801 T.T.S. Airbats Fan Fiction ❯ Japanese Bat, American Eagle, North Korean Dragon ❯ Air Raid/Charlie Foxtrot ( Chapter 3 )

40 Miles East of Seoul

 

The formation of American fighters neared the besieged capital of South Korea and split, each smaller formation going towards their respective targets areas. The North Korean forces had known that the Americans were on their way. Flak and anti-air missile batteries situated on the heights surrounding the city began filling the skies with deadly fire. But in doing, so, the anti-air batteries exposed themselves to the Leopards and Wild Weasel-configured fighters. HARM anti-radar missiles leapt off their rails to blot out the enemy air defenses.

“Chief Four flight, Knight 1 Flight—Take high cover; we're beginning our attack run.”

“Chief Four Flight, roger,” Marx replied.

“Knight One, affirmative.”

Marx flipped his radio back over to his flight's frequency. “Four Flight: Echelon right, keep it loose, and keep an eye out for bandits.” Double-clicks on the radios and “Affirmatives” came back as the formation split from its diamond formation and went into a loose formation from Cheetah's 4 o'clock. The element from the 57th Fighter Squadron stayed in a nice tight airshow quality diamond, as the two elements orbited over the provincial park on the south east edge of Seoul. Other than the angry flak bursts and missiles streaking below them, it was a perfect day for flying.

“Hey Scooter,” Cobb called, “I've got something on the camera. Just give me a minute…”

The radio crackled to life. “Warning! Warning! Warning! Outrider Seven to all aircraft: Inbound bandits, one hundred miles, bearing three five zero, speed four hundred and accelerating. Estimate in the forty plus category. Two minutes to contact.”

“Well, there's your answer Doc.” Marx replied as he keyed his radio. “Four flight, come left to 350, and punch it. This is a war, folks: make sure your weapons are hot.” The four Strike Eagles turned on to their new heading, and lit their afterburners, external drop tanks already falling towards the ground behind them. The Raptors kept an easy pace with their older stable mates.

Already the strike frequency was filling up with warnings about the incoming aircraft. The incoming North Korean fighters were second stringers—MiG-21s, MiG-23s, MiG-27s and Sukhoi 7 and 17s, along with Chinese-built F-6s and J-7s.

“Hey Scooter,” Cobb called. “I've got a Mainstay hiding in the background as well. About a hundred miles back.”

“How about a little long-range surgery, then,” Marx shot back, as the incoming North Korean fighters slammed into the escorts. It had already degenerated into a swirling, twisting knife fight. Marx shredded a Shenyang F-6 with the cannon.

“Already locked and warmed up, Scooter.” Cobb hit the launch button, and on port inboard pylon, the Phoenix released and rocketed towards the Russian-built radar plane. “Fox 3; Fox 3 for Chief One Three!” The advanced long-range air-to-air missile tore through the air at Mach 5.

“Roger, Chief One Three,” came the confused reply from the Navy Hawkeye crew.

The Mainstay didn't even have a chance. Although the missile's proximity fuse failed to detonate, the missile plowed through the cockpit of the converted transport before exploding, turning it into an expanding ball of flame. “That's two,” Cobb called over the intercom.

“Fox 2, Fox 2!” Marx called, as he flipped a Sidewinder at minimum range. It tore through a Flogger, turning Russian-built fighter into shrapnel. “Make that three, Doctor.”

“Looks like we're winning this one,” Cobb noted, as the NK Air Force turned tail and ran north.

“All Chiefs report in,” the radio crackled with Col. McCormick's request. Marx nodded as each aircraft checked in.

“I'll definitely agree with you on that one…” Marx held off, as the command frequency squawked to life. “Outrider 7 to all units, multiple new contacts bearing zero four five, speed eight five zero.” Closing on the American fighters was the North Korean varsity squad—6 four ship formations of Fulcrum and Flanker fighters, and one very special 3 ship formation. “All fighters, Outrider 7. Raid count standing at two-seven bandits. I say again, raid count at two seven bandits, Angels 30.”

Like a bolt of lightning, the varsity squad slammed into the American fighters. The first to get shot down was Kitten One—the 5th FS squadron commander—shot down by one of the birds in the three ship formation. The fight degenerated into a fierce furball, with the Hawkeye giving vectors as best as the crew could.

Missile trails ended in fireballs and panicked cries for assistance were abruptly cut off. Marx and Cobb were hard pressed defending against getting shot down, when a panicked call came over the radio. “This is Knight 3. I can't shake him! Someone, anyone, get him off me!”

Cheetah's flight computer had already pinpointed the Raptor in question and was giving Marx steering cues. “Swing,” he called over the squadron net, “I'm going to help out a Knight in trouble. Keep your six clear.” With a double click from his wingman, Marx wracked the advanced fighter into a tight 9-gee turn and on to the plotted intercept course, before slamming the throttles to full burner. The modified Strike Eagle rocketed through the air, dodging and weaving. “Cobb, do you have the bastard yet?”

“Got him—Naval Flanker at 3 o'clock, 45 miles. Locked, cocked and ready to rock, Scooter.”

“Knight 3, Chief One Three. Max climb now! Fox 3, Fox 3!” Cobb flipped their last Phoenix at the Flanker. The pilot of the Russian built advanced fighter had virtually no time to react as the missile slammed into him at five times the speed of sound. “Shit, I lost count, Scooter, but I think we made ace.”

Marx's reply was cut short by a “Missile Launch” prompt. Cheetah's automatic electronic warfare systems activated and began pumping out chaff and flares, while the small vents opened to cool the exhaust. Marx wracked the fighter into it's tightest turn yet—the airframe audibly creaking and popping—but the missile passed them, detonating harmlessly behind them. “Check six, Cobb!”

“Fuck! We've got some weird…thing there. Holy shit! It looks like Dreamstar.”

“Hold on to your lunch, Doc.” Marx flipped the fighter into a tight rolling dive with the burner cans lit. The altimeter began unwinding like the cable on a runaway elevator.

“Jesus Christ, Marx! What the hell are you trying to do, kill us?”

Marx bothered to ignore his backseater, and hit the voice prompt. “Full power, positive Zulu climb!” The computer responded, by righting the aircraft and opening the louvers on the lower side, diverting thrust and creating lift. The canards swiveled vertical, acting as both a speedbrake and air dam. Cheetah shot up like a rocket, losing Firebird in the distance.

The battle turned out to be indecisive, with both sides turning back to their respective bases. “All units, Outrider 7. Primary objective has been completed; linkup was successful. Disengage and return to base. Disengage and return to base.” Marx looked around at the fighters disengaging and moving away from the objective, as South Korean fighters that survived the initial onslaught and flight to southern Korea swept in to provide cover for the retreating leaders of South Korea.

As they headed towards safer airspace, squadron formations reformed, and a count was taken. Hit hardest, by numbers lost, were the vaunted Raptors. Two of the Black Knights weren't coming home, a third was shot up and limping home on one engine. The Leopards were also hit hard, but a majority of their losses came from ground fire.

It was a quiet flight back to Misawa as each pilot or crew reflected on lost comrades and friends; lost to the ferocity of the North Korean defense. “Hey Scooter, what was it that Mitaka gave you before we left this morning?”

“I have no idea. I haven't had a chance to open the envelope yet.”

“Well, now's as good a time as any.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Quickly doing a scan in the immediate airspace, Marx set the autopilot, then started digging through his flight gear to retrieve the envelope that Mitaka slipped in before they left Iruma. Successful, he tore open one end and retrieved the letter and photo she'd given him.

The photo was taken at the beach, more likely than not last summer. That was evident by Isurugi's nosebleed caused by his bikini-clad wife hugging him, and Mitaka's white bikini. Marx smiled into his mask as he wedged the photo behind an MFD screen. “Cobb, keep an eye out for anything closing on us,” he said as he opened the letter.

 

Chris,

 

I'm sorry that I couldn't tell you this in person, because of this sudden damnable war. I know I probably told you when you and Captain Cobb left that I love you. The time we spent together was far, far too short. I would have loved to spend more time with you.

When you took me up in that magnificent plane of yours, I know you risked the wrath of your commander. In that respect, we are truly kindred spirits. Even if I'm kicked out of the Air Self Defense Forces, I want you to know that I would be willing to give up everything and to live with you, no matter what happens. Yes, I told you to come back to me whole, but that's because you've filled the remainder of the hollow piece of my heart that was only partially filled by my love of flying since the day my mother died.

I love you

Mitaka

 

“She does love me,” Marx muttered.

“That's good news, Scooter. At least you'll have someone relatively local.”

“What about that girl you met after we got here? What was her name again?”

“Setsuna. Nah, we were together just for the sex, and man was she great in the sack. Hey, did you know her hair color's natural?”

“Too much freaking information, Doc. I really didn't need to know that.” Marx shook his head and returned to the task at hand—flying the plane.

 

Halfway across the Sea of Japan, the surviving engine on the damaged Raptor decided to call it quits, forcing the pilot to eject. JASDF search and rescue assets were scrambling even as the pilot hit the water.

Nearing Japan, the formation began to break up as fighters declared emergencies and diverted to JASDF or Maritime Self Defense Force bases for gas or interim repairs. Final approach at Misawa was hairy not only for the pilots but also the controllers. Damaged aircraft that hadn't diverted were kept orbiting, if their fuel status allowed them to, as a precaution against closing down the airbase. The rest of the formation was staggered one fighter every 90 seconds, with a transport or tanker in between. As soon as they touched down, the arriving aircraft were directed to their respective squadron or the cargo areas, where C-5s, C-17s, C-130s, KC-10s and KC-767s that finished their fighter drag, were offloading equipment and supplies painted green—trucks, tankers, cargo trailers, missile containers, tents, bullets and bombs.

Marx touched down and taxied Cheetah to the Chief's new squadron areas, which were landmarked by an old IJN hangar. The operations and maintenance squadron headquarters tents had been relocated next to the hangar. “Jesus Christ,” Marx muttered, “have we been transplanted to England, circa 1944?”

“Damned if you got me, Scoot,” Cobb said. “All we need is a 48 star flag, and it could damn well be England or the Pacific or during the Korean War.” Marx didn't reply, as he was a little busy following the ground guide's signals to their revetment. He pulled out in front of where he was supposed to be and waved off the tug.

“These guys should have realized this isn't an ordinary Strike Eagle.” Marx hit the voice command button. “Reverse thrust, 15%.” Cheetah's flight computer closed shutters that ran across exhausts of the GE engines, and opened the dorsal and ventral louvers in such a way that the thrust was diverted towards the front of the fighter. The engines ran up to 15% thrust, and Cheetah backed up under its own power. When they reached the indicated point, Marx cut the throttles, and set the parking brake. Once the double wheel landing gear was chocked, then the engines were shut down and the hatch opened.

Master Sergeant Reyes was already interfacing the flight computer, and pulling the data from Cheetah's first combat mission. This would definitely give the maintenance crew a head start on any needed work. The weapons crews were replacing expended ordinance and pulling the DVD-R from the gun camera. No more magnetic media on Cheetah, save for the computer's brain, so there was a very limited chance of the gun camera film getting corrupted.

An open-topped Humvee pulled up, and the driver saluted the advanced F-15's crew. “Colonel's compliments, Major; all arriving flight crews are to report to the Ops tent for debrief.” Marx and Cobb nodded wearily, and climbed into the four-by-four for the drive over to the tent.

When they got there, Major William Bailey was waiting there with two cans of sort of cold beer. “Scooter, Doctor; welcome home,” he said as he handed the two each a beer.

“Thanks Fuzz,” Marx said, as he cracked open the beer. The slightly high-strung major looked and acted a lot like the Beetle Bailey character “Lt. Fuzz”, and was blessed with the callsign when he finished transition training on the Strike Eagle by his instructors. Type instructors, particularly for fighter pilots, can be the bane of a younger pilot. Depending on how they see a pilot trainee, and what characteristics they see in them, the instructors either bless or curse their trainees with their permanent callsign. In Marx's case, it was because his issue glasses reminded the instructors of a certain Muppet; Bailey's was because of a cartoon character; Cobb's because he had this habit of calling everyone “Doctor” after a bit from a second rate Chevy Chase/Dan Akroyd spy movie; the squadron commander received his because of his last name.

“So what happened up there,” Fuzz asked, prompting for the intelligence report.

“The regular North Korean air force is trash, Fuzz. The most advanced fighter we saw them flying were Floggers and Fitters. And I think most of those guys had about a hundred hours of flying time all together.”

“Outrider 7 had a Mainstay on its radar and ESM at the start of the fight. Then it disappeared.”

“We got it with a Phoenix, Fuzz,” Cobb said.

“Wait a second? A Phoenix? Are you guys flying a Tomcat?”

Marx chuckled, then looked at his backseater. “I guess Fuzz wasn't briefed.”

“Nope. Maybe we should rectify that.”

“Fuzz, you may have heard that Cobb and I were kicked off Luke about two years ago, and sent to some desolate hole in the ground out in Nevada as punishment.” The operations officer nodded. “For the past two years, we've been flying the hottest fighter to ever come along—a modified Strike Eagle codenamed `Cheetah'—and I've been the project manager since we arrived there.

“Cheetah has a lot of `special' modifications, some of which you'll learn about through the course of the war. But, what I can reveal is that Cheetah can carry and fire Phoenix missiles. We popped the Mainstay at 100 miles and a naval Flanker at 45 miles. But Cheetah's capabilities aren't important right now.

“What is important, is that the North Koreans have this thing…”

“What kind of thing?”

Cobb answered. “No idea what the classification of it was, but it had twin tails, and I think forward swept wings.”

Fuzz looked at the two sitting there, drinking Schlitz. “I'll forward that report up to Intelligence. If you've got any photos or gun camera footage, that would help immensely.” Marx and Cobb nodded. “Anything else, gentlemen?”

“Yeah Fuzz. It's like there's a whole different North Korean air force out there. The guys in the newer MiGs and Sukhois knew what they were doing; almost as if they were Russian or Chinese pilots.”

“I'll tag that to get forwarded to Intel as well, Scooter. Go grab some chow and get some sack time.”

“Roger that.” The two from Elliot turned and headed out the tent. Marx paused a moment, and faced the Operations officer. “Fuzz, something else.”

“What it is, Scooter?”

“If you're going to provide beer for debriefings, make sure it's something other than Schlitz.” Marx ducked out of the tent and climbed into the waiting Humvee before Bailey could answer.

335th Fighter Sqdn Compound

 

Cheetah's crew looked at their quarters both in amazement and disgust. Lying on the ground before them, and around the rest of the compound, were the parts and pieces for a tent, a stack of cots, field lockers, duffle bags and luggage for the rest of the element, and two large boxes containing one tactical light set. Luxury items, such as flooring weren't available yet. Marx sat down on one of the boxes and rubbed his eyes, both because his contacts were bothering him, and in frustration. “Jesus Christ, do they think we're in the army? Last time I set one of these up was when I was in fucking the Army.”

The other pilots of the element arrived, two at a time as Fuzz debriefed them. All of them had the same expression as Marx did when they arrived, and expressed the same sentiments. Doing a snap, crackle, and pop of his back, neck and knuckles, Marx stood. “Alright folks. This tent is not going up by itself, and our enlisted personnel are busy setting up their own tents. So let's suck it up and get the tent up. Besides, we want to show the Marines just how capable the Air Force is.” With that, Marx and Cobb started to open up the tent. The other three crews joined in after a moment's hesitation, while the other pilots of the squadron looked on, before deciding that they too should get their tents set up.

* * *

It was a gorgeous late spring evening, a fitting compliment for the Chief's first day at war. It was the kind of night that you didn't mind sleeping out in a tent, and made you forget about the war, and other than the occasional rumble of a jet engine, it was the kind of night that Marx had enjoyed many times in the woods.

Currently, the Project Manager for the Advanced Tactical Fighter Program was sitting on a crate outside his tent, enjoying the evening and discussing the security arrangements for Cheetah with the commander of the newly formed 1st Security Forces Wing—HAWC's Security Forces commander Colonel Hal Briggs.

Misawa itself was dangerously overloaded. The fighters and tankers of the 2nd Air Battle Wing being deployed to Yokota Air Base, but were remaining overnight at Misawa before launching their missions against occupied South Korea. Units from the 1st ABW were still coming in as well, and most were assigned tents, creating tent cities scattered all over the base, mainly because the base commander was spiteful son of a bitch since he lost the coveted position of Commander-in-Chief, Far East Air Forces to the 4th Fighter Wing's commander, General Mitchell. The aircrews from the 2nd Air Battle Wing that were remaining overnight before continuing on to Yokota, Kadena and Nyutabara airbases had the advantage of being billeted in actual barracks.

“Major, can I speak to you for a moment?” 1Lt. Montoya asked, after waiting for the Major and the Colonel to finish their conversation. Marx nodded. The young lieutenant looked around, as though she didn't want anyone to hear what she was going to ask. “Sir, I don't know really how to say this, so I'm going to say this flat out. I was scared shitless up there today…”

Marx held up his hand. “I know, Lieutenant. Believe me, I know. How many hours do you have in the Strike Eagle?”

“About 300, sir.”

“And this was your first combat mission?” Montoya nodded. “I'm going to let you in on a little secret. This was my first real combat mission. And frankly, I had the shit scared out of me as well.” He motioned for her to move a little closer. “Not many know this, but I've never fired a shot in anger. I was deployed to rear areas most of my career, or Northern Watch. The first actual war shot I ever took was today when I fired on the Shenyang.”

“So how did you keep it together, sir?”

“By following the law of the jungle: Kill or be killed. If I hadn't been as aggressive as I was, we would not be having this conversation. Plus, you also have to remember that when we go to exercises like Red Flag, or even just have in impromptu exercise, it's all training the reflexes to fire first, and remember later. But remember not to get cocky out there. Look what happened to the Black Knights. They thought their shit didn't stink because they had the hottest fighter on the base, but look what happened to them. Three fighters lost, with two pilots back on the ground. That doesn't say a lot about the Raptor as a fighter. Granted it's probably a better fighter than even Cheetah, and in the hands of a competent pilot be a superb aircraft. But in the hands of some arrogant son of a bitch, it's just another clay pigeon.”

“I see what you mean sir. Plan the fight, and fight the plan, right?”

“Exactly. But remember that the bad guys don't always play by our rules. Remember what happened after we knocked back what was assumed to be the North Korean air force?” She nodded, and Marx continued. “It was like a whole other air force out there. These pilots, their varsity squad if you will, know how to handle their fighters, how to fight, and how to win.

“Look, Awilda, don't dwell on it. We're going to have a lot more missions before this war is over. I can tell you that. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if Fuzz wakes us up bright and early for another mission. So get some rack time, and don't worry about it. Ok?”

“Ok, sir. Thanks for your time. It's helped me some.”

“No problem,” Marx replied. Montoya slipped into the pilot's tent, as Marx slowly drew on the cigar in his mouth. “What advise do you offer a leader who's scared,” he asked himself quietly in the gathering dark as he stilled his shaking hands.

 

Morning broke over northern Japan as it had for millennia. Activity levels at the airbase began picking up. Fighters roared down the runway, heavily laden with fuel and weapons intended for targets behind the forward edge of battle to slow the relentless North Korean advance. Tankers crawled into the still air on the prayers of their crews, their fuel tanks filled to the lower threads of their fuel tanks. AWACs made their way aloft, their crews already at work planning the upcoming strike.

Marx stood bleary eyed in the mess line, looking at the pair of mobile kitchen trailers connected together and holding a paper dinner tray. “Geez, I thought I saw the last one of these trailers my last annual training.” He grudgingly accepted his cold, runny eggs and rubbery bacon, and walked through the line.

“Hey Scooter,” Cobb called, “these MKTs came from your old Guard unit.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Marx tapped his cold toast against the front fender of a deuce and a half. “Desert Storm surplus toast; I'll bet the Leonard's boys are eating at a real chow hall, eating real food not this slop.”

“I'm sure they are, Scoot. Hey, Skipper's coming up.”

“Great,” Marx muttered. He and Cobb saluted Col. McCormick, when he walked up. “What's up sir?”

Spice returned their salutes. “Marx, Cobb. We've got a change in orders for you and your element.”

Apparently some knucklehead from the States wants a first hand look at this morning's counteroffensive near Yangyang. Seems he thinks he's Patton, Ridgeway, and Schwarzkopf rolled into one.”

“So what's this have to do with us? We're supposed to provide close air for that op. And now we have to keep our noses clean because of this jackass wanting his flight pay, combat and hazardous duty pay?”

McCormick took a deep breath. `Not exactly, Major. Your flight will be escorting him to within twenty miles of the combat zone.”

“You can't be serious! I hope to God that he's in a B-1, since we're going to be within interceptor range of Wonsan and Kunpei airbases.

“Not to mention G-2 still has no idea where the North Korean varsity squad is lairing. Did you explain to our boss that he needs every swinging dick and set of tits armed to the teeth with bombs? We've lost Seoul and 50 miles of South Korea in less than 72 hours, sir.”

“Hell Scooter, I argued it all night with General Mitchell; I argued it with him again this morning before I came here. This comes from higher than him; General Mitchell's hands are tied.”

Marx sighed, and pulled out his notebook. “So, when and where are we meeting his plane?”

Spice looked at his PDA, before continuing. “At this grid reference…” McCormick rattled off a string of numbers. “It'll put you about a hundred and fifty miles off North Korea's east coast.”

“As for when, he's in the air already, and will be at the rendezvous in two and a half hours.”

“Great,” Marx said drolly. “What's he in?”

“An E-8.”

“So now we have to defend an unarmed, slower than molasses C2 plane. Jesus, Spice, what a fucking balls up!” With a snap, Marx closed his notebook. “Sir,” he said, saluting,” I do this under protest.” McCormick just nodded, and stormed away.

Rendezvous Point Alfa
40ËšN, 130ËšE
2 Hours Later

 

Cheetah led Four Flight in its orbit—Cheetah and Swing's birds orbiting clockwise, while the other two orbited counterclockwise. “Doc,” Marx asked his backseater, “why are we here?”

“Would it be because we pissed off a certain flag officer back Stateside two years ago? Or would it because the powers that be seem to think this element makes for an excellent air to air unit.”

“Doc, one battle doesn't prove a thing.”

“Yeah, except that our bosses were wasting money on the Raptor. Losing three-quarters of your force is not good odds.” Marx let what his backseater had said, as he pulled Cheetah into the northern leg of their orbit. Swing followed along, covering the flank of his wing leader.

The radio finally crackled to life. “Escort Flight, this is Odin 6, two hundred miles north of Point Alfa.”

“Odin 6, Chief One Three; standby to authenticate.” Marx replied. Since they were close to North Korea, Marx consulted the day's authentication table “Authenticate Delta Quebec.” Granted they were both on the same channel and frequency hop, Marx still wanted to make sure.

“Odin 6 authenticates `Bravo', Chief One Three.”

“Confirmed Odin 6. Chief Four standing by at Point Alfa. Recommend you abort mission; Skywatch Two Four reporting enemy fighters near Point Bravo.”

“Already tried that, Chief One Three. Odin Six Actual still wants eyes on the front. ETA two-five mike.”

“Roger, we'll be waiting,” Marx said. “Fucking balls up.”

Twenty five minutes later, the E-8 slid into formation with the four fighters and proceeded to Point Bravo—the orbit area. Marx breathed a sigh of relief as they began their racetrack orbit pattern. They hadn't had to fight their way in or defend against overwhelming odds. “Doc, can you get the battle on the aux receiver,” he asked as they began their fourth orbit.

“I'll try Scooter.” The intercom was filled with white noise as Cobb found the right channels, before they settled down into spot reports, medevac requests, fire support calls—all the normal chatter of an army at war.

“Chief Four, Skywatch. Bandits enroute to Point Bravo. Speed one thousand, range 50 miles, count steady at one five.”

“Crap. Odin Six, bug out! Get that target out of here!”

“Tally ho!” Cobb shouted into the intercom. “I got a visual on the bandits. Looks like the varsity's here to play!”

“Shit. Odin, firewall those engines,” Marx all but shouted. “Chiefs, engage at will! Protect the E-8 for as long as possible.”

“Maddog! Maddog! Fox three, starboard four ship!” Only three of the Phoenixes launched found targets; the fourth dropped to the ocean when the rocket failed to ignite.

“Chief One Three, splash 3.” Skywatch reported over the air.

The fight became a furious 12 v. 4 battle as the American pilots launched missiles at visual ranges. AMRAAMs, Sidewinders and invisible bullets all filled the air as the flight tried to narrow down the odds. Odin Six was diving for the deck, her TF-33 engines pushing her has fast as they could. But it was all for naught.

Firebird and her two escorts broke out of the furball and began chasing the defenseless E-8. “Odin 6, Skywatch—Bandits at your six o'clock! Evade! Evade!”

As the lumbering airborne control platform began its break to the right, in an effort to evade, Firebird's pilot launched a single Archer, which slammed dead center on the fuselage. The J-STAR turned into a self-feeding frenzy of fire as it dropped from the skies.

“Goddamnit,” Marx shouted. “Four Flight, break off and bug out back to base. Our mission's blown here.” Marx flipped one last Sidewinder at a Fulcrum, and nodded with satisfaction as the air-to-air missile ran straight up the tailpipe before it detonated, taking the North Korean fighter with it.

Operations Tent
Misawa AB

 

“Goddamnit Colonel, I told you it was a mistake to send an E-8 that close to North Korea!” Marx all but shouted, as he stormed into the squadron commander's office.

“Major,” Spice said quietly, “what would you have wanted me to do? General Mitchell's hands were tied by echelons higher than us; I told you that this morning.

“Besides, the order for us to provide escort came from Washington. How were they to know…”

Marx interrupted. “By listening to our S-2 and the Wing's G-2. Everyone saw their varsity squad yesterday. I know you did.”

“Langley is downplaying the existence of the varsity squad, Major.”

“That, sir, is a load of bull, Colonel.”

“Careful, Major,” McCormick replied, a warning growl in his voice.

“Then I strongly urge you to forward these data disks up the chain of command.” Marx threw a couple of jewel cases down on the field desk. “They're copies of my gun camera footage from this morning's cluster fuck. It definitely shows what we're facing up there, sir.”

“How do I know these aren't forgeries, Major?”

Marx smiled. “You don't, sir. You're just going to have to trust me on this.” With that, Marx saluted and walked out of the tent.

 

* * *

 

Mitaka was sitting at the table in the Airbats' multipurpose room, reading the day's Asahi Shimbun. The war was still front page news; the Allies were fighting a running battle, losing ground only hesitantly. South of Seoul, fighting was fiercest around Suwon, while on the east coast North Korea had bypassed Yangyang and Kangmung, and pressing hard for Pukp'yong-dong.

There were rumors that even if the UN forces pulled their lines back to Pusan, like they did 50 years ago, it would give the North the incentive to launch a nuclear missile and eliminate all organized resistance on the peninsula. There were also rumors that only a military pilot would hear—about an advanced Russian fighter that preyed on senior leadership had shot down an E-8.

“Arisa, you've got mail!” Yohko called out.

The most aggressive of the four pilots fixed her pink-haired squadron mate with a quizzical look. Her estranged father never bothered to write her; her grandfather wrote her only infrequently. She took the envelope and looked at it. It was nothing fancy, although lacking a postage stamp. The address was written in English, with the return address on the back. For the first time since her lover had left to go off to war, Mitaka had an honest smile on her face as she opened the envelope.

Sakura looked at Captain Konishi. “Five thousand yen says its from Major Marx.”

The Airbats commander glanced up from his paper. “No bet, Sakura. Not with that smile on her face.”

“Oh, you're no fun,” she pouted, as Mitaka slipped out of the multipurpose room.