Post by phrostphyre on Feb 13, 2011 20:54:33 GMT -5
Flame spurted from the tail-end of the missile as it launched, leaving barely a trail as the pilot threw his plane into a greater burst of speed. His aircraft shuddered under the intensity of his rage, which translated to a shaking of the control stick slightly. First Lieutenant James Ian Jean-Michel MacRae nearly punched the control panel of his plane in frustration as the warning systems of his screamed at him. The high-G maneuver of the enemy aircraft had placed it behind him, and there was a Sidewinder screaming his way. Yanking back on the stick, the F-22 jerked upwards. Now it was the classic fighter race: Who would stall first? Jamie knew his plane could go higher with less oxygen, but for dive speed, he knew the F-22 was out matched by the J-20, basically the Chinese copy of the F-22. However, Asia after the War had formed a cooperative Federation to rebuild their respective countries and present a united front against Western fighter pilot and fighter jet domination.
Jamie swore over the radio as he felt his fighter hit the Burble point. She tipped over, he swore once more, and then he was screaming in a mixture of Canadian French, Canadian Gaelic, and English as he and his plane dropped towards the fast approaching ground. The Rockies of Western Canada reached out to grab him, and he blacked out for ten seconds, inadvertently pulling the stick back and to the right, rolling the plane up and just out of a mountain, causing the Chinese J-20 to go plunging into the cold rock. Jamie came back to, slowly descending. He started and pulled the fighter up and around, heading back towards CFB Bagotville, Quebec and the base he was currently flying out of for the Grand Tournament. He let the plane do what it wanted; only keeping it flying at an altitude high enough to make sure he could react to anything. Grinning at a sudden thought, he shut his radio off for a moment and closed his eyes. He was an apex predator at the height of his domain, and nothing could reach him. After a few moments of silence and dreaming, he turned the radio back on. Luckily, no one had noticed his breach of protocol.
“This is AWACS Water Bottle. F-22 in the air over Alberta, you are being redirected to an airbase in Alaska. Raptor One, call sign Hawk One, turn Northwest and head for Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska. In thirty minutes, you will be directed by AWACS Monitor.” Jamie accordingly altered course, then settled in for an even longer flight.
The hours and minutes passed slowly for the bored fighter pilot. He needed to use a bathroom, and a pot of coffee wouldn’t go amiss. The sun had gone down; cruising at two thousand feet meant that he was able to be seen by anyone who looked up. Well, after the War the USA had increased F-22 production by two hundred percent. It wasn’t exactly uncommon to see F-22’s overflying an area. The AWACS he had been passed to had done nothing other than acknowledge communications, make sure Jamie was on the correct vectoring, and then gone silent. The green and brown farmland below was uneventful. Jamie was about to place his plane on auto-pilot when the threat board screamed at him. Instantly alert, he scanned the sky first. Clear. He checked the control panel, and his radar located on-board indicated four bandits on his tail.
“AWACS, this is Hawk One. Bogey dope the bandits on my tail. I count four, all apparently F-35’s. What do you have?” Jamie wasn’t worried. Four F-35’s, going against himself and an F-22? There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell. Most fighter pilots are young; they need to be. The sense of God-like invincibility and piss and vinegar attitude served them well in the fur ball that was modern aviation combat. Jamie was not short of confidence in himself, his weapon system, and his plane. Aside from the J-20 and MiG-32, the F-22 was the best fighter in the world. Jamie believed himself to be the best pilot in the world. The AWACS was silent. Swearing, Jamie slowed to barely above landing speed and let the four fighters catch up to him. They formed on him and he saw the insignia on their tails; a golden eagle on a black background, with a falcon in its claws. Jamie swore even worse this time, to a shocked gasp. He was on the same line as a ham radio operator. He was being escorted by Iolar Squadron. The elite of the elite, they were chosen from all nations to represent the U.N. The lead, one Capt. Asad, from Afghanistan, was reportedly better than the Ace of Aces. His name forever lost to history in the bombings of Washington, D.C, he had flown for the United States during the War. He had flown an F-22, painted black. After the bombings, he had used it as an excuse to forget his name himself, simply becoming Fallen.
Fallen had embraced the legend that sprung up around him, and completely fell into the dogfights that he seemed to live for. Eventually, he disappeared after the war. “First Lieutenant MacRae, please alter course to Rhode Island. The UN Security Council wishes to speak with you.” That was Asad. Jamie obliged, not willing to dogfight with the Iolar Squadron, and especially not Asad. He feared the man’s reputation. To get it, he had to have done what some of it said he had. Jamie wasn’t willing to risk his life, or that of his future children. They needed him to survive to get made, didn’t they? Shrugging, Jamie climbed a bit higher, then began a conversation with the radio operator he had heard earlier.
“Ham radio operator, this is Hawk One of the United States Air Force. Please tell me how you broke the encryption on this channel.”
“My dad did; he’s a senior tech guy for some super secret company out here. Hey, you fly right? Were you in the F-22 that got that J-20 killed? I saw that. Was that for the Tournament? If so, that was pretty legit, man.”
“Tell your father he needs to call my cell phone at five thirty your time tonight, and I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. I will say this, however; let’s just say I’m the best damned pilot to fly these skies since the Ace of Aces.”
“You’re full of yourself, aren’t you, Hawk One?”
“They pay me to be the best. I can only oblige by giving them what they pay for.”
“Damn. You really are arrogant. So, Hawk One, do you have a name other than your call sign?”
“Technically, I’m not supposed to disclose it, but for a woman with such a pretty voice, how could I not? First Lieutenant James Ian Jean-Michel MacRae, United States Air Force, Ferret Hawk Squadron, and I’m at your service. We fly top cover for Wild Weasels and provide bait for them to use. Most of us also happen to be damned good dog fighters, too. Now, madam, do I get your name?”
“No. You do get an address and a phone number, though. Ask around Haven, Alberta, Canda, for where the red and blue Gypsy wagon went. If you can catch up to us, my father might let me talk to you again. Also, don’t bring a car. Horse or motorcycle, mister big-shot fighter pilot badass.” Jamie grinned and increased speed. He had been disqualified from the tournament for breaking radio protocol by speaking with the radio operator on the ground. Pending investigation, he would receive a month and a half suspension with pay. Another pilot would take his place, and he would be free to pursue the mysterious Gypsy woman across North America, if need be. A missile lock-on warning screamed at him. Jamie pulled back on the stick, climbing to gain altitude, and then dove, throwing the missile off course. The launch had come from Asad! Jamie juked left, then left again, and again to the left, vainly hoping to throw him off course. For the next ten minutes, the four F-35’s fought Jamie. Luck, prayer, and the tiniest bit of skill saved his life more than once. The five fighters wove through the sky in a deadly dance, with the sound of screaming and engines deafening Jamie. He was at seven thousand feet. He dived, accelerating with his after burner on. An idea came to him. He triggered a missile at six hundred feet, switched his IFF off, and hoped they would take the bait. The camouflage patterning on his plane made it all work; Jamie had successfully faked his death. With no parachute, and about two hours for the nearest search and rescue helicopter to arrive, he was safe for the moment. The stealthy profile of the F-22 disappeared into the normal clutter of the ground, and Jamie headed for the place where he had beaten the J-20. He was nearly out of fuel, but it wasn’t that far away.
The F-22 screamed over the brightly painted wagon, and Jamie used the Short-Landing Take-Off capability of his F-22C to land in the field it was camped in, startling the horses. He cut the engines off, and then popped his canopy. He drew the M13 .12 caliber pistol under his seat, then removed his oxygen mask and helmet to an overcast day, with snow on the ground. He stood and jumped out of the cock-pit, to land on snow. His boots crunched the snow beneath them, and Jamie checked everything around him before placing his pistol in a map pocket. Three years ago, Jamie was gangly, all skin and bones. Now he was deadly in the sky with any fighter he was given, and deadly on the ground, with anything he was given, or nothing. He had grown into his height, filling out nicely. Now he was well muscled, with broad shoulders that matched his height. The face seemed to be that of a history teacher, but the eyes told more about the man than anything else did, including himself. They were the soft blue commonly associated with the coasts of Pacific islands before the war, but the fury there had managed to keep Jamie relatively friendless in his squadron. For Jamie had nearly dropped out of Pilot School, only to channel that fury at graduating. He succeeded, and now he was going to be listed as KIA on the rolls for the Tournament and KIA in the roster the Air Force.
Jamie swore over the radio as he felt his fighter hit the Burble point. She tipped over, he swore once more, and then he was screaming in a mixture of Canadian French, Canadian Gaelic, and English as he and his plane dropped towards the fast approaching ground. The Rockies of Western Canada reached out to grab him, and he blacked out for ten seconds, inadvertently pulling the stick back and to the right, rolling the plane up and just out of a mountain, causing the Chinese J-20 to go plunging into the cold rock. Jamie came back to, slowly descending. He started and pulled the fighter up and around, heading back towards CFB Bagotville, Quebec and the base he was currently flying out of for the Grand Tournament. He let the plane do what it wanted; only keeping it flying at an altitude high enough to make sure he could react to anything. Grinning at a sudden thought, he shut his radio off for a moment and closed his eyes. He was an apex predator at the height of his domain, and nothing could reach him. After a few moments of silence and dreaming, he turned the radio back on. Luckily, no one had noticed his breach of protocol.
“This is AWACS Water Bottle. F-22 in the air over Alberta, you are being redirected to an airbase in Alaska. Raptor One, call sign Hawk One, turn Northwest and head for Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska. In thirty minutes, you will be directed by AWACS Monitor.” Jamie accordingly altered course, then settled in for an even longer flight.
The hours and minutes passed slowly for the bored fighter pilot. He needed to use a bathroom, and a pot of coffee wouldn’t go amiss. The sun had gone down; cruising at two thousand feet meant that he was able to be seen by anyone who looked up. Well, after the War the USA had increased F-22 production by two hundred percent. It wasn’t exactly uncommon to see F-22’s overflying an area. The AWACS he had been passed to had done nothing other than acknowledge communications, make sure Jamie was on the correct vectoring, and then gone silent. The green and brown farmland below was uneventful. Jamie was about to place his plane on auto-pilot when the threat board screamed at him. Instantly alert, he scanned the sky first. Clear. He checked the control panel, and his radar located on-board indicated four bandits on his tail.
“AWACS, this is Hawk One. Bogey dope the bandits on my tail. I count four, all apparently F-35’s. What do you have?” Jamie wasn’t worried. Four F-35’s, going against himself and an F-22? There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell. Most fighter pilots are young; they need to be. The sense of God-like invincibility and piss and vinegar attitude served them well in the fur ball that was modern aviation combat. Jamie was not short of confidence in himself, his weapon system, and his plane. Aside from the J-20 and MiG-32, the F-22 was the best fighter in the world. Jamie believed himself to be the best pilot in the world. The AWACS was silent. Swearing, Jamie slowed to barely above landing speed and let the four fighters catch up to him. They formed on him and he saw the insignia on their tails; a golden eagle on a black background, with a falcon in its claws. Jamie swore even worse this time, to a shocked gasp. He was on the same line as a ham radio operator. He was being escorted by Iolar Squadron. The elite of the elite, they were chosen from all nations to represent the U.N. The lead, one Capt. Asad, from Afghanistan, was reportedly better than the Ace of Aces. His name forever lost to history in the bombings of Washington, D.C, he had flown for the United States during the War. He had flown an F-22, painted black. After the bombings, he had used it as an excuse to forget his name himself, simply becoming Fallen.
Fallen had embraced the legend that sprung up around him, and completely fell into the dogfights that he seemed to live for. Eventually, he disappeared after the war. “First Lieutenant MacRae, please alter course to Rhode Island. The UN Security Council wishes to speak with you.” That was Asad. Jamie obliged, not willing to dogfight with the Iolar Squadron, and especially not Asad. He feared the man’s reputation. To get it, he had to have done what some of it said he had. Jamie wasn’t willing to risk his life, or that of his future children. They needed him to survive to get made, didn’t they? Shrugging, Jamie climbed a bit higher, then began a conversation with the radio operator he had heard earlier.
“Ham radio operator, this is Hawk One of the United States Air Force. Please tell me how you broke the encryption on this channel.”
“My dad did; he’s a senior tech guy for some super secret company out here. Hey, you fly right? Were you in the F-22 that got that J-20 killed? I saw that. Was that for the Tournament? If so, that was pretty legit, man.”
“Tell your father he needs to call my cell phone at five thirty your time tonight, and I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. I will say this, however; let’s just say I’m the best damned pilot to fly these skies since the Ace of Aces.”
“You’re full of yourself, aren’t you, Hawk One?”
“They pay me to be the best. I can only oblige by giving them what they pay for.”
“Damn. You really are arrogant. So, Hawk One, do you have a name other than your call sign?”
“Technically, I’m not supposed to disclose it, but for a woman with such a pretty voice, how could I not? First Lieutenant James Ian Jean-Michel MacRae, United States Air Force, Ferret Hawk Squadron, and I’m at your service. We fly top cover for Wild Weasels and provide bait for them to use. Most of us also happen to be damned good dog fighters, too. Now, madam, do I get your name?”
“No. You do get an address and a phone number, though. Ask around Haven, Alberta, Canda, for where the red and blue Gypsy wagon went. If you can catch up to us, my father might let me talk to you again. Also, don’t bring a car. Horse or motorcycle, mister big-shot fighter pilot badass.” Jamie grinned and increased speed. He had been disqualified from the tournament for breaking radio protocol by speaking with the radio operator on the ground. Pending investigation, he would receive a month and a half suspension with pay. Another pilot would take his place, and he would be free to pursue the mysterious Gypsy woman across North America, if need be. A missile lock-on warning screamed at him. Jamie pulled back on the stick, climbing to gain altitude, and then dove, throwing the missile off course. The launch had come from Asad! Jamie juked left, then left again, and again to the left, vainly hoping to throw him off course. For the next ten minutes, the four F-35’s fought Jamie. Luck, prayer, and the tiniest bit of skill saved his life more than once. The five fighters wove through the sky in a deadly dance, with the sound of screaming and engines deafening Jamie. He was at seven thousand feet. He dived, accelerating with his after burner on. An idea came to him. He triggered a missile at six hundred feet, switched his IFF off, and hoped they would take the bait. The camouflage patterning on his plane made it all work; Jamie had successfully faked his death. With no parachute, and about two hours for the nearest search and rescue helicopter to arrive, he was safe for the moment. The stealthy profile of the F-22 disappeared into the normal clutter of the ground, and Jamie headed for the place where he had beaten the J-20. He was nearly out of fuel, but it wasn’t that far away.
The F-22 screamed over the brightly painted wagon, and Jamie used the Short-Landing Take-Off capability of his F-22C to land in the field it was camped in, startling the horses. He cut the engines off, and then popped his canopy. He drew the M13 .12 caliber pistol under his seat, then removed his oxygen mask and helmet to an overcast day, with snow on the ground. He stood and jumped out of the cock-pit, to land on snow. His boots crunched the snow beneath them, and Jamie checked everything around him before placing his pistol in a map pocket. Three years ago, Jamie was gangly, all skin and bones. Now he was deadly in the sky with any fighter he was given, and deadly on the ground, with anything he was given, or nothing. He had grown into his height, filling out nicely. Now he was well muscled, with broad shoulders that matched his height. The face seemed to be that of a history teacher, but the eyes told more about the man than anything else did, including himself. They were the soft blue commonly associated with the coasts of Pacific islands before the war, but the fury there had managed to keep Jamie relatively friendless in his squadron. For Jamie had nearly dropped out of Pilot School, only to channel that fury at graduating. He succeeded, and now he was going to be listed as KIA on the rolls for the Tournament and KIA in the roster the Air Force.