the end of the year." He then pointed at another reporter raising his hand.
"Charlie Gomez, from Osea National Broadcasting. Aren't you concerned about budgetary restraints in the event of a protracted conflict?"
"Council is already working on expanding the defense budget next year. The new appropriations bill will help bolster both our efforts to liberate Yuktobania as well as our own homeland defense. We are going to make sure that Osea is no longer as vulnerable as we were a month ago."
In other words, they knew they were building up momentum as quick as it was fragile. If they'd gotten the backing of Council and the President's possibly-vicarious signature, there was hardly anything they couldn't achieve until midterms next year. If we won...the 'nay' voters could kiss their seats goodbye.
"Yes, you there, with the recorder."
Political ramifications aside, my thought train was suddenly derailed when I realized that Howell wanted me to ask the next question.
As if switched on with the push of a button, I took a deep breath and stood up, pressing the record button on the mini-cassette. I could feel myself blushing for being called out so suddenly, almost like I was in elementary school.
"Albert Genette... for the Oured Journal. Following up on Mr. Gomez, can you give a comment on the increasingly extensive roles of private military contractors with this campaign?"
"I can't go into specifics regarding our contracts or specific companies, but I will say that they are forbidden from engaging in direct combat unless fired upon." Howell explained after some hesitation. "They are also subject to the Code of Military Justice should they be involved in any abuses."
It was then that he was approached by one of his aides.
"No more questions, please," he said before suddenly turning to leave. The assembled press stood up and tried to get closer but were blocked by MPs. But I had actually sat down, now feeling like I was lost in some kind of human corn field.
We all knew why the press conference had suddenly ended. The General had been called out to something, and I could surmise from the sudden appearance of the MPs that we would soon be flown out - and I hoped, not over something I might have taken.
The reason for that, as I would soon learn, was much, much worse.
1LT Ricardo Villa
5,000 feet above and 23 miles WNW of YCU-Istochnik, Yuktobania
1015 hrs.
"Hey-hey-hey kid! Did you take a listen to that song?"
"...what song?"
"That new one from Rolling Thunder."
"No, I'm not that kinda guy."
Day 2 of the March to Cinigrad was going along swimmingly. That is, our contingent had hit the beachhead running toward the hills, and the Red Army running for the hills.
"You didn't listen to it? 'Tail Spin' is a masterpiece!"
And it was above these hills that we were trying to catch the Red Army before they could regroup. Our F-16s were stocked to the hilt with Sidewinders for a target-rich environment, and I was in the mood to share that wealth with the folks beside me and the scraps to the unlucky folks waiting below.
"Sounds like something for furries to yiff to."
"Pfft, you listen to that stuff all the time with me! You know it's growing on you!"
Between the start and the destination though, there was the journey. And the flight from Sand Island gave us plenty of time to forget our new neighbors.
"The whole fucking base listens to that stuff with you! You want a masterpiece, you gotta hear some of the stuff outta the L-V-O. That's music told as it is, not some suburban shit."
"Isn't rap one letter short of crap?" Grimm then added, much to Chopper's amusement.
"...fuck you, Archer." I muttered as my HMD began to light up. "Just for that, you're covering my pretty Fuerte-Grasya ass today."
"Transport flight at bearing 1-0-0, 2 miles. Wardog, you are clear to engage."
"You heard the man, folks, weapons hot. Engage- goddammit."
The problem wasn't that the fighters and the transports were flying in a freakishly predictable formation, nor that the titanic Antonov transports were escorted by more standard Fulcrums.
The problem was that my HMD lit up more indicators than the Red Air Force had in their entire fleet, let alone more than our combined missile total. I could feel my head starting to warm up in the helmet as if either the electronics were overloading from all the new indicators or I was suddenly getting the bends and hallucinating.
"Unbelievable!"
"We gotta bag all these planes?"
"You think every enemy plane in the area is up and flying?"
"Well, let's ask them hey, how many planes you got there! Man, this is making me cry."
At least I wasn't the only one seeing things.
"There's way too many signatures on radar. Kid, Nagase? How about you guys?"
"My radar's showing strange results as well," Edge concurred. "Something's going on."
Truth was I knew exactly what was going on. It was a technique I'd only heard about in the usual
"Shit, we're being ghosted! Everyone dive!"
And right on cue as if hearing our exclamation destroyed our stealth, the 'ghosts' rushed us. Our formation splintered four ways to next Sunday as the Fulcrums turned away from their transports and moved to make missile lock.
I dove for the mountains, gliding under the horde before climbing back up to meet them.
"They can mess with our displays but not our targeting," I continued, looping back up to catch what registered as 10 fighters flying in two clusters. The clumps were so close that the Yukes may as well have sent their air show flyers to meet us.
"Good copy," Edge agreed. "We can still use visual identification."
"Easy for you to say, I'm kinda getting dizzy seeing all this red!" Chopper added through what sounded like a missile lock. "Got 'em yet, Edge?"
"Almost there..." came her chillingly calm reply.
One cluster broke off as I caught up to the other in a loop. At the range I chased it, it was easy to spot which marker wasn't the ghost and lock onto it. After that it was only a matter of time before a Sidewinder shredded its stabilizers.
"Splash one!" came my verification.
"Hey Edge, thanks!" Chopper replied against background noise that no longer included a missile lock. "Two down, forty to go!"
"...the heck are Bears doing up there?" Grimm suddenly asked as I found myself trying to elude the Fulcrum's partner. "And there's only one- Hey guys...you think maybe..."
"Lemme give you a minute to think, 'kay?" I replied as I suddenly jammed on the airbrake and corkscrewed to let my pursuer pass me. His cluster quickly filled my HMD's vision along with his actual plane, which turned out to be a much easier target since he had to airbrake too as soon as he realized what I just did.
Not that he had time to remedy it with the gatling cannon colonic I administered to his Mikoyan.
"A ha! I think I figured it out!" Grimm sounded like he'd found the cure for freaking cancer as I turned back to face the rest of the Charlie Foxtrot.
"Well, do share your keen insights please? What's up?"
Why the Yukes had brought bombers to the occasion was beyond me until Grimm practically brought it to my face.
"First Lieutenant Chopper, jammer aircraft!"
By Jove, I think he got it.
"Of course. The Bear also serves as an electronic warfare platform." Edge did too. "They've got to be somewhere close. Let's take care of them first."
"All righty then. Grimm and I will knock 'em out." I said as I pulled into a climb toward a single HMD marker in the sky. "Edge, Chopper, watch our six."
"Got it." Chopper then took a deep breath. "Ghosts aren't so bad once you've figured out the trick to 'em."
The Tupolev Tu-95 Bear was the most powerful prop-driven aircraft still in active service. And sitting pretty above the transports and its escorts, it was an easy target to lock onto.
At least I thought it was until I fired off a Sidewinder only to see it disappear under a shower of flares.
"Jesus fuck."
Then just as the flares dissipated, another one of them sliced right into where the starboard wing met the fuselage, causing it to fall out of the sky in a deadly cocktail of oil and smoke. I turned to the side to catch the explosion on the way up before rebounding to watch the falling wreckage.
"...Jesus fuck again, Grimm! Nice shot!"
"Thanks, Captain." Grimm had pulled up behind me on radar, and we were both facing the same thing. "Looks like there's one more."
Another Tupolev lurked dead ahead, and was already pushing its turboprops to maximum power in some kind of attempt to escape us. Not that it had to when its escorts were rushing to its defense.
"Dammit, someone's locked onto me!" Grimm said, breaking off his pursuit and diving.
"I'll take care of this," Edge suddenly replied. "Just lead him away."
"Sorry, Captain, looks like this one's up to you."
"Right, I'll get 'em."
Replicating the same tactics that destroyed the last Bear was actually easily done with only one plane instead of two - and with my aim steady enough to chip away at the old thing with my M61. Ultimately, I decided to put it out of its misery with my second-to-last Sidewinder, having used the third-to-last one to bait its flares.
"Bam, baby!" I clenched a fist as my F-16 blew past what remained of the Tupolev and its fancy-ass electronics. "Looks like we got ourselves a transport turkey shoot now!" Bad impressions of a Middle Osean redneck aside, a cursory check of my radar revealed far fewer bogies than there were only 15 seconds ago.
"You think it's gonna be that easy now?" Chopper suddenly asked.
"Easier on the eyes, maybe." I said, shaking my head as I swooped down toward one of the mega-Antonovs. "Fuck, I think I was gonna have a seizure there for a moment."
"Yeah, I don't think so eith-"
The sudden manifestation of interference also known as my radio suddenly going dead caused me to overshoot the massive cargo plane and pull myself back up before my plane became a glorified lawn dart in the Yuke backwater.
"What the hell- Chopper, you there?"
"Dammit...even our ra...can't..."
It was easy to point my plane back up at the Antonov for another run. No biggie, I thought. Just another of the Yukes' dirty radio tricks, or maybe they had another jammer about, I thought. The Antonov is a giant fucking turkey and the only way I couldn't hit it was if they'd figured out a way to shut my entire goddamn plane down, I thought.
"This is the 8492nd leader. All 8492nd units proceed as planned."
I didn't suspect that we were being set up until it was too late.
5 November 2010
Osean Federation Courthouse
Oured, CD
1124 hrs.
And now, here I was. Being bailed out by my own adjutant base commander. Truth be told, I was damned thankful that he seemed to be doing a damn good job at it.
Thunderhead's black box had not only survived the jamming, but had recorded every friendly transmission that went through our radio - including the "supposed" 8492nd's as well as Chopper's attempt at sick humor during the interference and my reply.
An Osean squadron had been responsible for attacking a civilian college being used as an evacuation center, which warranted their retaliatory attacks that left hundreds dead and two cities burning. But there was nothing in the recordings that suggested we did it.
Barring any accusations that they were edited, Hamilton was thoughtful enough to present the full transcript of the recording from our little mission with Mother Goose One.
"8492 AGRS relieves 108 TFS for CAP duty...Cargo recovered by Waldron County emergency services assisted by on-scene private contractors."
The way the Army General reading those words aloud seemed to get increasingly frustrated as he did, was probably a sign that whatever Hamilton had planned was working. I hoped then that the heads that would roll didn't include mine.
"If you could explain how a squadron disbanded in 2000 could still show up on records ten years on, then we're all ears," Hamilton added sternly.
As they "deliberated" amongst themselves whether to just fuck the evidence and make me the fall guy, I was almost praying that they would somehow stick to whatever principles the "authority" still had when it came to evaluating innocence through evidence. One paper particularly struck them - probably the transcript of the rest of our first 8492nd encounter. After some time, the Admiral stood up and decided my fate:
"Upon further review of the evidence, we have decided to adjourn this hearing without moving to court martial. Dismissed."
There were no relatives to hug me. There were no tearful bystanders crying with relief or in vengeance. There was only me, alone, and the thumbs up given by the Emperor to spare me for now.
The Brigadier General let out an exasperated huff at the same time I let out a sigh.
I collapsed back into my seat, taking a deep breath, as Hamilton put his hand on my shoulder. The presiding officers stood up, their leader more frustrated than the others.
"Don't think this means you're in the clear though," the Brigadier grunted before he passed us. "You're going to have to prove your innocence out there while we try to figure out more about this ghost squadron. Especially with your flight instructor still curiously MIA."
As ominous as he sounded, I didn't actually feel any more intimidated by the Brigadier General's last sentence as I was supposed to. Probably because I wasn't aware of how deep Heartbreak One's history of heartbreaking ran. In any event, the departure of the last commissioned officer felt like a massive weight was lifted off my chest.
"Fuck...I can't believe it's done." I groaned. "Thanks, Captain."
"You're welcome Blaze," Hamilton replied with a soft but noticeable smile, as he began packing up the recorder as methodically as he set it up.
"Look, I really owe you this. I didn't wanna-"
"It's no problem, Villa." Hamilton continued, adjusting his hat. "We can't lose our heroes yet."
Yet. Three letters I should definitely have paid attention to. A slip of the tongue that I couldn't catch but sealed my fate right then and there more than any military tribunal could.
1312 hrs.
Highway O-1, 5 mi. N of Redford National
"Hey kid..."
"Yeah, Chopper?"
The shuttle to our ride back to Sand Island took us down an Interstate that breezed the boundary between the Great Osean Institution buildings of the Capital District and the neighborhoods that the movies never showed us. The skies were overcast, which I preferred over the clear blue sunny ones for not wanting to go blind after stepping out of that court room.
"I guess...I wanna say sorry for blowing up back there with Scorpion."
It was the first conversation we made since I boarded the shuttle with them, and I smirked. Victory or vindication, whatever it was, didn't taste as sweet as before. Not after the first taste anyway.
"Like I said, don't worry 'bout it. We only got F-16s, but we're walkin our talk." I explained confidently, before offering a hand across the aisle in reconciliation. "Those guys gotta be rusty as shit."
"Yeah, you got that right." Chopper chuckled, as he shook it. "And Edge is probably right about their star power over teamwork."
"I still feel sorry for Shadow though." Grimm suddenly said. "I don't know if he can handle Scorpion or Venom."
"They wouldn't have kept him outta reserve if they didn't see potential, I guess..." I replied, looking out the window at the wrong side of the Interstate. "Like they could've transferred you back to reserve after the day we rescued you."
"Yeah, that's true. But you guys've been behind me all the way." Grimm reacted. "At least I hope you are."
"Chillax, p're," I replied with a classic Fugoy street phrase as I turned a little to face Grimm, who sat behind Chopper. "We fly together, we die together. At least I hope we don't die."
"Me neither..." Edge said, just softly enough to be heard above the motors. "If what happened was anything to go by, things are going to get pretty tough from now on."
I nodded, knowing for once exactly what she meant. We had been acquitted and returned back to the grind. No doubt the Yukes would fight harder as we claimed their precious Motherland.
I'd need to savor every second I had to "chillax," especially when I had no idea how right Edge really was - and no idea why Hamilton would assert the existence of a squad that didn't.
Albert Genette
Sand Island AFB, Osea
2032 hrs. local
The more I went through the pictures I accumulated during my short trip to Yuktobania, the more I felt drawn into my obsession. I was surprised that they let me keep more photos than before this time - especially the ones of the contractors and weapons crates. Maybe they were more disappointed that I hadn't gotten more pictures of their own soldiers, well or wounded.
My background ambience didn't help.
"We now go live to Jonas Stromberg in Apito."
"Hi Miranda, it's great to be back on the air again."
"Everyone here is very thankful you're alive, and you've just gotten out of the hospital, correct?
Every major news agency, domestic and international, continued to devote a significant portion of their web pages and airtime to covering what was now being dubbed as "Eleven Four."
The running bodycount naturally made for primetime material. The gas attacks left hundreds dead - thousands were it not for the deployment of airborne neutralizers - including the terrorist team, which blew themselves up with the remaining stock rather than surrender. And at the airport, the fleeing Yuktobanian fighters took out an Osea Airways flight in a holding pattern.
"Yes I am, Miranda. I'm still shaken but definitely alive."
But no agency had gotten closer to the action than Weazel News - the only agency that through sheer luck had a person in the airport during the attacks on the ground. Luck that may not have been good for that person being Jonas Stromberg.
"We've just finished going through your footage and I can honestly say that it must have been horrifying for you."
"Yes it was, I just...I didn't know if the next bullet they fired would be the one to kill me."
Most of the base crew were probably already watching the same thing in the mess hall, and I would definitely have stuck out like a sore thumb to be on my laptop in there.
"Can you tell us what happened? How did you survive?"
As it turned out, he had been covering troop deployments from local bases since the invasion began, and was caught out at Apito with a vengeance. Or rather, Yuktobania's vengeance.
"We were being evacuated while the air battle was going on - but on the way out this commando group - definitely Yuktobanian, just came out of one of the elevators and began just...killing everyone. Oh God. They didn't...they didn't care who they were or what age..."
I had to concede that not even Jonas Stromberg could fake tears after witnessing something like that. But that still didn't stop WNC from showing footage after repeated reminders to keep the kids away from the TV.
"How did you manage to survive?"
"I played dead among the other bodies. I know it sounds horrifying, but they didn't seem to care about checking the ones that didn't move. As soon as I was sure they were gone, I took out my smartphone and filmed this under a waiting seat."
His footage was probably already circulating around every video upload site - and its copies swiftly deleted on those sites leery of such material.
"You got out."
"Yeah. I stayed hidden under that seat until a SWAT officer found me. I'm told it was only 30 minutes but it felt like forever."
Yet it was one flickering headline on the ticker that - heinous as my own subsequent action sounded - caused me to sideline Stromberg under my virtual clipboard and other internet windows.
NO-BID CONTRACT FOR KRONUS INTL CRITICIZED
I quickly delved into the archives for more info on what exactly happened out there with the "attempted assassination" of the President.
Osea's outsourcing to private contractors wasn't new. Its military downsizing after the Belkan War naturally meant more soldiers ending up on the so-called "Circuit" to provide security or logistics or other duties for both government and private interests. Hundreds of millions of zollars were given in contracts every year.
But although they didn't identify the company, the "emergency landing of a military aircraft" and the destruction of the surrounding windmills happened in the same Savannah county where Kronus operated its training grounds. Their near-omnipresence in Yuktobania couldn't have been mere coincidence.
The sound of an aircraft landing outside was my conscience's cue to pull me away from slipping off the deep end into tinfoil conspiracy theory.
"The question everyone is probably asking now is...why. Why did you film this?"
"I...I don't know. Maybe it was instinct. But I guess I didn't want to die without letting people see...I wanted people to know what we're going up against. We didn't deserve this. Nobody does."
"Well then, I hope the authorities can catch those criminals and bring them to justice. Thanks Jonas."
Transport aircraft were shuttling in and out of the base almost non-stop. I hoped one of them would be carrying the Wardogs back from their trial.
I also hoped that none of them would be carrying the Man In The Tropical Shirt after the pictures I took. But more than anything, I hoped they didn't bring the Wardogs back changed like Villa seemed to act when it came to dealing with the Yukes.
Stromberg was right. We didn't deserve this. And we certainly did not deserve to stoop lower than they did.
To Be Continued...
A/N 1: Continuing on developing Fort Grace as the Philippines instead of Comona, "Fugoy" is the analogue to "Pinoy."
A/N 2: Hoped this one would be shorter than the last, and failed miserably. Still offering Homestuck reference cameos, if I haven't made this one too blatantly obvious.