(An Ace Combat Fic)
Rule the skies, rule the battlefield.
This phrase had been beaten into his head since flight school, since high school reading books about the previous great wars, since grade school when he watched documentaries on the prowess of the combat aircraft.
Over and over: Rule the skies, rule the battle.
Now, if only such a task wasnÆt soàdifficult.
ôFour, youÆve got a MiG on your tail!ö
ôI got him, Lead! Guns, guns, guns!ö
ôWatch that twenty millimeter, you jackass!ö
ôIÆve been spiked, where the hell is it coming froùSAMs down below!ö
Lieutenant Garik of the 92nd Tactical Fighter Wing of the Independent State Allied Forces (ISAF) took that as his cue.
His small F-16 dove out of the clouds, away from the sprawling engagement of tracers, missile smoke and contrails the filled the sky, and screamed towards the ground. On the nose of his grey fighter jet was the painting of a maniacal looking weasel, an Air-to-Ground missile reared back and ready to throw at some unfortunate enemy on the ground.
The Wild Weasels, tasked with finding enemy missile batteries on the ground and turning them into hunks of burning scrap.
The radar in the nosecone of the single-engine fighter searched and scanned, looking for the missile installation that had fired up into the dogfight above. The seconds ticked by and sweat beaded on GarikÆs forehead as the ground rushed closer and closer.
ôCome onà.come onà.ö He breathed into his oxygen mask, brown eyes flicking from the radar display infront of him, to his HUDÆs altimeter, to the sky around him and the rapidly approaching ground.
Suddenly his radar squawked and it took only a quarter of a second for his mind to register what the screen was telling him.
He had found the Erusian radar sight and his targeting computer had locked onto it. But the only reason that he had found it was because the ground radar had also found a target.
Him.
With his air-to-mud missile already primed he let fly. The missile was smart and was known as a fire-and-forget missile because once it was launched you could fly away without a care in the world and the missile would do all the work. Unfortunately for Garik, he had one big care in the world in the form of a very large, very fast approaching missile from the position he had just fired at.
The young Usean Lieutenant swore as he cranked the flight stick and instantly regretted letting out the expletive about the ErusianÆs intimate relations with his own mother. The G-forces from such a sharp change in direction slammed into his entire body like being hit by a truck. His air whooshed from his lungs and he struggled to work his training exercises as the nimble fighter craft changed direction. He was dimly aware of his other hand moving on its own out of trained reflex.
The result was the release of canisters of metal, chaff, which would confuse the missile if it was radar guided. If it was heat-seeking, then the bright, hot flares that he was also pumping out would also serve to throw the missile off.
In some far off land, possibly another dimension where his aircraft wasnÆt being chased down by a bloodthirsty, rocket-propelled, unmanned kamikaze he could hear the air combat controller reporting that his missile had destroyed the SAM site on the ground.
But he had more important things to do like, say, dodge!
He twisted his plane this way and that, the female voice of his radar calmly saying, ôMissile Alert, Missile Alert.ö
Over his shoulder, Garik could see the billowing smoke trail arcing towards him, getting closeràcloserà
Detonation.
Even through his canopy and his helmet, the explosion was loud and accompanied by a thousand rattles, like sheet metal in a hail storm. Shrapnel peppered the aircraft, bouncing off his canopy. The concussion wave from the explosion jolted his plane and Garik fought the flailing stick between his legs for control until finally he evened out.
Panting harshly he looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see half his plane gone. He was pleasantly surprised to see that only parts of his plane were missing, mainly half of his tail rudder. The loss of that much metal in such a horrible fashion made his plane a little irritable and the rudder pedals under his feet began to tremble and vibrate angrily.
ôTremor Two, are you okay?ö The air controller asked over his radio and Garik felt a surge of anger as he realized everyone was still fighting. How dare they keep fighting when he almost died! It was so selfish, so stupid, soàsoà
Garik looked down and saw his hands were shaking violently, his breathing ragged, sweat dripping down his face.
ôIÆmàIÆm okayà.IÆm banged up real bad thoughàT-tremor TwoàIÆm returning to base.ö He said, his voice just as shaky as his call-sign.
ôRoger, Tremor 2. The battle is going smoothly. Mobius One has almost guaranteed air superiority.ö The AWACS replied. Garik blinked and looked up at the sky.
Sure enough, a lone F-22 Raptor was twisting and diving, unleashing its deadly touch on all that opposed him. Burning twists of metal that once were planes tumbled from the sky, leaving thick black trails of oily smoke in their wake.
Of course Mobius One would save the day. He always did. Always. Whereas he couldnÆt even take down one single SAM site without getting chewed up. Emotion welled in him and he realized it was jealousy. That bastard. That total bastard was standing all of them up, making them look bad.
Over the radio he heard the AWACS still talking. ôMobius One reports air superiority. Begin airborne operations.ö
As he flew back towards base, he passed the lumbering cargo planes filled with paratroopers, now safe from air attacks. Garik slowly calmed his breathing and thought about that last transmission and he found it frustratingly accurate.
Mobius One had air superiority. Not only just over the enemy, but his own comrades as well.
Rule the skies, rule the battlefield.
This phrase had been beaten into his head since flight school, since high school reading books about the previous great wars, since grade school when he watched documentaries on the prowess of the combat aircraft.
Over and over: Rule the skies, rule the battle.
Now, if only such a task wasnÆt soàdifficult.
ôFour, youÆve got a MiG on your tail!ö
ôI got him, Lead! Guns, guns, guns!ö
ôWatch that twenty millimeter, you jackass!ö
ôIÆve been spiked, where the hell is it coming froùSAMs down below!ö
Lieutenant Garik of the 92nd Tactical Fighter Wing of the Independent State Allied Forces (ISAF) took that as his cue.
His small F-16 dove out of the clouds, away from the sprawling engagement of tracers, missile smoke and contrails the filled the sky, and screamed towards the ground. On the nose of his grey fighter jet was the painting of a maniacal looking weasel, an Air-to-Ground missile reared back and ready to throw at some unfortunate enemy on the ground.
The Wild Weasels, tasked with finding enemy missile batteries on the ground and turning them into hunks of burning scrap.
The radar in the nosecone of the single-engine fighter searched and scanned, looking for the missile installation that had fired up into the dogfight above. The seconds ticked by and sweat beaded on GarikÆs forehead as the ground rushed closer and closer.
ôCome onà.come onà.ö He breathed into his oxygen mask, brown eyes flicking from the radar display infront of him, to his HUDÆs altimeter, to the sky around him and the rapidly approaching ground.
Suddenly his radar squawked and it took only a quarter of a second for his mind to register what the screen was telling him.
He had found the Erusian radar sight and his targeting computer had locked onto it. But the only reason that he had found it was because the ground radar had also found a target.
Him.
With his air-to-mud missile already primed he let fly. The missile was smart and was known as a fire-and-forget missile because once it was launched you could fly away without a care in the world and the missile would do all the work. Unfortunately for Garik, he had one big care in the world in the form of a very large, very fast approaching missile from the position he had just fired at.
The young Usean Lieutenant swore as he cranked the flight stick and instantly regretted letting out the expletive about the ErusianÆs intimate relations with his own mother. The G-forces from such a sharp change in direction slammed into his entire body like being hit by a truck. His air whooshed from his lungs and he struggled to work his training exercises as the nimble fighter craft changed direction. He was dimly aware of his other hand moving on its own out of trained reflex.
The result was the release of canisters of metal, chaff, which would confuse the missile if it was radar guided. If it was heat-seeking, then the bright, hot flares that he was also pumping out would also serve to throw the missile off.
In some far off land, possibly another dimension where his aircraft wasnÆt being chased down by a bloodthirsty, rocket-propelled, unmanned kamikaze he could hear the air combat controller reporting that his missile had destroyed the SAM site on the ground.
But he had more important things to do like, say, dodge!
He twisted his plane this way and that, the female voice of his radar calmly saying, ôMissile Alert, Missile Alert.ö
Over his shoulder, Garik could see the billowing smoke trail arcing towards him, getting closeràcloserà
Detonation.
Even through his canopy and his helmet, the explosion was loud and accompanied by a thousand rattles, like sheet metal in a hail storm. Shrapnel peppered the aircraft, bouncing off his canopy. The concussion wave from the explosion jolted his plane and Garik fought the flailing stick between his legs for control until finally he evened out.
Panting harshly he looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see half his plane gone. He was pleasantly surprised to see that only parts of his plane were missing, mainly half of his tail rudder. The loss of that much metal in such a horrible fashion made his plane a little irritable and the rudder pedals under his feet began to tremble and vibrate angrily.
ôTremor Two, are you okay?ö The air controller asked over his radio and Garik felt a surge of anger as he realized everyone was still fighting. How dare they keep fighting when he almost died! It was so selfish, so stupid, soàsoà
Garik looked down and saw his hands were shaking violently, his breathing ragged, sweat dripping down his face.
ôIÆmàIÆm okayà.IÆm banged up real bad thoughàT-tremor TwoàIÆm returning to base.ö He said, his voice just as shaky as his call-sign.
ôRoger, Tremor 2. The battle is going smoothly. Mobius One has almost guaranteed air superiority.ö The AWACS replied. Garik blinked and looked up at the sky.
Sure enough, a lone F-22 Raptor was twisting and diving, unleashing its deadly touch on all that opposed him. Burning twists of metal that once were planes tumbled from the sky, leaving thick black trails of oily smoke in their wake.
Of course Mobius One would save the day. He always did. Always. Whereas he couldnÆt even take down one single SAM site without getting chewed up. Emotion welled in him and he realized it was jealousy. That bastard. That total bastard was standing all of them up, making them look bad.
Over the radio he heard the AWACS still talking. ôMobius One reports air superiority. Begin airborne operations.ö
As he flew back towards base, he passed the lumbering cargo planes filled with paratroopers, now safe from air attacks. Garik slowly calmed his breathing and thought about that last transmission and he found it frustratingly accurate.
Mobius One had air superiority. Not only just over the enemy, but his own comrades as well.