Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction ❯ Phoenix ❯ Chapter 14 ( Chapter 16 )

Marx turned and walked out of the break room, out to the flight line.  Watching a pair of Darts taxi out from his element taxi out and launch, helped to relieve the tensions that the executive office was feeling.  The past couple of months had been tense for the pilots of the squadron.  Alerts led to interceptions of lost or misdirected aircraft in the first month, as the Department of Homeland Security implemented air traffic corridors into the Air Defense Identification Zone.  Any plane outside one of these corridors was subject to interception, but never did any of the units get the plane that downed El Al flight 28.

They came close last month, when Cathay Pacific flight 830, following the new corridors, was intercepted by the raider.  One engine was blown out by the Backfire's guns, but the bomber left with a pair of Darts and a pair of Eagles on its tail.

"Scooter," he heard.

Marx turned and saw the operations officer standing near one of the aircraft structures.  "What can I do for you Beetle?"

"We've got a mission.  Seems our friend is back, and causing more trouble.  McFly and Junior aren't answering their radios.  And Air France flight 8991 disappeared from the radar as well."

"Shit.  Sounds like they got tagged by our friend."

"Exactly.  Go get suited up, we launch in five minutes."

Marx nodded and jogged to Life Support to get into the rest of his flight gear.  It was possible to launch in just nomex, but pulling g-forces greater than 4Gs and flying higher than 10 thousand feet weren't advisable.  The techs there helped the middle aged captain get into his G-suit, parachute harness and survival gear.  Grabbing a conveniently insecure Humvee, he took the minute drive to his structure.  Airman Rios had the starter cart already running, providing external power to the fighter.  A quick walkaround later, showing that nothing was detrimental to the fighter, Marx climbed into the cockpit and strapped in.  The Pratt and Whitney F119 fired up on the first go, and warning beacons, taxi and formation lights snapped on.  "Sierra Two, standing by to taxi."

"Sierra One, roger.  Morristown Tower, Sierra Flight requesting taxi clearance."

"Sierra Flight, Morristown Tower.  You are cleared to taxi to Runway 13. "

"Sierra Flight, roger.  Sierra One taxiing."

Marx keyed his radio.  "Sierra Two taxiing."  Marx advanced the throttle of his fighter, and taxied out of his shelter.  It only took a few minutes for the two fighters, which were not on alert status, to taxi from their revetments to the threshold markings at the end of Runway 13.

The radio squawked to life again.  "Sierra Flight, you are cleared for take off."  The twilit night lit up as the afterburners on both fighters rocketed down the runway, before pulling nearly vertical halfway down the runway.  "Sierra Flight, contact NYADS on button 5."  As their altimeters wound up, they chopped their throttles back to keep from exceeding the speed of sound.

"Roger."  Both pilots switched their tactical radios to the assigned preset.  "NYADS, Sierra Flight."

"Sierra Flight, NYADS.  Follow standard interception orders.  Privateer has been spotted near grid reference 27UWT6813998584.  There's been a loss of contact with Air France flight 8991.  Rendezvous with Texaco 29 at grid reference 24VUL8510641771.  Once clear from Texaco 29, contact Starbase 4 on button 6.  You are authorized transonic flight over CONUS; your speed is BUSTER.  I say again BUSTER."  Marx imputed the grids into his navigation computer, giving him waypoint information that was unavailable on the ground in this rapid scramble.

"Roger.  Sierra Two, punch it."  Once again, the night sky was lit up with trails of fire, as both fighters relit their afterburners.  On the ground, a pair of sonic booms was heard as the fighters slipped through Mach 1.  Mach indicators in the cockpits crept up to Mach 2, before the pilots pulled back slightly on the throttles.  It only took forty five minutes for the two fighters to reach their tanker, but they were close to fuel minimums.  Both Beetle and Marx took a perverse pleasure in draining the remaining standby fuel in their KC-10, to give them full tanks-internals and drop-for the second leg of their interception.

"Starbase 4, Sierra Flight with you at FL 350, heading for FL 550."

"Sierra Flight, Starbase 4, radar contact.  Target is at Angels 40; heading 135°, speed Mach .95.  Be advised, no assistance available in time.  Also be advised, Weather is reporting a potential tropical depression forming off the coast of Africa."

"Starbase 4, Sierra Flight, roger.  We'll take care of it.  Sierra Flight out.  Just make sure there's a tanker standing by at point Delta."  The two fighters angled towards their contact, accelerating to their top speed of Mach 2.6.  It was a tail chase, and their target had fuel capacity to spare, but they weren't using the capabilities of the bomber to the best of their abilities, which gave the American interceptors their best advantage.

"Tally ho!"  Marx called over the radio.  "I've got the bastard at 11 o'clock low!"

"Roger, Scooter.  Let's go nail this asshole."  As the two fighters closed on the Backfire, warning lights began flashing in the cockpit.

Two pairs of modified AA-11 "Archer" missiles, modified to be fired to the rear of a strike fighter, streaked from their mounts.  Both fighters took evasive maneuvers, but Beetle's was nailed before he could complete his first turn.

"Holy mother…Starbase 4, Starbase 4, Sierra Two.  Sierra One is down!  I say again, Sierra 1 is down.  No 'chute!  No 'chute!

"Sierra 2 engaging!  Fox 2!  Fox 2!"  Marx locked his AMRAAMs on the Backfire and flipped the first two.  They were decoyed by chaff, flares and powerful jamming coming from the Soviet bomber.  "Sonuvabitch," he growled into his mask.  He switched his last two long range missiles to home-on-jam mode, and launched them.  The huge bomber managed to evade those missiles as well with a tight turn at the last minute.

He closed the distance and ripple fired his Sidewinders.  "Fox 1!  Fox 1!  This sonuvabitch is dead."  He sighed in frustration as his last air to air missiles were all decoyed, either by flares, evasive maneuvers, or a jammer. 

With his guns his last choice, Marx closed the distance with a solid solution.  The bomber's rear turret and he exchanged rounds, as his 20mm explosive tipped rounds walked their way through the wings and engines, while the Backfire's dual 23mm cannons tore apart his fighter.  "Got the bastard!"  He cheered as the bomber erupted into a ball of flame, but at the same time his own fighter began disintegrating around him.

"Starbase 4, Starbase 4, Sierra 2 ejecting."  Ejecting as the fighter blew up into a ball of flames, Marx sailed down into a rough Atlantic Ocean, on the leading edge of a tropical depression.

------

Ranma had just gotten their son out of bed when there was a knock at the front door.  Chris isn't back from the squadron yet.  I wonder…she thought.  With trepidation, she walked down the stairs, hoping it wasn't what she thought it would be.  There was a knock again, this time with a little more insistence.  Opening the door, she saw it was Colonel Reed.  "What can I do for you this morning, Colonel?"  She motioned for the squadron commander to come in, and asked if he'd like a cup of tea or coffee.  He declined.

"Mrs. Marx, your husband was shot down over the eastern Atlantic last night."

"What do you mean, 'shot down'?"

"Ma'am, he was engaging a terrorist bomber that had shot down two airliners, and damaged a third…"

"I remember that one.  My sister was on that flight."

"I assume she came through it all right?"  Ranma nodded.

"How did it happen?"

"We're…not sure.  He was flying wingman for Beetle…Major Bailey, who was shot down, without a 'chute being observed.  Chris called it over the air, and informed the AWACs that he was engaging.

"As far as we know, he was shot down in the process of firing on the enemy.  But we do know he was somewhat successful, since both his fighter and the terrorists were destroyed within moments of each other.

"Ranma, we have search and rescue enroute to the area, so if he survived, they'll find him."  If he survives the storm coming, Reed thought.

"Colonel…thank you.  I need some time alone."  Reed nodded, and let his executive officer's wife have some time alone.  If they didn't find her husband, she'll have to raise three kids on her own, and that was a sobering fact.

------
Somewhere in the Atlantic

Marx was busy bailing for his life.  He'd managed to fashion a sea anchor out of his reserve parachute and "550" cord, so that his life raft was at least facing the waves threatening to swamp his inflatable.  His helmet he was using to bail out the bottom of the raft to keep it afloat, and it was his rotten luck that the first wave knocked his ELT overboard.

At least on the bright side, he'd noticed a trawler not too far away when he'd crest a wave, and still had his flare pistol and a half dozen flares.  He sent a flare up into the gloomy skies the second time he sighted the fishing boat.  It started moving when he crested a third time, and to keep them appraised of his position, he flipped one every third wave.  As it got closer, that's when he saw the hammer and sickle flying from the mast, along with a multitude of antennas.

When it got to his position, the crew of the trawler heaved a line out to him, pulling him aboard.  "Well," he muttered, as he was unceremoniously dropped on the deck of the Soviet trawler, "any port in a storm."  He looked at his rescuers and potential captors.

They were a scurvy lot, what you might expect a Soviet intelligence ship might have for a crew.  In his mind, he could almost picture them as a modern day pirate crew.  "Keptin Marx," one said in heavily accented English, "velcome aboard.  Your pistol, please?"  With hesitation, and only prompted by a number of automatic rifles seen, Marx carefully withdrew his M1911A4 automatic, removed the 15 round staggered clip, and ejected the round in the chamber.  With the slide back, he handed it to sailor in front of him, grip first, then handed over his clip.  "Spasiba, Keptin.  Vould you come vit me, please."

"How did…Oh.  Never mind."  Marx had forgotten his Velcro patches on his flightsuit.  He hadn't expected to be taken prisoner, so he hadn't tossed them into the drink.  He followed his "host" into the superstructure.  He was unbound so he knew he wasn't a prisoner, at least yet.

They brought him to the galley, and set a steaming cup of tea in front of him, which he gratefully took a large gulp out of.  Sitting across from him was a smooth looking woman, dressed as a typical fisherman.  In front of the person was what looked like a personnel jacket.  "Captain Marx, I'd like to welcome you aboard our humble vessel," she said, in Oxford-accented English.

"I'd like to thank you for my rescue.  I'd rather not have spent much time bouncing around in a raft during a tropical depression."

"You're quite welcome.  It's not every day we get an American pilot dropping in on our humble vessel.  Particularly since we're just a modest fishing vessel."

Marx looked at his opponent across the table.  "Tell you what.  Just drop me off at the nearest neutral port, and we'll forget about this entire incident, shall we?"

The blonde laughed throatily.  "You are so unlike your dossier, Captain.  Or should I say Major?  Your promotion is all but in the bag."  Marx raised an eyebrow at that.  "Oh yes, we know all about you and your career."  She opened the file in front of her.  "It's a shame really.  Your photo looks nothing like you.  Let's see…currently second-in-command of the 542nd Fighter Squadron, after doing a three year tour in Japan with the 14th Fighter Squadron; married to a Japanese national, who has quite an interesting history.  Seems that the only "Ranma Saotome" until about five years ago was a male.  But all of a sudden there's first a "Ranma Misaki" on a Japanese registry followed by a change in gender to "Ranma Saotome".  Care to explain that?"

Marx narrowed his eyes at the blonde bombshell across from him.  "Only if you'd care to explain how Al-Qaeda got a hold of an interceptor Backfire."

"Captain, I cannot explain that, as it would compromise the Motherland's internal security."

"Well, my friend, if you won't explain that, then I can't explain it."  He held a steady gaze on his inquisitor.  "Not that you'd believe me anyway," he muttered under his breath.

"Look," he said, "I just shot down a bomber that your air force 'lost' and was 'found' by a terror organization.  Can't you just send a radio message to your Foreign Ministry, to contact the State Department and apprise them of my situation?  I'm sure my wife would appreciate it.

"Besides, it'll help your country save face when our president asks your ambassador how and why Al-Qaeda had such a sophisticated piece of equipment."

The blonde inquisitor closed the file and stood.  "This interview is at an end, Captain.  Please, enjoy our hospitality, but the only areas that you will be allowed are the deck, the galley, sickbay, and your cabin.  If you are caught anywhere other than the areas I mentioned, you will...simply have succumbed to the storm.

"And, as we are not scheduled to stop anywhere other than our home port, we are unable to simply drop you off at a neutral port.  I will, however, radio Moscow once we are clear of this storm about our 'unique' situation.

"Dimitri will be your escort, and show you to your cabin.  Good day, Captain Marx."  She opened the door, and called to the guard in Russian.  The hulking guard entered, an AKS-74 slung across his back.  He motioned for Marx, who stood, and followed the guard to his cabin.

"Christ," he muttered, "I feel like James Bond.  Just without all the nifty gadgets."  He entered the cabin, and the guard secured the hatch.  "Escape and evasion needs to add something like this in their curriculum."  He looked out the porthole, at the horizon as the trawler pitched up and down the mounting waves, and had the feeling that the next few days would be a question and answer session like the last one he had.  He hadn't been searched yet, so they hadn't found his codebook yet, but it'd be a matter of time before they decided to search him.  He'd have to figure out some way to destroy it the next time he was out on deck.

------

Ranma knelt before a small shrine in a corner of their living room, incense filling the air with its comforting scent.  A black and white photo of her grandfather standing next to his A6M Zero, dressed in his flightsuit, was the centerpiece of the shrine.  "Grandfather," she said in prayer, "I ask that you protect my husband from the elements, and allow him a swift rescue.

"Grandfather, I guess it's kind of odd that you should hear me ask for your protection for my husband.  I remember bouncing on you knee as a child, and as a boy…" Ranma related her story to her grandfather's spirit.  In a way, it gave her a much needed release from the depression that had started to fill over her, after Colonel Reed stopped by with the bad news four days ago.  She put up a strong front in front of young Saburo, but inside she was hurting.  Ever since Misawa, her husband had been her steadfast anchor in the chaos that would have swept her away, leaving her existence only as a mark in the roles of Jusenkyo and as an adopted Amazon.

Now she was asking for divine assistance from her late grandfather, a fighter pilot of great renown to both the Imperial Navy's Air Arm, and their American adversaries, and of modest demeanor, to protect her husband, a fighter pilot of modest renown and demeanor in the American Air Force, as Tropical Storm Brunhilde began to strengthen into a hurricane.  Ranma began finishing up her rambling monologue to her ancestor.  "I know I haven't been the most diligent of granddaughters, but all I ask is that I not have to wait for the next life to rejoin my husband; that we meet again in this life, so that we have the rest of our lives together raising our children."

Standing, she saw her son standing over by the door.  "Momma, where's Daddy?  When's he coming home?"

Ranma knew this was coming.  She really didn't want to explain what happened to Chris to their son, but it was something that needed to be done anyway.  "Come here, Saburo-kun," she said, as she unfolded and sat Indian-style.  Their son sat down next to his mother.  "I'm going to tell you a little of our family history first.  Do you see that man in that picture?"

"The one standing in front of the really old plane?  Like the kind Daddy loves to look at when he takes us to an airshow?"

"Yes.  That's your great grandfather; in fact you're named after him and your grandfather.  He was a fighter pilot, fighting for the defense of his homeland.  He was hurt many times, and shot down a few times as well.  But he persevered.  He lived his life like a samurai from ancient Japan. 

"Well, your daddy is a fighter pilot also.  Do you remember when you were asking about the decorations on his jacket?"

"Yes Momma."

"Well, he's doing what your great grandfather did during the Second World War: he's defending his home from bad people that want to hurt us.  And like your great grandfather, he was shot down a few days ago.  Hopefully, he'll be home in a few days, and everything will be alright.  If he's not; Saburo, you are the man of the house.  It'll be up to you to help me with the chores around the house, and when your brothers or sisters are born, help me with them.  Do you think you're up to the task?"

"I think so, Momma."  Saburo hugged his mother tightly.  "Daddy'll be home.  I just know it.  Besides, 'A martial artist's life is full of danger,'" he said, paraphrasing his convicted grandfather's favorite truism.

Ranma hugged her son just as tightly, as a lone tear tracked it's way down her face.