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BACKGROUND INFORMATION: This is not in the Wielvakia-Erusea Conflict, unlike most of my other stories. This is going to be during the Anean Continental War. Also, I am not going to specify the aircraft used in the story. I don't have enough knowledge on these types of aircraft or their operating protocol, so I'm going to structure it according to my ideas (plus basic concepts from already-existing aircraft). I leave it to your imagination.  


Mission 1: January 29, 2016 18:33 hrs.

I stand in my flight suit, on the tarmac, leaning against the fuselage of my plane. Three others are with me. The wind and the low sun mix in a combination that will surely give me a headache. I've been staring at the doors to Hangar Three for nearly half an hour, waiting for the mission analyists to emerge from their briefing. I am really annoyed. Maybe it's the weather here, or maybe it's our target location. I sure as heck know that we're going twenty miles north of Nordennavic, that it'll take about seven hours to do this mission. I learned this yesterday, along with my aircraft crew. We ALL know what we're doing, and we learned it early. But the mission specialists? No, they just have to take their time.

Finally, all five of them come out of the doors, folders in their hands. We all know what we're supposed to do. So let's go do it.

"Wait!" shouts a voice. What now? "Let me get a picture of you all. You're part of the 390th Surveillance Group, right?"

"Yeah," I reply without hints of politeness.

"Let me get a picture of you guys next to the plane. Let's have the guys with binders kneeling, and you four stand behind them."

I stand, farthest to the right. I don't smile. What's the point? It's just so some journalist can get a picture of us in some magazine and then call us murderers. Well, we're the reason you're still alive, sonny. After the photo shoot, I turn around and open the door. The door is in the back of the fuselage, on the left. I'm first in, followed by my copilot, navigator, and engineer. Then the analyists go in.

The door opens into the back cabin. The back cabin looks like a regular commercial airliner. Five chairs line the right row of the back cabin. That's for the analyists when they're off duty (when we're en route to or from an AO.) Then we get into the observation bay, where there are five stations. There's the radar stations, radio signal station, and visual observation stations. This part of the cabin is dark. Well, actually, it's ALL dark now. The aircraft is completly dead. That's until I get up to the flight deck, open the door, and climb into the cramped left seat. I also double as the aircraft commander. I get to work, just making sure that this thing turns on.

First, I get a go for turn-on from the ground engineer. They don't have to work on the plane anymore; we're using it now. I go through the procedures with Terry, while Red is discussing the flightplan with Wiseguy.

"Battery switch to on." He calls out. I reach overhead and turn the battery on.

"Battery on," I affirm.

"Avionics on."

"Avionics on." I give the plane a minute to turn on the flight displays. It's like a 737 in here, with the throttle actually next to the overhead panels instead. The throttle hangs in the pilot's face, which confuses most new pilots. I find it ok.

"Ok. Radios."

"Radios to on. Red, do a radio and IFF check. Get the weather report and contact the ground controllers."

"Wilco." he says, putting on a headset.

"Ok, what next?" Terry is looking farther down the list, but not answering. I sigh. "TERRY!" I shout. He looks up, with an unimpressed face. "Welcome back. What's after the radios?"

"Well now, nothing. Do the radio checks, flightplan check, turn on the lights, everyting short of turning on the engines."

"Right." I reach up, turn on the taxi, recognition, strobe, and wing lights. The copilot chatters with the ground, then turns to me.

"Cap, we're clear for the twelve."

"Ok." I say. "Set the autopilot and flaps." He reaches for the lever to his left, next to the radio stack. Then he reaches to the instruments atop the dashboard and turns knobs that determine our heading, altitude, and airspeed. In the meantime, I reach up and turn on the cabin lights and A/C. It's too dark and too warm in here. I pick up the large, bulky headset and place it on my head, the mic near my mouth. I push backwars on the button around my belt. "Buckle up, back there, and close the door. You all know the drill."

Terry taps me on the shoulder. "How about the engines now?"

"Sure, I think we're all ready. Wait, hold on." I check the radio. It's tuned to the ground frequency. Good. "Ok."

"Generators on."

"Ok." I reach for the buttons near the throttle.

"Fuel."

"Fuel on."  I open the fuel, which are levers near the throttle that actually look loke the throttle. New pilots are so confused with this.

"Ok. Fire it up."

"Firing up." I reach for the four starter switches on the overhead, one for each propellor. Each engine starts up normally, as I observe out the windows. Then I turn the starters off. They have served their purpose. I push the mic button forward. "Ortara Ground. Spyglass 55 taxiing to the twelve."

"Spyglass 55, Ortara. roger. Verify information Kilo."

The copilot chimes in. "Roger, we have Kilo." That was just asking if we had the latest weather update. A storm's on the horizon, and the sun's about to set. I push the throttles forward just a bit, release the brakes, and taxi forward onto the taxiway parallel to the runway. I turn left, keep taxiing that way, and then turn perpendicular to the runway.

"Ortara tower, Spyglass 55. Request takeoff on runway 12, with information Kilo and Oscar priority." Oscar is code for observation.

"Ortara to Spyglass 55. Clear for takeoff. Have fun."

"Spyglass 55, will do. Thanks." I put the safety harnesses around my shoulders and my waist. I taxi onto the runway. I turn off the taxi lights and turn on the landing lights. Then I reach for the throttle, and push it smoothly, but fully, forward. The props turn furiously as they pull the aircraft down the runway. I am pushed back into the seat as I return my hand to the control yoke. I stare intently at the airspeed. As it hits 155 mph, I pull the stick back. The nose points up, and I am squished back into the seat again. The rear wheels leave the ground. Our altitude goes up, at a rate of 800 feet per minute. "Red. Gear and flaps up."

"Right."

I push five buttons on the autopilot: Autopilot mode, autothrottle, speed hold, heading, and altitude. The plane now flies itself; I only have to turn a couple of knobs.

"Spyglass 55, you are leaving my airspace. Squak friendly until you need to go silent. Take care."

"Spyglass 55 copies all. Thanks." So we're on our own. We climb to an altitude of 19,000 ft ASL and turn north, headed for Nordennavic. It's a three hour trip up. I break the montony by joking with the guys, confirming our course every once in a while, calculating the time to the nearest checkpoint, and so on. The sun has set, and it's gotten dark. There's a bit of cloud cover below, but I can make out cities. Some are bright, others dark due to war damage. Then the terrain changes.

"Feet wet," says Wiseguy.

"Spyglass 55, feet wet." I say to the AWACS in the area. He acknowledges me. We have crossed into the channels surrounding the various Nordennavic islands.

After sitting, talking, monitoring the instruments, and staring out the window for another forty-five minutes, Wiseguy chimes in.

"We're 20 mikes from AO." Twenty minutes away.

"Roger." I reply. We work on turning off the lights, notifying the AWACS about our radio silence and IFF silence, and start the decent. We have to go to 6,000 ft. I call the cabin. "Ok guys. 20 minutes from the AO. Get to your stations."

I turn off the lights in the back cabin and turn on the lights in the observation bay. I assume they're doing what they shoud be, so I return my attention to the instrument panel. We have another four minutes until we hit altitude, and the plane has become a ghost, almost as if it was sitting dead on the tarmac. We're in neutral territory, but we have to treat it as if we were in Estovakia. We have to scan for a sumbarine base that the satellite photos say is around here.

I turn the autopilot off once we hit altitude, but I keep the same settings. Then Terry and I work on turning off the two outboard engines. We don't need them. They'll just make noise and waste fuel, and we'll just be flying in circles for an hour and fifteen minutes. Once the engines are off, the navigator specifies the search areas. Which I go to. We fly in circles at five waypoints, which is almost as monotonous as the flight up here. We spend fifteen minutes at each waypoint. The weather up in Nordennavic is so much clearer than Ortara, and the ground below still looks innocent.

After an hour and fifteen minutes, I assure that the cabin crew has what they need. I get up out of the seat and stretch (which feels insanely good), then I open the door to the flight deck.

"Are you guys done? We've hit the five waypoints."

"Yes, sir, mission accomplished. We found the base, seventeen miles from Waypoint 2. I can't tell you much about it, that's for the debriefing."

"Ok. Do your thing." They are supposed to shut off all of their sensory equipment and move back into the back cabin.

I go back to the flight deck and sit down in the seat again. I turn on the autopilot and we ascend, leaving Nordennavic behind. After half an hour, we turn the lights, radios, and engines on again. The easygoing attitude from an hour ago resumes in the cockpit. I don't join, as I am monitoring the systems and going through checklists. Red did this stuff on the trip up, which is why I could talk to the guys.

I am just about to talk to Red about his wife's bakery in Selumna when a clattering, which sounds like multiple stones, is heard from engine three (immediately right of Red.) There are seven glowing holes in the back of the engine.

We've been hit.

There's no time to lose. I turn the autopilot off and turn the aircraft to the right in a dive-bombing manner. The others heard the clatters, but they didn't immediately recognize the danger. I did. So in a second, my brain prioritizes the information.

"We've been hit. Terry, tun off engine three. Completely off."

"Ok!" He throttles it back, cuts the fuel, and turns on the fire supression.

"Red, tell the AWACS that we're taking fire and are descending to 4,000."

"Ok. AWACS, Spyglass 55. We're taking fire, unknown attackers. Descending to four angels."

"Roger, Spyglass 55. We copy your attackers. Windhover 3, Windhover 4, move to intercept two Estovakian F-18's six miles southeast of your present location. Weapons free."

We hit four thousand. I level off and start to think of our next move. First, I call the cabin. "Hey back there. We've been hit, not too badly. Hope you're all right, and please voice your concerns." Typically, they don't. I then get to work conferring with Wiseguy, who says that we can keep the same flightplan provided that we remain at 4,000. Then Terry says that we have completely lost capability on engine three and that we'll go with one, two and four. He redistrubutes the fuel. I am told to remain at 60% thrust for our fuel consumption rate. I turn the autopilot off and reset the settings. Red is now checking and re-checking every instrument. We fly this way for an hour, each of us occupied with a task.

After clutching the handles of the control yoke for what seems like forever, keeping the plane from banking right, Wiseguy chimes in.

"We're entering Ortara airspace. They'll probably put us on the approach for runway 12...but, ah, give them a call."

"Red. You do it."

"No, cap. You do it. I want to fly. You've been struggling for over an hour."

"I'm fine. I know how it's behaving."

"You sure?"

I'm exhausted. I sigh, then hand control over to him. I relax my arms and hands for just a second, then hit the push-to-talk button.

"Ortara Tower, Spyglass 55 coming in, engine three is damaged, requesting a landing."

A silence.

"Spyglass 55 here, are we cleared to land?"

"Spyglass 55 is cleared to land, runway 30."

Now we start down, from 21 miles away. We'll have to reset our autopilot switches, make sure to turn that off (both of which I have already done,) open our gear and flaps, and calibrate our altimeter.

"Red? Do you want to land?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ok. I'll open the flaps for you, to 20 degrees. Tell me if you need more or less. "

"Wilco."

"Wise, what's our altimeter?"

"It's 29.31. Perfect storm conditions."

I turn a small knob below one of our flight screens. We are at 4,000 feet right now, flying at 250 mph, on a heading of 120 degrees. That's about right.

"How we looking, Red?"

"Bit fast. Put flaps at 25."

I reach for the small flaps lever next to him and pull it down one more notch. Then an idea hits me. I talk to the back cabin.

"As a precaution, put your seatbelts on and brace for impact." I release the mic button. "You too, Wise. Terry. Red, keep doing what you're doing. I am fully confident in you, I'm just preparing for the worst."

"Yeah. THAT makes me feel good. Ten miles."

The plane is so much slower now. We're at 220 mph, 2,200 feet, and I can see the desert rush by beneath me. Then I look out of the front. I can see an island of lights in the darkenss of the ground. There's white, red, yellow, blue, and some green. A row of white lights fence in an area of darkness, and there is a line  extending from the edge. That's our runway.

"Red?"

"Yeah?"

"Ok?"

"Ok. Get the gear for me."

I pull the long lever (situated on Red's side of the panel) down, extending the gear. A loud whirring is heard, followed by a thump. Three arrows illuminate the central screen. The gear is open.

The runway grows larger in the window, and there are four lights next to the runway. Three are white, one is red. We're too high.

"Red? We're high."

"We're losing speed. Stop talking to me."

We pass twenty feet over the airfield fence and the runway threshold. Then Red points the nose up and lowers the throttle. I fear that our tail will fall helplessly out of the air and hit the ground prematurely. The nose is pointed up, we are falling. I squirm tensely in my seat.

I hear and feel a strong thud, and then our nose goes down. I pull a lever on my right, on the radio panel. This opens the speedbrakes. At the same time, Red pulls back on the throttle. Reverse thrust, as loud as takeoff, pulls us back, stops us, until our speed reaches 20. Then Red pushes the throttle slightly forward, and turns us onto the taxiway. I put the flaps and speedbrakes up. After a couple of moments, we reach the parking space.

Sighs of relief escape my crewmates. They sit up out of the brace position.

"Good landing, Red." says Terry.

"Yeah, good job."

I notice my tenseness, and I release it. It feels good. I let out air that I've been holding since probably before we talked to the tower. It feels great.

"Good job, man," I say. "We'll be letting you sleep in."

We work on turning off the aircraft, and then we sit up. I stretch again, which really relieves my tension. We leave the cockpit, and then one of the analyists comes up to me.

"Good job, sir."

"It wasn't me, it was him." I gesture to Red.

"Oh. Good job, sir." He peeks his head in the cockpit. "Man, it's hot in there! How could you even do ANYTHING in there?"

I ignore him, and we leave the plane. As I step on the tarmac, I feel safe. I almost take time to enjoy the peace, but then three things enter my mind. It's 1 AM, there's a winter storm out here, and the smell of smoke drifts from engine three. Forget it, let the mechanics handle it. Let's go to the debriefing and then get some sleep.

Mission 2: January 30, 2016 19:45 hrs.

"Thanks to the work of Lieutenant Marasek and his team, we have determined the location of their sumbarine base, seventeen miles from the second search waypoint." The Adjutant General speaks.

He paces across the front of the sunlit room, with a map of Anea positioned on the wall behind him.

"Given the additional information which was acquired yesterday, the Estovakians have stationed two submarines there with the intent of turning it into one of their own ports. But, the information is incomplete. We can't risk having our navy crippled by a submarine threat, which could be operating in a neutral country. So, we are going to plant a sonobuoy five miles from the base. There will be fighter escort."

Gutsy. At that range, it's a wonder if they don't smell us.

"The sonobuoy will be attached to the bottom of the aircraft, and will be deployed in the same manner as a torpedo. You are to follow Emmerian bombing regulations and protocol at all times. You will start from waypoint one, then fly to the drop site."

Yeah, I got this.

"Captain Rivers, do you believe you can undertake this mission?" He questions.

"Yes, sir, I can." I respond.

"Are you sure? Is your aircraft in a stable operational state?"

"Yes, sir. The mechanics repaired the engine this morning. They said it was good."

"Ok. Spyglass 55 crew and analyists, do you have further questions?"

No questions. We are dismissed. I head to my room one quick last time. I want to make sure I haven't forgotten anything. As I scan the room, the cruel thought crosses my mind that this may be the last time I see this room. I push it away and rush to the tarmac.

"Rivers!" the mechanic shouts.

"What?" I reply sarcastically.

"Stop getting my plane shot up!"

"Yeah? That's how you're playing it? Stop the Stovies from shooting up the plane! It's not as easy as it looks."

"Oh, I see how it is," he says as the crew and I board the plane, and then he delivers a solemn good luck and farewell.

In twenty minutes, we are in the air. The sun has set, and it's raining hard. I turn on the instrument panel lights, and the cockpit looks like a classroom. I also put on the windshield wipers.

"Spyglass 55, Ortara Departure here."

"Spyglass 55 here, go ahead." Red answers while I turn the plane around.

"Yeah, sorry to distract you guys, but we're picking up a radar click near the oilfields. Not sure it's a friendly. Can you guys check it out?"

"Cap?" He turns to me.

"Ok."

"Yeah, all right. What do you want us to do?" Red asks.

"Tell him to turn his transponder on, and to exit the oilfields." The reply comes in through the headsets.

"Ok, and do we resume mission after?"

"Of course."

"Orders recieved. Turning to intercept."

"Red, tell the guys in the back that we'll need the radio analyist and a spotter on duty. Brief them, I'll be flying."

Red gets up and walks back to the back cabin while I turn the autopilot off. Grasping the yoke, I turn the plane from our northerly course to the southeat, in the direction of the oilfield. I also push the yoke forward and descend to 4,000 ft ASL. Heading in that direction, I can't see anything. It's raining at night, a zero visibility comination. I can only imagine what the analyists must see. Red gets back in his seat.

After a short time, I hear a voice in my headset.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Who is this?

"This is the captain of the Draconis. I was told to contact the Spyglass 55 captain on this frequency."

"Yes, sir," I reply, "In accordance with the Emmerian Air Force, I need you to turn your transponder on to a friendly setting and exit the oilfield immediately."

A pause.

"Yes, sir. I will do exactly that. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. Happens all the time." I reply to calm him down, if he needed it. With that, we resume our original course and ascent, and the analyists sit back down. We're cruising at 20,000 ft now, with the cabin lights on. There's no need for the windshield wipers, and our altimeter has been calibrated to standard pressure. We are almost feet wet, past the arctic circle, and we are in a conversation about TV shows. I do a periodic scan of the instruments. Airspeed, altitude and course look ok, mechanichal systems are ok, avionic settings are--

"Spyglass 55, come in."

I am startled, and my pulse is up. I did not expect that. The other guys are scared too. I figure since the land is pretty dead below us plus the fact that it's night really lowered our guard.

"Spyglass 55 here." I respond.

"This is Avalance three. I'm at your four o'clock. I'm your fighter escort. I shot those Stovies down for you yesterday."

"Avalanche. Right. Spyglass 55 copies." I reply tersely.

It's eerily silent for a good four minutes inside the cockpit. I scan the instruments once more, then turn to the guys.

"You guys scared?"

Terry speaks up. "No, sir."

"You will be." I reply, and reach for the radio tuner knob to my right. "This is someting I used to do when I was in general aviation, and when tthe radio went silent."

I tune to a randomly selected channel, and I land upon 123.800 MHz. The transmission comes in all static choked.

"Automated weather observation for Golden Shore, 0543 Zulu. Wind is 253 at 25. Sky condition, overcast at 6,800 feet above ground level. Temperature 05 Celsius, Dewpoint 04 Celsius. Altimeter 29.11. Automated weather obser--"

I tune back to the old channel after listening in. Golden Shore isn't even remotely near here. The monotone voice of the weather station is making me feel like the nine people in this plane and the escort pilot are the only people for miles. I turn back to Terry.

"Scared now?" I ask, smiling.

"Not in the least, sir."

"Oh, that's how it is, huh? Not even a twinge of loneliness?"

"Yeah, if we could just get back to work and not listen to the ghost voice from Golden Shore, I'd appreciate it." Wiseguy chimes in.

"How far are we from AO?" Red asks.

"About 80 miles."

We return to our stations. After what seems like only a couple of minutes, Wiseguy says that we are 30 miles from AO. I tell the analysts to report to their stations. I also adjust the altitude on the autopilot to 3,000 ft, standard bombing pattern altitude. Red tells the escort to descend with us. We pass through 18,000 ft, and I have to retune the altimeter to storm conditions.

"Shut off the lights, the transponder, and the radios, cap."

I forgot about that. I quickly go through the steps, but leave the radios on for just long enough to tell the other pilot to go to radio silence. We're going in silent now, starting a torpedo run. I quickly remember that there's a storm below us, and I take off the autopilot.

"Red, set the course to 180, and the altitude to 20,000. As soon as we shoot this thing off, we're turning around."

"Right." He replies.

We pass by a large iceberg, and we arrive at the first waypoint. I talk to the back.

"Hey back there, I'm just going to be flying the pattern for you. You are responsible for dropping the sonobuoy at the correct location. After we drop, I'm turning straight around."

I start at waypoint 1. From there, I turn to waypoint 2, 15 minutes to the northeast. The aircraft is responsive. Once we reach waypoint 2, I turn to the north. Their radar should have picked us up by now. Five minutes pass silently. The only sound is the humming of the engines. The only sight is of a choppy black ocean.

The sound of a sledgehammer being swung violently against the bottom of the plane interrupts the monotony. The sonobuoy has been released. The aircraft immediately feels lighter, and it almost feels like it is climbing on its own.

"Sonobuoy away," Terry says.

"Red, hit the autopilot." I say. He pushes the five autopilot buttons, and we climb out while turning around.

Upon establishing course and altitude, I turn the radios and transponder back on. I contact the escort pilot.

"Spyglass 55 to Avalanche 3. Still with us over there?"

"Yeah. It's boring here." He replies, almost sleepily.

"You're doing it right. No one's come after us." I say. But there's no reply. The silence and monotony return. I actually quite enjoy it. The polar night. It gives me a chance to-

The F-18 that was next to me now shoots ahead of me, afterburners ablaze.

"Spyglass 55, take evasive action." Says the Avalanche pilot.

That doesn't have to be repeated twice. I take the autopilot off and dive for 4,000. The other guys have heard the order too, and are all ready. I hope that they're all buckled up in the back.

Six bullets hit the fuselage, and it sounds too close to the cockpit. One even hits the left wing near my window, and the flaps fall down from their old position.

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