02/08/2025: Revised this chapter to make it leaner and easy to follow.
By the time he made visual contact with the lumbering Overwatch transport, he still hadn't received any radio transmission from the UN strike team inside—despite what Anvil Lead had promised. When he tried contacting Captain Halverson on the standard tac-net to figure out why nobody had bothered to talk to him, all he got was static. Annoyed, he hailed the guy three more times until it became obvious he wasn't getting through.
Off the top of his head, he could think of a dozen different reasons why his calls weren't connecting: anything from high-altitude ionospheric anomalies to omnic jamming or simply that the other party had ended up dead. He even wondered if his own comm suite had gone on the fritz.
As a precaution—and to calm his simmering temper—he ran a quick diagnostic on all of the FA-1X's radio systems. Just to be sure.
Sure enough, a few seconds later, the jet's flight computer confirmed there was nothing wrong on his end, at least not according to the system's built-in self-diagnostic.
So, with no better option, he brought the FA-1X in close to what looked like a SinoTech-manufactured tactical transport while setting up a short-range point-to-point comm link.
He settled into formation about seventy feet off the transport's seven o'clock and keyed the transmitter.
"Overwatch transport, Overwatch transport," he said, keeping his tone professional, "this is USAF fighter, call sign Punisher Zero-One, off your immediate seven o'clock. Transmitting blind guard via point-to-point comms link. Do you read, over?"
Nothing.
What the hell…?
He scoffed, not bothering to hide it, even though his mic was still hot. This was definitely wrong. He couldn't figure out why these self-styled action heroes weren't responding, especially on short-range. Given Overwatch's reputation for cutting-edge tech, they sure weren't showing it right now.
Increasing his airspeed slightly, he nudged the control stick and drifted even closer—maybe fifty-five feet away now, sliding to the transport's nine o'clock. Their respective flight decks were nearly parallel, which was a hair-raising violation of every formation reg he knew by heart. But he wanted answers.
Just like his own adaptive canopy, the transport's forward windows were opaque with a variable mirror coating—probably switchable to transparent at the pilot's discretion. Right now, that wasn't helping him.
"I say again, this is USAF fighter, Punisher Zero-One, at your nine o'clock. Transmitting blind guard on a point-to-point link. Is anyone receiving?"
…
…
Still nothing.
God-fucking-damn it, this is getting old.
"Someone, anyone…"
He tapped a control on his AR cockpit display, switching his own canopy from glossy mirror to transparent. Sunlight brightened the interior. Then he turned and waved frantically at the transport's flight deck.
"Hellooooo…?"
Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.
Either this was one massive misunderstanding—caused by some hardware glitch on their side—or these Overwatch folks were deliberately ignoring him, maybe because he was a lowly first lieutenant in the United States Air Force. If that were the case, he swore he'd personally shove his service sidearm somewhere unpleasant.
"For Christ's sake. Someone answer, damn it!" he muttered, voice rising despite himself. "Anyone! Look, I don't care if it's the giant Kraut in fancy armor, or the bearded bastard with the claw-hand, the giant talking monkey with jetpacks, or even that hot MILF sniper in the blue beret—somebody pick up the damn line already!"
Still dead air.
He tightened his grip on the flight stick, resisting the urge to squeeze any weapon-control triggers. Though the thought was tempting.
"Maybe I should just fire a warning burst near your canopy. Melt some of that glass so—"
"—hello? Can you hear me?"
A deep, almost gentle voice suddenly crackled into his headset, speaking fluent American English.
"Yes!" he shouted, half in relief and half in frustration. "About goddamn time! What the hell, man?"
"Our deepest apologies, Mister Punisher," the rumbling voice continued, polite as could be, "We had a few… technical difficulties. One of my colleagues had a device malfunction, emitting a localized EMP burst that disabled most of our incoming and outgoing signals. If we've inconvenienced—"
The guy kept going in that calm, almost pedantic tone, like he was giving a lecture.
Is this dude for real? They were in the middle of a war zone with omnics looking to blow them out of the sky, and this guy sounded like he was explaining a power surge in a lab. Was he not aware they could die any second from AAA shells or a catastrophic decompression?
"—and in conclusion," the Overwatch man continued, "I'm the only one here with a functioning transceiver. So whatever you wish to report, I'll relay it to the rest of my teammates. And regarding your, ah, 'giant talking monkey' remark, for the record I am a scien—"
"Yeah, yeah, that's great," he cut him off, skipping the niceties. "We've got"—he glanced at his HUD—"less than ten minutes before your fancy transport crosses the maximum effective range of an omnic SAM battery. I'm guessing you don't want to be turned into confetti. If you have someone who knows actual radio protocols, get 'em on the line. Pronto."
He tried not to sound like a complete asshole. Tried.
"—Mister Punisher says he needs someone who—"
"Oh, dear Lord…"
It sounded like the man was now speaking off-mic to his teammates. A few seconds later, he came back.
"Mister Punisher, my commander requests a 'sit-rep' regarding your mission and all known dispositions of these, uh, 'SAM sites' and 'triple-A emplacements' in this 'AO.'"
He practically heard the guy putting air quotes around half those military terms. And if it weren't for the seriousness of the situation, he might've cringed himself into oblivion. Clearly, the polite docile voice had no real field experience.
"Just Punisher is fine—uh, who did you say you were again?"
"Call me Win—wait, what's that? I'm not allowed to say my real name? Why not?"
He could tell the man was listening to someone else off-mic—someone apparently more savvy about operational security.
"—for now, you can call me Two-Kilo, Mister Punisher."
He rolled his eyes. Well, at least they were following some comm protocol. Sort of.
"All right, Two-Kilo. Stand by for traffic and relay."
"Uhm…"
"Just memorize what I say and pass it word-for-word to your boss. Got it?"
"As you say."
"All right, sit-rep as follows," he began, taking a breath and trying to keep it professional. "My squadron was tasked with securing this airspace from omnic forces, and then providing overhead cover for an allied MEKA assault on the Omnic See-Three-Eye site somewhere in the region. You got that so far?"
"I did."
"You sure?"
"Mister Punisher," Two-Kilo said confidently, "I'm admittedly no soldier, but I do possess quite the eidetic memory. I assure you I can recall your briefing quite accurately."
"…Right." He cleared his throat and proceeded. "Anyway, omnic air power and their integrated defense network turned out to be way heavier than we expected. What we thought was just a raid ended up being a reinforced UCAV squadron, supported by a decent ground force and both mobile SAMs and triple-A around the target's perimeter. Those batteries don't stay put. They fire, shut down, then relocate before our SEAD units can neutralize them. We've already lost more birds to ground fire than to the UCAV ambush."
"Hmmm…"
He couldn't tell if that was Two-Kilo's way of saying he understood, or if he was lost. He pressed on.
"Our timetable says we should've cleaned these guys up by 1400. Right now, we're barely hanging on. As much as I hate to admit it, the omnics own the skies. We've got less than an hour before the MEKA drones arrive, and they'll probably get shredded by hostile UCAVs before reaching their objectives. Plus, before we lost AWACS, we heard air strength for this strike was down to half, and most of our support assets are either offline or nonexistent."
He paused, exhaling.
"So yeah, Two-Kilo—things aren't looking great."
"I see…" Two-Kilo said. "Is that all, Mister Punisher?"
He fought back the urge to roll his eyes at the constant "Mister."
"That's it. Tell your boss I'll support you however I can, but don't expect any miracle from my end."
"Understood. Please give us a moment."
Thankfully, Two-Kilo must have muted the mic this time, because the pilot didn't have to hear them fumbling around in the background.
He used that brief and merciful silence to reflect on the larger situation. Only minutes ago, he'd nearly been blasted out of the sky by an omnic UCAV. Half his squadron was presumably gone, the other half well on its way to being systematically wiped out. Omnic air wasn't letting up, and without AWACS for coordination, the 25th Tactical Fighter Squadron was just a bunch of scattered jets running on frayed nerves and partial sensor data.
He'd seen bad odds before—like his run-in with Russian fighters off Alaska last year—but that had been a straightforward human conflict, with reinforcements eventually arriving. Nothing about that was remotely like this. If help was even coming now, he had no clue when.
He felt a cold knot in his stomach.
"Mister Punisher?" Two-Kilo's voice crackled back, snapping him out of his funk. "You still there?"
"Copy, Two-Kilo. Punisher One is up."
"My commander has formulated a plan. He wants us to…"
"No!" he practically shouted once the man finished relaying. "Hell no!"
"Mister Punisher—"
"Is he out of his mind?"
"I'm assured it's a reasonable—"
"If by 'reasonable,' you mean 'fucking ridiculous,' then sure," he snarled, instantly regretting the tone. "Does he not realize that area could be crawling with anti-air sites we haven't even found yet?"
"Standard omnic doctrine suggests they fortify the perimeter of a C2 facility but not necessarily—"
He clenched his jaw. Omnic doctrine? Omnics barely followed any consistent pattern humans could predict. They changed tactics on a whim, which was exactly why militaries everywhere were having surrealistic nightmares dealing with them.
"We'll be fine," Two-Kilo promised calmly. "You have my word."
He fought the urge to curse them out again. The omnics were rewriting the rules of warfare; Overwatch or not, no one truly 'understood' how these machines thought.
Still… Overwatch had ended the Omnic Crisis decades ago. Maybe they had some clue, or some advanced AI or infiltration data or something. He honestly wouldn't know.
"Trust us, Mister Punisher," Two-Kilo added. "You're in good hands."
He stared at the Overwatch transport's cockpit to his right, so close they could probably wave if their canopy was clear. Did he have any real choice here? He was alone, half-certain he wouldn't see the next hour.
He glanced at his HUD: five minutes until they hit the Omnic C3I's probable defense ring.
Do or die.
He exhaled, meeting the transport's reflection with a grim nod.
"Fuck this. I'm gonna die anyway…"
He steeled himself to follow Overwatch's plan, no matter how half-baked it sounded. Because right now, that was all he had left.