[Earth II] Short Story Index

by **Earth_ Two** » Sat Nov 03, 2012 11:00 am

Earth II
Short Story Index

This is a consolidated thread for our short stories. Short stories are one-post stories that may encompass any subject. Please see the Rules & Conditions below for what is acceptable and what is unacceptable for this thread. Using the Native Story Index as a guide, "which is a collection of short stories written in, about, around, or focusing on the nations of those who are interested in writing short stories about their nations. Themes, scale, scope, narration, technique in addition to tech levels and technology are no worries, and I won't be scanning for quality. Therefore, it is your own responsibility and freedom to write a story as you want." The main requirements to writing in this thread is simply that you keep each story that you write to one post, and the rule vice versa when posting. Keep posts limited to one story, so simply make a new one if you want to post a new story.

Postings here should be regarded as valid IC statements and there should not be any OOC posting in this thread. Please use the Earth II Main Thread for any OOC posts. This thread should be limited to short stories and not news posts or claims. Please see below for a list of acceptable and unacceptable posts for this thread. We encourage everyone posting to be as creative as they desire in their short stories in regards to formatting. Photographs are acceptable and encouraged. Banners and elaborate graphics are encouraged just the same. This first post will also serve as an index to the short stories and it will be updated infrequently but the updates shall be tracked and posted to make everything easier for everyone. If you are looking for the original Earth II Short Stories thread, please go here. Also a note, while we encourage IC posts to be written in native languages (for the feel) and then translated, please post all articles here in English for ease.

If you're writing a mature story (carrying sex, strong or gratuitous violence, gore, or extremely questionable moral themes [abortion, rape, etc.]), please add a mature tag to the header of your post:

[ Mature ]

Code: Select all: [align=right][size=150][b][[color=#BF0000] Mature [/color]][/b][/size][/align]

Rules & Conditions

Acceptable	Not Acceptable
Character introductions and development English Future perspectives Historical perspectives Isolated, single, one-off instances from larger threads Mature content Secret IC Serial stories Short stories War battles	Claims of any kind Internet articles Letters to the editor Magazine articles Newspaper articles Non-English OOC chatter Op-Ed pieces Stories from other nations [without their permission] Television transcripts

Table of Stories

Links

by **Layarteb** » Sat Nov 03, 2012 11:02 am

The Beginning of Force Scorpion

February 9, 2012 - 00:25 hrs [GMT]
Bay of Biscay
14th Carrier Battle Group
(46° 29' 13.36" N, 4° 41' 28.18" W)

Lieutenant Junior Grade (LTJG) Neil Austin never felt truly relaxed until he saw the haze gray of a naval ship or the black outline of a submarine. Though he was a hardened veteran of special operations missions, LTJG Austin was still a human being and though in combat, amidst overwhelming enemy resistance, he was among the coolest heads in the 2nd Special Operations Group, LTJG Austin had never been able to shake either the pre-mission or the post-mission anxieties that kept his foot in motion even after the MH-60S Knight Hawk left Parisian airspace. "Helicopters are nothing more than a thousand and one parts flying in close formation all begging to go their separate ways," LTJG Austin famously said over and over and over again. He hated helicopters, plain and simple.

LTJG Austin was the commanding officer of Delta Squad, SEAL Team 3 and as a member of SEAL Team 3, he and his squad of elite warriors were responsible for the Western Europe theater of operations. He joined the 2nd Special Operations Group or SEALS, which stood for Sea, Air, and Land Soldiers, in January of 2010 as an ensign. He was immediately placed as Delta Squad's executive officer, replacing the previous executive officer who was promoted to lieutenant junior grade and thus given command. The previous commanding officer was subsequently promoted himself and now he was in a major position at headquarters.

Shortly after then ENS Austin joined the SEALS, the war with the Goodrule Third Spanish States broke out, and Delta Squad was sent to the British Isles. He and his squad designated targets for navy and air force fighters, they performed reconnaissance, and they fought the Goodrule military face-to-face. During one small but decisive battle in Carloway on the island of Lewis, Delta Squad came face-to-face with a Goodrule platoon and took them on single handedly. ENS Austin was injured but he continued to fight on, protecting the body of a fallen team member who had been walking point. During the twenty-two minute battle, Delta Squad destroyed two armored personnel carriers with reinforcements before they could disgorge another platoon, and they neutralized most of the enemy platoon. Air support finished the battle for them; and, for their heroics, all of them were decorated. ENS Austin received a Purple Heart for the wound he sustained as well as a Bronze Star with "V" device.

On January 8, 2011, ENS Austin was promoted to lieutenant junior grade and given command of Delta Squad and there he remained to date. The former commanding officer, never able to recover from the shock of losing a team member abruptly quit the SEALS and the military only hours before ENS Austin was promoted and given command. It was a shocking blow for either the squad or SEAL Team 3. LTJG Austin, now in command for a year, had never lost a man, thankfully but the thought of it loomed quietly in the back of his head like a stalking nightmare.

The silhouette of the Luna class aircraft carrier grew bigger and bigger. There weren't any lights identifying the ship against the blackness of the night but he could see it out there, churning up phosphorescence in its wake. The Knight Hawk followed that in and came over the deck of the carrier from the rear, entered a slight hover, its forward speed equal to that of the carrier, and then it gently lowered to the deck where a soft touchdown concluded LTJG Austin's mission, or so he thought. "Lieutenant," SEAL Team 3's, N2 Intelligence officer, Lieutenant (LT) Mark Pierson called over the deafening noise of the Luna's flight deck. Behind LTJG Austin were the rest of his team and the Knight Hawk, its main rotor coming to a stop as the pilots powered down the engines.

"Mark, what gives?" It wasn't usual to see the N2 deployed out to the field like this and LTJG Austin was somewhat concerned that there was a lot more to this simple rescue mission than he had originally been told.

"Yeah we've got to discuss a few things, bring your team down to the debriefing room. Get some coffee or something," the N2 replied before he turned and left at a quickened pace.

A few minutes later, all eight SEALS of Delta Squad were seated in comfortable chairs in a small auditorium style room that was used by pilots for briefings and debriefings. A technologically advanced media board, a podium, and a desk stood in the front of the room and about sixty comfortable, leather chairs faced the board. A restroom and a small coffee pot and counter area were off to the side. The N2, one of the Layartebian agents that Delta Squad had just rescued, and two naval officers were all standing in the front of the room when the SEALS entered.

"What gives Mark?" LTJG Austin asked again, finally seated with the rest of his men, all of them still toting their rifles and combat gear.

"Okay now that we're all here," the N2 began, "we can talk about the operation. This is big fellas so keep your memories alert."

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January 29, 2012 - 04:50 hrs [UTC-5]
Long Island Sound
North of Block Island
(41° 17' 22.82" N, 71° 34' 3.67" W)

A light mist of sea spray rolled over the Plexiglas window and that truly unique smell that was the sea entered the nostrils of the five men standing in the cramped watch deck. "Love that smell," one of the men, the oldest of the bunch said as he took in a deep breath. Above them, the sky was still black although that was soon to be washed out by the blue of morning. It was a clear morning and though it was winter, it was a lot warmer than the average. The man checked his watch, looked back up to the horizon, and adjusted his hat. "Dawn's coming, how I wish we could see it."

"Sir, I agree."

"Satellite's coming soon. XO, submerge the ship."

"Submerge the ship, aye sir." The older man was the captain of this vessel and standing next to him was his executive office, who was fourteen years his junior. At the age of fifty-five, the captain was embarking on one of his final cruises, his retirement date having already been set by command. The XO picked up a microphone from in front of him and pushed the transmit button. "Conn, Bridge, sounding."

An answer came back immediately, "Bridge, Conn, four-zero fathoms."

The XO replaced the microphone and began to put the protective panel back in place that would shield the bridge's radio from the mighty sea. "Lookouts, clear the bridge."

"Clear the bridge, aye sir!" One of the three men responded back as the captain disappeared down the ladder.

"Officer of the Deck, prepare to dive." The XO said, addressing the one man who had answered him. Beneath them, the captain slid down to the control room.

"Captain is down," the captain said as he touched the steel walkway.

"Captain is down," a voice repeated.

"XO is down," the XO announced as he touched the steel walkway.

Again, the voice from before, who happened to be the Chief of the Boat, the highest-ranking enlisted sailor on the boat, repeated. "XO is down."

On deck, two of the watchmen slid down one after the other. A couple of seconds behind them, the Officer of the Deck followed after taking one last look at the night sky and ensuring everything on deck was ready for the dive. When he slid down, he announced, "Deck is clear."

"Deck is clear aye." The Chief of the Boat repeated, addressing the XO, who in turn repeated it to the captain, who had assumed his position in the control room or Conn. Hatches were buttoned down and the submarine, a Seawolf Flight I class attack submarine, was ready to go underwater.

"XO submerge the ship."

"Aye captain, submerge the ship. Diving officer, submerge the ship, make your depth one-five-zero feet."

"Make my depth one-five-zero feet aye. Chief of the Watch, on the One-M-C, 'Dive, dive' sound two blats of the dive alarm, 'Dive, Dive.'"

"Aye," the Chief of the Watch picked up a microphone at his station, pushed the transmit button, and said, "Dive, Dive!" He pushed another button and the diving klaxon sounded twice. Then, per his orders, he spoke again into the microphone, addressing the whole ship, "Dive, dive!"

On the surface, ballast tanks were being blown and air was being pushed out of the submarine. Water would replace it and the submarine would sneak underneath the waves, bow first as the Chief of the Boat, standing behind the submarine's drivers said, "Make your depth one-five-zero feet, five degree down bubble." Dozens of men were moving around, checking on the submarine's systems as it dove beneath the waves.

With a slight push, the submarine's bow went underwater as the water turned turbulent around its hull. The rest of the submarine gradually fell underneath until just the conning tower and the masts were visible but even those slipped underneath the water until all that was left was a faint, white trail as the masts cut through the water and then, as the submarine went deeper, there was nothing. If you blinked, you missed it. By the time the next reconnaissance satellite passed overhead, the Seawolf would be a long way away and its egress from Naval Submarine Base New London, through the Long Island Sound, and into the North Atlantic Ocean would have gone completely unnoticed. Docked underneath shelters, no one would be the wiser that a submarine had left and that was just how the Empire played submarine operations, with the utmost level of secrecy.

"XO, we are at one-five-zero feet." The Chief of the Boat said as the submarine leveled off at one hundred and fifty feet. Things were quiet now as the submarine moved at just five knots, which had been the speed of the submarine before it dove underneath the water.

"Captain, we are at one-five-zero feet."

"Aye XO, let's get on with it then." The captain said, smiling. He always loved the diving of a submarine; it was a unique feeling knowing that he was intentionally sinking a ship. Had it been anything other than a submarine, this would have been bad but for a submarine, this was normal. He walked over to the tactical map, which showed their position, the position of known contacts, and the depths under their keel. Where they were, the depth was two hundred and fifty feet and opening as they moved into deeper water.

Joined by the XO, the captain scrolled around on the electronic display and touched a point on the screen. In doing so, he inserted a waypoint and patted the navigation officer on the back as he appeared at the map, a pad in his hand with notes. "Let's enter through here. How's this channel?"

"Clear sir, we haven't used it in some time though."

"That sounds good to me, we'll be a little shallow until we drop in I see?"

"Yes sir, we've usually preferred the deeper channels."

"All the more reason to go through this one, do we have the latest SOSUS report?"

"Aye sir we do." He put it down on the table, and the XO and the captain both looked it over, noticing that it was barely thirty minutes old. "It just came through before we dived."

"Fresh and clear, let's move out then. Set course zero-nine-zero, all ahead two-thirds."

"Aye captain, Chief of the Boat, come starboard to heading zero-nine-zero, all ahead two-thirds."

"Aye, coming starboard to heading zero-nine-zero, all ahead two-thirds." The Chief of the Boat turned back to the drivers in front of him and, with a hand on their shoulders, braced himself. "Come starboard to head zero-nine-zero, all ahead ten knots." Without an answer, the submarine began to come to the right until it was in the proper heading. The Seawolf would head through the channel, gradually diving to keep the depth under the keel no less than fifty feet. Because this channel had been charted and recharted, the navigational officer could tell exactly where everything was in the channel and what depth he could maintain to keep the submarine from striking the bottom or any rises or seamounts.

Over the next ten days, the submarine would move across the North Atlantic Ocean towards the European coast. Operating on its own, the Seawolf Flight I had very specific orders that separated it from other naval units operating in the region. Keeping itself below its tactical silent speed and below the thermal layer as best as it could, the Seawolf Flight I was charged with getting to the European coast both unseen and unheard. If there was any ship that could do it, the Seawolf Flight I class was the Empire's best candidate available.

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February 8, 2012 - 22:00 hrs [UTC+1]
Near Belle Île, Bay of Biscay
Seawolf Flight I class SSN
(47° 16' 38.51" N, 3° 16' 1.41" W)

"Captain, we have reached our destination." The navigational officer said aloud as he eyed the submarine's position on the chart display. A few nautical miles west of Belle Île in the Bay of Biscay, the Seawolf Flight I class attack submarine was moving now at just two knots, hovering one hundred and fifty feet underneath the ocean's surface.

For the past ten days, the submarine had been moving across the North Atlantic at tactically silent speeds at depths ranging from five hundred to fifteen hundred feet. They avoided maritime patrols by the Imperial Layartebian Defense Forces and civilian traffic as well. "Excellent work, chief of the boat, make my depth six-five feet."

"Make my depth six-five feet, aye sir!" The submarine's pilots in front of the chief of the boat immediately went to action and the submarine began to rise slowly towards periscope depth.

At that moment, the executive officer returned from the radio room. He had been called there to assist with something and as he returned, the captain quickly gave him an order, getting the show on the road. "XO, we are at location, beginning mission. Alert the package."

"Aye sir, alerting the package." The XO picked up the phone handset, rung a faraway compartment in the submarine, and waited for the other end to be picked up, which took only a few seconds. "We're at location, commencing mission." He returned the handset to its cradle, faced the captain, and repeated, "Sir, the package is ready."

"Good work."

"Captain, we are at six-five feet."

"Chief of the Watch, raise the mast."

"Raising the mast, aye sir." The primary mast of the submarine began to rise quietly as the submarine trudged along at just two knots.

The captain let down the hand rests and peered through the viewfinder just as the mast pierced the waves. On the surface, it was calm and to the west, the captain could see the dim lights of Belle Île. He gave a slow scan making two circles before he pushed the hand rests back into the periscope. "Chief of the Watch, lower the mast."

"Lowering the mast, aye sir." In those two circles, the mast recorded visual, microwave, electronic, and infrared signals. The information would be reviewed on the main chart display by the captain, the navigational officer, the executive officer, and the Chief of the Watch before proceeding on with the mission. The captain had to be sure that there were no ships, hostile, neutral, or even friendly, in the area, that there were no aircraft, and that the submarine was at periscope depth.

Finally having the information reviewed, the captain returned to his station, called over the XO, and checked his watch. "XO, commence mission." It was 22:05 hours, local time, or 23:05 hours zulu, which submarines operated on at all times.

"Commencing mission, aye sir." The XO rang the same faraway compartment as before, waiting for the phone to be answered, and repeated the captains orders.

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February 8, 2012 - 23:15 hrs [UTC+1]
Belle Île, Bay of Biscay
SEAL Team 3, Delta Squad
(47° 18' 0.75" N, 3° 13' 37.26" W)

LTJG Austin's head broke the surface of the water at 23:15 hours. Painted black to match the camouflage of the night, his face was barely visible in the seawater as he dogpaddled towards the beach, which was just a hundred meters away. Behind him, the rest of his squad poked through the surface as well, seven men all of them identical in their nondescript appearance. With a clear, empty beach, they proceeded forward, bobbing up and down in the water, taking turns popping their heads up and lowering them into the water to swim. This was set to be a quick, rescue mission. Because of that, the SEALS weren't carrying the normal assortment of gear that they brought. Instead, they had their swim gear on, wetsuits and fins, and inside waterproof bags, they had magazines of ammunition, some medical supplies, a few odds and ends here and there, GPS equipment, and their radios and night vision goggles.

Wading ashore, LTJG Austin set up point and scanned the area with his night vision binoculars before waving the rest of his team onto the rocky and sandy beach. It was dark, quiet, and eerily empty but that was what they wanted. Using hand signals, LTJG Austin ordered half of his squad to keep watch while he and three others shed their wetsuits and fins, took out their equipment, and stowed what they had just removed. Then the squad switched places and within eight minutes, all eight men were ready to move out and begin their mission.

Ahead of them was a small, dirt road that people used to get to the beach but it was empty. To the north were open fields, to the west were a small channel and a hotel, which was the reason why the SEALS didn't swim up to the closer beach, and to the east there was a small village named Domois. Their objective, the Hotel Castel Clara was just eight hundred meters away. Intel reported that there weren't going to be any hostiles but, as LTJG Austin famously said often, "Intel is like playing a game of darts drunk with an eye patch, sometimes you hit the board, most times you miss." If only he had a shingrot for every time Intel was wrong about something, he could retire from the SEALS.

"Move out, close formation, quiet," LTJG Austin whispered into his throat mic and his point man, Petty Officer First Class (PO1) Jimmy Sullivan, took them off of the beach. They moved quickly but quietly, mindful of their surroundings. Night vision goggles illuminated the entirety of the expanse before their eyes and they were able to see their objective in the distance. Their pickup was scheduled for 23:50 so they had to move quickly. They had just fifteen minutes to get to the hotel, link up with the package, and get to their primary extraction site, which was a few hundred meters to the west.

They arrived at the hotel at 23:40 hours and they quickly reconnoitered the hotel to find it dark except for the ground floor, where the lobby was well lit. From their position four hundred meters away, they could see several individuals inside, all of them mulling about. One of them matched the photograph that LTJG Austin had memorized before he and his team swam out of the submarine. "Okay, red team on me, blue you've got overwatch, no communications, squelch only." LTJG Austin whispered to them and he took half of his squad to the hotel.

They snuck up to the door, keeping below the windows and LTJG Austin inched up to the door and knocked, four times quickly followed by two slow knocks. That was the signal. It was answered by the same code, in reverse and then the door opened. LTJG Austin and the rest of red team went into the lobby but stayed in full view of blue team, which included the squad's sniper. LTJG Austin and his men made sure not to block their line of fire to the six individuals inside of the lobby. "We've got to get going now," LTJG Austin ordered. "Why are there six of you?" LTJG Austin asked knowing that the extraction was approved for only five individuals: two Layartebians, both male, and three Parisians, one female and two males.

"Not to worry," one of the Layartebians said rather nonchalantly. "This is Xavier, he owns the hotel. Xavier is Maurice's brother." Maurice was one of the Parisians set to be extracted.

"Okay, we've got to move, pickup is in," LTJG Austin checked his watch, "three mikes." He was almost certain that he could hear the helicopter on the horizon. With a few parting words, LTJG Austin, his three SEALS of red team, the two Layartebians, and the three Parisians burst out of the hotel's lobby. They moved quickly across the field, linked up with blue team, and then continued to the field pickup point where LTJG Austin turn on an infrared beacon. Ninety seconds later, on time like clockwork, an MH-60S Knight Hawk appeared on the horizon, zooming inbound at over one hundred knots. Behind it another MH-60S Knight Hawk flew just as fast.

The first helicopter passed overhead and did a circle while the second came in for the landing and touched down with its doors open. LTJG Austin helped the five persons to be extracted onboard, got the rest of red team on board, loaded blue team on board, and jumped on, all in thirty-five seconds. The helicopter lifted off, banked, flew back over the beach, and headed out to sea, the escort helicopter flying the trail position.

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February 9, 2012 - 00:40 hrs [GMT]
Bay of Biscay
14th Carrier Battle Group
(46° 29' 13.36" N, 4° 41' 28.18" W)

"And it was a perfect, textbook mission," the N2 responded to LTJG Austin's retelling of the operation. "The individuals you extracted are part of a special task force set up by the Ministry of Intelligence and the Ministry of Justice. This individual is the leader of the element you rescued. Up until now, you did not know about this because of operational security. If you were captured you could not have revealed the information about this team. I'll turn the floor over to George now." George was the Layartebian who had nonchalantly replied that Xavier wasn't coming. George was obviously a cover name.

"Thanks sir. Gentlemen, what I am about to tell you is classified above top secret. You are only being told because you are being tasked with assisting us. We are called Joint Task Force Gamma.

"On May 23, 2010, as you are well aware, the Goodrule Third Spanish States was defeated by the Empire and Cortland. The next day, officials at the Ministry of Justice announced that all Goodrule military officers, party and government officials, and high-ranking personnel involved with the Goodrule government were considered criminals and they were to be hunted down and captured for judicial prosecution for waging war against the Empire. Of course, the chemical attack against our troops weighed heavily on this decision.

"Joint Task Force Gamma was formed on May 25 to capture these fugitives and bring them to justice. Our task force consists of members of the Ministry of Defense, Joint Special Operations Command, the Ministry of Intelligence, and the Ministry of Justice. The Cottish don't even know about our existence. We have about five hundred individuals on our list, give or take, and at the top of this list are ten who are, above all else, priority targets.

"In the number one slot is Colonel Ackley Dench, he practically ran their intelligence services. He's the most elusive person that exists on the face of this planet. Since May 24, we have exactly one lead on this man. On December 5, 2010, he was spotted in Portugal and a signals intercept later that day confirms that he was in Portugal. We were never able to apprehend him and he has not been spotted since. We do not believe he is dead.

"To date, we have captured four individuals." George said this without shame. "That is a pathetically low number but these guys are ridiculously hard to track. From intelligence intercepts, we believe that a man by the name of 'Oleg' is assisting these Goodrule fugitives in escaping Western Europe to Africa, South America, and even Asia. Of the four individuals we have captured, none is in the top fifty most wanted. Three are low-level officers who have revealed very little more so because they know very little. They cannot even tell us anything about Oleg and we doubt they know of his existence. The fourth individual was number fifty-two on our list and he was a pretty important capture.

"About ten minutes after we nabbed him, he bit down on a false tooth containing cyanide and he was dead within minutes. There was nothing we could do." George let the information sink in while he had a sip of coffee.

"On October 5 of last year, we received unconfirmed reports that the number six man on our list, Major James Farnsworth was on Belle Île. I and the other gentlemen you rescued deployed there within forty-eight hours. We recruited the three Parisians you helped us extract.

"Major Farnsworth is a pretty sick individual. During the Cottish Flu Pandemic, he was responsible for rounding up Goodrule citizens infected with the disease. He brought them to special camps in Scotland where the individuals infected were executed. This continued even after we had the cure, owing greatly to the Goodrule government's hatred for all things Layartebian and Cottish. Well he remained active in their special police. You can see why he's so important as we believe that he has had direct contact with Oleg and he could very well know this man's true identity as we believe Oleg is just an alias.

"Well about two weeks ago, we confirmed that Major Farnsworth is on the island, living in the town of Bangor, it's not far from where you extracted us. Of course, in this fucking hell that has happened amongst the European powers, our extraction was crucial. As far as we know, Major Farnsworth is unaware of our presence and unconcerned with the situation around him. He lives a very quiet life. Most of the time he spends in his house but every day at ten in the morning, he walks down to the local market and picks up what he's going to eat for dinner. It varies by day. This is our only opportunity to get him and we want him alive.

"We have a plan that involves you since we need you to assist us in the capture of this man. We have to prevent him from biting down on that false tooth so if we can get up behind him, preferably in this market, and use a gag, such as a cloth, to prevent him from biting down, we can get him alive. We can administer a sedative afterwards, neutralize him, and bring him here where a dentist can remove the false tooth, and we can bring him in for interrogation." The room was silent for a solid ten minutes before someone broke it, that someone being LTJG Austin.

"Do you realize how risky that is? Police will be called; people will probably fight back; and we obviously can't walk in looking like this, can we?" He said, tugging on his military fatigues.

"No you go in civilian and yes that is an issue. Timing is everything. We will need to extract him within four minutes of grabbing him. Local police are armed."

"Yeah I don't want to shoot any cops here," PO1 Sullivan said.

"Neither do we but this is priority. We can't get him in his house. There's no way to storm the house quick enough to prevent him from activating the capsule. Grabbing him on the street is too unpredictable."

"This is a shit plan," Senior Petty Officer Third Class (SPO3) Bill McDonald, the squad's XO, answered.

"Yeah it really is George, and you just expect us to figure out who this guy is, go to his favorite spot, and grab him, then get out?"

"I'll be with you." George answered, just as nonchalantly as he had in the hotel lobby.

"Dude, really?" SPO3 McDonald answered, "You're trained for this?"

"I've been an agent with the Ministry of Intelligence for eight years and before that I was in special operations for six. Want the rest of my dossier?" There was silence again.

"All right guys," the N2 chimed in, eyeing LTJG Austin. "This is priority. You're the only squad in reach to do this and you're all we got. You don't have to like it but you have to do it. Get some rest; you'll be inserted tomorrow night. Until then, we'll go over the plan and rehearse everything. It's late so we'll reconvene here at oh-seven-hundred, understood?"

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February 10, 2012 - 22:30 hrs [GMT]
Bay of Biscay
14th Carrier Battle Group
(46° 29' 13.36" N, 4° 41' 28.18" W)

"C'mon, rotor's spinning…" LTJG Austin yelled as he stood in the doorway between the flight deck and the island of the carrier. The seven men of his team, SPO3 McDonald and PO1 Sullivan taking up the rear, bolted towards the MH-60S Knight Hawk seconds later with George in tow. "This is still a shit plan." LTJG Austin said as the spook passed by him but George offered no reply.

Midway down the flight deck, the Knight Hawk was sitting with its starboard, cabin door open. One hundred feet ahead of it was a second MH-60S Knight Hawk with its rotors spinning but its doors were closed. The lead helicopter would provide escort, using its cabin Miniguns to provide fire support in case the insertion went afoul. God I hate helicopters, LTJG Austin thought as he climbed into the cabin behind George. He shut the door behind him, donned the headset, inserted the plug into the plug over his head, and spoke up, "We're good to go."

"Roger that lieutenant, we're going…" The pilot replied and in front of him, the lead Knight Hawk rolled forward, lifted off of the deck, and flew out, over the bow. The other Knight Hawk followed close behind and they immediately banked, assumed a heading of 048°, and dropped to the deck, flying barely twenty-five feet off of the waves. After a few minutes of flying, the pilot's voice echoed on the intercom, "Lieutenant, we're flying radio silence. It's nine-zero miles to the island, we will be there in forty mikes."

"Roger that, I hate these things so let's get there in one piece."

"That's a big roger Lieutenant," the pilot said, laughing as he nudged his co-pilot, who happened to be laughing as well. In fact the entire crew of the helicopter, the two pilots and the two gunners, were laughing at LTJG Austin's remarks.

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February 10, 2012 - 23:15 hrs [GMT]
1,355 meters west of Kerlédan, Belle Île
Insertion Point Alpha
(47° 20' 37.63" N, 3° 15' 10.63" W)

"Jesus it's cold," SPO3 McDonald remarked as the helicopter lifted up ever so gracefully and headed back out to sea. A strong breeze from their rotors made the chilly, below-freezing air even colder than it was and since they were wearing civilian clothes and none of the extra warmth that their military gear would afford, it was even worse.

"All right, let's move out, we've got almost two klicks to go," LTJG Austin whispered as they all stood from their couching positions and began to walk to the north-northeast, towards the town of Magorlec, where their contact, Xavier, was waiting.

Pleased that the island was rather dark and that there were no cars on the roads, the nine men, weapons at the ready, wearing nothing but black clothes and black face paint, kept up a steady pace. They couldn't move too fast for fear of making noise but neither did they creep as if they were walking through a minefield. They planted their steps carefully and set their pace and in sixteen minutes, they reached the outskirts of Magorlec. A few of the small, quaint, country-style homes had light emanating from their windows and none of those were what LTJG Austin or George were looking for as they scanned the town from a distance of two hundred meters, crouched with the rest of the team in an open field. There was no cover anywhere so if there were enemy forces waiting for them, this was their opportunity. For that reason, every SEAL was on perimeter watch.

"See it yet?" LTJG Austin whispered as George continued to scan.

"Not yet," he replied.

"Thought you knew where he lived?"

"I do, chill out, I'll find out."

"I am chilled out…" LTJG Austin replied, shivering.

"Found it, let's go," George said, eyeing a window with four candles burning behind its panes. "That one there, with the four candles."

"Okay, good, let's move out guys." Five minutes later, the nine of them were sitting in the living room of a safe house that Xavier maintained. A fire burning in the living room fireplace bathed them all in warmth as they put down their weapons and unpacked what little gear they had brought with them.

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February 11, 2012 - 09:00 hrs [GMT]
Bangor, Belle Île
Le Caméléon Market
(47° 18' 55.02" N, 3° 11' 20.30" W)

Bangor has about eight hundred people, give or take. The town is pretty small; notable for its lighthouse is something of a commune really. The town is about ten square miles in total and the police department precinct that protects it is staffed by eight officers. They're all armed. Now there will be three officers at the station, maybe even five. The rest will be on patrol. We've got to find them.

I've observed one before, he's a bit of a fat fellow, and he sits in his car just outside trying to catch speeders. He's awful at hiding. LTJG Austin thought, remembering George's words from their many hours of briefings. The initial plan was as they all said, "shit." The plan they were using now was still "shit" but it was doable. LTJG Austin, George, and PO1 Sullivan were lounging out near the market, waiting for Major Farnsworth. SPO3 McDonald and the sniper were watching the police precinct house. The other four SEALS were watching the two police cars that they found on patrol. One was the portly fellow that George had mentioned and the other held two officers. That meant three on patrol and five in the stationhouse.

Still, they had to be absolutely sure so SPO3 McDonald causally entered the precinct at about 09:00 hours. He had a map in his hands and a confused look in his face and conjuring the utter best Irish accent he could muster, walked up to the desk sergeant and said, "Hey I'm a little lost…" His act worked and he asked the police for directions to Sauzon. Despite their irritation at this lost tourist, they gave him directions, and he went on his way. Just outside of the stationhouse, he unzipped his turtle neck enough to push the transmit button on his throat microphone, "Five in the stationhouse."

"Roger that Bravo, good job." LTJG Austin replied. "Charlie, status?"

"Nothing new Alpha."

"Delta?"

"Same Alpha."

"Okay guys, we're in position, waiting on confirmation." Fifteen minutes went by, and then it was twenty, and then thirty, and then an hour. An hour and twenty minutes later, after frequent check-ins, only four police officers were at the stationhouse. The two cars remained on patrol but the one with the two officers had relocated to another commune about one a half klicks away. Charlie team followed. Delta remained with the fat cop.

Then, at 10:30, George nudged LTJG Austin on the arm. "That's him," he said, eyeing an elderly, almost sickly-looking man approach the market. He was wearing several layers of clothing, including a long overcoat and a fedora on his head. He walked with a cane and a limp so he moved slowly but he greeted everyone who passed by, taking his time to get to the market. "He's faking it."

"All positions, Zulu Quebec is confirmed. All teams are go." LTJG Austin responded.

The two SEALS watching the fat cop immediately sprung to action. One of them walked up to the open window of the cop's car and smiled, waving. He hoped to engage the cop in conversation for a few minutes while the other SEAL snuck up behind the car with a piece of cardboard, which held three very sharp nails. Carefully and gently, he pushed the three nails into the passenger, rear tire. He pushed them in enough so that they would stick into the tire and then carefully ripped the flimsy cardboard off and threw it in the field. Then, carefully, he snuck back to the hiding position, and keyed up his microphone twice. The miniscule, hidden, ear bud headphone in his partners ear alerted him that the deed was done and Delta team returned to their over watch position.

Charlie team started up their car and put it into a position to intercept the police car. As they came out and sped towards Bangor, they would pull out, causing a traffic accident. Between Charlie and Delta, the two patrol cars would be neutralized. To take care of the police at the station house, SPO3 McDonald had let the air out of one of the car's tires and he very carefully blocked the tailpipe of the other. The one cop on patrol was being watched by the squad's sniper.

The escape plan, once Major Farnsworth was captured, was simple. Xavier, who was waiting in a car, would speed up to the market, where George, LTJG Austin, and PO1 Sullivan would get in with Major Farnsworth. Then they would speed out of town to the north. Once they got to route D25, they would hook a sharp right, travel to Ti-Sévéno, hook another right, and drive down to the coast, all in all a seven and a quarter kilometer drive. There, an MH-60S Knight Hawk would land, pick up George and Major Farnsworth, and book back to the carrier. Xavier would then take the two SEALS to Pouldon, switch cars, and return to Magorlec where, hopefully, the rest of the SEALS would be. They would hide out until nightfall, make their way to the beach near Kerlédan, board a pair of rigid hull inflatable boats and speed west, hopefully at thirty-five knots. If all went well, they would link up with the carrier after about three hours on the water.

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February 11, 2012 - 10:40 hrs [GMT]
Bangor, Belle Île
Le Caméléon Market
(47° 18' 55.02" N, 3° 11' 20.30" W)

In true, operational fashion, Murphy and his ridiculous law peeked into the Farnsworth operation. As LTJG Austin, George, and PO1 Sullivan moseyed behind Major Farnsworth in line, the roving, walking policeman appeared. Should have kept a tail on him LTJG Austin thought to himself as he kept his place in line. He looked over at George who had a slightly concerned look on his face and then at PO1 Sullivan who was keeping his eyes "on the prize."

"Bravo ready."

"Charlie is in position."

"Delta is ready." Came the distinct calls over the radio but LTJG Austin didn't respond to them. Instead, he keyed up his microphone, breaking squelch, three times. It was a "Go" now and he gave a nudge to PO1 Sullivan and a nod to George. In his hands, he began to wrap a piece of cloth into a tight gag, one that was small enough to get into a rather closed mouth but thick enough that it wouldn't be bit through at all.

Ignoring the police officer, PO1 Sullivan grabbed Major Farnsworth in a tight hold as LTJG Austin quickly put the gag into his mouth. Fighting back with a major struggle, Major Farnsworth made things for George particularly complicated who finally managed to jab him in the neck with the sedative-filled needle but not before a major commotion broke out in the market. LTJG Austin ignored it as well and tied the cloth tightly so that it could not come loose. There were screeching tires and screaming people as Xavier pulled the car to a stop. The doors were thrown open and Major Farnsworth was thrown in the back between George and PO1 Sullivan, who proceeded to handcuff him.

As LTJG Austin climbed into the car, he saw the policeman running towards them, weapon out, screaming into the radio. The car sped away before he had the door shut and LTJG Austin quickly got onto his own radio, "GRAB ACHIEVED! POLICE SAW US!" Charlie and Delta team sprang to action and within milliseconds, they watched as the police cars they were observing pulled out, lights and siren blasting. The fat cop went nowhere as his tailpipe backfired and his tire went flat. He got less than a quarter of a mile down the road. The other police car, which Charlie team was watching, pulled out abruptly and with their seatbelts locked in place, Charlie team sped out as well, causing a traffic collision whereby the police car slammed into their front fender on the passenger side.

The impact of the collision was intense. The police car careened right into it and then tried to turn out of the way, wrecking the front driver's side of the vehicle. The car that Charlie was driving was mangled and spun around from the force of the impact. The airbags deployed, which only made their injuries worse. Groaning inside of the vehicle, the two SEALS were in a foggy daze. They nearly fell out of the vehicle and watched as the two policemen, equally dazed, got out of their own car. That part that all gone to plan, and when SPO3 McDonald reported that the last policemen left the station that was the signal that Bravo team was falling back to the rendezvous point.

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February 11, 2012 - 10:50 hrs [GMT]
625 meters south of Pouldon, Belle Île
The Beach
(47°17'21.18" N, 3° 8'5.10" W)

The car nearly lost traction twice as the SEALS sped out of Bangor. LTJG Austin, sitting in the front, kept his head trained to the back of the car, looking for police cars or anyone else following them. The police around Bangor might have been immobilized but they had radios and there were plenty of other policemen around the island. For that reason, everyone had a direction to watch, Xavier's being ahead of them as he maneuvered the car north on D190A. He kept the car on the road for only a kilometer before he reached the roundabout. Ignoring the yield signs and the other cars, Xavier sped the car into the roundabout and headed to the right, so that he could travel eastbound on D25.

For the next 4.7 kilometers, Xavier ignored virtually every rule of the road. He drove double over the speed limit, he went over the median line into oncoming traffic to pass vehicles, and more than once he was forced to swerve back into the correct lane to avoid hitting another car. It was a long 4.7 kilometers to drive and LTJG Austin was waiting to see flashing lights approaching from the rear. By the time that they neared Ti-Sévéno, they had yet to see any police cars following them. Rather than slow down, Xavier took a hard, right turn, turning south onto Ty Sévéno road. For another kilometer and a half, he sped along the even narrower road, blowing recklessly through both Ty-Sévéno and Pouldon.

When he slammed on the brakes near the beach, the car lurched to the left side, skidding to a very hard stop. Everyone's body and head went forward, including Major Farnsworth. It had never occurred to anyone to put a seatbelt on him but all he went into was the front seat. He wouldn't be hurt whatsoever and as the car came to a halt the two MH-60S Knight Hawks appeared on the horizon. They roared in, the lead one took its orbit, the second one flared, and within thirty-five seconds, George and Major Farnsworth were on their way back to the carrier. LTJG Austin and PO1 Sullivan didn't hang around for long. They went with Xavier back to Pouldon where he ditched the car in a garage of a family friend. Just as the garage door was shut, a police car entered the town to the north.

Thankfully, the house wasn't on the main road so their vehicle wasn't seen. "We have to switch cars but it's not safe yet," Xavier said as they looked at the beat up sedan sitting in the driveway.

"I agree," LTJG Austin said, agreeing. "We have to wait, maybe an hour, maybe more." Around the island, the rest of the SEALS were quietly making their way back to Magorlec. Delta team arrived first, pulling up to the house in a car that they had borrowed for the day. It was the same car that everyone saw at the house so nothing about this looked out of place. Bravo squad trickled in about two hours later, around 13:20, entering from the rear after having walked from Borgrois, where they had a taxi bring them. About two and a half hours later, at 15:50, Charlie team arrived, completely banged up and not in the best shape of their life. They would be fine but their injuries would slow them down for the next few days.

Xavier, LTJG Austin, and PO1 Sullivan wouldn't return to the safe house until 19:00 hours. They had waited an extra while and then, when they left, they took a very long way back. They first traveled all the way east to Locmaria and then wandered along the northern coast until they reached Nantskol. There, they jumped onto D190 and when they got back to the roundabout at D25, they carefully merged into traffic like a respectable driver, and headed west to D30, where they took a left, and headed down to Kerguec'h. They were in Magorlec a few minutes later.

Inside of the safe house, the eight SEALS and Xavier cracked open a twenty year old bottle of Scotch and shared a drink each. Toasting to an operation that went off with many hitches but none of them fatal, the nine men shared what camaraderie they could in these last few hours before the SEALS and Xavier would depart. Xavier had proven himself a valuable asset and he was indispensable. At 23:00 hours, he said his final goodbye and within the hour, the SEALS were on their way back to the carrier. It was a three hour ride and at precisely 02:45, they arrived.

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February 12, 2012 - 03:30 hrs [GMT]
Bay of Biscay
14th Carrier Battle Group
(46° 29' 13.36" N, 4° 41' 28.18" W)

"I couldn't be more tired," PO1 Sullivan said, grumbling to himself as he and the rest of the SEALS entered the same briefing room where they received their charge and mission just three days earlier. "Can't they debrief us after we've had some rest," agreement came from everyone on the team, including LTJG Austin.

"This guy better have something good to say," LTJG Austin said in agreement as he took his seat. No sooner than he sat down did the N2 and George enter the briefing room. Nobody stood up but the N2 didn't mind, he knew how tired the squad was.

"Gentlemen, I don't have to tell you how good of a job you did a second time around so I'm going to let George give you the skinny."

"Thanks," he said, taking over, "you guys did one hell of a job. Xavier is personally going to miss you fellas. Farnsworth isn't talking yet but don't worry, he will. He's awake and in good health, you boys did everything you needed to do and what hiccups you had will be rectified immediately. You've all earned one hell of a rest after this one. But before I let you go, I want to share with you something that just came down the pipe, straight from JSOC.

"JSOC is interested in forming a specialized unit whose sole purpose is to locate high value personnel of the former Goodrule regime and also of other hostile regimes. This unit would not only locate but also extract these individuals through extraordinary rendition. Until now, we have had conventional units like Delta or you do the task. JSOC wants a specialized unit going forward, no more of this tasking nonsense.

"As such, since Goodrule personnel are of the highest priority, I have been tasked with forming this unit." Suddenly everyone's interest peaked. They had no clue just how important George was or what level of power he held in JSOC and the Ministry of Intelligence but they were suddenly about to find out in dramatic fashion. "This unit will move out of the Special Operations Command and into the realm of black ops. I am estimating that I will need ten, 4-man squads to operate effectively.

"Looking at you eight men, I see 'Alpha' and I see 'Bravo' teams. Should you gentlemen wish to form the first two squads of this group let me know. Goodnight gentlemen," he said and left the room. All eight of the SEALS looked at one another with bewildered looks on their faces. Too tired to comprehend anything, they left it as it was, drifted off to their racks, and slept straight until noon.

by **Layarteb** » Sat Nov 17, 2012 7:41 pm

OOC: This is an excerpt from Pain Without a Cure. Okay for reference, Alpha team's arrival in Yukhari Chvgun was 09:40 and by 10:12 they were arriving at the huts.

The Battle of Yukhari Chvgun

November 11, 2011 - 09:15 hrs [UTC+3:30]
Nazik, Iran
Ghost Recon Alpha Team
(39° 0' 40.32" N, 45° 3' 31.53" E)

Nazik was thirty klicks away from Gharanghoo and thus it was too far away for Alpha team to know just how bad things were there. They could listen to the radio and they heard close air coming in to bomb the living hell out of the town in support of the Rangers but that was as close as they got to it. Waiting in the northeastern part of what used to be the town, Alpha team was relieved when the two MH-6M Little Birds came into view and dropped to the ground. They boarded the helicopters as they did before and plugged themselves into the intercom system. "Where to boys?" Dust said jokingly. "How's Gharanghoo?"

"Negative Dust, we've got orders to bring you to Chowrs. Seems the Green Berets found someone they want you to talk to."

"Roger that then, let's get there quick." While most of the Rangers had cleared out of both Chowrs and Qarahziyaeddin, some elements were still behind, doing the last bits of cleanup. One of those elements was the Green Berets from ODA 2 who had apparently nabbed themselves a prisoner. Six minutes later, the two Little Birds were dropping into the middle of Chowrs, just one hundred and fifty meters from the AS commander's home where Bravo team had made a major stand throughout the night. Green Berets from ODA 2 who had come in afterwards to secure some last bits of intel had evidently found one of the commander's sons hiding in a closet and though he was young, he was holding an AK-47 in his hands.

"All right captain, what do you have?" Dust asked as he greeted the ODA 2 captain at the front door of the house.

"Scared son of the commander and get this, he speaks English."

"Man isn't that going to be easy then."

"He's stupid too." They shared a laugh and entered the house. Chowrs had since quieted down and that was beneficial. Layartebians could walk around the blood-drenched, body littered town with ease when hours earlier it was a hornet's nest of hostiles all firing at them. "He thinks if he gives us information we'll let his father go."

"Does he now?" They started walking upstairs and there, they found the young boy, who couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old, sitting bound and gagged on the floor of the living room. Two Green Berets stood watch over him. "Okay let's talk to this man." Dust said as he sat down on a cushion on the floor. One of the Green Beret's removed the boy's gag and he instantly began to yammer on and on about this and that to the point where Dust just shook his head and held up his hand. "Dude be quiet…"

"You Layartebians, you're pigs! You kidnap my father!"

"You're father's a terrorist dude. You're lucky you're even still alive holding a gun when we come into a house. You know you are very lucky."

"Allah will protect me."

"He can if He wants but with these guys in the room you're very lucky. So listen you want to make a deal with us? Well let's make a deal."

"If I give you information, you will let my father go?"

"Where do you want us to bring him?" Dust was obviously lying but for the sake of information, lying was just the name of the game. "Back here?"

"Yes!"

"Okay fine, give me a minute, let me make a call." Dust got up, walked into the other room and pretended to talk on the radio to command. He "argued" a little, to show that he was in charge and when he came back he sat down and smiled. "Well if you give us something valuable we'll bring him back if he promises to stop being a terrorist."

"Allah…"

"Kid, I don't care, what do you have?"

"Fine! Fine! There are more men in the hills."

"We know, you have to give us something more."

"You know of where?"

"You tell me."

"Gharanghoo and Yukhari."

"Yukhari? Now there's a place we don't know about. What's there?"

"Twenty men." Dust almost rolled his eyes. Twenty was hardly worth the effort. "My father goes there a lot. He says it is an important place for us."

"That's not a lot kid, what's there, c'mon I know you know. For someone with as good English as you have, I know you know." The kid sat silently, gritting his teeth, muttering to himself.

"A special bomb." Everyone's heart not only skipped a beat but instantly stopped after he had said it. Special meant a lot of things but Dust was certain it had something to do with CBRN weaponry. It was obviously a priority and since Al-Shams had set off a radiological device in Grozny, they certainly had the capability. If they had other bombs it was logical that they would keep them somewhat close to where their base of operations was.

"Show me on the map." Dust took out his map and nodded to one of the Green Berets who uncuffed the young boy. Dust put a map on the ground and pointed to where they were, "Chowrs."

"Okay, hold on," the kid sat back. "Is my father coming?"

"Here's how this is going to work. You tell us where, we'll go investigate, if we find it, we'll bring your father in. He's on a helicopter now, just waiting for my order."

"You are in charge of this?"

"Of everything."

"Pig!" The kid spat on the ground in front of Dust.

"The map!"

The kid looked at the map and when he found Gharanghoo, he ran his finger up to an unnamed village. "Yukhari Chvgun, here."

"Hold tight." Dust got up, turned on his radio for real, reported the intelligence, and called for the Little Birds back. It was going to be a twelve minute flight up to Yukhari Chvgun and they wanted to get there as soon as possible. Knowing what potential this information could have, they called in a priority transport, which FOB Mustang was all too eager to fulfill for them.

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November 11, 2011 - 09:30 hrs [UTC+3:30]
Yukhari Chvgun, Iran
Ghost Recon Alpha Team
(39° 7' 6.65" N, 44° 46' 10.51" E)

Just as the two Little Birds lifted into the air, the roar and whoosh of jet fighters overhead filled the skies. Louder than even the helicopter's engines, the two Russian Su-27 Flankers sounded unlike the Layartebian A-10s and F-58s. Everyone looked up to see the fighters and suddenly, chests tightened all around the area. "What the fuck are the Russians doing here?" Dust said to himself as the helicopter lifted into the air.

"Hey Dust, we've got to fly low to avoid those fighters, do you still want to proceed?"

"You're damn right I do." He answered the pilot.

"It's going to be bumpy but hold on," the pilot came back as the two Little Birds closed up their formation and dropped to less than fifty feet off of the ground. Traveling at that height and at one hundred and fifty miles per hour was something of a rush that these four men were used to but which hadn't lost its excitement.

Dust knew the risks but he also knew the risks if Al-Shams got away with a "special" bomb. Unidentified as nuclear, radiological, chemical, or biological, the device that had been pinpointed in Yukhari Chvgun was suddenly the highest priority. It took precedence over the Rangers, Green Berets, and Ghost Recon commandos fighting in Gharanghoo. It complicated an already complicated situation that now, with the inclusion of two Russian fighters, because off the charts complicated. At FOB Mustang, COL Ryan was suddenly faced with a nightmare scenario. His only hope was that Dust and his men would get to Yukhari Chvgun undetected by the Russian fighters and be able to conduct the reconnaissance there that needed to happen. The men in Gharanghoo would just have to hold out until the Russian fighters cleared the airspace.

Both Little Birds cleared north, towards Qarahziyaeddin but they were really following highway 11, which was devoid of any traffic since the Empire began its operations in this region of Iran. When the highway cut west from Qarahziyaeddin, the Little Birds banked and followed, flying now just twenty-five feet off of the ground, following the highway as it snaked north and west through the terrain. If they kept on the highway, they would dump right into Gharanghoo but that wasn't going to be desirable so, as the highway jumped into a valley and several villages became visible, the pilots cut to the north-northwest. They snaked through the area, rising and falling with the hills and valleys, aiming to approach Yukhari Chvgun from the south. The whole time, Dust and the rest of Alpha team hung onto their weapons as they rode on the external benches of the two Little Birds.

Yukhari Chvgun finally became visible after several kilometers of up and down, rollercoaster-like flight. However, the village was broken into two segments. The western segment, which was closer, was full of trees and vegetation. The eastern segment had vegetation only to the south. A flattened path north and south of the village was what the Persians here called the road. Not nearly as large as Nazik, the four men from Alpha team watched intently as the two Little Birds set down just to the south of the western segment of the village. It was really the only suitable area for them and once they were off of the benches, both Little Birds kicked themselves back into the air, and made their way back to FOB Mustang to refuel.

The first impression of Yukhari Chvgun that Dust had was that it was too quiet. Smoke lifted into the air from a few chimneys but there wasn't a soul to be seen or heard. Despite the lack of hostile activity or hostile gunfire, he quickly concluded that the village was, in fact, hot. "House to house guys, let's stay together. We've got to find this." Dust ordered as they moved through the vegetation down a beaten path towards the main segment of the village.

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November 11, 2011 - 10:00 hrs [UTC+3:30]
Yukhari Chvgun, Iran
Ghost Recon Alpha Team
(39° 7' 6.65" N, 44° 46' 10.51" E)

"Dust, we've been reviewing the reports from Overlord, we've got no trace on any radiation coming out of that location," the technician from FOB Mustang said over the radio. He and Dust were on a secure channel but they still weren't giving out names.

"Maybe it's not nuclear or radiological. We'll continue our recon." Dust looked over at Oliver and Raccoon who were both crouched next to a wall. Lightning was only a few feet away on the other side of the narrow alleyway. "Place is still way too quiet." Dust said and Oliver nodded. "Let's keep going."

They had searched six houses already and found that not only were they all just recently vacated but there was no sign whatsoever of anything out of the ordinary. There weren't even ammunition crates or anything to suggest that an armed force was here. They had more buildings to search but in both Chowrs and Qarahziyaeddin, Al-Shams had spread out ammunition virtually everywhere. Though Yukhari Chvgun was a lot smaller and staffed by far fewer fighters, it was likely that every segment of the village had at least one ammunition cache.

Crossing the packed, dirt road, and the four men entered a long, rectangular structure. It was the only roofed structure in this segment and though it was rather big, it was still empty and recently vacated, like the others. Whomever had been in had left in a hurry and obviously they didn't have any time to hide anything but then again, they had all morning and last night to hide things while the Layartebians hit Chowrs and Qarahziyaeddin. The subsequent assault on Gharanghoo would have tipped off anyone here at Yukhari Chvgun that the Layartebians were on their way, getting closer by the minute. Still, the next segment of the village yielded nothing.

The four of them proceeded across the street to the north for the next segment and though there were a lot of walls, there were few roofs. Most of these were pens for animals and yards. There were a few cooking and heating fires burning but nothing out of the ordinary for a small village. Clothes hung from being freshly washed and in one yard, whoever had been there, had been in the middle of washing a child's clothes. Through this area, Dust and the rest of the men grew disappointed that they had yet to yield anything. This being the main part of the village was sure to yield some results but there were none.

The crossed the road again to the northwestern segment of the village and continued their search, yard to yard, house to house, room to room. Again, there was nothing to be found but the same that they had seen previously. Growing more disappointed that they had been led on a wild goose chase, they proceeded north to a fifth segment of the village along the southern side of the northern road. This road was actually a paved surface but it was worn and old. The roadway was cracked and sun bleached. The houses and yards that bordered it yielded, as expected, nothing of any significance to them.

The four of them crouched at the edge of one yard and looked to the east. There was the eastern cluster of huts and yard walls starting two hundred meters ahead of them, extending for another one hundred and fifty meters. "How do we want to approach this? I'm just waiting for an ambush." Dust said. A common misconception in the military was that the military wasn't a democracy. That was only partly true. When it came to elite special forces teams in the Tier One category and other very small, closely-knit units, democracy was very much alive and well. In Ghost Recon teams, for example, everyone had an equal say and though the team leader always had the final word, if the majority opinion was against a specific action, nine out of ten times, he would alter the plan. These men were trained professionals who didn't succumb to fear or reluctance. If they didn't want to do something a particular way, they usually had a well versed reason as to why and it often followed the lines of logic and military tactics.

"I'm thinking this whole village bugged out when the Rangers hit Gharanghoo." Raccoon said.

"Well where'd they go?" Dust asked.

"Tough to tell, maybe into the mountains or something? Maybe they're hiding out there."

"Okay, well we need to get there and the only cover is in those trees. Do we risk it?" Everyone looked around at the scene and Dust was right. The only cover was a line of trees to the south that ran all the way to the eastern segment of the village. Since nobody objected, it was obvious that this was the way they'd go and off they went, moving quickly but quietly, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of an ambush.

There was no ambush though and six clusters of huts and yard walls lay in front of them. Three were along the tree line and three were along the road so what did they do but hit them, one-by-one, going through them just as before. They started with the southwestern cluster and then went north into the northwestern cluster. They moved east to the center cluster and then south to the bottom cluster. Then they moved east to the southeastern cluster and then north again to the northeastern cluster. There was nothing to be found and the four of them concluded that they had been led on a wild goose chase. "Mustang Actual." Dust said into the microphone.

"Go ahead Dust," it was COL Ryan on the other end of the line.

"We've got nothing here, we've been had."

"Roger that Dust, you're right, kid just confessed he was lying about the whole thing."

"Little asshole."

"We'll be able to get you out in thirty mikes."

"Understood Mustang Actual." Dust looked around at the empty village. "Thirty minutes to extract." He said to his men.

"You know we didn't check in there." Raccoon said, pointing to two stone huts about one hundred and fifty meters to their west. They were on the northern side of the road. The chimney on the one hut wasn't puffing smoke. Most of the ones around Yukhari Chvgun were. "No smoke on the chimney."

"Let's check it out then. We can bring in the Little Birds there anyway." Oliver said just before the four of them moved off down the road to the first of the two huts. As they stacked up against the door, all four of them held their breath as a phone began to ring. "Phone?" Oliver said.

"GET BACK!" Dust yelled as he pushed Lightning away from the door. In a quarter of a second, the entire hut exploded, the door flying through the air with such force that had Lightning not been pushed out of the way, he would have been killed instantly by the kinetic energy of that door. The walls of the hut crumbled apart and the blast, directed towards the door, was largely negated due to the strength of the walls. Still, it left every one of the four Ghost Recon commandos dazed and foggy. Oliver was knocked unconscious as he was flung to the ground and Dust caught a piece of stone in his face that split his cheek wide open. Lightning was fine and Raccoon's wrist was sprained from where he extended it to break his fall.

Everyone's ears were ringing, their vision was cloudy, and their head's were buzzed. That was when Dust first heard the sound of gunfire and it wasn't theirs, and with just one wall of the hut standing, Dust quickly grabbed Oliver by the collar and began to drag him towards the wall as he shouted commands at Raccoon and Lightning. "TAKE COVER! RETURN FIRE!" He raised his rifle with his left hand and began to squeeze off rounds towards several figures visible about one hundred meters to the north, on the hillside. Raccoon and Lightning recovered quickly and began to return fire, popping off single shots from their assault rifles. Aiming for heads and hearts, the two of them dropped three hostiles right off the bat by the time Dust pulled Oliver to the wall. Oliver was, by then, coming too. Since he had the SAW, he was the most important man on the team.

"OLIVER! C'MON WE NEED YOU, RETURN FIRE!" Dust yelled down to him. Oliver was lying on his back, looking up at the sky when the sound of battle wafted into his ears. "OLIVER C'MON GET UP!" Dust was yelling from the wall, where he was firing at several more hostiles who were appearing from behind boulders and other parts of the hillside. They had been ambushed and now they were totally defensive.

Oliver struggled to his feet but he got up, checked himself for blood and, upon seeing none, put his weapon on the wall's ledge, and began to squeeze off quick bursts of one or two rounds at a time. His M106A2 SAW was in automatic mode meaning that he could fire at the full rate of eight hundred and fifty rounds per minute but that would exhaust his one-hundred round bag in seconds. By controlling his fire, letting off no more than three rounds at a time, he could make that bag and the other four bags that he had last a long time.

Firing at the hostile men, Dust looked at the other hut. It was standing and open but it provided a lot better cover than the blasted apart one that they were in, causing him to yell out, "We need to get over there! This cover isn't going to last. Raccoon, take the radio." He pulled off the main radio and handing it over to Raccoon while he provided cover. This would let him run faster. "Cover me, when I go, Raccoon you, then Lightning, Oliver you take up the last, cover us up!" Dust looked around just to make sure that the hostiles were all in front of them on the hillside. They were all at their ten to two o'clock positions and the hut was off to their nine o'clock. "GOING!" Dust took off running, sprinting as fast as he could. He slid into the doorway and sprang back up, rifle shouldered, while he quickly checked the one room hut. Then he appeared back at the door and shouted back, "CLEAR! RACCOON!" Raccoon took off running and Oliver continued to fire. In just the two or three minutes since the bomb had gone off, the four men had shot and killed fifteen hostiles but there were at least thirty more taking cover, firing at them. The few that exposed themselves carelessly were those who were shot and killed.

Raccoon made it across and quickly took up a position to offer fire support. "RPG!" He yelled just as an RPG gunner appeared from behind a rock and fired. Raccoon killed him but the rocket had been released and it smashed into the ground ten meters in front of the disintegrating hut.

"LIGHTNING GO!" Dust yelled as he dropped a hostile machine gunner trying to wield his PKM. Lightning took off running as fast as he could and as the bullets flew all around him, one grazed his pants leg, causing him to lose his footing. He crashed through the doorway and checked his leg to find that it was just a grazing shot. He ignored it and took up a position just as Dust yelled for Oliver.

Oliver, the heaviest, moved the slowest, but he still sprinted and made it across the ten-meter gap between the two huts. Just as he left his position, a grenade landed in it and exploded, filling the air with fragments and shrapnel. Lucky for him, he was out of its lethality radius but only by a meter.

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November 11, 2011 - 10:16 hrs [UTC+3:30]
Yukhari Chvgun, Iran
Ghost Recon Alpha Team
(39° 7' 14.14" N, 44° 46' 18.41" E)

"CONTACT!" Raccoon yelled out as he opened fire. "FUCKING EVERYWHERE DUST!"

"THIS IS KNOW! FIELDS OF FIRE!" With that command, he and the other three men took up positions accordingly to previously agreed upon limits. Dust and Oliver would cover 10 o'clock to 2 o'clock, where the biggest force was concentrated. Raccoon would cover 2 o'clock down to 6 o'clock and Lightning would cover 10 o'clock down to 6 o'clock. Dust would, if necessary, shift his fire accordingly to wherever the biggest concentration was. It was going to take a lot of communication between the four men and in the loudness and fog of battle, few units could pull it off with success.

As it was, the four men were huddled into a small hut that was made of stone. It wasn't going to last forever but it was in a lot better shape than the first hut, which had been blasted to bits by the IED. Their stone fortification could last them a while, provided they knocked out the deadliest of their foes, those who carried RPGs. "RPG RIGHT!" Raccoon yelled as Dust sighted the tall and exposed hostile. He squeezed off two rounds and dropped him as the rocket ignited. It coasted over the hut but only just barely.

"WE NEED AIR SUPPORT!" Lightning yelled out as he dropped two hostiles with AKs one right after the other.

Dust agreed in his head and he fired a few rounds sending a heavy gunner behind a boulder. Whether he got him or not was unknown until the hostile popped his head up to fire back, only to be hit between the eyes by a two-round burst from Oliver. "GOOD SHOOTING!" Dust yelled to Oliver as he moved to cover in order to make the radio call. Taking the handset from the radio, he pushed the transmit button and hoped that the sound of gunfire wouldn't drown out his voice. "Mustang Actual, Mustang Actual," he said, talking calmly and lucidly.

"Dust go ahead, Mustang Actual," gunfire echoed loudly in the background and COL Ryan could easily tell that Alpha team was heavily engaged.

"Mustang Actual, we're going to need some immediate close air support most ricky tick! We've been ambushed by five-zero plus, I repeat five-zero plus hostiles. We are entirely defensive and exposed." Silence filled the air for a moment and Oliver let out another burst, taking down an RPG gunner. Bullets were slamming into their cover, chewing it apart, causing the stone to gradually disintegrate before them. Dust wanted to see an A-10 flying overhead but he'd have taken anything at that moment with enough firepower to scare away the hostiles.

"Dust, that's a negative, we can't right now. Three-zero mikes at the earliest." Dust looked to Raccoon and nodded his head and at that moment, an RPG went off and flew towards the hut. They had no time to react and the explosion just a foot in front of the hut filled it with dust, smoke, and heat. A part of the window ledge broke off and Raccoon dropped backwards. Dust quickly stood in the window and returned fire.

"RACCOON C'MON MAN YOU ALL RIGHT?" Dust yelled back to him.

"I'M GOOD!" Raccoon said, getting back to his feet. He had taken shrapnel to his left cheek and his left arm, both of which had been exposed at the time but he was fine. Blood dripped down his face and out of his arm but the wounds were superficial.

"Mustang Actual, say again, did you say three-zero mikes!"

"That's a-firm Dust. Three-zero mikes."

"We're not going to be here in three-zero mikes. We need air support yesterday Mustang Actual."

"We're doing the best we can right now, dig-in and hold on, you can last soldier! Mustang out."

Dust dropped the handset and shook his head. "CHOOSE YOUR SHOTS BOYS WE'RE GOING TO BE HERE A WHILE."

"FUCKIN'A!" Oliver yelled back as a bullet struck him in the shoulder, knocking him backwards. It was a heavy caliber, 7.62x39mm round and it hit him hard, penetrating through his vest. His left arm would be otherwise useless from that point on and the round, being the asshole that it was, didn't exit either.

Dust jumped over to him and looked at the wound and then at Oliver's pain-twisted face. "YOU'RE ALIVE!"

"DAMN RIGHT!" No stranger to pain, this was different. Oliver had never been shot in his shoulder before and it was a bitch of a wound. He was bleeding and he needed a medevac. However, knowing that his life and the rest of the men around him counted on his gun, he took Dust's hand with his good arm and lifted himself up but when he went to lift his weapon, he couldn't find the strength. "YAHH!"

"TAKE MINE!" Dust handed him the carbine and took the SAW. Much lighter than the SAW, the carbine took a lot less rounds but it was much easier to maneuver. "RETURN FIRE!"

"ROGER THAT!" Oliver got himself back into position and used his left arm to stabilize the weapon while Dust dropped magazines by his side. Dust, in turn, grabbed the ammo bags for the SAW and began to fire back. Hostiles had closed to within just fifty meters of their position and they were firing far more furiously than they had been before. Their numbers had also doubled in the short time that they had been in the hut.

Dust grabbed the handset and leaned it against his shoulder as he fired off a burst into three hostiles who were getting way too close. "MUSTANG ACTUAL, WE NEED AN IMMEDIATE MEDEVAC! WE'VE GOT WOUNDED HERE." There was no answer and although Dust repeated it, there never came an answer and in frustration, he dropped the handset. As he looked down to see where it landed, a round came into the window and smacked him hard in the chest. He, like Oliver, flew backwards onto the ground but, unlike Oliver, his vest thankfully stopped the round. It had felt like a sledge hammer and he was sure that he had some sort of internal injuries but with his adrenaline pumping as hard as it was, he wouldn't be able to tell until later. He checked himself, checked his vest, saw that the round never got through, and hefted himself back to position. He returned fire, killing the hostile who had shot him.

"CONTACT LEFT HEAVY!" Lightning yelled out and he didn't get any time to himself.

"CONTACT RIGHT HEAVY! THEY'RE MOVING TO FLANK US!" Two RPGs sailed across and slammed into the hut. One of them hit the side where Lightning was and shook the entire hut. It didn't detonate but it broke off a large chunk of the exterior wall. The second one hit in the middle of the hut and detonated, taking a chunk out of the wall between the two windows. Once again, the hut filled with dust that obscured their vision. Raccoon opened up on three hostiles who were getting closer and then oriented himself to hit the RPG gunner who had fired at the hut, striking him before he could get another shot off at the hut.

The din of battle was louder than ever. Hostiles numbered well over fifty and they were all firing from concealment, popping up only to reaim their shots. That was usually when they were killed but it was also when their shots did the most damage. In less than four minutes, Dust had taken a hit to the chest, Oliver had a shot in his shoulder, Raccoon had taken shrapnel from an RPG, and Lightning had taken two rounds himself. They came right after the other and only moments after the RPG had struck the wall. The first round whizzed by his ear, taking off a chunk of his left earlobe and slicing the strap on his helmet while the other round hit him in the vest. Knocked down by the impact, he checked himself, got back to position, and returned fire as Dust made yet another frantic call for help.

"MUSTANG ACTUAL, WE NEED A PRIORITY MEDEVAC! WE'RE ALL TAKING HITS HERE! BRING IN SOME GODDAMN CAS!"

"NO USE!" Raccoon yelled. Dust looked to see why and at that moment he saw that the antenna on the radio had been blown off by a bullet. The main radio was useless and all they had now where their tactical radios. Because of the terrain there was no guarantee that they were going to be able to transmit or receive yet Dust tried, cueing up his throat microphone, asking for the medevac again. No reply came again.

"FUCK IT!" Dust yelled as he looked at his ammo bag. "LOADING! He had two rounds left, aimed them, and fired, taking down an approaching hostile. He dropped to the ground, took out the second bag and switched to the third. The reloading process took a few seconds but it seemed like an eternity as bullets whizzed into the hut and smashed against its exterior, which was gradually turning into a block of Swiss cheese. They had been in battle now eight minutes and the enemy wasn't letting up, coming in at them from all over the hills before them.

"RPG LEFT!" Lightning yelled as another rocket streaked through the air. It wasn't aimed right, thankfully and it detonated in a boulder a few meters from the hut's front. Lightning returned fire, dropped out the now empty magazine to reload his weapon, and continued to lay down accurate, controlled fire against the approaching hostile gunners.

"AMMO COUNT!" Dust yelled as he opened up with the third bag of ammunition. He had this bag and two left before the SAW was completely out of ammunition.

"TEN MAGS!" Raccoon yelled.

"TWELVE MAGS!" Oliver reported.

"TEN MAGS!" Lightning yelled back as he tossed a grenade out of the window. "FUCKERS!" The grenade went off taking out two hostiles who were using a boulder to protect themselves from Lightning's fire. Both of them dropped over the side of it in the explosion, which tossed them into the air like rag dolls.

"RPG ELEVEN!" It was too late, the rocket fired and screamed through the air towards them. Dust had only enough time to get down and he yanked Oliver down with him. The rocket exploded where Oliver would have been and showered the inside of the hut with shrapnel and fragments that hit Lightning, who had been unable to get clear. Peppered on his right side, he screamed in pain as Dust helped Oliver back to his feet. A large chunk of the window had been removed from by the RPG.

"LIGHTNING YOU GOOD?"

"FUCKING PEACHY!" Dust opened up against two hostiles who had closed to just twenty-five meters. He drove them and three others back as Oliver reoriented himself.

Enemies were virtually everywhere and as their magazines went dry, they dropped them to the ground in front of them, loading another. The Ghost Recon commandos were crack shots and it was true that most of the rounds they fired were on target and kill shots. They were calm and collected, despite the situation, but there were just too many bad guys out there for them to make their ammunition last forever. They threw their grenades when they saw fit and made them count just as much as they made every bullet count. They fired their 40-millimeter grenades as well, using them to take out bunched up enemies who were using cover to protect themselves but those opportunities weren't as plentiful as they would have liked.

The enemy, on the other hand, was inexperienced and obviously frightened. They fired from cover and approached when the hut was obscured by smoke and dust from RPG strikes. They poured ammunition towards the hut and lobbed grenades, although far less effectively than their rounds. Their RPGs, on the other hand, were, for the most part, on target. It was, of course, a lot harder to miss the hut with an RPG than it was to get a grenade into one of the windows.

The fight continued though and rounds poured in with all of them hit. Then, as if luck were as far away from their side as possible, a grenade bounced into the window right in front of Dust. Eyes widened, he jumped down and picked up the grenade and without thinking, flung it out of the window and yelled, "GRENADE!" He jumped down but the grenade had never gone off, something he couldn't have known. It turned out that the hostile who threw it had never pulled the safety off of it. Dust laughed as he got himself back to place to open fire when he was struck again, this time through one of the holes created by the RPGs. The round came through and hit him in the left thigh, missing anything important but knocking him down to the ground. "FUCK!" He yelled back as he looked to see the blood soaking in on his pants. He repeated his call for a medevac again as he got to his feet. "MUSTANG ACTUAL WE NEED AN IMMEDIATE MEDEVAC. WE'VE TAKEN CRITICAL HITS AND WE WILL NOT BE ALIVE MUCH LONGER." No answer came and he opened fire against the enemy, using up the last of his third ammunition bag. "LOADING!"

At that point, with the battle approaching ten minutes, nobody had more than seven magazines left and Dust was down to his last two hundred rounds. Another RPG screamed through the air and slammed into the right side of the hut, blasting the door to pieces and showering Raccoon with fragments and shrapnel to his back, most of which were stopped by his vest. However, with the door gone, that gave the enemy a much easier target for grenades and two of them came in one after the other, the first one kicked out by Raccoon and the second swatted out by Raccoon as well. Both of them exploded just outside of the hut, harmlessly.

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November 11, 2011 - 10:23 hrs [UTC+3:30]
Yukhari Chvgun, Iran
Ghost Recon Alpha Team
(39° 7' 14.14" N, 44° 46' 18.41" E)

Shrapnel peppered the outside and the inside of the hut as an unseen RPG streaked its way through the sky. In its wake, the sputtering flames of its unreliable rocket motor left a trail of smoke from its origin. Dust had yelled "GET DOWN! Unfortunately, the speed of the rocket and the lateness of its discovery, a byproduct of the fog of battle, meant that there was nothing they could do but try to get their faces down, protecting their eyes most importantly.

By now, everyone was injured. Dust had a slice on his cheek from the initial IED, he had taken a round to the chest but it stopped by his armor, he had been caught in his left thigh by an AK-47 round, and he'd been peppered with more shrapnel from this blast, one piece of which lodged into his neck, luckily missing his jugular vein. Raccoon had a sprained wrist, not that such was too bad of an injury, he had been peppered with shrapnel on his left side, including his cheek and his arm, he had taken shrapnel to the back, and after this last RPG, he had taken a big chunk of shrapnel in his right thigh.

Lightning had been grazed by a round to his leg when he dove into the hut for cover, he had part of his left earlobe blown off by a round, and a second round hit him in the vest, he had been peppered on his right side by shrapnel, and was the only one of the four to not take any shrapnel by this last RPG blast. Oliver, on the other hand, was in the worst condition. The IED blast had knocked him unconscious and it had taken a few minutes for him to get his senses back, he had taken a round to his shoulder, which didn't exit, and this last RPG had lodge a chunk of shrapnel into his "useless" hand. Other pieces struck him all over his vest.

Hostile fire didn't abate, even after the RPG slammed into the hut and ripped apart a whole section of it, causing the four Ghost Recon commandos to displace to different positions, trying to keep as little exposed as possible. They continued to return fire with the fury that only the imminent threat of death could garner. Hostile forces around them seemed to be far from waning in their numbers but the ammunition that the Ghost Recon commandos had left was waning quite rapidly, even if they were firing highly accurately. Their shots, when they connected, were kill shots as well while the hostiles' shots were more just to pour lead into the hut, hoping for a hit. By far, the most damage that had been dealt to the Ghost Recon commandos had been from the RPGs, which filled the air with shrapnel.

As the minutes wore on and the battle intensified, Dust looked at his watch. It was 10:25 and they had been fighting for the better part of thirteen minutes now. Command wasn't sending a MEDEVAC for another seventeen minutes and they weren't going to last until then. Then another round streaked into the hut, fired from some hidden position. It was a lucky shot but it slammed right into Dust and knocked him down. Instantly, he felt the warmth of blood on him as he realized that the round had penetrated his vest and went through his side. He gasped for air and then struggled back to his feet. "FUCK!" He yelled. A second round came through and knocked him back down, hitting his right arm.

Raccoon opened up against a position with his grenade launcher and watched as a hostile flew into the air, his head dislodged from the rest of his body. "SON OF A BITCH!" He cursed back at the dead hostile as he walked over to Dust and brought him to his feet. "WHERE ARE YOU HIT?" Dust pointed to his side and Raccoon gave it a look. "YOU'LL BE FINE, TAKE THE CARBINE!" For the second time, the SAW changed hands and Raccoon lifted Dust, the team leader, to his feet and put him back in place. He let out a burst with the SAW and took down an RPG gunner before he could fire.

Hostiles, knowing that their strategy was working, even if they were taking horrendous losses, kept the pressure on the Ghost Recon commandos, drawing closer with each passing minute. Raccoon, now operating the SAW, exhausted the last of this bag. He had just two left and as he yelled "LOADING!" he unzipped one of those bags and slapped the rounds into the weapon. He brought the weapon up and began to fire off rounds, two at a time, keeping the weapon controlled and on target. He barely got through ten rounds before another RPG sputtered its way through the sky. One of its guidance tails had not deployed correctly and thus it didn't hit the hut but it made quite a spectacle as it flew over the battlefield.

As the RPG exploded against a rock, tossing already deceased bodies around, Lightning let out a yell as an AK-47 round caught him through the leg, a ricochet from a shot aimed at Oliver. Things were going downhill fast. As Lightning struggled to get back to his feet and hold his position, Dust looked at Raccoon and shook his head. 'CALL THEM OFF?" He asked.

Raccoon, a stern look on his face nodded in agreement. He had consigned himself to fate. Dust turned and asked Oliver, who nodded in agreement. Lightning, who was barely able to crouch in position, nodded as well. "WE ALL GOTTA DIE SOMETIME!" Lightning yelled back. "BUT I AIN'T DOIN' IT TIL I FIRE EVERY LAST ROUND!"

The sentiment was felt by every man and Dust cued up his throat mike. It was hard to talk but he took in a deep breath and spoke slowly, "MUSTANG ACTUAL. CALL OFF THE BIRDS. I REPEAT DO NOT SEND IN EXTRACTION. WE'RE NOT GOING TO MAKE IT. GOOD LUCK TO THE REST OF THE MEN." He summoned a last bit of strength and returned to the fight, opening up on two hostiles who closed to within spitting distance. An RPG sailed across the battlefield and struck the hut, causing a partial roof collapse but since the roof was nothing more than branches and dirt, they were only showered with small bits of debris and nothing jagged or fatal. It was 10:27.

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November 11, 2011 - 10:27 hrs [UTC+3:30]
Yukhari Chvgun, Iran
Ghost Recon Alpha Team
(39° 7' 14.14" N, 44° 46' 18.41" E)

"AMMO COUNT!" Dust yelled out with difficulty. His voice was hoarse and didn't get too fire above the din of combat. The noise level was beyond deafening between the incoming and outgoing fire, the RPGs, and the explosions. It didn't help that the sound was reflected by the upslope in front of the huts, sending it right back to the four Ghost Recon commandos, all of whom were weak and weary from their injuries. Still, they returned fire with the fervency of a fresh replacement.

"TWO MAGS!" Oliver yelled, "ONE GRENADE."

"TWO MAGS, ONE GRENADE." Lightning yelled. Dust was down to his last magazine and he was out of grenades except for the one smoke grenade that he had been carrying. He determined that it would be useless now but it was no use to throw.

"LAST BAG!" Raccoon yelled as he resumed firing.

Dust knew that the end was all too near. The four of them had been ambushed by over two hundred hostiles. They had killed about a hundred or more of them so far. Their hut, which provided shelter, had taken well over two thousand rounds from AK-47s, AK-74s, and RPDs. It had taken twenty-plus RPG hits within a close proximity. Seven grenades landed close enough to blow holes in the walls. The hut was in shambles, structurally speaking. Most of the back wall was ready to come down and the roof had big enough holes in it that grenades could roll into it from above, if hostiles had the wherewithal to throw the grenades there.

All four of them kept a mental count of the rounds they were firing, knowing exactly when they were down to the last round so that they could swap out magazines more effectively. It was something that they had been doing throughout the entire battle. For Raccoon, being on the last bag of ammunition was particularly troublesome. The SAW was the big meat of their weaponry, it had been crucial in keeping the enemy at bay. Though some ventured close enough to spit onto the hut, they were few and far between, most of the hostiles being held to twenty-five and fifty meters. When the time came that they were down to just their pistols, the enemy would swarm down to barely fifty meters, where they would be held off for a short time before their pistol ammo was all expended.

Knowing that certain death was imminent didn't change much for the Layartebians. They were elite, Tier One operators from the 3rd Special Operations Group. That they had survived this long in the unit was indicative that they were on borrowed time. Put in some of the riskiest situations possible, they were always outnumbered and outgunned by an enemy who knew the terrain. They knew that they weren't going to survive the onslaught into the hut and that they would probably be killed by a wall of hostile bullets as the enemy converged on the hut. The idea of removing their body armor to make it quicker seemed like a good idea to both Lightning and Oliver but that wasn't an option given the amount of hostiles surrounding them.

They were going to fight to the last man and to the last bullet. Until the last breath left their bodies, they would be returning fire from their position. Then, the only question would be whether the faces of their wives and their children would grace their minds. That would be the hardest part, to say goodbye to their loved ones, thousands of miles away, without being able to do so directly. They knew that the rest of their unit would take care of their families for them and their children would go to college free of charge. Their wives would receive stipends each month and they wouldn't suffer, monetarily speaking. The grieving would be hard. JSOC wouldn't give them the truth of what happened, only that they had been killed, likely in a training accident, maybe a helicopter crash. Medals would be presented posthumously and their names would be etched onto a wall underneath their photos. The world would go on without them and COL Ryan would have four more bodies to bury, the worst part of his job.

In the corner, Lightning let his Carbine hang from his shoulder as he drew his pistol. BANG BANG! He fired off two rounds, taking down one hostile who was charging the hut. The hostile dropped just ten meters away from the hut, both rounds clear through his head. BANG BANG! He shot another, one through the heart and a second time through the head. "I'M OUT!" He yelled. A round passed through the hut and struck him in the arm, knocking him backwards. It exited though and a second round just missed his face. He felt it as it went by, it was that close.

Oliver, having lost a considerable amount of blood, fired off the last two rounds from his Carbine and set his sights on a rock just forty meters away. He adjusted and sent his last grenade through the air. It exploded on impact, taking out two hostiles. He went to his pistol as well. Dust was barely able to stand but he still had a dozen rounds left. Raccoon had forty rounds left. "MEN!" Dust said with a deep gasp. The pain in his stomach was intense. The round that penetrated through his vest had caught his stomach, an intensely painful place to be wounded. "IT'S BEEN AN HONOR!" He yelled back as he fired off one round and took down an RPG gunner.

Tears came to his eyes, Raccoon's too as they thought about their loved ones at home. Oliver was on the verge of passing out when he dropped one more hostile who was creeping a bit too close, a grenade in his hand. Luckily, he hadn't pulled the pin and it dropped harmlessly onto the ground in front of them.

The four of them looked out at the hillside at more than fifty hostiles, still bearing down on them. The seconds were ticking away and it was only 10:29, two minutes after Dust had made the call to abandon them. They didn't know if FOB Mustang had heard them or not but they didn't care. They had done the best that they could under the circumstances and though they would die, they kill-to-loss ratio would be astronomical. If Al-Shams continued to operate in this region, it would be with only a handful of men, not the thousand or so they had only forty-eight hours earlier

Dust, having difficulty sighting his weapon, fired off one more round, catching an enemy by the side. He spun and fell to the ground but as he went to stand, the entire area around him exploded in a brilliant fireball. It was sudden, as if he had stepped on a mine and at first, Dust didn't think anything of it until, just a few meters away, a second fountain of flames, dirt, and bodies appeared. All around them, the hill started to explode in fountains of flames, dirt, and bodies and mystified, the four, wounded Layartebians all turned to one another and then looked behind them. "HOLY FUCK! DIRECT THAT GODDAMN FIRE! SMOKE! SMOKE!" Dust yelled.

Through a hole in the falling, back wall, Dust saw the most beautiful sight in the world. They came in from the south at low altitude, moving quicker than a bullet and then, as if they had struck a wall, came to a halt just five hundred meters away from the hut. Summoning the last bits of strength in his body, Dust got to his feet as Oliver, Raccoon, and Lightning continued to fire, a renewed vigor in their bodies. Dust yanked the smoke grenade off of his belt, pulled the pin, dropped it by his feet, and rolled the grenade out of the back. Seconds later it went BANG and a puff of red smoke appeared, forming a cloud.

"MISSISSIPPI FLIGHT! MISSISSIPPI FLIGHT! COME IN!" Dust yelled into a microphone as he struggled out of a hole in the back wall, waving his arms to the two AH-6M Little Bird helicopters hovering above the ground.

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November 11, 2011 - 10:30 hrs [UTC+3:30]
Yukhari Chvgun, Iran
Ghost Recon Alpha Team
(39° 7' 14.14" N, 44° 46' 18.41" E)

Dust summoned more strength than he had and he had already depleted whatever reserves were left in his body. Emerging out of the back wall, waving his arms, just beyond the smoke grenade, he looked like an elusive figure rather than a battle hardened commando. "MISSISSIPPI FLIGHT! MISSISSIPPI FLIGHT! COME IN!" He yelled into his throat microphone over the roar of battle. The two Little Birds were using their CRV7 rockets and their Miniguns to hose down the hillside behind Dust and in front of the hut. Whatever hostiles were left scrambled for cover or they were retreating at the sight of the helicopters. Raccoon, Oliver, and Lightning continued to fire though, engaging where they could, when they could.

"I hear ya Dust, loud and clear, give us a SITREP." The voice was from Frank, the pilot of Mississippi 01. By his side, Peter, held the helicopter in place while Frank fired the weapons.

"IF IT MOVES KILL IT! WE NEED A MEDEVAC!"

"Two mikes Dust, two mikes. Hold on down there."

"ROGER THAT." Dust fell down to his knees and with considerable effort, using his weapon as a crutch, lifted himself back up to enter the hut. Inside, he fell back down against the back wall. "HOLD FIRE!" He yelled, a smile across his face as he labored to breathe. "ONLY SHOOT 'EM IF THEY GET STUPID. MEDEVAC IS TWO MIKES AWAY." Nobody said anything, they just all dropped where they were, keeping a watch for hostiles but all they saw were fountains of dirt as rockets and Minigun fire struck the retreating AS soldiers.

On cue, two minutes later, an MH-60M Black Hawk landed just south of the hut. The Little Birds circled overhead along with a single AH-103A Cheyenne, which had been escorting the Black Hawk.

Two medics rushed into the hut and saw all four men, wounded, sitting where they had made their final defense. Because of the rotor wash of the helicopter, the inside of the hut was full of flying debris. "JESUS DUST," one of the medics yelled as he looked at them. "WE'VE GOT TO GET YOU OUT."

"OLIVER FIRST! HE'S WORSE." In fact, Oliver looked a lot better than Dust did at that moment but the medics didn't argue. Instead, they helped Oliver to his feet. Raccoon helped Lightning up and the five of them departed the hut, Dust still sitting in place. When the two medics came back with a stretcher, Dust threw a rock at them and, with a smile, defiantly proclaimed, "I CAN FUCKING WALK!" Thirty seconds later, he was on the stretcher, being loaded into the helicopter. The doors remained open while the helicopter lifted off of the ground. It allowed all four of the Ghost Recon commandos to look down at the battlefield. Bodies were everywhere and parts of bodies were just as plentiful.

From here, they could see just how bad the hut was and they all knew that they weren't going to last another three minutes, if even that long. Hostiles were concentrated all around them and their bodies were all pointed forward. They had been coming for the hut and those who had been killed by the Little Birds were likely going to charge the hut and finish off Dust and his men for good. Then, the helicopter banked, the doors were shut, and the world turned very different as intercoms were thrown on all four of the men. Medics immediately went to work on Oliver and Dust, the two most seriously injured men. It was then, as the adrenaline began to wane, that all four men felt the pain from their wounds, and the shrapnel that they hadn't felt originally suddenly sent burning flares throughout their skin. "Jesus Dust, what happened to you?" One of the medics asked as he saw the entry wound.

"Beats me, those fuckers picked a fight with us. C'mon I'm fine."

"Like hell you are, you've got a round in the belly. You'll make it." The pilots were radioing to FOB Mustang to have surgical teams ready for immediate care. Dust could crash at any moment and so could Oliver for that matter. Behind them, the Little Birds took up a trail position as the Cheyenne took the lead, never having fired its weapons thanks to the Little Birds, which though slower, were more maneuverable.

All four men would survive. Raccoon would return to combat eventually, taking command of his own team, while Dust, Oliver, and Lightning were all given staff positions in lieu of an honorable discharge. They found out that the Russian fighter had caused a major stir overhead and grounded aviation. The two Little Birds, one Cheyenne, and one Black Hawk took off knowing that they could be shot down. Flying as fast as they could, they headed straight for Yukhari Chvgun. They arrived quite literally right in the nick of time. Three minutes later and they would have been facing RPGs and cheering terrorists.

They all went into surgery when they arrived at FOB Mustang and though they were hailed as heroes, they would always know that they had been duped by a kid. A rifle company from the Rangers landed an hour later, secured the town and the battlefield, and they did so for six hours, without a shot being fired. They never found any CBRN weapons nor did they find evidence of any. They searched the battlefield casualties and recovered only marginal intelligence. Al-Shams had deployed those two hundred men to Yukhari Chvgun to serve as reinforcements but they were never able to call them in to help against the Rangers and special forces.

Frank, Peter, and the crew of Mississippi 02 received Silver Star's for their heroism at Yukhari Chvgun. Frank and Peter also received a Distinguished Flying Cross each for their actions earlier. The crew of the Cheyenne and the Black Hawk received Silver Star's as well.

Dust, Raccoon, Lightning, and Oliver all received Purple Hearts for being wounded. All four of them were put in for the Medal of Honor due to their actions at Yukhari Chvgun. However, upon review, their Medal of Honor was denied. They were upgraded to the Order of Layarteb, the Empire's highest award and honor. To date, only eighty-four Order of Layarteb medals had been awarded, sixty-two of them posthumously. The last one had been given out at the Fleet Week ceremonies on May 6. The month-long investigation of the battle would reveal unimaginable heroism on their part.

Because Overwatch was circling overhead, their transmissions were heard but because of some fault, they never received anything from FOB Mustang. They had no way of knowing that the flight was en route or that it would get there sooner rather than later. For that reason and for their selfless decision to sacrifice themselves rather than risk casualties from the MEDEVAC flight, the Order of Layarteb was more than justified. On December 21, they would be presented with their medals at the Fortress of Comhghall. Throughout the rest of the morning, Layartebians secured Gharanghoo, taking few casualties. At Yukhari Chvgun, the body count was confirmed at two hundred and twenty-five.

by **Layarteb** » Sat Dec 08, 2012 9:25 pm

Fallen Angel 039985A

February 8, 1985 - 02:25 hrs [UTC-5]
Rome, New York
Griffiss Air Force Base
(43°13'50.95" N, 75°24'34.70" W)

At the Imperial Layartebian Defense Forces' Northeast Air Defense Command Headquarters or (NADCHQ), it was a very quiet morning. Long-range, sophisticated radars all around the Empire's northeastern air defense sector fed data into this regional command HQ where operators watched computer scenes for interlopers and intruders. On this particularly chilly, wintry morning, the skies above the Empire were quiet. Various civilian airliners flying in previously assigned corridors were matched to their anticipated flight plans and none was straying outside of their assigned pathways. A fighter patrol flying over southern New York was making its routine turn to head into New Jersey, where it would complete its route for the day. Even at a time like this, when the Empire was pushing headfirst into various nations as part of the Conquests, there was little to no activity to report, and various operators were finding themselves staring into space at their desks.

That was until 02:25 hours, local time, when a single operator, watching the sector over Pennsylvania and West Virginia suddenly saw something appear. He blinked his eyes, rubbed his screen, and looked miffed when the contact disappeared. As part of his standard operating procedures, he ran a self-diagnostics tool and in the midst of it, the contact reappeared, ten miles to the west. "Now that's odd," he commented to himself. He did the math in his head, if an object moved ten miles in thirty seconds that meant it was moving at a speed of twelve hundred miles per hour or around Mach 2. He checked the plot data and then watched as the contact disappeared. He stared, miffed at the screen while the contact disappeared and reappeared at various points. When it was finally heading back to the east, he knew that something was wrong. Getting a hold of the officer on the floor, he showed him the plot, the data, and then watched as the contact continued to appear and disappear over Pennsylvanian airspace, moving now at fifteen hundred miles per hour.

Ultimately, the two patrolling fighters, both F-15C Eagles with four medium and four short-range air-to-air missiles and plenty of fuel were dispatched to investigate the contact. At an altitude of forty thousand feet, they needed little effort to accelerate to a speed of six hundred miles per hour, the edge of transonic flight.

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February 8, 1985 - 02:25 hrs [UTC-5]
Near Somerset, Pennsylvania
Watchman 1
(40° 5' 32.12" N, 78° 45' 37.45" W)

Somerset, Pennsylvania was a small and sleepy town of barely sixty-five hundred people. It was situated in high elevation so that it had comfortable summers but very cold winters. It was home mostly to coal miners who worked just outside of town at the Quecreek Coal Mine and it was one of the Empire's best-kept secrets. Just outside of the town and away from the coal mine was a long strip of runway, 2,650 meters in length. It was otherwise nothing monumental and the airport that was along with it was listed as a regional airport closed to civilian traffic due to varying reasons. They changed from time to time but most of them revolved around a hazardous wind condition experienced because the runway was in a small valley. This was Somerset Air Force Base though, one of the Empire's eight secret air bases. There were two in North Carolina, two in Tennessee, one in Virginia, and two more in West Virginia.

These secret airfields all had single runways and kept to the same stories. They were listed as civilian or auxiliary airstrips and whenever the satellites passed overhead, there was nothing to be seen. In truth that was because, all eight airfields were built next to mountainsides, which had been hollowed out partially under the guise of coal exploration or other nature resource exploration. From time to time, just to keep with the story, a cargo plane would land and coal would be seen loaded onto it. Coincidentally it was always when the satellites were overhead. Careful planning was done to maintain the satellite schedule overhead and a change in that would foster a change in operations at the base.

These eight secret airbases stored their aircraft within the mountain, hidden from the satellites and prying eyes. Exclusively, these were bomber bases but some of the Empire's newest, most capable, classified fighters were based here as well. Thus a contact appearing a disappearing, as if it were a low observable (i.e. stealth) aircraft was a cause for major concern. If this were a reconnaissance aircraft, its identity would need to be confirmed.

Watchman 1 was the callsign for the two F-15s. Watchman 1-1 was the lead aircraft and Watchman 1-2 was the trail. Very capable fighters, the pilots vectored their F-15s towards Somerset and turned on their radars to maximum power once they were twenty miles away but even still, all of the power of the AN/APG-63 wasn't enough. There were no contacts on screen and certainly, there was nothing to be seen. The pilots switched to their night vision goggles and continued on to Somerset, approaching on this very clear, starry night.

"Hey Buzz, see anything?" Watchman 1-1's pilot, callsign Wolf, asked as he scanned to the west with his radar.

"Nothing Wolf, just a lot of dead space, maybe air command tracked some geese again." Not long ago, a flock of geese had been tracked and confused with a fighter. When the F-15s on patrol were sent to intercept they nearly flew into the birds. For fun, they tried to get a lock with the AIM-9 Sidewinders but were obviously unable due to the lack of an infrared signature.

"Yet another bogus…" Then, in the midst of his sentence, Wolf saw a contact appear nine miles ahead, moving away at four hundred miles per hour and sixty thousand feet. "I got something! Nine miles bearing 2-7-9, angels 60, heading west at 4-0-0."

"Talley, I have it on radar too."

"Griffis HQ, this is Watchman 1, we've got an unidentified contact bearing 2-7-9, angels 60, heading west at 4-0-0, range 0-9 miles."

"Roger that Watchman 1, Griffis HQ, that's your bogey."

"Vectoring in to intercept," Wolf changed back to his other channel, "Buzz, let's take them up, meet this guy on the level."

"Roger that, climbing," Buzz replied as they pushed their throttles to maximum military power and climbed. Their aircraft accelerated thanks to their very powerful, turbofan engines.

They closed quickly and when they were within four miles, the contact was significantly more stable on their screen. There was nothing out there really to see though; whatever it was that they were tracking was very hard to spot, visually. "No visual, he's getting close though."

"Real close Buzz," Wolf replied and then, as if their radio transmissions were heard, the aircraft in front of them lit its afterburners and rapidly accelerated away. This they saw as the flames in the oxygen deficient atmosphere at 60,000 feet became visible as thin, blue streaks. "There he is!"

"Got it," Buzz replied as he pushed his throttles to maximum afterburner. "Jesus he's doing over a thousand already!"

"Let's drop the tanks," Wolf answered, jettisoning his three external drop tanks, lightening his aircraft up significantly. "Griffis HQ, Watchman 1, we've got a visual, the bogey is accelerating away from us, are you tracking?"

"Watchman 1, Griffis HQ, yes we are, he's heading due west."

"We'll catch the son of a bitch! Permission for Master ARM."

"Permission granted Watchman 1, you are cleared to engage if you become defensive."

"Master ARM on," Wolf answered quickly.

From the other channel Buzz replied, "Two." He acknowledged and both fighters zipped ahead, rapidly accelerating through Mach 1.5. The contact was gaining on them but slightly now as they ate up fuel and became gradually lighter. "Wolf, switching selector to Fox 1."

"Roger that, select Fox 1."

"Locking him up," Wolf said as he locked up the target with one of his AIM-7M Sparrow missiles. They had plenty of range to get the speeding bogey, so long as they kept it under fifteen miles away and that was becoming difficult until suddenly, the contact lost speed, bleeding it as the two fighters zipped ahead at Mach 1.8. "Ah shit! He's slowing down!"

"Yeah, one maneuverable son of a bitch!"

"He's turning north, he's turning north, let's come around south, get on his tail."

"Roger that, turning," the grunting started as G-forces pushed them into their seats. They eased back on their throttles, turning the mighty F-15s to the south to get a better bearing on the target, which had suddenly lost a lot of speed and fast. With their own airbrakes extended, the F-15s were bleeding energy but not nearly as quickly.

"All right, target dead ahead, dead ahead, twelve miles, locking him… Nope, I lost him… Shit what is that?"

"Something stealth Buzz, it's definitely hostile. Shit, there it is, easterly course. It's going for the coast!"

"Get it Wolf, get it!" They pushed their throttles back up and accelerated towards the target. They were inside of ten miles but still unable to get a good radar lock. Their missiles would be useless if they fired them now.

"Buzz I can't get tone," Wolf said as they closed to six miles.

"Me either, no tone, switching to Fox 2." The infamous growl of the Sidewinder's seeker filled the cockpit. At this altitude and air temperature, the infrared seeker of the AIM-9M Sidewinder was especially sensitive and just as the growl became particularly audible; the contact lit its afterburners and zipped ahead again.

This time though, both F-15s were supersonic already and with a few indents of their own throttles, they were racing ahead, moving past Mach 1.5 again in no time. "He's really moving!"

"Roger that Buzz," Wolf was getting antsy and tense now as he contacted Griffis again, "Griffis HQ, this target is heading towards the coast at Mach 2. We're having trouble getting tones via radar lock. This is some sort of stealth aircraft, infrared is even having trouble tracking it. Do we have permission to engage? Contact could be a recon bird."

"Wait one Watchman 1, wait one." The contact suddenly climbed and pulled into a high-G loop. Its blue streaks could be seen across the sky but as far as the contact, it was painted all in black so it was virtually invisible, even at this close range.

"Jesus that's gotta be 10, 11 Gs."

"Let's go get 'em," Buzz answered and the F-15s yanked into their own loop but moving as fast as they were, they would overshoot the contact by quite far. The F-15 might have been maneuverable, capable of pulling more than +9G but anything above +7.5G increased the risk of G-LOC very quickly. G-LOC was G-force induced loss of consciousness. G-LOC was attributed to many lost aircraft and pilots throughout the world and though the pilots wore G-suits that forced blood to their head during hard maneuvers, even it was limited. For a few seconds, one could endure +10, +11Gs but anything sustained and their passing out was very likely.

There was more grunting as they yanked hard on the sticks, bringing the aircraft overhead, trying to keep a visual on the contact. Their HUDs were but only because they were using the sensitive seeker of the AIM-9 to track the target. Without its gimble lock, it was able to track in a wider field of view but even that had limitations. The bogey was dancing around on their HUD and they were just trying to keep track of it as they came out of the loop. "Buzz, he's pulling hard, can you keep up with him?"

"Trying Wolf, trying, he's slippery." Wolf yanked hard on the stick and watched as the G-forces touched +9.2G and he felt the weight of his head press against his shoulders. He eased off on the stick with a grunt and watched as the target turned a reverse and headed off of his HUD. "He's heading west!"

"Roger that I got him Buzz, he's! Oh shit Buzz evasive maneuvers he's on your six!"

"FUCK!" Buzz hit the flares on his aircraft and quickly turned hard to the south, trying to get away from the bogey now as it stayed four miles behind him. In doing so though, Wolf was getting into position. "WOLF GET HIM OFF ME!"

"I've got lock, I've got tone, good tone!" The growl of the Sidewinder was locked onto the bogey, "Fox 2!" The Sidewinder rocketed off of the rails, quickly accelerated to Mach 2.5, and as it did, the contact broke, pulled hard vertically, and the missile tracked, following as Wolf lit his afterburners, pulled up, and put the aircraft in a vertical climb. "Fox 2 again!" He fired a second Sidewinder and this one tracked better. As it streaked upwards into the black sky, their altitude passed 70,000 feet. Any further and the F-15 would begin to seriously lose lift but no more was needed.

As the bogey passed 80,000 feet, the Sidewinder connected with its rear quadrant and exploded. It lit the sky up with a bright, red-orange fireball and with it they could see the faint outline of the bogey. It was all black and it suddenly arced over, just as Wolf leveled off and initiated his own descent, turning the aircraft over on its back and descending in a positive G dive.

"Wolf, I see him, he's in a flat spin. Not on fire but, wait, there he goes." The spin was corrected around 50,000 feet and Buzz turned over, locking on with his own Sidewinders. "Fox 2."

"Fox 2," now two AIM-9M Sidewinders were heading towards the target and both of them tracked as the bogey, low on speed and just recovered from its spin, nosed over, and headed for the ground. When the missiles struck, they filled the sky with more fireballs and this time, the bogey went into an unrecoverable dive. When it impacted the ground 43,582 feet later, it was moving at Mach 1.68.

"That's a splash!" Wolf yelled. They would have to share this kill because there was no way to know whose missile struck the aircraft and knocked it down. "Griffis HQ, Watchman 1, bogey is down. Position is 4-5 miles bearing 0-9-6 of Somerset, P-A. You definitely need to get SAR down there, there's a lot of wreckage."

"Roger that Watchman 1, return to base."

"Copy Griffis, Watchman 1 returning to base, out."

Just as the two F-15s turned for their airbase, a radio transmission echoed across the guard channel. It wasn't from Griffis and it certainly wasn't from Watchman 1. "FALLEN ANGEL," was all that was said.

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February 8, 1985 - 02:35 hrs [UTC-5]
Somerset, Pennsylvania
Somerset Air Force Base
(39°57'25.44" N, 79° 4'21.28" W)

"All right boys, listen up!" A graying colonel with broad shoulders and a cigarette hanging from the right corner of his mouth yelled. Immediately, the eleven men before him snapped to attention. Each dressed in a black uniform with black paint on their exposed hands and face, the men were specters more than they were human beings but that was to be expected of black ops agents as these eleven men were. They were part of the 11th Black Operations Group, known as "Force Viper" amongst its two hundred members. Based out of Somerset Air Force Base, the 11th BOG was the black operations counterpart of the 7th Special Operations Group or "Hawks." The 7th SOG did tier one Pararescue and CSAR and so did the 11th BOG except for this crucial difference. The aircraft and crews that the 11th BOG went to action against weren't always behind enemy lines, nor were they always Layartebian, and neither were they always unclassified. Their mission scope was broad and their skills even broader.

The 11th BOG had eight action squads, denoted by letters from Alpha to Hotel. The men assembled here were part of Charlie Squad and they composed of two, 4-man fire teams for support and one 3-man specialist team consisting of a medic and two corpsman specialists. With plenty of equipment placed all around their bodies and weapons hanging from their shoulders, the eleven men were itching to get into the air. Two MH-60A Black Hawks were being prepared for immediate flight not more than a hundred meters away in one of the secret airfields' buried, hardened aircraft shelters. "A few minutes ago, air force pukes shot down a highly maneuverable, stealthy aircraft not more than forty-five miles east of this location. Recon shows that the crash site is located just south of where Route 643 and Interstate 70 cross by Emmaville Mountain. The wreckage is located in a small, wooded area alongside Route 643 in someone's backyard.

"Intel has no clue what the hell this is, whether it's a top secret spy plane from one of the Empire's enemies or something else entirely. Exercise extreme caution, secure the scene. After initial contact, Bravo Squad will fly out and join you to secure the perimeter. The Ministry of the Interior is currently mobilizing an Immediate Response Team but the IRT won't be on site until dawn. You're going to hold it until then. Remember, this is our backyard so let's avoid shooting anyone. Let's try to keep local law enforcement out of this. Got it?"

"Yes sir!" The men echoed as they filtered off towards the staircase. They would be on the Black Hawks in minutes and on their way shortly thereafter. The specialized MH-60s had FLIR that could guide them along the ground, flying nap-of-the-earth at over one hundred and seventy miles per hour. The 3-man specialist team and one of the 4-man fire teams would board one helicopter while the other fire team went into the second. The lead helicopter, with the more men, would put down in an open field approximately two hundred meters due east of the crash site while the second helicopter would put down on the other side of Route 643, one hundred and fifty meters due west. Both teams would then move to the crash site, securing the roadway and securing the area, identifying whether this was something Layartebian or not and, at the same time, if there were casualties that needed medical evacuation. Based on the radar track, the Ministry of Intelligence had little to no clue what this was and a lot of people were looking up to the skies and wondering if this wasn't something otherworldly, just because of the way it maneuvered. At one point, the aircraft pulled a +13.5G turn, far more than anything out there and though it was momentary, the turn had not affected the aircraft adversely. Should an F-15 Eagle pull that much, for example, the wings would never be the same again.

At 02:39, the two Black Hawks lifted off and the pilots pushed the throttles to the wall almost immediately as they settled in at one hundred feet above ground level. With only forty-five miles to fly, they aimed to be there in fifteen minutes. This was truly as fast as they could fly without endangering the aircraft and luckily for them, there was nothing in the way that would affect their flight path. The pilots flew with night vision goggles and used their FLIR to determine what was in front of them and what was potentially in their way. At this altitude, trees and homes weren't an issue and neither were power lines but there were a few hills that could jut up out of nowhere on them.

"We're approaching the crash site now gentlemen," the pilot said approximately thirteen minutes later. Ahead of them, they could see the red-orange glow from the burning wreckage. The pilots could also see, on their FLIR, people milling about around the crash site. "We've got spectators," the pilot of the lead aircraft said. "On either side of the road," he added.

"Roger that, let the other bird know."

"Got it." The Black Hawk banked hard as it came around now to put down on the eastern side of the crash site, as planned. Though the MH-60s were quieter than their regular army counterparts, at this distance, they were plenty loud. The only saving grace was that this was a pitch-dark area and they were painted all in black. Had it not been for the red glow of their cockpits, it would have been impossible to know that they were even there. People all around the crash site, and there were a solid dozen, instantly began looking around as the second MH-60 touched down not more than one hundred and fifty meters away from them.

"Charlie 1 down," the main squad leader said into the radio as he and his men, along with the 3-man specialist team.

"Charlie 2 down," the radio echoed moments later. "Moving on crowd control."

"Roger that, advancing to the crash site, looks like we've got a house on fire ahead." Part of the wreckage slammed right into a two-story home and it was presently engulfed in flames now, no doubt from the burning jet fuel. If there was anyone trapped in there, it would be impossible to get them out of the house now. A barn on the southwestern edge of the area sat as a shell already and a chunk of airframe was sitting in the middle of it, having crashed down through the roof. Along Route 643, two more homes sat but neither had been damaged by the falling wreckage of the unidentified aircraft.

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February 8, 1985 - 02:58 hrs [UTC-5]
45-mi east of Somerset, Pennsylvania
Crash Site
(39°51'52.99" N, 78°14'35.24" W)

In the winter month of February, none of the trees around the area had their leaves on them but that didn't stop them from catching on fire from the flaming wreckage as it landed all around the area. The main element approached the burning house and even from fifty meters away, they could feel the heat of the house fire. "That's going good," one of the men said as he looked at the flames locked out of the second story windows.

"Ignore it for now," the team leader ordered as he surveyed the scene. Plumes of flames sat everywhere in little fountains of what the men suspected was jet fuel. The main impact crater was about fifty-five meters west-southwest of the house and they walked closer to it but it was impossible to get too close. The threat of exploding ordinance, not that they knew there was any, was quite high. They had to be extra cautious. "CQ, CQ, this is Charlie 1, SITREP to follow."

"Go ahead Charlie 1."

"CQ, we've got a confirmed crash, fires burning everywhere. One house is on fire and inaccessible. Charlie 2 is working on crowd control right now. We are unable to get to the main crater. Securing perimeter now."

"Roger that Charlie 1, IRT is informed."

Taking a knee, the team leader surveyed the scene with his submachine gun in his hand. "Charlie 2, Charlie 1, come in," the team leader then said into the radio.

"Charlie 1, Charlie 2, I've got you, what's the situation in there?"

"Crash site inaccessible, one house is burning to the ground. What about there?"

"We have one-four, fourteen, civilians. Law enforcement is on scene. Fire trucks are en route."

"Hold them off, we could have possible ordinance here."

"Roger wilco." Over the course of the next hour, the fires burned out of control while the civilians on scene were turned away. Those who had been driving on the road were ordered to leave and those who lived in either of the two homes were ordered to get into their cars and head away. Pushy, the men of 11th BOG did not hide their weapons as they gave their orders. Local law enforcement, which consisted of three deputies and one sheriff were ordered to hold the perimeter by blocking the road from the north and from the south. Because the crash was right at a fork, the police set up three barricades with their vehicles. Fire trucks, when they arrived, were held approximately three hundred meters away from the crash site on the main road. From there, they could watch the burning house clearly from that distance and while they struggled with the idea of having to wait this far away, they had no choice. The men from the 11th BOG were armed and they were from the military, meaning that they didn't adhere to the same rules as the local police did. They could shoot first and avoid questions later, unlike the police.

Inside of the exclusion zone, the men spread out and took three watch points. Each team took one of the three points and those were situated along the northern perimeter, the western perimeter, and the southern perimeter. When Bravo Squad arrived at 03:20, they took the eastern perimeter and also held at the fork. Miles upon miles away, the Ministry of the Interior's IRT was finally en route with a convoy of military trucks and a platoon's worth of armed men. As the night wore on, the flames began to die out and one of the 3-man specialist teams found it safe to approach the main crater at approximately 05:05. Flames still burned all around area but there were some safe approach points and the men took advantage of them.

"Charlie 1, Charlie 3, we can see the fuselage."

"Is it ours Charlie 3?"

"No clue, writing I've never seen before."

"Cyrillic?"

"Don't think so, more or like symbols Charlie 1."

"Be careful of ordinance."

"Roger that Charlie 1."

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February 8, 1985 - 05:55 hrs [UTC-5]
45-mi east of Somerset, Pennsylvania
Crash Site
(39°51'52.99" N, 78°14'35.24" W)

"Charlie 1, Bravo 1, we've got the IRT inbound, ETA is six mikes."

"Got it Bravo 1, thank you." The IRT was rapidly approaching from the south and they were now, finally, six minutes away from the crash site. By now, the house that had been burning was gone. Nothing was left but the foundation and if there had been anyone inside, it was everyone's hope that they had been killed by the falling wreckage and not the fire, which had been hot enough to set various trees on fire that were around the house's perimeter.

The Charlie 3 team had found the main part of the fuselage and what they suspected was the cockpit but it was unlike anything that they had seen before. It was hard to see into the mangled wreckage but they didn't see a flight suit or a body but, then again, with how mangled the wreckage was, it was possible that the pilot had been torn to shreds and nothing would be found but pieces of him. Further investigation revealed that the aircraft, whatever it was, was definitely not Layartebian. It was hard to determine who it belonged to but it was unlike anything that they had seen before.

Holding the perimeter, the nineteen men of Bravo and Charlie Squads kept low and out of sight, their weapons trained around them. For Bravo 2, the second 4-man element of Bravo Squad, holding the eastern perimeter was enjoyable quiet until now. In the far distance, in the fading darkness, they could see two silhouettes approaching. The field before them was flat and it was easy to see clear across it, especially now. They had obviously come from the direction of Piessinge Road, a windy road that split off from Route 643 and rejoined it just south of Interstate 70. Route 643, called Flickerville Road, had not seen any new traffic since the police set up their blockades. Obviously, whoever they were, they were coming to investigate what had happened. "Bravo 1, Bravo 2, we've got two approaching from the east. Distance is approximately two-zero-zero meters."

"Move to intercept Bravo 2," the order came.

"Roger that, we're going to draw them in closer." The fire team leader said as he and his men held their fingers on the sides of their submachine guns. They were all carrying MP5SD3 submachine guns and their rapid rate of fire, accuracy, and suppressed nature gave them the advantage over any foe, especially the curious onlookers that were now approaching. "All right, let's get them once they get near the tree line."

"Roger that," the men kept on the ground, hidden in the darkness of the area. Their all-black camouflage was more than beneficial in this instance, especially since there wasn't any snow on the ground. Had there been snow, the men would have been in different camouflage. "Now!" Came the whispered call over the radio a few seconds later as the two, curious onlookers approached the tree line.

In rapid fashion, the four men from Bravo 2 jumped into the air with their weapons aimed in front of them. Commands came only after they were visible, "HANDS UP! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!" The fire team leader yelled, looking down the sight of his weapon right at a young girl. Both of them were probably teenagers, boyfriend and girlfriend even since they didn't have much of a resemblance to one another. Petrified, they tried to turn and run but a quick burst of bullets into the ground in front of them stopped their attempted escape. "DON'T MOVE!"

"Okay, okay! Okay! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" The teenage boy yelled out, visible shaking, his hands on his head. "We're, we're just… curious… curious…"

"ON YOUR KNEES, KEEP YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!" The order followed. Both of them complied. Two men kept their weapons aimed at the young teenagers while the other two handcuffed them and then searched them. They had no weapons on them and now that they were considered secure, the questioning began. The boy had a wallet and it was being searched now. The girl had the car keys and they were confiscated. "Who are you?" The fire team leader asked.

"We're just kids. We saw the crash."

"You saw nothing!" The fire team leader barked at them, inches from their face. "Your in deep fucking trouble this morning! You saw nothing!"

"We, we heard it."

"You heard nothing!"

"Are we under arrest?"

"Yes."

"But…" The girl instantly broke down to tears and while this might have worked with a rookie cop, these were black ops. They weren't fazed by the display. Questioning continued but an hour later, an MH-60A Black Hawk touched down and Bravo 2 handed over both kids to the crew inside. They were transported back to the base where the questioning would continue. Their last words, before getting into the helicopter were shattered though. The boy turned to the girl and quietly whispered, "I'm never searching for UFOs again…"

by **Layarteb** » Thu Sep 12, 2013 11:47 am

Within the Deir el Qorqfi Monastery...

February 27, 2013 - 04:25 hrs [UTC+2]
Beirut, Lebanon
Deir el Qorqfi Monastery
(33° 48' 49" N, 35° 32' 4" E)

The cool, early morning air carried with it the staccato of distant, machine gun fire as the street war in Beirut continued to rage. Men who were once friends, pals, brothers, and cohorts were now trading shots at one another from buildings, rooftops, and burned out hulks of automobiles. Gone was the semblance and notion of tolerance pushed forth by the Amigardians and their Eurasian predecessors, replaced instead with brutal, unrefined violence. To those residents trying to flee the city, this mess was a nightmare born out of something no one quite understood. There was a schism in the Church and a schism in the Theocracy of Amigard and it all seemed to start thanks to simultaneous engagements in Egypt and in Iran. Then this mess in Saudi Arabia began and here the Levant was in turmoil. It was mayhem and the slaughter had only just begun. With nations of the world, publically announcing their "crusades" against Cardinal de Blanchefort the hell was only going to get worse. To escape Beirut and the Levant in general was the only chance any of these people had for some chance of continued life.

A warning order had gone out to all Layartebian nationals once the violence began and the Layartebian consulate in northern Beirut was already being evacuated but things were tough. An air war was in progress overhead and that meant limited interdiction by helicopters. Most Layartebians were encouraged to get underground, to find shelter, and to avoid moving out in the open, where they could be mistaken and caught in the crossfire. The Empire would do everything in its power to bring its citizens out of the chaos but there was no guarantee when evacuation would happen or even how successful it would be. With fighters all over the region and the threat of massive, military action, the likelihood of a mass, Layartebian evacuation was not likely. Those who could get to the coastline were encouraged to do so and they were encouraged to get to specific rally points where Marines in rigid-hull inflatable boats could rescue them and spirit them to amphibious warships, which were maneuvering closer to the coast to facilitate said evacuations.

But things weren't so cut and dry. Northern Beirut was one story and southern Beirut was another story. The city was cut in two by the fighting and the airport, located in southern Beirut, was almost a no-go zone although, there were plans for a Marine brigade to seize the airport and use it to evacuate refugees to Cyprus or Turkey, if that were approved by the Byzantine government. Layartebian Marines embarked on the 6th Amphibious Ready Group were tasked with assisting in Eritrea but this was a crisis of untold proportions. Orders had been given to move parts of the 6th ARG from the Red Sea up into the Eastern Mediterranean and they were on the way at near top speed, racing towards the Suez Canal but for the vessels, top speed wasn't fast enough. They had twelve hundred and fifty nautical miles to go and ninety nautical miles of that would be through the Suez Canal, at a greatly reduced speed. Point-to-point, the vessels would be moving for fifty-three and a quarter hours meaning that they would not be arriving until just after midnight on February 29. The window was between 02:00 and 03:00 hours, local time. The only saving grace was that the vessels had priority access through the Suez Canal, as if that mattered when they were limited to eight knots top speed. They could do ten, which they would, and maybe even twelve in the straightaways but they wouldn't be saving much time in the long run but still, every minute counted.

The situation wasn't going to hold out until February 29 though. That was a long way away, slightly less than forty-eight hours at this point. For Matthew Ledger, Peter Prince, Lucy Belle, and Maria Valerie, forty-eight hours was too long. The four Layartebians were trapped in southern Beirut and they needed to get out of Dodge as quickly as possible. All four of them worked for the consulate and all four of them were what one would call "high value targets." Matthew and Lucy were both agents for the Ministry of Intelligence. Peter was the consulate's press attaché and Maria was the consulate's legal attaché. All four of them were friends and they had all known each other since college. Maria, the youngest of them, was a freshman when Matthew and Lucy were seniors and Peter was a junior. Matthew and Lucy had for a long while, dated during college and just afterwards. Peter was a habitual third wheel until Maria came along but the two of them never got together, despite some strong feelings at times that should have facilitated it.

They had picked the absolute worst time to go for a mini-vacation in southern Beirut. When the fighting erupted around them, the four of them hunkered down. They made two calls to the consulate to check in and to receive instructions. Those instructions weren't very helpful, "Listen Matthew," the consulate's chief-of-station said in the phone as machine gun fire erupted just one hundred meters away, "the only thing I can tell you is get the fuck out of there! Stay down maybe but get the fuck out man! Get out while you can. This whole place is gone; we're just waiting for the evacuation order." Matthew thanked him for nothing and kept his party corralled together and in the safety of the National Protestant College, an odd sort in a predominately-Muslim area. It was run by some European nation, which one Matthew couldn't quite remember anymore.

It seemed as if they could ride out the storm there until just after 23:00 on February 26. The four of them, hiding in a concrete, cinderblock-walled classroom, using candles to see were awoken in the midst of the night by the sound of screaming. A panic was all around them as bedlam took over the college's campus. Gunfire erupted and it was obvious that some militia, it was impossible to decipher whom, was attacking the college campus. Matthew, Lucy, Maria, and Peter split, heading with the panicked crowd to the south. In the chaos, Lucy tripped and fell, breaking her ankle. Matthew, running just ahead of her quickly turned back to see her, wounded, lying on the ground. Peter rushed over to shield her from the running crowd and Maria tried her best to help Lucy to her feet but to no avail. "We haven't got time," Matthew yelled as he grabbed Lucy's one hundred and twenty pounds, flung her over his shoulder, and took off running. Bullets whizzed around them and instinctively, everyone ducked their heads.

The run out of the campus was the most harrowing experience ever for the four Layartebians and they found themselves two hundred meters away on a hillside, huddled in a small foyer of an abandoned apartment building. It was there that Matthew realized, for the first time since the fighting started that they were probably going to die in Beirut. "We've got to get out of here, get somewhere safe," he said to his group between breaths. "Lucy can't walk so we're not going far," he said as he looked at the bruising on her ankle. It was getting worse by the minute.

"What about the airport?" Peter suggested but that notion was rejected, it was too far, four kilometers and right through the middle of the hellish battle. They were too close to the campus to wait things out either and being on a hillside in a warzone was only partial to being on top of the hill.

"Too far, too, too far," Maria said. "No we can't get there," she said, shaking from the adrenaline that was beginning to ebb from her system. "But what about up there?" She asked, looking up at the plain form of a darkened building atop a hill to their immediate southwest, just four hundred meters away.

"What is that?" Lucy asked, sweating from the pain as she struggled to look through the window. She was lying on the ground and the position was less than conducive to seeing out of the window but still, she caught a glimpse of the building and it looked inviting. "Looks fortified."

"Well it's a longshot but it's about the best we have, we've got to move quick and smart. Okay," Matthew said, thinking of a plan. He explained it, how they would move from cover to cover, keeping out of the open but working with the roads to facilitate speed. He would carry Lucy and Peter would pave the way, at least for the first half of the journey. Then they would switch off just so that neither one of them would sap all of their strength. After a short breather, Matthew checked his watch. It was zero-dark-ten and that meant the height of the war. No matter what, after midnight, fighting intensified as both sides tried to capitalize on the other's tiredness and the late hour. By 04:00, fighting would relax for about two to two-and-a-half hours before it picked up again to capitalize on the morning twilight hours, when those fighting were at their physical weakest.

For the next four hours, the four of them moved up the road, cautiously, carefully, scared of what was lurking around the next corner. Behind them, the shrill screams of tortured men and women echoed from the college's campus as whoever was attacking it secured their first prisoners. What would become of them, none of the Layartebians wanted to know but it was evident that if those prisoners survived, they would be severely scarred for life, both emotionally and physically from the MO of the various fighting factions. It took the four of them approximately two hours just to move the first four hundred meters. Because they weren't taking a direct route, their entire walk would be about one kilometer, thanks to a few shortcuts or else it would have been even longer. At the end of this first road, they cut through the woods, saving themselves from going around a bend in the road. When they popped out of the path, they were looking at an empty road. The firefight in the distance echoed in the hills as if it were just over the next ridgeline, even though it was a few kilometers in the distance. They took a left and skirted along the road, keeping to the woods until they came to the next road, by now having gone five hundred meters already.

Matthew called for them to stop and aimed to catch his breath. Lucy was exchanged and Matthew took point after about five minutes. They continued towards the building at the top of the hill. They skirted along the road for another two hundred and twenty-five meters, moving at a respectable pace. It was 03:30 by then and the building loomed just a few hundred meters ahead of them. However, they had been ascending and they were all tired again. Adrenaline coursed through their veins but they were all running on empty. Matthew huddled them together alongside the road in a small cluster of trees. "All right not that much further, we can get there before dawn, I know it. Five more minutes and we're off, I think we should skip the road, go right through that open space there." Eyes widened at the words "open space."

"What are you crazy?" Peter protested at a loud whisper. They were all whispering.

"Listen, it'll get us there faster. I don't see anything around here, it's quiet."

"Yeah it's always quiet right before the machine guns open up on the patrol!"

"Man be quiet you watch too many movies," Matthew said, scolding Peter. "Listen, that's what we're going to do," he said, finalizing his thought process.

"Matt no that's crazy," Maria answered but she didn't know anything about tactics. "C'mon, let's stick to the road with the trees."

"Yeah let's, please," Peter added. Lucy stayed quiet. The pain of her ankle was too much and her mind was clouded. She didn't want to think about the path, she just wanted to get to wherever and get some medical treatment. She needed to be able to walk if they were going to survive in post-nightmare Beirut.

"Look, that place looks abandoned. If we can hold out there we can get on the radio to the consulate and when help comes, we can get the fuck out of here," Matthew said. "That's how it's going to be now either we're going that way or I'm taking Lucy and going myself. You in or are you on your own?"

"No we're in," Peter said after a few minutes of thinking. Maria only nodded her assent and by then, all four of them were ready to move again. They crossed about sixty-five meters of open terrain and they moved very quickly. Then it was back on the road and they curved around, climbing the last increase in elevation until they were standing at the front gate of the structure and its spacious courtyard.

"Deir el Qorqfi Monastery?" Matthew said to himself as he read the sign. "Whatever, let's get in there now," he said as they entered. Lucy was bouncing around on Peter's shoulder who was a solid foot taller than Matthew was and about forty-five pounds heavier too. A few minutes later, they were at the massive, front doors of the monastery. Everything was silent and Matthew tried the door, only to find that it wasn't going to budge.

"Need a hand?" Peter asked as he held Lucy.

"Won't matter, this thing is barricaded from the other side. Someone's got to be inside." With that, everyone clamored up, especially Maria, who knelt down. Her body was heaving with exertion and she was utterly spent. If she could, she would have fallen asleep on the steps of the monastery but she knew that she couldn't. They weren't safe outdoors, even here. "Oh I hope they're awake," Matthew said as he looked at the massive knocker on the door. He grabbed the brass object and swung it hard against the door of the monastery, only to hear the loud bang echo from the inside. He gave it six more knocks before he stopped.

Matthew, also heaving from exertion, bent over and put his hands on his knees, hoping that someone would answer the door. Just as he was about to stand up and give another series of knocks, he heard the sliding of a lock and, just to the right of the knocker, a small window opened. Torches flickered in the background and a man's face, old, withered, and bearded appeared in the window. "Who are you?" The face demanded, its mouth hidden by the angle.

"Please help us sir," Matthew said, straightening himself. "We were on vacation when the fighting happened. We were in the college down there," he said. He was pointing as if the face could see where he was pointing. "One of us, she's hurt, broke her ankle. Someone attacked the college, some militia group." The face was quiet and did nothing but stare into the darkness towards Matthew, eyeing the rest who were all in view.

"There are four of you?"

"Yes just four."

"And you're not from here."

"No, from the Empire," Matthew said. The face recoiled, "Please, help us. We just want to hide."

"Are you armed?"

"No, we have no weapons."

"We do not allow weapons here."

"We have none, you can search us. Could you please let us in?"

"Are you holy people? Do you worship God?" Matthew didn't know the best answer to this question. He didn't want to lie but at the same time, he didn't want to get rejected. He hesitated for a moment and the face picked it up immediately. "You are not."

"I am not, I am sorry. I was baptized and confirmed as a Catholic but I am not very religious. I do believe in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior but I have not been to church in some time."

"Perhaps now is the time for you to return to the Lord, come inside." The face disappeared and the window returned. Behind the door came the sound of grunting as something large was moved out of the way. Then, a single door opened and four monks appeared. Two were holding torches and all four of them were old, pale-faced with graying hair. "Come inside," the face said again.

Matthew motioned for the rest to enter and Maria and Peter went first, with Lucy on his shoulder still. Matthew was last into the monastery and he gave a hand as a massive block of wood, ten feet long and made of solid wood was put back into place on the door. "Thank you," he said in return.

"Are you thirsty?" One of the monks asked as another appeared in the background with a wooden bucket, presumably full of water. He had a clay bowl in his hand.

"I am, we are." The monks offered them water and each drank a full bowl except for Lucy, who drank three.

The monk leaned down and looked at her swollen ankle, "It is certainly broken. You are sweating though," he said as he put his hand on her forehead. "You are feverish."

"It hurts a lot," Lucy said through her gritting teeth.

"Come, we will help you." Inside, the monks led the four Layartebians through corridors and hallways. It was pitch black except for the single torch at the front and the single torch at the rear of the line. Matthew was once again carrying Lucy but this time in her arms. She was looking at him with a sense of relief, happy to be somewhere safe, at least for the time being. As they were led through the monastery, towards one of the upper floors, monks came out and offered blessings in silence and in quiet. "We have all taken a vow of silence for prayer." The monk said, "I as abbot must communicate though. We receive food and prayers from the city and I communicate with those who bring them. We are a reclusive order." He said, explaining as they climbed a winding staircase.

Ultimately, they came to stop on the third floor, where the monk led them into another corridor. "These rooms are all empty. For our rules, you must sleep separately, men and women, is that understood?"

"Yes," Matthew said, "Yes that is."

"Are you married?"

"No, we're just old friends."

"Then yes, you must not sleep with one another. It is forbidden here."

"We will abide, I give you my word," Matthew said as he gently put Lucy down on the single, twin-sized bed. It would have been impossible for two people to sleep in the same bed anyway. "Are you okay?" He asked. Lucy nodded that she wasn't. "What kind of medical supplies do you have?"

"We have supplies, there is a doctor here, and one of our fellow brothers has gone for him the moment you arrived. He is among the oldest of us and I apologize, he does not move very quickly."

"That is fine, that is fine indeed," Matthew said, relieved that they had a doctor. He put his hand on Lucy's forehead to feel the fever creeping up but he didn't know if it was because of the pain or something else. "What order are you?"

"This is the Order of Holy Mary," the abbot said. "You may call be Christopher, what are your names?"

"I am Matthew, this is Lucy. Peter is that gentleman and that is Maria."

"Peace be unto you."

"And to you Christopher," Peter answered. "I am religious."

"Then you will pray with us to Jesus our Lord and Savior?"

"I will," Peter answered. Maria smiled and hugged him, "We're safe now."

"I know, thank you," she said. "Christopher, do you know what'll happen? Are we safe?"

"For now," he said, "this war is brutal. It is not the work of sane, rational men."

"No war is," Peter answered.

"No war is indeed. This is horrible. Our fellow people are slaughtered there. I do not know what has happened though. We only hear the fighting in the night, when all is quiet. No one has come to deliver us the news. Perhaps it is too dangerous?" With that, Matthew and Peter laid out what had happened while Maria sat with Lucy. The doctor, an elderly man of at least eighty, entered after five minutes after they started. The abbot led him in, gave him instructions, and returned to the other room where he continued to hear of the bad news. The business of the papal excommunication worried him immensely but he explained that the Order of Holy Mary was not in favor of Rome. They didn't worship Mary, the Holy Mother but rather Mary Magdalene, who they believed to be the wife of Jesus Christ. For that heresy, the Pope had long since excommunicated them and ignored the ancient texts that they protected in the monastery's crypt.

Peter was slightly taken aback by this but he knew that it would have been stupid to argue with the men who were now protecting him and his friends. He stayed quiet on the religious matter but knew, deep down inside, that these monks were probably going to ally with Cardinal de Blanchefort, making them potential enemies. In addition, he had no weapon, none of them did, not even Matthew or Lucy, who were spies. Weapons were hard to explain and no one carrying a pistol was considered to be a friendly and part of their mission was to stay covert. A pistol could jeopardize their cover. As the hour proceeded, dawn approached. First light was already there and dawn was at 06:09 hours. Christopher promised that he would take both Peter and Matthew to the roof to survey the city when the sun rose but, until then, he stressed that they needed to go to sleep.

They wouldn't, at least not until the doctor finished with Lucy. It wasn't until 05:15 hours that he was done. He explained, through silence and a pencil that Lucy was in bad shape. She had a broken ankle and a fever. Despite this being the obvious, he wondered if, perhaps there was an infection at work. He saw no signs of the bone having pierced the skin but it was too hard to tell how bad the damage was inside of the skin. He said that he would make a splint to keep her from moving her ankle too much but that she would be immobilized for some time, weeks even. He would give her antibiotics, they had plenty but she would need to get to a hospital in order to have the bone set properly or else it would never heal right and she would never walk right again. Unfortunately, getting to a hospital was a little out of the question. The nearest one was two and a half kilometers to the north, where the fighting was horrendously intense. No, they would have to wait it out and once Matthew got to the roof, he could use his radio, or rather what little juice was left, to try to get in touch with the consulate to report his position and request a priority extraction for Lucy and the rest of them.

Unfortunately, he didn't last long enough. After the doctor's explanation, Lucy drifted into an uneasy slumber with Maria by her side, sleeping on another bed. Christopher thought it a good idea to bring a bed from one of the other rooms in so that Maria could sleep by Lucy's side. Peter and Matthew facilitated this and collapsed into separate beds in separate rooms just after 05:30 hours. They would miss sunrise, which was a thing of beauty from the monastery's high perch, one hundred and seventy-five meters above sea level. There was a lot in store for them and this was just the beginning of their time in Beirut.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

February 27, 2013 - 12:00 hrs [UTC+2]
Beirut, Lebanon
Deir el Qorqfi Monastery
(33° 48' 49" N, 35° 32' 4" E)

Matthew awoke with a startle and eyed the alien surroundings of the monastery's living quarters and through his blurry eyes, he saw that he was alone in the room. Ten, then twenty, then thirty seconds elapsed before Matthew realized where he was, what happened the previous evening, and the fact that he never placed his radio call. The radio sat on a small, Spartan nightstand by the bed, one of only four pieces of furniture in the room. There was a wooden desk and chair in the far corner looking out the small window. The cool, comfortable, Lebanese air blew in from the sea, a light breeze that would have rang wind chimes in a soothing melody of compassion, had there been any hanging there.

Matthew got to his feet, saw that his shoes were sitting neatly by the bed. He never remembered taking them off and slipping them on, walked to the nightstand, picked up the radio, and walked to the shut door. Outside he heard a buzz of silent activity as monks went about the daily rituals of the monastery. He knew that he had to check on Lucy, ashamed almost that he had slept throughout the entire morning. A glance at his watch told him that it was noon and at that moment, the all too familiar staccato of machine gun fire accompanied by a mortar reminded him that Beirut was a no-go zone. He had to get his friends and get out, away from the city.

Matthew opened the door and its loud creaking noise echoed through the barren corridor. Remembering only vaguely, where Lucy's room was, he trotted down the corridor and took a right turn, realizing after a few steps that he had to make a left turn. A few more doors and he found Lucy's door open. Maria was tending to her, using a washcloth soaked in water to clean Lucy's forehead. "Hey," Lucy said with a smile. Her voice was weak but there was a powerful, healing smile across her face. Maria turned to see Matthew and smiled just the same.

"How are you? How is she?" He asked both of them.

"She'll fine, she's just weak. Her fever is going to start coming down soon, she's going to be out of action for a few days though. It's going to put a dampener on our escape from here." Maria answered.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Lucy said though with considerable struggle. "They'll fix me up fine."

"All right, I've got to find a bathroom, talk to the abbot, and get a call out to the embassy, and then I'll come back, okay?"

"Okay," Maria said. Matthew could tell that she wanted to say more but for whatever reason, she ended it there. Matthew nodded and walked off, looking for the bathroom. Though he could hear the monks in the far off distance, he couldn't find them right away except for one but that monk was kneeling, deep in prayer. Matthew wasn't going to disturb him, doing such would be horrible manners. Instead, he walked off, continuing on his small quest. Ultimately, he found the bathroom by himself, venturing down another corridor towards the sound of running water. One monk exited the washroom, gave him a smile, folded his hands, and bowed his head politely. Matthew repeated the silent gesture and relieved himself of every morning's vices. With that accomplished, Matthew set off next for the monastery's abbot, Christopher.

Christopher wasn't hard to find, Matthew just needed to know where to look and in doing so, he found Peter as well. As payment, to use the term loosely, for the order's generosity, Peter was assisting with some of the daily labors. On his hands and knees scrubbing the floor, he looked up as Matthew approached, "Grab a brush man," he said with a smile.

"Afterwards, Christopher," he asked politely, "can I have a word, just a few minutes?"

"Certainly but Peter is right, we could use an extra hand," the abbot said gracefully as he stood up and left the brush on the floor. "This marble is over six centuries old and we do our best to preserve it but I am afraid with this war, there is a lot of dirt in the air. It makes keeping this monastery clean an arduous but rewarding task. How can I help you?"

"I must make a call to the embassy," Matthew said, pointing to the radio in his pocket. "I must inform them that we escaped the university and that Lucy is injured. This radio though, it is not very powerful, I would need to be on the roof."

"Certainly my son," the abbot said, "will you assist us afterwards?"

"I will but I admit that I am not a great laborer."

"Are you handy in the kitchen?"

"In the kitchen I am," Matthew said with pride.

"Then I have a job for you in the kitchen. Come see me when you are done, I will escort you there."

"Thank you," another monk showed Christopher to the roof and left him alone. There, high above the monastery and high above the ground, he could see the entire city of Beirut. The scene was disheartening and it was no wonder that the monk left him in peace. Smoke drifted into the sky in multiple, acrid, brown-black columns all over the city. Flames shot up from gas stations that had been blown apart by artillery. The airport was covered in smoke and he could see the explosions as mortars and artillery landed around it. In the skies above, the whistling sound of artillery shells echoed from afar.

Christopher worked the radio to the right frequency and keyed up the microphone, "Mother Hen, this is Denver, radio check, over," despite the civil war raging, they still had to speak in code. The call wasn't immediately returned but a few minutes later, after a second repeat, he received his response.

"Denver, Mother Hen, you're coming in okay, report your status, over."

"All accounted for, three roosters and one chicken, request situation report."

"Sierra November Alpha Foxtrot Uniform Denver, order just came down from Mike Foxtrot, we're flipping the mattresses. Need to know your position."

"Say again Mother Hen, we're flipping the mattresses?"

"Roger that Denver, report position."

"I've got a commanding view four hundred meters south-southwest of my last. We've got some gracious hosts. Advise on timing, don't know if I have the juice for a second call-in."

"Zero-dark-thirty," meaning 00:30, approximately twelve hours away. "Fluff your pillows Denver; you're going to need them tonight."

"Roger that Mother Hen, we'll be waiting, Denver out." He switched off the radio, knowing that there wasn't much juice left in the batteries. There would be no way to charge or replace them here in the monastery. Knowing that there was little left to do, Matthew took one last look at the destruction wrought upon Beirut and headed back downstairs. He was led back to Christopher who put him to work in the kitchen under the direction of a monk named Silas. Matthew might have avoided the labor of cleaning the floor but here in the kitchen, he would not avoid the labor of cleaning pots and pans, a most arduous task that the monks did without complaint but which they were all too happy to give to someone else.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

February 27, 2013 - 16:30 hrs [UTC+2]
Beirut, Lebanon
Deir el Qorqfi Monastery
(33° 48' 49" N, 35° 32' 4" E)

Dinner was served and the smell of it wafted throughout the entire monastery. Lucy was being tended to by the monastery's doctor, giving Maria the opportunity to leave her side. She, Matthew, and Peter, the latter sore from the day's labor, were seated in the main dining all, surrounded by the monastery's monks. The tables were old, made from cedar trees that had been felled from the forested areas not too far from the monastery. Of course, the tables were three hundred years old and looked every bit as if they had been made only a decade earlier. Constant maintenance to them kept them in utter pristine shape. Benches for the tables, which were as old but made from fir, were in equally pristine condition.

After Christopher led the congregation in a brief prayer, everyone began to eat. The silence around the room was intimidating and for that reason, Matthew did not pass on the news to Peter or Maria just yet. They knew that the monks did not have to keep them there and they would fall in line with customs so long as they could, their survival depended on it. With chores to do afterwards, Matthew quickly corralled Peter and Maria as the monks shuffled out of the dining hall. "I got in touch with the embassy," he started. "Things don't look so good. The Ministry ordered a total evacuation of all embassy personnel that includes essential personnel. Extraction for us is underway at half-passed midnight, helicopter evacuation. We're going to have to guide them in somehow, supplies here are limited, Peter see if you can get your hands on a flashlight, if they even have one."

"Are you going to tell the abbot?" Maria asked.

"Yes I have to, I'll try to get a word in with him, tell Lucy, we have to get her out most of all."

"All right," Peter answered, "I'll be ready. Let's meet up in Lucy's room at midnight, okay?"

"Should be fine," Maria answered. She would go back to tending to Lucy while Peter went back to work. Matthew, on the other hand, flew off to find Christopher.

Christopher was found in his study, beginning his final prayers when Matthew wrapped on the door. "Come in, I was just about to begin, would you like to pray with me?"

"I am sorry, I cannot. I promised in the kitchen that I would get back quickly."

"That is good; your help has been appreciated."

"As has your hospitality, I have word from my embassy. The situation here is most worrying. They're going to evacuate us after midnight."

"That is understandable. Will they drive you out?"

"Fly us, helicopters."

"That would be dangerous," for a moment, Matthew's entire body tensed. "The militias have missiles and we know they are located in these hills. You may not be safe."

"We will have to chance it Christopher. If the militias know you are hiding Layartebians, I shouldn't think they would be too happy with you."

"They would understand that this is a place of God, they will not attack us here."

"I do not mean to question your faith but I do not know that they will abide by this. The violence in the street, the hatred that I saw, it is beyond comprehension."

"The Devil is active out there my son but in here he has no hope. On these grounds, he is as feeble as ever. He make walk freely amongst the people of Beirut but he cannot step foot on these grounds. It is how I knew that you and your friends were not foes. If you were, you would have met misfortune here, I will explain more later; for now, you will return to the kitchen."

"Thank you," Matthew said, walking off back to the kitchen, wondering just what the abbot was talking about concerning the sanctity of the monastery's grounds.

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February 27, 2013 - 22:00 hrs [UTC-1]
Eastern Mediterranean Sea
67 miles WNW of Beirut, Lebanon
(34° 18' 31" N, 34° 31' 20" E)

On the deck of the Washington-class carrier of the 2nd Carrier Strike Group, flight operations were shifting over from recovery to launching. A pair of F-35C Lightning II fighters, armed for combat air patrol, were lining up on catapults one and two, preparing to get launched into the sky where they would set up a four-hour patrol around the carrier strike group and the Lebanese and Israeli coastline. Another duo of F-35Cs were flying a combat air patrol further to the south, guarding against intruders from Egypt. Airborne early warning was also up in the form an ME-15A Scarecrow and though the contact scope was clear, the enemy could be lurking out there, just waiting for an opportunity to strike. Vigilance had to be twenty-four/seven or else the carrier group and its thousands of sailors and billions of shingrots in hardware was at certain risk.

However, above deck nothing was out of the ordinary. Below deck, in the main hangar area was where all of the real action was. MH-60S Knight Hawk helicopters were being fueled and prepared for missions into Beirut. The Washington-class had two Knight Hawks of her own but the embarked Supply-class and the two Dnalkrad-class air defense frigates had another five helicopters and all of them had been transferred to the carrier so that evacuation flights could be launched from one, central location. Together, the seven helicopters could evacuate more than eighty people, depending on the weight mix of everyone, and for that reason, the first round of sorties would see all seven helicopters fly directly to the Layartebian embassy in Northern Beirut. The most critical personnel and important files that could not be destroyed would be evacuated in the first round. The second round would commence immediately thereafter and evacuate only personnel. Based on the amount of Layartebians at the embassy, four round-trip flights were required by the helicopters.

After midnight, two helicopters would detach and head to the monastery where they would evacuate the four Layartebians being quartered there, one of whom was Matthew, an agent with the Ministry of Intelligence. His capture would be a devastating blow to the Ministry of Intelligence and to the Empire's credibility not only region-wide but also worldwide. Crowded in an area near the seven helicopters were the twenty-eight crewmen of all of the helicopters, about two dozen Marines who would be accompanying some of the flights in various forms, and a few air operations officers from the various squadrons. The briefing was being conducted here, despite the activity.

"All right callsigns will be one-one through one-seven, flight designation is Lipstick, all right no chuckles, I don't assign the names," the briefing officer said. "In the next fifteen minutes you're going to get raised to deck-level and then in fifteen more, the first wave is going to go. It's seventy miles each way and you're making top speed there and back. First pickup will be essential personnel and critical files only. Fill up your birds to the max and get back to the carrier immediately. We're anticipating a round trip of sixty minutes flying and fifteen on the ground, so seventy-five total. I'd like you up and off the ground in under fifteen if that's possible.

"Back at the carrier you're going to refuel and get back into the skies for trip two. During trip two, Lipstick one-six and Lipstick one-seven is going to break off and head to the monastery, again it's about seventy miles there and another seventy back. You've got a wounded person there, not critical but not mobile. We're going to put four Marines on that flight. Once back at the carrier, trip three is going to be entirely to the embassy. Trip four is the same. We're done before sunup, now, any questions?"

"Yes sir, rules of engagement?" A gunner on Lipstick 1-4 asked.

"ROE is self-defense only; I don't want you getting involved in the street war down there. Because it's hot, infrared jammers on at all times and don't be afraid to drop flares. Losing a helicopter is not an option gentlemen, any other questions?"

"Is there any ground-attack escort?"

"No, you're on your own. We have fighters that we can launch to assault sites but they're on alert five right now. Two fighters for close air support, a pair of A-19s, and two fighters for combat air patrol, a pair of F-35s. If you get into a situation where you are taking heavy ground fire or are under aerial threat you are to immediately head back to the carrier at top speed, we'll expedite aircraft to your request. Any further questions?" There being none, they prepared for the operations.

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February 28, 2013 - 00:05 hrs [UTC+2]
Beirut, Lebanon
Deir el Qorqfi Monastery
(33° 48' 49" N, 35° 32' 4" E)

Peter awoke with a startle that sent him from a lying down position to sitting straight up so quickly that his vision took a few seconds to normalize. He glanced at his watch to see that it was 00:05, just after midnight and twenty-five minutes before the helicopter was set to come. He had set the alarm on his watch to go off at 00:08, just three minutes from now and he looked about the dark room while his eyes adjusted to seeing something other than electrically generated images. "We can't go," he whispered to himself under his heaving chest. A cold, clammy sweat covered his skin and he looked about the room for his effects, all of them right where he left them, on the desk. Gathering them quickly, he took off out of his room in a sprint, heading for the one place he knew Matthew to be, the roof.

Even more out of breath when he arrived, he quickly spotted Matthew standing on the northwestern edge. "Matthew," he called out as he moved quickly towards him, "Matthew, we can't go," he added as he came next to him. Slightly out of shape, as his heaving chest showed, Peter bent over and put his hands on his knees, afraid that they would buckle underneath his weight. "We can't go, call them off, tell them to come another time."

"What are you talking about? We have to go, Lucy needs a real doctor," Matthew answered, his voice audibly low, knowing that in the night air, voices traveled far in Beirut.

"I had a dream, a crazy dream, so vivid, so real. This all feels like déjà vu. The helicopter came and landed, took us away, and we crashed. It was horrible. We crashed Matthew, we cannot go."

"A dream?" Skepticism filled Matthew's voice, "That doesn't mean shit!" He whispered harshly. "We're fine, we're going in twenty minutes," at that point, Peter's watch began to buzz, "turn that off!" Matthew answered back sharply. The high-pitched noise would carry far in the still air. Gunshots in the distance weren't as continuous as on other nights but the acrid smell of a burning, smoldering city still wafted into their nostrils, reminding them that Beirut wasn't at peace.

"No, we have to stay, even for just a day, we cannot go."

"You're being ridiculous. We're going and that's final. The helicopter will be en route already; we can't call them back. We're going!" Peter didn't bother to keep arguing; instead, he set off in another run, back towards the interior of the monastery. Minutes later, he found Christopher's room and began to knock on the door, hoping to rouse the sleeping abbot, whom he did but to Christopher's chagrin.

"It is very later Peter," Christopher answered. "Is not your helicopter on the way?"

"We can't go."

"What do you mean?" With that, Peter recounted the dream with the lucidity that he had seen it, as if it were a high-definition movie being broadcast right before his eyes. Christopher's eyes widened and he gravely looked at Peter, "I have had this dream too."

"Tonight?"

"Weeks ago, I do not remember, weeks ago." Suddenly his mind began to stir. "I forgot about it until now, you crashed you say?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I do not remember, I don't believe it saw what happened. I remember the helicopter being thrown about wildly, spinning as it were. I closed my eyes in my dream and I opened them just as the cabin entered the exterior of a building. I do not believe it was this one."

"In my dream I watched from the roof as a missile streaked into and hit your helicopter. It crashed into a building to the west. I do not know what happened either. There were two helicopters. One was shot down by the soldiers here."

"Yes! There will be two, one will provide chase to the other, to protect it."

"Peter you cannot go, this is true. You must remain in the confines here, where safety will protect you."

"Matthew won't listen."

"I will talk to him, where is he?"

"The roof."

Christopher darted away, calling back as he did, "Tell your friends the dream." Peter nodded to no one in particularly and set off for where Lucy and Maria were. Two monks stood outside, ready to help bring the injured Lucy out to the helicopter. Any minute they would move her to the front door so that they could get her out quickly.

"Lucy, Maria, we can't go," he said, explaining this time not only his dream but also Christopher's. The two monks listened intently and both of them looked just as gravely as Christopher had.

Then, they looked at one another and the taller of the two gave some sort of single nod, bowing his head gracefully. The shorter, a much older man, turned back and for the first time in over eight years, said his first words, "We have dreamed the same dream but it was different. We watched from the ground as your helicopter crashed," his accent told the three Layartebians that he was Roman. "I have broken my vow of silence but to save your lives. God will forgive me I hope."

"Did we die?" Peter asked.

"I do not know," the monk answered. The other shook his head that he didn't know either. "You must stay here."

"Christopher that is nonsense," Matthew answered after listening to the abbot's brief explanation.

"You must believe, others have had this dream or variations of it too. It is only now that we have heard Peter's recounting of it that we are beginning to remember it. You must delay your exit. We can protect you in here; God can protect you here. Outside, he has no influence."

"That contradicts the very teachings of Christ. How can he be everywhere, omnipotent, and be unable to affect an outcome outside of these walls, what makes this monastery so special, so protected. Is it on holy ground?"

"No."

"Was this hilltop mentioned in the Bible?"

"It was not, you must believe me, you are safe here, we are protected from the indignations of the world within our walls." Matthew turned around and looked back out across the city.

"You mean to tell me that if an artillery round from the airport lands on this very spot, nothing will happen?"

"Of course it would, physics is physics, but that round might never make it here. The barrel could explode; it could be aimed wrong. Much could happen to protect this place. It is God's will."

"Then why is He telling me to leave now before it's too late. Lucy is in trouble, we need to get her out. Your doctor has done much, and for all that he is done we are grateful but she needs a hospital, medical treatment that you are not able provide. Even your doctor will agree. We have to go and we cannot wait around."

"You came to our door," Christopher said, grabbing him by the arm, "seeking shelter and safety from the outside world. When you passed our threshold you entered this sacred place and are bound by God's protection. It is an absolutely protection but it extends only as far as our walls and our grounds. Outside of there, He cannot protect you from the Devil and from the evil that men miscall their lives. He spoke to me, to Peter, to others that you are to stay here, in safety and under shelter. You must stay; I cannot impress it upon you enough. God has charged myself and this order with your protection, that is why He delivered you here and not a house down the road."

"Hogwash Christopher," Matthew said. "I'm not some saintly, just figure that God would want to protect. I'm just as evil and wicked as the men are who are out there firing guns at one another, burning this once-beautiful city to the ground. Christopher, I'm a spy, a spy for the Empire. I've found men and killed men. I've violated almost every one of the Ten Commandments, why would God want to protect me? I've sinned against Him more than even He can count."

"Wouldn't that be the answer then? Why should God give up on you? Perhaps, it is you who He must look after most. Perhaps, He wants you to come and see the error in your ways. Do not be foolish. He has spoken to many, your own friend, do not disobey Him otherwise you will lose."

"Well about our path in life," Matthew said, recalling a teaching from when he was a child. "Everything is ordained already so it doesn't matter what I do; it's in God's plan."

"That is the hogwash." Christopher said, "How can everything be preordained if God granted mankind free will to act as they please? If everything we do is preordained than nothing we do will constitute free will." Of course, Matthew's schoolteachers would have been aghast at such a concept. Matthew always thought it was shallow and hollow. "You have been given a path by God but only you can choose to obey it or not. Do not force others against their will. Do not tell another they cannot go if they do not wish. We will protect all of you. Not just the righteous amongst you." With that, Matthew walked off, intent on getting Lucy, Peter, and Maria out of the monastery and out of Beirut before it was too late, before the rebels marched up to the front door and put an RPG-7 through it.

The sound of helicopters echoed in the distance. Christopher and his monks, weary from pleading with Matthew were outside, waiting for the helicopters to land in their front courtyard. Lucy was on a makeshift stretcher and Maria was by her side, slightly uncomfortable with the idea of leaving after hearing all of the dreams and revelations. Peter was deadest against going but that didn't matter, Matthew was prodding him along, pushing him to leave with the rest of them. Peter wasn't so sure. Lucy, too much in pain and with too high a fever, couldn't necessarily make her own decision. The doctor suggested that she needed medical care above what he could provide. She needed to get to a hospital, an infection was forming, and he could not stop it. Christopher wondered how that would fit into their dreams. None of them dreamed of her specifically or really any of the visitors, just the overall scene. The doctor, however, confided that he had a dream too, the night before they had come to the monastery.

He was younger, not a monk at all. He was walking through the war torn street and he looked up to see the fuselage of a helicopter inside of a building. Blood stained the side of the building he could see the expressionless face of death on one of the pilots, who happened to be crushed underneath the helicopter. He awoke shortly thereafter but he remembered seeing the Layartebian flag on the tail of the crashed helicopter. None of them could say what type of helicopter it was, only that it was from the Empire. Once the Knight Hawk came into view, they would immediately recognize it as the one from their dreams. As the sound of the rotors came closer, Peter turned to Christopher and took him slightly aside. "Why are you protected?"

"That is a secret of the order."

"Tell me now," Peter said. "Nothing in my body wants me on that helicopter but a dream is just a dream. All of us having it, that is something I cannot explain but it is still just a dream. What makes your monastery and you order so special?"

"We protect certain relics in our crypt, relics that have survived time and numerous quests from the Vatican and other religious orders. Thousands have died on the steps of this monastery trying to break through these doors in hopes of destroying these relics but God has always saw fit to protect us and what we protect for Him."

"Christopher, tell me now, my life depends on it. What is it? A book?"

"There are books."

"Don't tell me you have the Holy Grail?"

Christopher laughed, "Ah the famous myth, no we do not have the Holy Grail. We have something far more tangible."

"Christopher, whatever it is, if God has protected this building from it then telling me won't matter. I could come back with the whole army of the Empire and it wouldn't matter since God has protected it this long, two thousand years?"

"Two thousand years." Christopher thought for a moment and then agreed that what Peter said wasn't insensible. "You speak some element of truth. You are right, if God has protected us this long, why would he suddenly stop? Then very well, I will tell you. We, the Order of Holy Mary, as you know, we attribute our worship to Mary Magdalene, believing that she was actually the wife of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. We believe they bore children too but that is a theological discussion.

"The reason we are the order that we are, the reason we occupy this place, the reason for everything, for the silence, for it all is that we do worship Mary Magdalene but we are also the keeper of her bones." Peter immediately took a step back. "It is true, below this monastery is the crypt which houses the bones of Mary Magdalene. God protects her, he protects us, we protect her. Do you understand now?"

"I thought she was buried in Scotland."

"That is what most people believe and it is good that they believe it. The greatest theologians in Church history believe it and that is fine. We do not want pilgrims and we do not want attention. We are merely the keepers of one of two Holy Mothers. Mary bore Jesus through the Holy Spirit and Mary Magdalene bore the children of Jesus Christ. She is more holy even than the mother of Jesus." Peter was awestruck and speechless. "You are commanded with this secret now, you understand?" Peter only nodded his head. "The choice is yours, the helicopters are here."

As he said it, the gray hulls of the two MH-60S Knight Hawks appeared. Matthew let the flashlight emit a few flashes and the helicopter turned inbound upon seeing it, vectoring in on the open courtyard. Safely and gently, the pilots expertly hovered over the courtyard but they could not land, it wasn't safe enough. From the open door, the crew chief waved down and using hand signals indicated that they were moving to the street outside of the gate, it was wider and more open, nothing was there to tangle them and if something happened, they would not slam right into the monastery. "Let's go," Matthew yelled over the roar of the helicopter's engines. The chase bird remained aloft, circling around, the two door gunners peering out above their machine guns.

Matthew led the two monks carrying the stretcher with Maria and Peter in tow. Once they got to the front gate, Peter stopped and turned to look back at Christopher, only to find that the abbot was no longer standing by the door. He had retreated back into the monastery and with that, Peter stopped dead in his tracks, reached out, and took Maria's arm. "Maria," he shouted over the rotors. "Stay with me."

"You're not going?" She yelled back.

"No," he shook his head in case she couldn't hear him. "Stay!"

"I can't, I'm sorry." She took his hand gently, held it, and he reached out and kissed her hand just as gently as she held his. With that, she turned and walked off and Peter walked back into the confines of the monastery, heading to the place where he knew Christopher would be, the roof.

Inside the cabin of the helicopter, Maria looked at Matthew and shook her head. Cursing under his breath, Matthew looked at one of the cabin crewmen, "I thought there was a fourth?" That crewman asked over the roar of the helicopter. The monks had just deposited Lucy onto a stretcher that the Knight Hawk had brought and they were on their way back into the monastery's protective compound.

"Yeah, Pete's gone fucking native, let's get out of here, he's staying."

"Okay, we're lifting off then," within seconds, the MH-60S was lifting off against the backdrop of the monastery's gates closing.

On the roof, Peter and Christopher watched the helicopter lift off, pivot, and then head out to the west, towards the airport, the sea, and safety. The helicopters disappeared in the distance as the two men watched, hoping that their dreams were incorrect and mistaken. "There is something different about this," Christopher said as they watched the helicopters disappear into the distance.

"What's that?"

"In my dream I was standing here alone."

"In my dream I was inside of the helicopter," and at that moment, the helicopters became visible as bright, countermeasure flares lit up the sky, dropping by the fours from the helicopter, banking with the now invisible hull of the helicopter. They could only vaguely see the white streak of a missile rocketing up towards the two helicopters but the explosive, a small fireball, lit up the sky and from there, holding their breath, praying against the horror that they saw, Christopher and Peter watched one of the helicopters spin wildly out of control, and head towards the ground. Neither of them could watch the helicopter crash for they had already seen it in their dreams. Peter collapsed to the floor, his both racked with grief, and he began to sob uncontrollably. Christopher merely blessed himself and as tears welled up in his eyes, he looked down at Peter and could do nothing but put a hand on the man's head.

by **Layarteb** » Mon Jul 07, 2014 8:03 am

The Strike on Tumeremo Airfield

February 2, 1967 - 04:00 hrs [UTC-4:30]
Atlantic Ocean
RLS Ranger (CVA-61)
(9° 36' 29" N, 58° 6' 22" W)

"Fellas, at ease," the wing commander announced as he entered the briefing room, causing the several dozen pilots to take their seats. "I know things are cramped in here but let's all pay attention. As you're aware, as of 20:00 last night, we have been at war with Eastern Venezuela. Over the past eight hours, air force and naval aircraft have been bombing strategic positions in Eastern Venezuela with overwhelming success. Despite the public announcement by President Beckwith, the Eastern Venezuelan's were completely caught by surprise.

"In the sorties launched last night and early this morning, air force aircraft bombed several major airports and several major command targets, effectively neutralizing the overall chain of command of the Eastern Venezuelan Air Force. For their trouble, they lost six aircraft, all to gunfire. Our brothers in the Caribbean have lost three aircraft, also to gunfire. We have had no sightings of hostile aircraft or surface-to-air missiles but that doesn't mean they're not out there.

"This morning's alpha strike will take commence in approximately seventy-five minutes. We have thirty-two aircraft from our wing deploying against a little known airfield known as Tumeremo. The Eastern Venezuelan Air Force has approximately twenty-four fighters and twelve medium bombers based at Tumeremo. Spared from the strikes thus far, it's our honor to destroy this airfield and its aircraft, which can launch sorties against our fleet.

"From our current position, Tumeremo is two hundred and eighty-five miles away and we're going in at low level to avoid surface-to-air missiles. We do not expect much in the way of resistance until we reach the target, where reconnaissance has spotted at least a dozen gun emplacements, two Guideline sites, and of course, the aircraft." Slides switched on the projector as the wing commander continued his briefing. "From the Jayhawks, we're going to task all twelve F-4B Phantom IIs. Two will be tasked with BARCAP and two with MiGCAP. The main escort element for our alpha strike will consist of four aircraft while the remaining four will be tasked with bombing. You boys can carry a lot of ordinance but we've got a long way to fly - and back. We're loading you up with cluster bombs; your target will be the tarmacs and the revetments. You will be flying under the callsign 'Jayhawk' for this sortie. In case you already haven't figured it out, we're going to keep callsigns simple. It's your squadron.

"From the Barracudas, four aircraft only will be tasked with escort duty. You're our gunfighters so you'll be in front with the Jayhawks in the back.

"Now to the scooter pilots from the Hammerheads and the Lions, we've got four birds tasked with SEAD. You're carrying two AGM-45 Shrike missiles and two Mark 82 bombs a piece. You're main target are the Guideline sites. Don't miss boys! Eight more of you will be on bomb duty aiming for the guns.

"And lastly, to our youngest boys aboard," laughing went around as the Intruder pilots and bombardiers accepted the criticism. "The Eels will be taking on the runway itself. We've tasked all eight A-6A Intruders to this mission. Your targets are as follows, those carrying the Mark 84s will take out the runway, those carrying Mark 83s will go for the fuel storage area and the ammunition storage area.

"Time over target is 06:15, just after sunrise," notes were scribbled and the pilots grumbled about to themselves. The morale was high and this appeared to be an open and shut strike. They had every advantage to them.

"Now, let's go over some key pointers. The MiGs are deadly and they can tango with you boys all day. The biggest threat though is the SAM missiles. The gunfire kills already are lucky shots boys; they fired thousands upon thousands upon thousands of rounds into the skies for a few lucky kills. We're moving at four hundred plus knots on the deck, gunners can't track a fighter moving that quickly. The lead-in elements will be the Crusaders flying escort and the Skyhawks flying SEAD. You clear the way for the bomb crews and we'll be home in time for breakfast.

"Refueling will be along the coastline if needed and we're very deep in there so don't get shot down, we cannot get search and rescue that deeply into enemy territory. For the most part of your flight, you'll be going over jungle with little in the way of scenery or civilization. Remember your survival kits if you get knocked down or have to bail for any reason but if you can, nurse yourselves back to the ocean, we'll come get you.

"Now if no one has questions, let's get out there and suit up," there were some but nothing major. The crews were in high spirits and ninety minutes later, catapults were flying the thirty-two aircraft over the bow of the ship two and three at a time. Overhead, the first aircraft, the bombers, circled around on low power while the more fuel-hungry fighters waited their turn to launch. Once the whole alpha strike package was airborne, they formed up and set a southwesterly course.

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February 2, 1967 - 05:57 hrs [UTC-4:30]
Delta Amacuro Province, Eastern Venezuela
"Feet Dry" Position
(8° 24' 15" N, 59° 53' 45" W)

One hundred and fifty miles and forty-two minutes later, the alpha strike was calling "Feet dry" over the radio, meaning that they were over land and commencing their ingress. The entire flight dropped down to just five hundred feet above ground level and loosened up their formation slightly. Leading the element was Commander Justin Acevedo, who went by the flight handle "Sock" - given to him because as he was of Dominican heritage, he shunned the wear of socks in all but the most formal settings. Commander of the Barracudas, he was one of the more experienced Crusader pilots in the fleet. However, in terms of combat, he was as green as all of his pilots were. They'd never been in combat before, in fact no one in this entire outfit had seen combat before so this was truly their first foray into that grim realm of their risky profession.

The action in Lemnos had been before all of their time and though the Ranger had sailed there, it was a different time, a different generation, and a different crew. Lessons learned over Lemnos weren't applicable this morning. This was a different enemy, a different kind of warfare, and a much different setting. Tightening up his fighters and positioning himself in the lead, CMDR Acevedo keyed up his transmitter and called out, "Red Crown, this is Barracuda 801, report contacts."

"Barracuda 801, Red Crown, we've got nothing on scope. You're clear in to the target." Red Crown was the navy's airborne early warning and control plane orbiting just off of the Eastern Venezuelan coastline. This morning is was the older, E-1B Tracer and not the newer, more sophisticated E-2A Hawkeye. Despite the power of the Tracer's AN/APS-82 radar, it was more optimized for detecting incoming fighters and bombers flying at low-level across the wave tops, not small fighters like the MiG-17 or the MiG-19 flying at low-level across the jungle. What Red Crown didn't know, and thus couldn't tell the pilots, was that four MiG-17s were airborne over Tumeremo and another four MiG-19s were readying for takeoff at an optimal time. Coastal search radar had picked up the incoming fighters and though the emissions weren't detected - it wasn't because they were state-of-the-art but rather the frequency used wasn't in any of the preset intelligence briefings.

"Barracuda flight, we're seventeen minutes out, let's keep it tight." CMDR Acevedo called out to the rest of his aircraft. They hadn't lost any aircraft yet, which was a miracle given that often replacement aircraft were flown just in case a mechanical malfunction forced an abort. CMDR Acevedo looked out of the port side of his canopy and saw his wingman fluttering neatly above the trees. Giving some words of advice, his wingman corrected and in doing so, caught a burst of light against the two AIM-9D Sidewinder missiles hooked up to his fuselage hardpoints. For the Crusader, the Sidewinder was an afterthought; its primary method of killing an enemy fighter was its gun complement of four 20-millimeter cannons, each fed by one hundred and forty-four rounds. In contrast, the bigger, beefier, newer F-4B Phantom IIs flying in the rear were missileers and though they too carried the AIM-9D Sidewinder, yet again, the Sidewinder was an afterthought but only because the primary armament of the Phantom II was the big, complex, and deadly AIM-7 Sparrow missile. All of the F-4s flying, even those with bombs, were carrying four AIM-7E Sparrow variants, which had a head-on range of approximately twenty miles. The Sparrow was optimized for shooting down bombers though, not nimble low-flying, maneuvering fighters.

Two different schools of thought were in play here and the alpha strike's main package, the Intruders and the nimble, anti-defense Skyhawks were sandwiched in the middle. Flying over the treetops, the navy package was moving over what could only be described as a green carpet. To CMDR Acevedo, it was rather pretty and captivating. Had they been aware that MiGs were over Tumeremo at that time, they might have been more focused on the battle that lay ahead of them, rather than on the beauty of hostile territory.

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February 2, 1967 - 06:15 hrs [UTC-4:30]
Tumeremo, Eastern Venezuela
Tumeremo Airfield
(7° 14' 56" N, 61° 31' 46" W)

About five minutes before they reached Tumeremo, the four MiG-19s waiting to take off were launched. The naval strike package was just thirty-eight miles from the airfield and closing fast. They'd already reached their IP and they moved into attack formation. The Crusaders rose up to twenty-five hundred feet along with the Phantom IIs and the rest of the strike package moved up to fifteen hundred feet. The Skyhawks equipped with Shrike missiles flying to the front oriented their tracks against the two SA-2 Guideline sites, maneuvering for a direct-on approach as they'd trained, which was the most effective way to employ the Shrike missile. The Shrike, though it had a maximum range of ten miles wasn't very effective past three miles. The Skyhawks meant to take out the guns maneuvered differently as well, though they kept low. Their Mark 82 Snakeye bombs had retarder fins that would slow them down, allowing the Skyhawks to escape the blast and fragmentation radius of their bombs.

As they crossed through twenty-five miles, the Phantom IIs warmed up their AN/APQ-72 radars and the Crusaders turned on their own radars, which had a much shorter range and did not contain the added capabilities of the APQ-72s. The Crusader's radar was simply for ranging and tracking and not for the intricate launch requirements of the Sparrow missile. Their APQ-94 radars only had a maximum range of twelve miles against a fighter-sized target, approximately half of that of the APQ-72. It was then though that suddenly blips appeared for all of the fighters and CMDR Acevedo called back out to Red Crown, "Red Crown, Barracuda 801, advise if you have any contacts over the target."

"Barracuda 801, negative, you're clear all the way in still."

"Red Crown, we've got multiple contacts," he switched and checked with the Phantom II pilots, "so does Jayhawk. We're tracking two, possibly more fighters orbiting over the target."

"Barracuda 801, we cannot verify that information, you are required to make visual confirmation with hostile targets." The call did little to negate the abilities of the Crusader but for the Phantom IIs, it was death.

"Barracuda flight, let's get ahead of everyone here," CMDR Acevedo said as he pushed his throttles up and increased speed from four hundred knots to five hundred knots. The extra boost in speed would give the strike package a few extra seconds. As the Crusaders did, they split into two elements of two fighters. They would protect one another as they went head-to-head with the Eastern Venezuelan MiGs.

Faster, deadlier, and more agile, the MiG-19s were out front. Eastern Venezuela operated the MiG-19S Farmer-C, which could double as a fighter bomber. The four in the air right now though were armed with three, 30-millimeter cannons and two R-3S Atoll-A missiles each, which were comparable to the AIM-9B Sidewinder that the Layartebian Air Force used. Though faster than the Sidewinder, it had a shorter effective range and against the AIM-9D variant, it was otherwise inferior in terms of tracking.

CMDR Acevedo, leading one flight, left the other flight in the hands of Lieutenant Commander Joe Linneman. At five miles from the fighters, with a closure rate now of Mach 1.5, CMDR Acevedo called out over the radio, for all aircraft to hear, "Talley-ho! We've got four MiGs approaching fast. Maneuvering to engage," his heart rate ticked up a beat as the MiG-19s zipped towards them, conducting an offset pass, forcing the F-8E Crusaders to follow but in doing so, the MiG-19 pilots exposed their tail quarters and the two flights of Crusaders followed the splitting MiGs. CMDR Acevedo rolled his aircraft to the port side, lit his afterburner, and snapped the Crusader around, pulling +5Gs as the MiG-19 Farmer bled energy and lit his own afterburner to gain speed. It was a fatal mistake and CMDR Acevedo closed quickly, selected his Sidewinder missiles. A familiar growl came around three quarters of a mile and he fired, watching the missile scream off of the rail towards the MiG-19. It tracked and struck the MiG-19 in the tailpipe, jarring the fighter and throwing it off kilter. Seconds later, it caught fire and exploded.

His wingman went after the second MiG-19 and though it took him twice as long for the kill, seventy-two seconds in all, he achieved it with his guns, firing off approximately one hundred and eighty rounds, striking the nimble MiG-19 approximately fifteen times. The MiG-19, devoid of its critical flight control systems, nosed into the ground only seconds after the pilot ejected.

For LCDR Linneman though, things weren't so simple. The MiG-19s split again and forced him and his wingman to counter, separating them. In the seventy-two seconds it took CMDR Acevedo and his wingman LTJG Victor Adams to nab the two MiG-19s, the other two had gained advantageous and neutral positions on their opposition. It was clear that the MiG-19 pilots that had split to the right were the rookies while those who split to the left were not. The lead MiG-19 pulled into a positive firing position LTJG Michael Gramm and fired off a burst of cannon fire. The powerful, 30-millimeter shells impacted, jarring and jolting the F-8E Crusader around. Flight controls were sluggish as LTJG Gramm tried to move out of the pilot's gun sight and it was then that the pilot fired both of his Atoll missiles, one of which tracked and hit the Crusader's stern quarters. LTJG Gramm ejected immediately as his fighter smashed into the ground in a flaming wreck.

LCDR Linneman, unaware that he'd just lost his wingman, tried to maneuver away from the other MiG-19 as it fired a burst of cannon fire but as his position was better, LCDR Linneman avoided being hit. Calling out for help over the radio, CMDR Acevedo reversed his turn, came inbound, and found himself maneuvering against the MiG-19 trailing LCDR Linneman. With a burst of gunfire, he clipped the top of the MiG-19 Farmer and mortally wounded the pilot, who slumped forward, nosing the MiG-19 right into the ground. With a three-to-one kill ratio so far, the three Crusader pilots began to come around, looking for the last MiG-19 and their wingman, who had ridden the silk elevator all the way to the ground.

The MiG-19 Farmer had gone low and hugging the treetops, it was flying away at near maximum speed. The Crusader pilots didn't see it until it was nearly three miles away and though they could have chased it, they opted to remain overhead to protect the strike package, which was a smart, intelligent, and ideal action to take.

The four MiG-17s orbiting the airfield had moved in on the confusion and shot forward to engage the incoming bombers. By then, the A-4E Skyhawks had launched their missiles and dropped their bombs on the two SA-2 Guideline sites and they were egressing out of the battle area. The A-4E Skyhawks on gun duty were rolling in now, just as the 37-millimeter and 57-millimeter guns began to open up with all of their fury. Despite the notion that these gun crews could not track high-speed jets, they could in fact set up barrage fire zones and they did so, pouring all of their ammunition into zones ahead of the incoming Skyhawks. Skyhawks flying inbound had no choice but to fly through the lead walls, which resulted in four of the A-4 Skyhawks getting hit by gunfire, two fatally forcing the pilots to bail out, and the other two to dump their load and abort. They would nurse their fighters back towards the carrier now. That halved the number of attacking A-4 Skyhawks and though they dropped their ordinance on the enemy guns, they were calling "Winchester" before all of the enemy guns could be destroyed.

As the MiG-17s moved forward to engage the Skyhawks and the incoming Phantom IIs and Intruders, the Crusaders, out of position, struggled to get back into the fight. The four F-4B Phantom IIs flying to the back were now the only defense and they locked onto the incoming fighters and their pilots ripple fired their AIM-7E Sparrow missiles from nearly four miles away, too close for the missile. In the first salvo, the four F-4Bs fired eleven of their sixteen missiles. Only one missile tracked, smashing into a MiG-17 and destroying it in a brilliant fireball. As the MiG-17s maneuvered, the F-4B Phantom IIs attempted to counter but here, the nimble little fighter had the advantage. The F-4 pilots might have had Sidewinders but they weren't as fond in using them as they were their AIM-7s. They expended their remaining five Sparrow missiles over the course of the next forty-eight seconds, scoring one more kill, a two-for-sixteen 12.5% success rate for their missiles.

By then, the Crusaders were back into the fight and LCDR Linneman tracked one, destroying with an AIM-9D Sidewinder missile whereas CMDR Acevedo came in and tagged the last one with a combined Sidewinder and gunfire kill that left only eighty 20-millimeter rounds and two AIM-9D Sidewinders remaining on his aircraft.

Assessing their losses, the alpha strike package was still not yet done with their mission. Gunfire increased and the MiGs on the airfield scrambled to get to the runway and takeoff but it was too late for them. The eight F-4B Phantom IIs on bombing duty came inbound and dropped their cluster bombs all over the tarmac and the revetments, blowing up over eighty percent of the aircraft still on the ground, including two taxing MiG-17s. Hauling off of the target, they turned into escorts now and screamed away, aiming to escort the stricken and egressing A-4 Skyhawks out of Eastern Venezuelan territory.

The Crusaders hung overhead now as the gunfire increased, peppering the air around them with white and gray puffs of smoke, each cloud filled with deadly shrapnel that could tear the thin skin of their aircraft to nothing. The Intruders were moving in now, the last aircraft to attack the airfield and they came in predictably down the length of the runway, assaulting the airfield from the same direction. The two A-6A Intruders hitting the runway peppered the single length of pavement with six of eight Mark 84 bombs, an impressive score. The two taking out the fuel storage areas dropped their twenty-four Mark 83s into the fuel storage area, utterly obliterating it while the last four dropped their forty-eight bombs right into the ammunition storage areas, destroying two guns and the vehicle pool in the process. As they bugged out, they took assessment of their damage. Gunfire had hit six of the eight aircraft and two were smoking. One had to shut down an engine and the three other aircraft were flying okay but one was losing fuel.

The alpha strike was over though and in less than five minutes, the Layartebian Navy had lost three fighters, one to aerial combat, two to gunfire. Eight other aircraft were damaged and their pilots were cursing the aircraft back home, which was guaranteeing a long and stressful return trip. Seven of eight MiG fighters had been shot down in aerial combat and one had escaped. Twenty aircraft had been destroyed on the ground, all twelve Il-28 Beagle bombers, six MiG-17 Frescos, and two MiG-19 Farmers, leaving just six MiG-19s and two MiG-17s okay. The airport was destroyed, the two SA-2 sites were destroyed and out of commission, most of the guns were destroyed, and the alpha strike was considered a success except the fact that three pilots were now officially POWs, having had to eject.

Of the two stricken A-4 Skyhawks, one made it to the coastline where the pilot ejected and was picked up by rescue personnel. The other went down in the Eastern Venezuelan jungle and the pilot ejected, though his fate was unknown. Five of the six damaged Intruders made it back home, including the one leaking fuel. One exploded midflight and the crew had not been able to eject quickly enough, adding two more casualties to the day.

The cost of the strike to the navy brass was "acceptable" but to the men onboard the Ranger and its carrier air wing, it was a grim and sudden realization that their enemy was capable and determined. The pilots who ejected would not be seen again until after the war concluded and their time as POWs would be distinguished by torture, starvation, and misery. There was little humanity in their accommodations and the pilots were separated from one another within nine months, never seeing each other again until the day they landed back in Layarteb City after the war had concluded yet, they came home to a violent civil war and very little of the home that they remembered. The bodies of the two Intruder pilots would never be recovered though recovery teams would find and search the crash site some fifteen years after this particular day. They were presumed to have been extracted and buried by local forces, though where was a mystery that would never be solved.

CMDR Acevedo would ultimately score three more kills over his next four tours in theater and he would earn many medals doing so, complementing the Navy Cross that he had received that day. Unfortunately though, he would be killed during the civil war. LCDR Linneman never made it out of Eastern Venezuela. He was forced to eject from his wounded F-8 Crusader in 1970 and eleven months later he died in captivity. As for the rest of the alpha strike, most of the aviators were lucky enough to retire. Some fought in the civil war where some died. They fought on both sides of the war; and at one point, friends were pitted against one another though it was impossible to know that from the cockpits of their fighters.

by **Layarteb** » Sat Sep 06, 2014 8:46 pm

The Launch of Skylab II

September 7, 2014 - 20:00 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape Canaveral, Florida
Cape Canaveral Air Force Station
(28° 28' 5" N, 80° 34' 8" W)

"Good evening, we're about ten minutes until final so would everyone kindly take their seats and put on your seatbelts. For those of you lucky enough to be on our port or left side, you'll have a clear view of both launch pads as we pass over the Florida coastline." The pilot, Lieutenant Colonel Norman Davis said from the cockpit of the 904th Military Airlift Squadron's VC-43A Swan. For the better part of the last two hours, he'd been flying the small business jet from Layarteb City with his co-pilot, Major Brian Schoonover. Now, as they were approaching the Floridian coastline the VC-43A Swan dropped altitude considerably and, off to the port side, both launch pads, lit up by powerful spotlights became visible. The VC-43A was landing on runway 13 at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, which meant coming in from the north. On each launch pad was a single rocket, prepped and nearly ready.

Moments later, the VC-43A Swan was landing with a light thump as the rear wheels touched the runway's asphalt pavement. Shortly after the nose wheel thumped down, the thrust reversers kicked in and slowed the aircraft considerably. LTC Davis then taxied the plane to the end of the runway and turned onto the tarmac, where a small welcoming party was waiting. Security was very high at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station and it was evidenced by the suited men with concealed automatics and pistols standing around the welcoming party, which included Dennis Cabell, the director of the Layartebian Space Agency. Well-lit, the tarmac became a quieter place once the engines of the Swan were shut down and the cabin door opened. The cabin of the VC-43A Swan disgorged fourteen VIPs, which included the Emperor, who wanted to observe the launch of the two rockets personally.

"Sir," Director Cabell said as he approached the Emperor and held out his hand, "it's an honor sir."

"It'll be a pleasure for me Director, are we still on schedule?"

"Yes sir we are, weather will not be a factor whatsoever."

"Excellent Director, what is on the docket then?"

"Well sir for first we'll take a short tour of the pads, we haven't begun fueling yet so it is safe to drive through. Then I believe you requested that you wanted to personally meet our astronauts?"

"Yes I did."

"We'll meet them as they're suiting up and then we'll spend the rest of the time in mission control. Is this satisfactory?"

"Director, it sounds like a marvelous day. I'm here for at least the next sixteen hours and to me, this is a vacation," the Emperor smiled as he climbed into SUV which was white and covered in LSA logos. Hopping into the SUV behind him was Jack Delaney. Director Cabell insisted on driving and the Emperor climbed into the front, passenger seat. Also climbing in was David Hart, the head of security for CCAFS. The other personnel who'd flown down with the Emperor, aides and a small press group, filed into other vehicles as a small convoy departed the tarmac and headed north, through the military part of the base. Ever since Florida had fallen to the Empire, Cape Canaveral Air Force Station had become a civilian-dominated base though there was still a small military garrison, mainly responsible for security and logistics. They turned onto LAS Parkway East and headed over lagoon before turning onto Sutter Parkway North, which ran north all the way to the Vehicle Assembly Building. As he drove, the director narrated what they were seeing and what aspects had changed over the years. They drove around the VAB and then they pulled onto the service road, which ran alongside the crawlway. Director Cabell drove them all the way up to the gates to LC-39A before turning around and going up to LC-39B. The two northern pads, LC-39C and LC-39D weren't occupied so he did not bother driving all the way up to them. "I do believe that gives you most of the view of our complex, at least what parts will be active for our launch," Director Cabell said, checking his watch. Already ninety minutes had passed. "Shall we go meet our crew? They will be inside of the capsule by 05:45 and they'll be getting ready to suit up soon."

"So early?"

"We undergo many checks and tests of their gear sir. We leave nothing to chance."

"Comforting, yes let's go before it becomes too late and we disturb them."

"Excellent sir," Director Cabell said with a smile as he turned around and headed towards the Operations and Checkout Building, which they'd already passed after leaving the runway. "The astronauts suit up in the building before heading out to the Astrovan, as we call it. The van we use today is the same van that we used for the Apollo Program. Every time we attempt to replace it the rookie astronauts revolt against the decision; they believe it's good luck sir."

The Emperor chuckled, "Who are we to argue with luck?"

"Well sir from a purely economic point of view, finding parts for the van is getting tough but I agree sir, who are we to argue?"

"How long is the trip?"

"It's about twenty minutes. The most direct route is only nine miles. The Astrovan will bring the entire crew, two additional astronauts, and sometimes our senior management. The van will stop first at the Shuttle Landing Facility where the two additional astronauts will get off and board our training aircraft. The aircraft remains airborne to assess local weather conditions during launch. We only use trained astronauts for this role. If our senior management rides, the van will also stop at the launch control center along the way."

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September 7, 2014 - 22:20 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape Canaveral, Florida
Cape Canaveral Air Force Station
(28° 31' 26" N, 80° 38' 46" W)

Director Caball pulled the vehicle up to the Operations and Checkpoint Building and turned off the engine. The five-story building loomed in front of them. "We use this building for many functions sir," Director Caball continued as they walked into the door with the entire entourage in tow. "We have two altitude chambers here for testing, we cleared all Spacelab science modules for the Space Shuttle in here, and it's where final assembly of each Orion capsule. It's also where our astronauts suit up prior to their launch, of course." They weaved through corridors and came to several security checkpoints, which Director Caball brushed through easily with the swipe of a badge. Temporary badges were issued to the entire entourage group, which enabled them to move through with the director.

Finally, they came to the crew preparation room and Director Caball looked at the large entourage before him, "I apologize but because of security concerns, everyone will have to pass through a specific chamber lock. Because of this, only three people may accompany me." The Emperor was one, a reporter was two, and one very lucky aide was three. They passed through the interlock and into the room where all three astronauts were joking around with one another. Levity filled the air and the Emperor could tell that this was going to be a gleaming success. "Sir," Director Caball said as he entered with the Emperor, "may I introduce to you Paul Tanner, our commander, Jacky Sloan, our pilot, and Charles Walsh, our scientific pilot. Gentlemen, and lady, may I introduce the Emperor." Hands were shaken, introductions were had, and the reporter took several photographs of it.

"It's an honor to meet you all," the Emperor said, "it's been a long time since the Empire has established a more permanent presence in space and you will be the first three Layartebian astronauts in over forty years to spend an extended duration in space."

"Thank you sir," Tanner said, "on behalf of my entire crew, it is an equal honor for us to have you in our presence for this mission. When Director Caball informed us that you were coming down, we met together and decided that you should be an honorary member of our crew," Tanner continued. Jacky walked over to a small box and withdrew a shirt, "It's a tradition here to make customized shirts for every man and woman who assists on each mission. We like to personalize them too, namely with names and patches. I trust you will feel like a member of our crew."

"Yes I do," he responded as he took the shirt from Jacky and held it for the camera. "Now if you'll excuse us," he said to both his aide and the reporter, "I would to have some personal time with the crew." Director Caball escorted them out and when they'd left, the Emperor turned to the crew, loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button from his collar, and sat down on a chair. "Reporters can be a distraction. Now that they're gone tell me a little bit about yourselves." Shocked by the level of personal attention they were getting, the three astronauts gave their stories. Paul Tanner had been an air force pilot and Charles Walsh a navy pilot. Jacky Sloan, a female, had not come from the military but she'd finished in the top 5% of her class of astronauts and that was a big deal.

When they were done, the Emperor eyed the space suits and other gear lying around, "You know I've always been curious about these. What is it like to wear them?"

"It's clunky sir," Tanner said with a laugh, "and hot. We run water through them to keep us cool. Space is pretty volatile of a place but these suits are our life."

"I'm told that new suits were designed for the Orion Program. Is that so?"

"Yes sir," interjected Sloan, "you see sir, the suit from the Space Shuttle Program was suitable and fine sir but they were rather old. It made sense to move to a new suit with newer materials. The older suit wasn't suitable for the lunar surface either sir."

"So this will be the same suit you'll wear when you walk on the moon again?"

"Sir, that is if we get to," Walsh said, "I've got my name in the hat."

"How is the process determined?"

"They won't tell us sir," Sloan said and the astronauts began laughing, "they think we'll rig it."

"Well how can I blame you for trying," the Emperor said, sharing in the joke. Ultimately, he stayed with them until they began to climb into their suits, at which point he once again wished them luck, thanked them for their service, and headed back outside where he met up with Director Caball who explained that most of the entourage had been given a special tour of the building.

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September 7, 2014 - 03:50 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape Canaveral, Florida
Cape Canaveral Air Force Station
(28° 35' 6" N, 80° 38' 56" W)

The buzz around the main control room of the Launch Control Center was, for all intents and purposes, routine. Every launch of the Layartebian space program had been coordinated from this room and while the room was modified from program to program, the general layout had remained the same. Sitting a little under three and a half miles away, standing tall on LC-39B was the SLS rocket with its precious, Skylab II cargo. The crew would launch from LC-39A though that rocket was not yet fueled, for safety's sake. "We are t-minus-fifteen minutes from launch," echoed the announcing narrator. The Launch Director for this mission was Simon Wilkinson who at the age of fifty-seven had overseen every launch since the year 2000 when he was appointed Launch Director.

"All right team, let me get a 'go' or 'no-go' from this point." He said into the microphone hanging next to his mouth. The Emperor, staying out of the way, watched and listened in his own headset as the various directors and technicians sounded off in a well-rehearsed order. No one spoke over anyone else and within thirty seconds, the universal word was "go" and the countdown was resumed. A large clock hanging on the wall over the windows showed the timer counting down. Wilkinson turned to the Emperor and pushed the mute button on his microphone, "Now sir let me walk you through the launch real quickly, if you don't mind?"

"No I do not."

"Sir, we're going to hold the countdown again at eight minutes for thirty seconds to run a quick computer test and then we'll resume the countdown. When we get to five minutes, we'll do our final go or no-go prior to launch. At minus thirty-one seconds, the rocket's internal computers will take over the launch sequence. We call this a 'handoff' sir. At minus seven seconds, the main engines on the rocket will ignite, at which point you will see the windows flex some. At minus three seconds, the engines will have rotated to their precise position for launch. At zero, we ignite the solid-rocket boosters and remove the holding clamps. It will take approximately ten seconds for the rocket to clear the launch tower. At plus twenty seconds, it will rotate into position, and from there sir we'll watch it climb to space.

"There will be a lot of chatter as the launch goes but what you'll notice is no one moving. It's not a luck thing we just are all focused on our panels. In the event that something catastrophic sounds," he said matter-of-factly, "we will go into emergency procedures. At that moment, the room will be sealed, no one will be allowed to leave and no one will be allowed to enter. Because you are here for this specific launch you would be sequestered in here too sir. Is this a problem?"

"No."

"Sir I must ask further. You may view the launch from our pressroom if you so desire. They will not be sequestered if something happens."

"I am fine but I appreciate your concern."

"Very well sir. In the event that something happens, you must remember everything you have seen and heard. You will be required to give an audio testimony immediately. Our technicians will be working to preserve data to ensure that we can conduct a successful review."

"Is something going to happen?"

"No sir but we prepare for everything."

"I understand then."

"During the launch you will feel strong shaking and you will see the windows flexing. This is a very powerful rocket sir but this is entirely normal. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes one, that man down there in the red shirt, who is he?"

"That's Ernie Green sir, he's the most important man in this building. He is the range safety officer. He is the person who will self-destruct the rocket in case something goes wrong but the rocket will be over the ocean and we'll be safe." The Emperor had no further questions. As predicted, the launch held again at eight minutes and another thirty seconds was taken to make its status check. Wilkinson took a backseat at T-5 minutes as everything was handed over to the Launch Vehicle Test Conductor, who went through his own checks. Wilkinson and the Emperor listened as readings were given and numbers were verified.

For the final five minutes of the countdown, computers were in total control. While men monitored panels, no one was pushing buttons and Ernie Green's hand hovered over the plastic cover, which protected the self-destruct button. His key was in the panel but it was it was still in the "SAFE" position. At T-2 minutes, he would flip the key to "ARM" but he did not lift the plastic cover yet. The Emperor watched this man intently as his eyes watched the large television screen that was underneath the windows. This showed a much more zoomed in view of the rocket. Communications checks were good and the final go and no-go responses were given. Automated checks were done and the word was "commit" at T-3 minutes.

Venting of gasses kept white clouds of steam and smoke around the rocket as the lights shining on it showed the otherwise quiet piece of hardware. The tanks were pressurizing now as silence came over the intercom at T-2 minutes. "Self-destruct is armed," Ernie Green said over the intercom at T-90 seconds.

With just 75 seconds to go, all propellant tanks were pressurized and the rocket was, for all intents and purposes, ready to go. The clock hit 1 minute and that meant 60 seconds to go. Power was transferred to the launch vehicle and the final reports came in at 45 seconds. At 31 seconds, the handoff occurred and the rocket was on its own. Ernie Green had lifted the plastic cover over the button and his hand hovered over it. The rocket engines ignited on cue and at T-4 seconds, the lower part of the pad was engulfed in an explosion of fire and smoke as the rocket's main engines ignited. Four seconds later, after a flurry of commands over the intercom, the solid rocket boosters were ignited and the pad was engulfed in flames and smoke as the rocket lifted into the air. Ten seconds later, it cleared the launch tower and cheers went out through the room, "We have cleared the tower!" Came an elated voice as the rocket continued to climb skyward. It rolled on cue and though it was the middle of the night, everything could be seen clearly as the solid rocket boosters, the world's most powerful solid-fueled rockets propelled the heavy rocket towards space. The Emperor joined in the clapping and watched as much as he could before turning his eyes to the television screen, which showed the rocket climbing and climbing towards space. The television screen suddenly segmented into sixteen separate views, all of them cameras showing different angles of the launch. At T+2 minutes, the solid rocket boosters were separated, they having burned nearly all of their propellant. Nine seconds later, they would be out of propellant though they would continue to climb for some time before they fell back to Earth, landing in the Atlantic Ocean several minutes later. Ultimately, like the SRBs on the Space Shuttle, they would be recovered and reused.

The first - or core - stage of the rocket would continue to burn, throwing the rocket higher and higher and faster and faster. Its engines would cut off 476 seconds after launch, or seven minutes and fifty-six seconds. The core stage was separated, the interstage went next, and then the next stage kicked in, the final stage. This would boost the payload to its desired orbit, it would separate some five minutes and forty-four seconds later, at which point the payload fairing opened, and the Skylab II space station was deployed. The launch was a success but now they had to get ready for the next launch. A separate part of the building would handle the automated deployment of the station and that was where the Emperor headed next.

The Skylab II space station was 25 meters long and 8 meters in diameter in its stowed configuration. It just fit into the payload fairing but that was for reason, all available space was taken. Orbiting now 300 miles above the surface of the Earth, station controllers went through an exhaustive list of checks to make sure that the station wasn't damaged. Skylab I had been damaged during launch but luckily, Skylab II did not. There was bound to be some loose screws and shit out of alignment inside of the space station just from the normal launch oscillation and force but those would be fixed by the initial crew. Then came the painstaking process of deploying the station. To make it fit into the payload fairing, it was compressed. Batteries onboard would be able to unfold the station but they would have to be recharged. First to extend was the docking coupling, which would enable two Orion capsules to dock with the station, the idea being that one crew would not depart until the other crew was safely aboard. Then the crew compartment extended slightly, elongating its tunnel. The crew compartment was nearest to the coupling for emergency escapes.

Checks were done at each stage and checks on the battery power showed that it was running akin to the simulation tests. When finally the moment came, the final segment was deployed, the power segment. It included four solar panels and the generator system that would power the station. By then, the battery power had dropped to 40%, which was less than what the simulations showed but only by ten percent. After system tests were nominal, the solar panels were activated, tilted accordingly, and controllers watched as the battery power began to increase. As the Emperor was commenting, he was approached by Director Caball. "How is it going so far sir?"

"Amazing Director, just amazing."

"Well sir we have a request for you from the astronaut crew. They'd like you to ride with them." Director Caball checked his watched, "Which gives us eight minutes to get there."

"Can we?"

"Sir, before this job I used to get a lot of speeding tickets." The Emperor smiled, "This way sir."

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September 8, 2014 - 05:09 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape Canaveral, Florida
Cape Canaveral Air Force Station
(28° 31' 26" N, 80° 38' 46" W)

After speeding through the complex, Director Caball parked his car in front of the Operations and Checkpoint Building. The Astrovan was parked near the entrance and he smiled victoriously as he shut his door, "Just made it sir, we'll join them onboard the van."

"Have they come out yet?"

"Not yet sir, or else the reporters would have left."

"That sounds good, shall we wave and smile for the cameras?"

"It would be best sir." Both men walked up to the Astrovan, smiled for the cameras, waved, had their photographs taken, and then they climbed into the van to wait. Several minutes later, the crew joined them and hands were shaken again.

"Sir, I'm glad you could make it," Turner said as the door was shut and the van pulled away. "Charlie Miller there has been driving this van since the Apollo Program," Charlie from the front seat waved. He was only 22 years old when he drove the Apollo 7 crew to the Launchpad in 1968, which made him sixty-eight years old.

"Sir it's an honor to have you aboard," Charlie said from the front seat. The Emperor had been to Cape Canaveral Air Force Station before but not in some time and he'd never had this invitation before. "I never had a President of the Republic but I now have the honor of your travel."

"Well Charlie, it's some opportunity for me." The van pulled out of the parking lot and commenced its short journey to LC-39A. It was the second vehicle in a four-vehicle convoy, a police escort car leading the procession. Behind it was a security vehicle with armed military soldiers in an armored truck, and behind them was an empty bus. This bus would transport the final crew from the launch pad back to safety.

As Director Caball had explained, the convoy went first to the Shuttle Landing Facility where the Gulfstream II was sitting on the runway waiting for takeoff. Astronauts John Brown and David Smith exited with handshakes all around and headed towards the Gulfstream II while Charlie followed the convoy back out to the main road. "Next stop, Launch Control," he said as he followed the lead vehicle to the front gate of the Launch Control Center. The Emperor and Director Caball exited with a final farewell and the convoy headed away, towards the launch pad, where they arrived at 05:32 hours.

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September 8, 2014 - 07:32 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape Canaveral, Florida
Cape Canaveral Air Force Station
(28° 35' 6" N, 80° 38' 56" W)

"All right sir, welcome back," Wilkinson said as the Emperor walked back into the Launch Control Room. "Slightly different launch procedure this time but you can expect more of the same. I don't want to ruin the surprise but it is very similar to the Space Shuttle Launch." Over the intercom, the Emperor heard the countdown at T-30 minutes as he put his headset back on his head. His didn't have a microphone and errantly, he looked towards the red-shirted man. Ernie Green was at his panel, his key was on "SAFE", and he looked relaxed. He'd watched Ernie during the ascent of the first launch and he noticed that he was laser-focused on his job. He had full confidence in him but now there were three human beings aboard the rocket. Something about "self-detract" didn't sit right with him now.

"Simon, what happens if we have to self-destruct on this rocket?"

"Sir it goes into a launch abort, the capsule gets jettisoned and it lands safely in the ocean. We go and retrieve the crew via helicopter, depending how far away they land. Otherwise the navy takes over and does it. There are various support ships deployed along the flight's intended pathway."

"That is reassuring then."

"Yes sir." Wilkinson returned to his duties.

Ten minutes later the closeout crew departed the pad and the countdown continued. The countdown clock went into a hold for ten minutes while some additional checks were done. Ultimately, when the countdown resumed, the Emperor looked at the clock and saw it ticking away slowly. Over the next few minutes various calls were made, most of which the Emperor did not understand but he didn't ask for running commentary, he wanted to enjoy the launch for what it was. At T-12 minutes, the voice came over the air, "The countdown clock will hold at T-9 minutes." Three minutes later, the voice was back, "The countdown clock is holding at T-9 minutes. Planned hold is four minutes. Reduce…" The voice continued. When the countdown resumed, the voice was back again, "The count has resumed, T-9 minutes. GLS auto sequence has been initiated…T-7 minutes and 30 seconds, retract access arm…T-5 minutes go for APU start…T-4 minutes 55 seconds, verify SLS/SRB range safety system safing and arm device is armed. Verify SRM ignition safing and arm device is armed. Terminate LOX replenishment…T-2 minutes, close visors…" Inside of the capsule, the astronauts closed their visors and now they waited, sitting atop a highly explosive rocket.

The Emperor continued to watch, his heartbeat steadily rising. "T-50 seconds, ground power removal…T-31 seconds, GLS go for auto sequence…T-28 seconds, start SRB APUs…T-26 seconds, start SRB APUs…T-25 seconds…T-20 seconds…T-16 seconds, activate sound suppression system…T-15 seconds…" The Emperor watched out of the window now as water began to pour around to limit help deaden the noise. "T-10 seconds…Go for main engine start…9…8…7…6…Engines are burning…3…2…1…0…and LIFTOFF!" Outside in the clear morning, the SLS Block I rocket roared to lift as the pad filled with flames and smoke. Stabilized on its own, it began to accelerate upwards and five seconds later, much quicker this time than previously came the call, "Tower cleared…" Yet again, the cheering came but this time it was louder and more significant. Three astronauts were aboard this rocket so there was a sense of accomplishment now that the rocket had cleared the tower. It rolled several seconds later, adjusting its angle for ascent. "Skylab B-2, roll program complete...Approaching Max Q...Skylab B-2, go for throttle up…" Commander Turner repeated the command back and the rocket screamed upwards, gaining both altitude and range quicker than the Space Shuttle had thanks to its more powerful boosters. Two minutes into the launch, the boosters separated again and the rocket continued upwards further and faster. Commands continued and back-and-forth dialogue between the crew and the launch control center went on but the Emperor focused instead on the camera views as the rocket climbed higher and higher.

After the core stage separated, the interstage dropped away, and the shroud ejected to reveal the Orion capsule and its service module, at the bottom of which was a small - but still large in comparison to anything but the rocket it had just traveled on - rocket nozzle. Using small, reaction jets, the service module and the capsule pulled away from rocket body and aligned itself before the main engine fired for a few seconds. It propelled the spacecraft up to the correct altitude where the reaction control jets stabilized it. Again, the rocket fired but for longer so as to give the spacecraft more velocity on order to overtake the space station, which was orbiting on the other side of the planet.

Docking was done not long after as Sloan piloted the spacecraft into the docking cupola with what they called a "4.0 connection," meaning perfect. The crew engaged the pressurization system, donned their spacesuits, and waited for thirty minutes while system checks were done. Then, to much fanfare, they opened the hatch and stepped into Skylab II, the first Layartebians to occupy a space station since the 1970s.

Skylab II with Orion + Service Module docked

by **Amigard** » Sat Oct 25, 2014 8:22 pm

October 24, 2014--1700hrs
Cathedral Pointe Mall
Baghdad, Iraq Diocese

“Thirty Marks, that’s insane!” Jafar exclaimed as he stood at the CD rack, a copy of Metallica’s “Death Magnetic” in hand. As if the price wasn’t bad enough Jafar’s heart sank when he glimpsed the bright orange sticker attached to the front of the CD glaring the words “Content Advisory/18+.”

This meant that at age seventeen, Jafar was not old enough to purchase the album; not legally anyway. Two years ago the album would have been half the price, but in 2013 the Amigard government had enacted a series of regulations on the media and entertainment industry that placed some fairly hefty taxes on products that were deemed to have content that was believed to glorify violence, contain inappropriate and/or foul language or themes, be morally reprehensible, sexually explicit, or was in any way deemed inappropriate for young audiences. Most modern music be it hard rock, industrial, gothic, hip hop, etc fit this definition in some way, shape, or form as far as the Theocracy was concerned.

So basically, as Jafar saw it, one could partake in activities and products that were “morally reprehensible” or “inappropriate” in Amigard so long as you were willing to pay extra…it was bullshit! It certainly didn’t do much in ensuring that Jafar and his peers used only “appropriate” language. Jafar had heard the practice referred to as the “sinner’s tax.” At the end of the day the Amigard government would rarely outright ban adult or mature content but it made sure it was expensive enough that citizens would be forced to seriously consider whether it was worth it.

The reality, of course, was that people are loathe to give up their vices and those things that were too expensive to obtain legally were often obtained cheaper through less than legal means. The entertainment black market was alive and well in the Theocracy.

Jafar put the CD back on the shelf. He’d considered stealing the CD, but he caught sight of the cameras throughout the store and wasn’t sure that he could get away with it this time. He didn’t need another theft charge on his record, the Parish Inquisitor has promised him that if he saw him in his court room one more time he was going to be sent up to Youth Corrections until he was eighteen and old enough to be transferred to jail and his father had assured him that he wasn’t too old to receive a good belting either.

Jafar walked out of the store into the mall. Standing near the entrance to the store he withdrew his cell phone from his back pocket, tapped the screen several times to select one of his contacts then held the phone to his hear and waited for a response.

“What up” he heard Fahim’s familiar low pitched voice.

“Hey man, could you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“I’m wanting to buy Death Magnetic, but its got that fuckin advisory sticker so…”

“Shit dude, I’m in the middle of something” Jafar could hear Call of Duty in the background.

“C’mon man!”

“Fuck I’m leaving for Basic in two weeks dude I don’t want to be draggin my ass down to the fuckin mall every time you want a CD. Just come over I got Death Magnetic, we could chill out play some fuckin Xbox and shit.”

“I won’t ask again dude, shit I’ll be eighteen in a couple of months and I won’t need your lazy ass to do this bullshit for me.”

“Alright, fuck, give like thirty minutes…”

An hour and half later Jafar could see Fahim walking toward where Jafar was sitting at the food court. Fahim was wearing some black shorts and a grey t-shirt that sported a large orange stain dominating the front, he had his baseball cap on backward per the norm. Fahim was a big man, standing at a little over six foot tall with a muscular frame that was beginning to soften from hours spent in front of the TV.

Jafar held his hands up in exasperation as Fahim approached “What the fuck man! You said like thirty minutes!”

“Whatever just give me the fuckin money so I get this shit over with and get back.”

Jafar handed Fahim forty marks.

“You know I’m keepin the change bitch.” Fahim smiled as he opened the wallet he held in his left hand and deposited the cash.

Jafar smirked and nodded. Once Fahim got back from CBT things would be much easier since he could just use his Amigard Citizen Identification Number to download content that was restricted to adults online. Even though Fahim was eighteen years old, until he completed the citizens basic combat training program and registered in the inactive ready reserves, his internet access would be fairly limited unless he could use someone else’s CID which he would be prosecuted criminally if it was discovered that he was using someone else’s ID number.

Fahim disappeared into the music store and emerged several minutes later carrying a small plastic sack which he placed on the table in front of Jafar. Jafar eagerly grabbed the sack and removed the shiny new CD from inside, handling it like a thing of great value.

“Awesome, thanks man.”

“Yeah…come hang out later…”

“Fuck.” Jafar interrupted and Fahim’s eyes followed Jafar’s gaze over to the entrance of the music store where the clerk was standing next to a police officer pointing in Jafar’s direction. The officer was looking back and forth between Jafar and Fahim and Jafar’s heart leapt up into his throat.

“Later” Fahim said and started to walk away.

“Hey!” the officer called out “Come here! Yeah you black baseball cap, grey shirt get over here!”

Jafar could see Fahim stop in his tracks and tense up then bolt! Jafar leapt from his chair knocking it over and ran for the exit, but he didn’t make it far before a white shirted security guard blindsided him and tackled him to the ground!

* * *

Jafar sat on the steel bench, hands still cuffed behind his back. He had been taken to a small room inside the mall that contained only a pair of steel benches attached to the concrete wall and a desk where a woman dressed in a security guard uniform sat typing on a computer.

Jafar’s parents had arrived ten minutes earlier and had disappeared with the officer through a door, but not before Jafar’s father had given him the look that assured him he was in for a long night when he got home. The Death Magnetic CD sat on the desk next to the security guard, she picked it up examined the front and back, placed it back down on the desk and resumed typing.

Fahim was nowhere to be seen and as far as Jafar knew he had not been taken to the security office at the mall although he did see Fahim taken down just outside of the food court. All this over a fucking CD, he thought.

Jafar’s father emerged from the door with the officer in tow and the officer walked over to Jafar “Stand up” he ordered and Jafar complied. The officer remove the hand cuffs and Jafar rubbed his wrists.

“Didn’t have to put em on so tight did you?” Jafar complained.

“Shut your mouth boy!” his father growled, his face bright red “I should let this officer take you back and beat the tar out of you; you have more to worry about than sore wrists!”

“What because of a fuckin CD!” The backhand from his father struck hard and out of nowhere nearly dropping Jafar to the ground, he could already feel the side of his face beginning to swell.

The officer used his index finger to apply pressure on Jafar’s jugular notch and forced him back down to a seating position on the bench. “First off watch your mouth! And second you’re lucky I’m only charging you with attempting to purchase restricted merchandise and not resisting arrest along with it! Keep up the filthy mouth and I’ll not only charge you with resisting arrest I’ll throw in disorderly conduct on top of it.”

Jafar sat silent for a moment fuming “What about Fahim?”

“Your buddy was taken down to the station and booked in for purchasing restricted material for a minor and resisting arrest…he’s lucky too; we didn’t go for contributing to the delinquency of a minor then he could have a nice felony on his record.”

Jafar rolled his eyes “Seriously though it’s a CD it’s not like we went on a shooting spree or something. I didn’t steal it, I paid for it!”

“Hey!” his father shouted “this officer is not required to justify the law to you, now shut up and lets go”

Jafar’s father grabbed his arm and roughly helped him to his feet then pulled him along through the mall and out to the car waiting in the parking lot. The ride home was in silence. Jafar looked out the window as the city went by a mix of anger and fear welling up inside him. The idea that he and his friend were being charged with a crime for something as simple as a music CD struck him as terribly unfair and unreasonable while at the same time he worried about the punishment he would receive when he got home and the inevitable appearance in front of the Inquisitor to answer the charge. Would the Inquisitor seriously send him to a youth correction facility for something so minor? What was going to happen to his friend Fahim? His friend could go to jail, and it would be Jafar’s fault for asking him to do something as simple as buy a CD for him.

* * *

All said and done Jafar received a sentence of twelve hours of community service, which he worked off at the local nursing home helping to take care of the elderly. Of course he also got a good belting from his father. Fahim spent a night in jail and had to pay a fine of two hundred marks. The court had ordered a restraining order in place prohibiting Fahim from having any form of contact with Jafar until Jafar turned eighteen years old and by then Fahim was off in basic training and talking about a career in the Army.

by **Layarteb** » Sun Jan 04, 2015 5:19 pm

Operation NIMBUS CENTAUR

June 10, 2014 - 10:00 hrs [UTC-5]
Layarteb City, New York
Fortress of Comhghall
(40° 41' 28" N, 74° 0' 58" W)

"Sir, I have the Ambassador of Texas here to see you," Judy Mitchell's voice echoed over the intercom system.

"Please send him in Judy, thank you," the Emperor stood from behind his desk along with the Minister of Defense, both of whom had been meeting prior. The doors open and in came half a dozen people, with the Texan ambassador leading them.

"Ambassador Simpson, pleased you could come," the Emperor said as he greeted the man. Those following in his wake included the National Security Advisor, the Minister of Intelligence, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and Colonel Robert Hood from the Imperial Layartebian Air Force. They all found their way to the table and sat down along with the Minister of Defense. The Emperor and Ambassador James Simpson came over to the table next.

"Sir, I've come before you this morning to officially request the help of the Empire of Layarteb in a Texan military operation against Arkansas. As you are aware, numerous factions within Arkansas present a major threat to the Republic of Texas and to the stability of the region. My government is going to launch a counter-insurgency operation against Arkansas in less than three weeks, as I am sure you are no doubt aware," the Emperor was but he wasn't going to admit it. It was hard not to miss though, Texas had been running its military through pre-deployment exercises for the better part of the last six months and the intensity was quite high for anything to classify as a training mission.

"I understand Mister Ambassador and what is it you would like from the Empire?"

"Two things specifically sir, the Empire's blessing to conduct operations as we see fit with little physical interference, lest we ask for it; and the assistance in neutralizing a key military objective at the onset of hostilities. I understand the conflict in those two statements but I trust you understand?"

"You need our help in the opening hours and after that you don't want us to interfere."

"Correct sir, I apologize to put it in such a way but that is the specific language my government has requested me to express?"

"Is Austin so worried that the Empire will come in and steal its show?" This sent laughter around the table, including Ambassador Simpson who was a notoriously good sport. "What is the objective?"

"Sir, we'd like your air force to strike and neutralize Little Rock Air Force Base."

"General, what do we know about the location?" The Emperor asked immediately, posing the question to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Of course, homework had been done ahead of time as the Texans had made an informal request a week earlier.

"Sir, it's the largest air base in the state and the primary source of opposition against the Texans, insofar as aircraft are concerned. Our satellite photos," he passed over a folder to the Emperor, "and high-altitude reconnaissance shows that the target is heavily defended. The Little Rock City-State has approximately ninety aircraft there, four full squadrons of F-16 Falcons, two of the Block 40 model and two of the Block 30 model, the latter of which they use for air combat and the former for ground strikes. Of the remaining four squadrons they have based at Little Rock there are two squadrons of C-130 Hercules transports, a small squadron of VIP transports - Learjets sir, and a small squadron of old Stratotankers, KC-135s.

"Defense is handled by eight surface-to-air batteries and at least two dozen guns, which we believe are operational. The Little Rock City-State has been cash strapped for quite some time and they have mainly feared a raid on the base by commando units, which is why they've kept the guns. The gun types are mostly ex-Russian in original, obtained inexpensively, which include the twenty-three, thirty, and fifty-seven millimeter guns. The bigger threat is from their surface-to-air systems, their main batteries being the SA-11 Gadfly. They have a number of short-range systems such as the SA-15 Gauntlet and the SA-13 Gopher.

"They have made for an interesting system, combing their Western aircraft with Russian surface-to-air systems, a dangerous combination for us sir."

"Militarily does it make sense for us to strike it versus Texas?"

"It does sir, we're closer, we have more resources, and we have more experience."

"Can we do it then?"

"Sir, we already have an operational plan ready that would see a full strike package neutralize the airfield, the aircraft on the ground, and the surface-to-air defenses."

"A single strike?"

"Yes sir."

"This is what you're looking for Ambassador, correct?"

"It is sir."

"I assume then there will be coordination to be done and prep work over the next three weeks?" Heads nodded on all sides but the decision was made, the Empire would be helping Texas in neutralizing a single and very dangerous target but one that the Empire had neutralized hundreds of times before.

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July 1, 2014 - 09:00 hrs [UTC-6]
Peoria, Illinois
Peoria Air Force Base
(40° 39' 45" N, 89° 41' 37" W)

"All right, all right, settle down, settle down," called Colonel Robert Hood from the front of the room as pilots already shuffling into their seasons hushed with a rapid diminuendo. "I'm going to be leading you in this morning's briefing concerning Operation NIMBUS CENTAUR. Now Lieutenant General Esparza will be overseeing the entire operation but the planning and execution portion was handled by my department so we're primary for the briefing.

"Three weeks ago, this operation received the green light from the Emperor. In a little over forty-eight hours, the Republic of Texas will be commencing combat operations against hostile groups throughout Arkansas. Their mission is primarily counter-insurgency against groups that threaten the stability of the region. The Texas government has personally requested the assistance of the ILAF in neutralizing a single, high-value target, which is Little Rock Air Force Base, where you boys are headed in approximately forty-two hours.

"The mission profile will utilize fifty-seven aircraft from six squadrons across four wings. The primary objective is the destruction of the runway, the tower, and C&C facilities at Little Rock as well as the destruction of aircraft on the ground. Additional targets include surface-to-air defenses in the vicinity of the target. The main brunt of the strike will come from you boys in the 20th Fighter Wing, who will provide the lead strike, SEAD, and CAP elements to the operation. Aircraft from the 301st Fighter Squadron will provide electronic jamming, tankers from the 403rd Aerial Refueling Squadron will be your tankers, and airborne early warning and control will be provided by the 102nd Air Control Squadron.

"Now for the details, can I have the lights please?" As the lights lowered, the video display switched on as a young enlistee sitting in the corner of the room operated the display via a secure laptop. "CAP will be provided from the 2001st Fighter Squadron involving two, four-ship flights of F-57A Wraiths on primary CAP and two, four-ship flights providing backup CAP. The backup elements will remain in our airspace unless required. They will utilize the callsign Talon one through four.

"The SEAD element will be flown by the 2002nd Fighter Squadron involving two, four-ship flights of F-58B Vipers using the callsign Frosty one and two. They will be aided by two, two-ship flights of EF-46B Enforcers from the 301st Fighter Squadron out of Birmingham Air Force Base using the callsign Bishop one and two.

"The main strike element will be flown by the 2003rd Fighter Squadron involving four, four-ship flights of F-58B Vipers using the callsign Unforgiven one through four. Unforgiven one will be tasked with the runway, Unforgiven two will be tasked with the tower and C&C facilities. Unforgiven three and four will be tasked with aircraft on the ground.

"Twelve KC-10A Extenders from the 403rd Aerial Refueling Squadron using the callsign Shell one through six will be available for refueling, eight on the way down and four on the way back. They're flying out of Scott Air Force Base in Mascoutah. Overall airborne early warning and control will be provided by a single E-10A out of Tyndall Air Force Base from the 102nd Air Control Squadron." The video switched to a map now of the region. "Bulls-eye is Memphis Airfield. Tower-to-tower distance is one hundred and twenty-three miles with Little Rock bearing two-six-six from Memphis.

"The flight plan is as follows, at 03:40 to 04:00, we'll see all Unforgiven, Frosty, and Talon flights airborne and wheels up and on the way to the refueling point, which will be located just northeast of Memphis. Unforgiven flight will tank up with Shell One and Shell Two, Talon has Shell Three and Shell Four, Frosty has Shell Five, Bishop will have Shell Six; Shell Seven and Shell Eight are backup.

"Based on our calculations you should all rendezvous with the tanker around 05:00. Bishop flight, having a much shorter flight will be taking off around 04:30.

"Once you are all tanked up, you'll proceed to the IP, which is the border. Once you are at the IP the flight plan is as follows. Out in the lead will be Lightning One, Lightning Two, and Bishop One. You will maintain a low-level ingress maintaining four hundred knots. With a two and a half minute spacing behind will be Unforgiven and Talon flights. Bishop Two will follow five minutes behind to provide backdoor jamming.

"Because of the high-altitude threat of the surface-to-air systems, we've chosen a low-altitude ingress. This is risky and the guns are a threat but that is why Lightning and Bishop go in first. Bishop will be providing continuous jamming coverage and they will be armed with anti-radiation missiles, two per aircraft. Their main target will be the SA-11 systems and search radars. Lightning One will be tasked against the guns and Lightning Two will be tasked against the mobile SAMs. Weapon of choice will be the Brimstone and the AARGM. Save the AARGMs for the more dangerous threats. Against the guns, you will be carrying Brimstone missiles.

"Once the all clear is given and Unforgiven flight reaches the target area the stacking will be as follows. Unforgiven One will come in low and fast, your ordinance will be Mark Eighty-Two Snakeyes and you will lay them down on the runway. Unforgiven Two will be loaded with Mark Eighty-Four Slicks for the tower and the C&C locations. Unforgiven Three and Four will be armed with Brimstones and cluster bombs. All aircraft will be loaded with air-to-air missiles."

At this point, faces looked very confused. When Colonel Hood paused for a moment, a hand went right up, and forced to stop his briefing, Colonel Hood called on the pilot sitting in the front row, obviously a flight leader by his positioning. "Sir," the man spoke, "did you say Slicks and Snakeyes?"

"I did."

"Is there a reason for this sir?"

"Altitude," it was hard to see the pilot clearly through the darkness of the room. The light from the video screen had destroyed any semblance of night vision so he had trouble making out anything but the pilot's rank, "Major. It's all altitude. The flight plan has you coming in too low until the last minute to pop-up to a proper release altitude and release. Iron bombs will be the best way to go. Is there an issue with that Major? Will you be able to hit the target?" At this point, cockiness got to Colonel Hood and it would be his undoing.

"I think I'll manage Colonel, that's a long runway and I'm sure I can lay a few down on it." Laughter filled the room.

"Major if there's an issue with this plan you are more than welcome to scrub yourself for the operation. This is a solid plan and your skills should be up to par," Colonel Hood responded sharply.

"Oh the plan is fine, I just want you to be absolutely clear here. I'm sure I'll bomb it just fine. And I am sure that Unforgiven flight will do just fine, is that right gentlemen?" With this a holler filled the briefing room and a brigadier general seated in the back of the room smirked and kept to himself.

"What is your name Major! Stand up and come to attention!" With that the man did and the Colonel came nose to nose with him, still trying to see him clearly in the darkness.

"Major Adam Fordham sir," and with that the Colonel deflated immediately, stepped back, nodded his head, told him to sit down, and continued his briefing. Major Adam Fordham was the leading ace in the Layartebian military with twenty-four kills to his credit and his awards included an Air Force Cross, a Silver Star, two Distinguished Flying Crosses, a Bronze Star with a "V" Device, one Purple Heart, five Air Medals, an Air Force Commendation Medal, an Air Force Achievement Medal, a POW Medal, and two Combat Readiness Medals. He was a living legend and the leader of Unforgiven flight, flying in the slot of Unforgiven One-One.

"Bishop Two will close up the back door; the entire egress will be a different route with a continued focus on low level. Try not to eat up all your fuel on the way in and minimize time over target. Tankers will be waiting near Memphis again but they cannot cross over the border. I make this abundantly clear. Conserve your gas on the way in, which means no dropping your tanks until they're bone dry. Truly, suck them dry. It's approximately one hundred and fifty miles to and from the target area and you've got to allow time over the target to make your passes so ease off the afterburner, now will there be any questions?" There were dozens.

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July 3, 2014 - 03:15 hrs [UTC-6]
Peoria, Illinois
Peoria Air Force Base
(40° 39' 45" N, 89° 41' 37" W)

Major Fordham and his WSO, First Lieutenant Carl Gallman were up early and suited out ahead of everyone else. As the flight lead, they would be setting the example. There was a last minute briefing and the men all filed out to their respective areas. All around Peoria Air Force Base, activity was on a high buzz. Thirty-six aircraft were going into Arkansas airspace and thirty-two of them would be coming out of Peoria with another eight lingering near the border. Two whole squadrons and half of a third squadron would be in the air and for that to happen, a lot of hard work had to be done, especially behind the scenes. Colonel Hood, who apologized ultimately to Major Fordham, had watched from the window of the barracks area as pilots climbed aboard busses to be driven to the flight lines. Once there, they shuffled out and walked to their aircraft for their preflight checks, walking around, tugging on stores, checking for leaks, eyeing their engines, et cetera.

Just before climbing into the aircraft, MAJ Fordham, he gave the wheel chocks a kick, saw that they were solid, and then he was in the cockpit of the F-58B Viper, seated in the front. 1LT Gallman, already there, had done his initial switches check, finding nothing out of sequence. MAJ Fordham spent the next few minutes looking over his own switches, making sure nothing was out of place and from there it was into the startup procedure. There were a lot of switches to move, a lot of buttons to press, a lot of checks to be done, and they all had to done, there was no getting around it. MAJ Fordham had done it hundreds of times before and it was muscle memory by now, having flown the F-58 Viper since June 2010. "All right, let's go for startup sequence," MAJ Fordham said. His WSO would do his own checks but MAJ Fordham focused on his.

He switched the main power switch on the electrical control from off to battery, giving him the power he needed before he started his engine. He tested his flight control systems next and when he received his green lights, he switched from battery to power on the electrical control panel. "Canopy close," he said as he lowered the canopy sealing the two pilots into their quiet and cozy - cozy being relative - cockpit. From there it was a radio check and then it was time for the big shebang, the engine start. Major Fordham moved the Jet Fuel Start switch on his port-side engine to condition 2, and with a shudder, the port side engine started. He watched as the RPMs climbed to and stabilized at 20%, at which point he checked that his throttle was at idle. At 60%, the main generator came online and at 70% the RPMs were stable. He checked the RPMs, the oil pressure gauge, the temperature gauge, and the fuel flow gauge, found all to be nominal and repeated the procedure for the starboard side engine.

With both engines running at idle, he was all set now. He checked the probe heater switches to make sure that they were off and then moved them to test, looking for warning lights; there being none, he moved it back to off. If there was inclement weather he'd have left them on to ensure that the probes, which read everything for his aircraft were free of ice, dirt, and debris. He checked the fire and overheat warning systems, the oxygen system, and then gave a push to the malfunction and indicator lights. It ran through its test, lighting up every warning and indicator light in the cockpit as well as triggering all of the messages from Bitchin' Betty, the aircraft's audible feedback system.

When they were done he went over to the avionics power control panel and turned on the modular mission computer, the stores system, his MFDs, his upfront controls, the GPS, the datalink, and he set his internal navigation system (INS) to normal. It would take the next few minutes for the GPS and INS to sync. In the meantime, he turned on the power switches to his sensors, which were his IRST, his radar, and his radar altimeter. The HUD went on next and he checked his auxiliary communications system, which was the emergency frequency that operated out of a secondary radio. Then he went over to his main MFD, brought up the faults page, and cleared them, knowing that everything was good so far.

Now it was time to test the engines and he switched his engine control from primary to secondary, which immediately closed the nozzle opening on each engine, keeping much of the thrust in to avoid lurching forward. He engaged the wheel brakes, pushed the throttle from idle to military power, and at 85% he backed down to idle. He checked the engine gauges, including the oil pressure, the temperature, and the fuel flow, saw it all nominal, and switched engine control back to primary. The nozzle position reset itself allowing more thrust - and heat of course - out of the rear of the aircraft. Next, he turned on the flight control system's self-test, which would take forty-five seconds. In the meantime, he turned on his ILS and went over to the ECM control panel.

On that panel, MAJ Fordham turned on the power switch and then individually turned on the power for his radar warning receiver, his jammer, his missile warning system, and his dispensers. He set the program mode to manual meaning that a single bundle of chaff and a single flare would be released only when he pushed the buttons on his throttle to do so. He gave a quick check to the landing gear, saw three green lights, and then checked his fuel systems. He was carrying three external fuel tanks so he checked the status of each tank, made a mental note of the fuel quantity in each, and then checked the flight control system for warning or failure lights. There were none.

Now he had a lot of digital work to do and he did, loading the flight program and the avionics. From there it was to his programmable information and this he input. He checked his communications frequencies and matched them to the pad on his knee, set his bingo fuel value, checked the Bulls-eye program, programmed in the information for his datalink system, checked his air-to-air master settings, his air-to-ground master settings, his jettison settings, and his override modes. Then he checked his TACAN and ILS values and went over to his low altitude advisory, which was set to 100 feet due to the nature of the mission. He checked his steer points and his home plate, which would be used to calculate bingo values. Then he went through the digital backup of his flight control system, found it nominal, and went to the trim panel. He checked his pitch override and cycled his flight controls, receiving the okay from the ground crew watching outside. He checked his air-refueling receptacle, cycling it open and closed.

Then he checked his engines again, putting the wheel brakes on, and turning on his EPU. He ran his throttles up to 80% and then to 85% before the check lights came on, satisfying him enough to put the throttles back to idle. "How are we doing back there Buzz?"

"Good for me Outlaw."

"Roger that," and he switched from intercom to the airfield frequency, "Peoria Tower this is Unforgiven 1-1, requesting pressure altitude."

"Six, six, one feet Unforgiven 1-1," came the reply and he adjusted the settings so that his radar altimeter was set correctly. That was it for now and he switched his position lights from flashing to steady and then his landing taxi lights went on, signifying that he was ready. Barely five minutes had passed.

"Unforgiven flight, this is lead, who isn't ready yet?" He looked to his right and his left as sixteen Vipers sat in a line and across from one another, all of them with steady position lights. "Roger that, last check, all Unforgiven flights are ready, if you are not ready flash your lights immediately. All aircraft check your neighbor and count off," the count came next. "We're ready to roll."

"Peoria Tower, this is Unforgiven 1-1, request permission to taxi."

"Unforgiven 1-1, you are cleared to taxi to runway 31, hold short."

"Peoria Tower, taxing to runway 31, holding short," with that the wheel chocks were removed by the ground crew and the crew lead gave him a salute, which he returned. They were ready to roll. He activated the nosewheel steering, released the wheel brakes, and pushed the aircraft forward. Maximum safe taxi speed was 25 knots and maximum safe turn speed was 10 knots. He'd keep within parameters, moving forward and then turning, checking his compasses to make sure they were working as he did. They turned as he turned.

Moving around the base area he found himself at the start position for runway 31 at just shy of 03:48 hours. Talon flight had beat him to the runway and Talon 4 was taking off as a group now. This was good, it gave him and his flight more time to run through their final checks. He checked his flaps and trim settings again, checked his engine control switch, his speed brakes, his stores configuration, his ground jettison settings, checked that fuel was flowing from his external tanks, engaged his probe heaters, armed his ejection seat, cycled his flight controls again with his wingman confirming everything was good, checked his oil pressure, his compute preset values, looked for faults, and then looked around the cockpit for warning lights. He was good to go.

"Unforgiven 1, you are cleared to taxi onto runway 31. Hold departure." With that he moved onto the runway, checking for traffic first. On the runway his four-ship formation formed up with him on the left side of the runway, his wingman on the right, and one hundred meters behind them, aircraft three and four.

"Peoria Tower, Unforgiven 1 is ready for takeoff."

"Unforgiven 1, you are cleared for takeoff, depart heading two-seven-zero, good luck."

MAJ Fordham held the wheel brakes once more, ran up his engines to 90% and checked the oil pressure and the nozzle position one last time. He checked that his parking brake was off, released the wheel brakes, and the aircraft immediately responded by rolling forward. Then he pushed his engines up to military power and accelerated. He was at 50 knots before he engaged the afterburners and the lurch of two, afterburning turbofan engines sent his aircraft rocketing down the runway. He disabled his nosewheel steering to prevent his aircraft from veering off, and then watched as his ground speed indicator climbed. At 173 knots, he rotated the nosewheel off of the ground and seconds later, at 188 knots, he lifted back slightly on the stick, and his aircraft and that of his wingman, were both airborne. He was off now into the wild blue yonder and though it was dark, the illumination from his afterburners cast an eerie glow into his cockpit. He reduced power to military, raised his landing gear, normalized his flaps, turned to the head, and began to climb. Unforgiven flight was now on its way into battle. "Peoria ATC this is Unforgiven 1, flight is airborne."

"We've got you on radar tracking Unforgiven 1, continue heading to waypoint two, traffic ahead of you has cleared."

"Roger that Peoria," and switching back to his flight comms he keyed up the microphone, "Unforgiven flight, radar off, music off, radio silence condition two."

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July 3, 2014 - 05:20 hrs [UTC-6]
Arlington, Tennessee
Refueling Point
(35° 13' 35" N, 89° 43' 15" W)

Major Fordham shifted in his seat as he looked at his fuel gauge. The F-58 Viper carried an internal load of 1,927 gallons and with his three external tanks his total fuel load was 2,967 gallons, of which he had about 750 gallons remaining, enough for another almost hour of flying but not enough to get to the target and back out, he would need to take on more fuel and he did some quick calculation, knowing what he was burning now that he was waiting for his slot at the tanker. Cruising at 32,000 feet and cruising at 400 knots, he wasn't burning a lot of fuel fast so he could afford to wait a little while as the more needy aircraft, having taken off further to the rear and thus requiring more pep to get up to the rest of the pack, finished their tanking.

In the midst of his calculation, he heard over the radio, "Unforgiven 1-1, you are cleared in," the boom operator said as he watched the Viper drop away to the port side of the aircraft. "Come in from our starboard."

"Roger that Shell Two, coming in now," he checked his airspeed and he checked his altitude. The tanker was a little bit above and moving at the same speed so he climbed slightly, moved over to the tanker's right side, and sped up to 450 knots. The boom operator would guide him in from this point onward, the aircraft glowing green in his night vision goggles. The strobe lights from all aircraft blinked away but that was just a small annoyance.

"All right Unforgiven 1-1, one hundred feet, fifty feet, forty feet, thirty feet, twenty feet, ten feet…" By now, MAJ Fordham had slowly down considerably and he was creeping forward. "Up ten," and he adjusted his altitude by a little bit. "Five feet, hold it there…Contact…How much do you need sir?"

"Fifteen thousand, can you swing it?"

"More than enough sir, flowing now." At maximum transfer speed, it would take barely two and a half minutes to transfer fifteen thousand pounds of fuel. "This is a top off, correct?"

"Correct, sounds good, you should be seeing flow."

"Roger, I confirm flow. How are you fellas this morning?"

"Good sir, how's the air?"

"Smooth and clear," the fuel continued to flow and MAJ Fordham watched his needles climb until all of his tanks, including his external tanks were all full of fuel. Once the fuel reached maximum quantity, the aircraft's own feed system disconnected the flow and the boom was immediately retracted upwards.

"Clear disconnect sir you have a good flight, break to my port."

"Roger that Shell One thanks for the gas." MAJ Fordham banked away, fell into position and watched as two more fighters fueled up and then joined their formation, thus ending the refueling. It was right on schedule, 05:30 hours and with that, the flights of aircraft dropped away, turned westward, and headed to the border with Arkansas.

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July 1, 2014 - 05:35 hrs [UTC-6]
Robinsonville, Mississippi
Initial Point
(34° 48' 53" N, 90° 24' 53" W)

"Unforgiven One, we are at IP," MAJ Fordham called out over the radio and quickly fell silent. He was at waypoint four now and the initial point meant that he was entering enemy airspace. Down on the deck at 500 feet above ground level and zooming at 400 knots, his terrain following radar was guiding his plane. Waypoint five was seventy-eight miles away and waypoint six, the actual target was another twenty-eight miles from there. Flying in low without his main radar on, using on his terrain following radar in limited output mode to keep it from being counter-detected easily, he now had time to concentrate on pre-bombing preparations. That meant getting all of his system settings right.

While he went through his last-minute checks, his WSO worked on the bomb settings. They were carrying ten Mark 82 Snakeye bombs, a bomb that was truly old but there had been some improvements. The Snakeye retardation device had originally been designed to allow attack planes the ability to drop bombs on targets at very low level, escaping the lethal fragmentation and blast zone by the time the bombs landed and detonated, which wasn't possible with the standard low-drag unguided bomb, the Mark 82 Slick. However, on more than a few occasions, the Snakeye system failed and not all of the four retardation fins would deploy. This led to misses and damage to friendly aircraft. The original solution to fix them was a "ballute" system, which used an airbag to retard the bomb's fall. Midway through the 1990s however, the Snakeye system was revisited and improved, made more reliable, and those were the bombs that MAJ Fordham and his entire flight of four aircraft carried, one each on the number two and the number eleven wing pylons and four each on the number three and the number ten wing pylons. On wing stations one and twelve, they had a pair of dogfight missiles and on the four fuselage hardpoints, they had a quartet of long-range missiles, not that they intended to get into a dogfight or engage hostile aircraft, which was why the Wraiths were there.

Watching the terrain fly past him, MAJ Fordham gave visual checks to his wingmen. All four fighters had their lights off so there was no flashing or blinking. The sun was rising behind them but it wouldn't be dawn until 06:00 and they would be hitting the target around that point. For the first flight, the object was to roll in on the target with thirty seconds of spacing between the four aircraft, running over the runway at 500 knots, dropping all ten bombs with a minimum of 300 feet of spacing between bombs. MAJ Fordham would start dropping at the beginning of the runway, drop his bombs for 3,000 feet and then his wingmen would only add onto it, dropping after them so that the entire length of the 12,000-foot runway was peppered with bombs. Follow on strikes for the runway would be handled by the Texan Air Force, this was only to put the runway and the airfield out of commission for the opening stages of the Texan-led conflict.

Concentrating on flying, MAJ Fordham left detection of hostile threats to his backseater who was watching both the radar-warning receiver and the infrared search and track. Thus far, the only contacts he had on the IRST were the flights running in front of them while their RWRs were dark and quiet. That was good and bad, bad because they didn't know where the enemy SAM radars were and good because they weren't be tracked…yet…

As MAJ Fordham turned left at waypoint five, he aligned his fighter up with the invisible beacon ahead. He would make some final adjustments when the runway was within visual range. For now, knowing his approach was solid, he turned off the terrain following radar and took the controls of the fighter as it zoomed over terrain at 400 knots and now just 300 feet above ground level. He'd be there in less than four minutes, which meant that the lead flights were already moving on the guns and the surface to air systems. He already knew it though. In the brightening distance, he could see the tracer fire from anti-aircraft guns and the Viper's radar warning receiver was showing the detected signals from ground radars and aircraft radars alike. The airfield was under attack and it was about to get a lot worse.

Closing and covering seven and two-thirds miles per minute, he was ten miles out before he could surmise the situation. He reached forward, flicked the weapon's master switch to the ARM position and selected his air-to-ground master. The bombs were already set to drop accordingly, all he had to do was pickle the first one off and keep himself straight and level over the runway while the bombs fell. On his HUD, the CCIP reticle came up and he watched it move across the ground below him as he increased power and yanked hard on the stick, climbing from 300 feet to 1,500 feet, the minimum safe drop altitude. He lost little airspeed in the maneuver, lined up on the runway visually, corrected slightly, and watched as his airspeed climbed to 500 knots, where he eased off on the throttle.

The airfield was alight with tracer fire streaking into the sky. Small fires burned here and there, lighting up the ground where the anti-aircraft guns and surface-to-air units had already been destroyed. Frosty flight was still over the target, engaging and destroying anti-aircraft artillery. MAJ Fordham took it all in with one quick but detailed sweep of his head. To the right, in the far distance he could see the burning beacon of what used to be a Gadfly site, its radar neutralized by Bishop One. The electronic jamming from Bishop One was still being focused on search and tracking radars, keeping the Little Rock soldiers from mounting an effective counterattack though they had put several missiles into the air already.

None had hit anything, thankfully though two Vipers from Frosty flight had taken shrapnel hits and were forced to abort. Both fighters were running back to the border, hoping to get there before anything went too haywire with their systems. One had sluggish controls and the other was leaking fuel. The goal was to get back to friendly airspace and put down in Memphis. Thus far, it looked as if they'd make it but only time would tell. Though that reduced Frosty flight to six aircraft, it didn't remove their ability to decimate Little Rock air defenses and they were doing that when MAJ Fordham watched the piper of his CCIP reticle cross over the threshold of the runway.

"Bombs away!" He called out as he pickled the first bomb off, forcing his WSO to immediately turn his head to watch the bombs come off of the wings.

"Clean separation on one! They're going Outlaw, they're fucking going!" One by one, separated by mere two-fifths of a second of timing, the ten bombs fell off of the aircraft's wings. Each one saw its retarder fins deploy, rapidly slowing down the bombs. MAJ Fordham paid no attention to it though, he was watching his HUD count down the bombs. When it finally indicated that the last bomb was off he gave a quick count to three, pushed the throttle to afterburner, and yanked hard on the stick, pulling a low-altitude, high-G turn to the right. As he came around, he turned off his afterburner and watched as Unforgiven 1-2 began its bomb run. Behind it, Unforgiven 1-3 and Unforgiven 1-4 were lined up too, zooming in to drop their payloads.

It was only then that MAJ Fordham could enjoy the spoils of his strike. Ten neat and rising plumes of smoke indicated that all ten of his bombs not only dropped but fused and detonated correctly. He watched now as Unforgiven 1-2's bombs detonated in sequence, Unforgiven 1-3 now within visual range, popped up, and making its run. Unforgiven 1-2 cleared off of the target and Unforgiven 1-3 made its run while MAJ Fordham corralled them all, holding at 1,500 feet above ground level. As he circled the area, Unforgiven 2, Unforgiven 3, and Unforgiven 4 flights screamed in, striking the tower and the C&C targets almost simultaneously. Seconds later, the many miniature explosions of submunitions destroyed fighters parked on the tarmac. Radio silence was still being observed but it was about to be broken as the fighters came off of their targets.

"All Unforgiven flights, egress upon Winchester!" MAJ Fordham was saying now as he climbed a little higher, knowing that the surface-to-air threat was neutralized though that was to be a mistake. It happened fast, so fast he didn't even realize it but his RWR went from quiet to a beeping to a solid tone. "Fuck!" He shouted as he looked down at the symbology and lit the afterburners on his two engines. The SAM was to the left and rising, coming out of the trees and moving at Mach 3.

"I've got a visual!"

"Nimbus One, Nimbus One, Unforgiven One-One, we've been engaged, defensive, SA-11 from site five. I repeat we are engaged defensive from SA-11 site five." MAJ Fordham yanked hard on the stick, turned on his ECM systems, released chaff, and banked hard into the missile, turning at well over +7Gs as his fighter responded with a snap thanks to its thrust-vectoring nozzles. With a grunt, he kept his consciousness as he visually acquired the SAM, dropped more chaff, and banked harder.

"SAM launch! SAM launch, that's two! Same site, bank hard, bank hard, more chaff!" MAJ Fordham continued his turn, pulling hard as he put the missiles in a turn on their own, bleeding their energy. It was only seconds from the time the launch was detected to the time the first missile passed and prematurely detonated in a chaff cloud. The second lost track and MAJ Fordham dove for the deck, banking hard as he did, watching his RWR go silent a few seconds later as another AARGM missile slammed into the SA-11 site.

"Jesus fucking Christ, you'd have thought they'd have counted the number of sites they got," he said to his WSO as he looked at his fuel. He eased off of the afterburners and checked his status. "I'll be happy when he hit that tanker, okay who's still in the airspace?"

"Looks like Unforgiven Two is cleared out, we'll all that's left from our flight. Hard to tell if Three and Four are still around, I see Vipers though."

"All Unforgiven callsigns, report status." It was a long list and it felt like forever but he found out that three fighters from Unforgiven Three and Unforgiven Four were still in the target area, dropping their last bombs.

Over the radio, he could hear the next wave of aircraft coming in, Bishop Two, which would provide jamming for his flight on the way out of the target zone. Of course, Bishop Two had no idea, neither did any of the other flights, that the Little Rock Air Force wasn't through yet.

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July 1, 2014 - 06:10 hrs [UTC-6]
Jacksonville, Arkansas
Little Rock Air Force Base
(34° 54' 39" N, 92° 8' 55" W)

MAJ Fordham watched as the last of the Unforgiven flight cleared off of its last bombing run, peppering a quartet of C-130s with the submunitions from a CBU-87/B Combined Effects Munition cluster bomb. As the nine hundred and fifty pound bomb fell off of the wing at 2,500 feet, it immediately began to spin and a few hundred feet later, its two hundred and two bomblets began to flutter away, falling towards the ground where they would detonate on contact. Of course, thanks to a standard failure and dud rate, at least five percent would never go off, leaving a mess of cleanup for maintenance workers at the airfield but again, denial of operations was the name of the game.

"Nimbus One, all Unforgiven flights are clear, egressing now," MAJ Fordham reported over the radio, getting the all clear to do so from Nimbus One as he did. Switching to waypoint seven, the egress point, he turned his aircraft to the east, leveled off at low altitude, and checked his fuel status. He wasn't in bad shape but he'd already dropped all three of his external tanks after he ran them dry, leaving him with seventy-two hundred pounds of fuel remaining, more than enough to get back to the tanker, fuel up, and head back to Peoria. "Not a bad morning Merlin," MAJ Fordham said over the intercom as he settled his fighter into its path.

"Not bad at all, both of Frosty's aircraft made it back to Memphis, Frosty Two-Two only just barely though. I thought I heard him flameout on landing."

"Good thing these puppies have so much lift," MAJ Fordham said with a smile. "Talon's reported nothing; they're even out of the airspace now."

"Quiet morning then, well almost quiet," 1LT Gallman thought as he recounted the two SA-11 Gadfly missiles screaming towards their fighter at Mach 3. Had the site not been quickly dispatched, more missiles would have come and undoubtedly, they would have gotten tagged, it was just a matter of odds. Two missiles were a lot, quite a lot, but two could be evaded a lot easier than six or ten. Two was, for all intents and purposes, a single pull of the trigger and a standard SA-11 site had thirty-six or more missiles at the ready. "Hey wait a second," 1LT Gallman's eyes shifted immediately to his radar-warning receiver. "We just got lit up by someone but they went dark."

"How close?"

"Not far."

"What was it?"

"An F-16."

"Shit!" With that, MAJ Fordham turned on his ECM again, pulled a hard turn, and increased his throttle to military. "Nimbus One, Unforgiven One-One, we've got a possible stalker, request immediate support from CAP."

"Roger that Unforgiven One-One, need you to positively identify the stalker."

"Merlin what do you have?"

"Single F-16 moving low and fast, he's definitely coming for us."

"All right," MAJ Fordham turned and brought up the IRST on his left MFD. "Ten miles but he's not engaging us."

"Maybe he's just a scout."

"Maybe." The two fighters were converging now, MAJ Fordham from the lone Falcon's ten o'clock position thanks to his turn. He was well within engagement range but the Falcon hadn't made any maneuvers yet. Then, all of a sudden, as they closed to within five miles, the Falcon's radar went on, its afterburner lit, and the pilot began to pull hard maneuvers, keeping his nose to the Viper. The tone of their RWR began to echo the beeping sound of an air-to-air radar tracking but not locked yet.

MAJ Fordham advanced his throttles to afterburner and cued his dogfight missiles as the Falcon zoomed past him on his port side, turning hard to get into position. MAJ Fordham banked hard, following the turn of the Falcon as the pilot continued. They were pulling over +6Gs now and closing on +7Gs when the AIM-204B Escape missile locked onto the heat signature of the Falcon. "I've got a good tone," he said as he watched the Falcon above his canopy, approximately two miles ahead of him. The Falcon pilot, unaware that he was locked onto, pulled hard up into a loop and MAJ Fordham followed, having the benefit of more thrust and thrust-vectoring engines. As they climbed, he cued to his helmet-mounted sight, sighted the slowing Falcon, locked onto it again, and called "Fox Two," as the dogfight missile flew off of his port-side wing.

The missile, maneuvering hard to outfly the Falcon, streaked through the morning light and tracked in on the fighter, slamming into the wing root on the fighter's port side. It blew the wing clear off and sent the Falcon spiraling and tumbling through the sky, twisting and spinning as it reached its apogee and then began to hurtle towards the ground. MAJ Fordham, coming out of the loop, watched as the flaming wreckage of the fighter spiraled into the ground and exploded. "Splash one," MAJ Fordham said over the radio.

"Saw a chute," 1LT Gallman followed and with that, MAJ Fordham let off of the burners, turned back to the faraway waypoint, and zoomed back down to the deck.

"Nimbus One, Unforgiven One-One, we've got an enemy F-16 down, single-ship, single-kill. Where is Talon flight?"

"Talon Two-One and Talon Two-Two are three minutes from your position. Neither reports hostile contacts, could have been a single."

"Roger that Nimbus One, we are out of here immediately."

"Unforgiven One-One, Talon Two-One, we've got your back," came over the radio now as the F-57A Wraiths had zoomed back into Arkansas airspace at supersonic speed, moving rapidly to offset any ambush the Little Rock Air Force could must.

Focusing on flying the aircraft out of Arkansas, MAJ Fordham had little time or energy to think about the dogfight. He'd been the victor and that was it, there was nothing further to discuss with himself and he focused on his controls while his WSO watched the RWR and the IRST, hoping that they could escape Arkansas without further surprises. They did, fifteen minutes later, crossing the Mississippi River with a massive sigh of relief. MAJ Fordham was not quite bingo on his fuel yet but he needed to gas up and so he did, climbing up to 32,000 feet to meet the last tanker orbiting northeast of Memphis. Behind him came Talon Two-One, Talon Two-Two, and the Bishop Two flight, five aircraft in all, moving up to the tanker one-by-one, refueling enough to get back home, and then turning their way. The sun was already risen in the east and so tanking was a bit easier than it had been several hours earlier but that didn't make it any less stressful.

"Unforgiven One-One, you are cleared in, come starboard to port, up five hundred, up one hundred, up fifty, steady. One hundred feet, fifty feet, forty feet, hold it, hold it," with that MAJ Fordham's Viper suddenly shot backwards as he applied the brakes. He took a deep breath, knowing that he'd been coming in too fast. His pulse was still racing from the aerial encounter and he needed to slow it down, despite it having been over fifteen minutes ago. His body would be coming down soon and fatigue would set in but he needed to get his fuel before that could happen. "All right let's try again Unforgiven One-One, altitude is good, come in slow and steady."

"Roger that, I'm listening, guide me in," MAJ Fordham said, knowing that if he balked on this go, he'd have to hand controls over to his WSO, there would be no way around it. Everyone was waiting on him to tank up before they got their turn and while Bishop and Talon flights weren't low on fuel, they would need it to get home.

"All right, five hundred feet. Coming in gentle. Good. Two hundred feet. One hundred…Fifty…Forty…Steady…Thirty…Twenty…Ten…Five…Hold…Contact!" The boom was in place, hooked up to the receptacle behind his canopy. "Good morning sir, how much do you need?"

"Fill it to the max, I'm looking for a pressure disconnect."

"Understood sir, fuel is flowing now."

"Thanks," answered MAJ Fordham as he watched his fuel gauges climb. Less than two minutes later, the system automatically disconnected the boom and MAJ Fordham cleared off to the port side of the tanker. He set course for home, waypoint nine, and turned on the autopilot as the fighter cruised through the cold, thin air at 32,000 feet. It was quiet the rest of the way home, MAJ Fordham using the time to relax while his WSO used the time to monitor the aircraft, both of them aware of what the other was thinking, both in tune to what needed to be done, and both more than respectful to the other's wishes.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

July 3, 2014 - 07:30 hrs [UTC-6]
Peoria, Illinois
Peoria Air Force Base
(40° 39' 45" N, 89° 41' 37" W)

"Peoria Tower, Unforgiven One-One, inbound for landing," MAJ Fordham said into the radio as he descended now, slowing as he prepared his line up with the runway. He switched his navigation mode to landing and watched the options display on his MFD. He would select the runway based on what the tower informed him, having already reset his radar altimeter and gone through his pre-landing checks. Now he was on final, itching to get back on the ground, fatigue having already set in a half an hour prior.

"Good morning Unforgiven One-One, Peoria Tower, turn left to final approach course bearing three-zero-zero, vectors to final, check airspeed." Coming in a little too quickly, MAJ Fordham reduced the throttle and watched as the plane slowed as he turned to the heading. He could see the airport in the distance and he switched to his ILS mode now. His airspeed slowed to 250 knots and with that, he dropped the landing gear, checking all three lights. The flaps were lowered shortly thereafter and he continued his descent, keeping it within ILS parameters.

"Unforgiven One-One," came a different voice, "you are cleared to land on runway zero-four, check gear down, wind negligible, having you on radar tracking."

"Roger that Peoria, gear is down and locked." MAJ Fordham banked the aircraft to the proper heading, which was 040°, and then aligned himself up with the ILS track. His HUD showed that the wind was indeed negligible, a small relief not having to deal with any sort of crosswind. He was nine miles out now, coming in on a straight run, slowing and maintaining his approach speed until he was down to a mere mile. The runway loomed in front of him, his aircraft was gliding downward smoothly, and the end of the runway looked up at him with a confident smile. Seconds later, his rear wheels touched, he dropped the nosewheel, and power was cut down to idle. The plane slowed down gradually, him applying the brakes as necessary until he got to taxi speed near the end of the runway.

From there, ground control took over, gave him the proper direction for his revetment, and welcomed him home. It was indeed a welcome!

On the ground, the entirety of the 20th Fighter Wing was in full celebratory mode. Not only was the mission a success but Major Adam Fordham had received his twenty-fifth kill making him the highest scoring Layartebian ace in quite some time. Consigned to celebrating, MAJ Fordham shut down his aircraft, opened his canopy, and thrust his fist into the air. His WSO followed suit and there were nothing but handshakes, cheers, and hooting when he climbed down. It took nearly ten minutes just to wade through the crowd and get on a transport for debriefing.

During debriefing, which lasted some four grueling and tiring hours, MAJ Fordham would learn that the airfield was thoroughly neutralized and most of the aircraft had been destroyed on the ground with the exception of five F-16 Falcons and six other assorted aircraft. Of those five Falcons, one managed to use the taxiway to get airborne. Intelligence, based on communications interception showed that the Falcon pilot had taken off on his own to act as a forward scout while the other aircraft could get airborne. His goal was to destroy either the Layartebian aerial tankers or the aircraft on the runway, if they had flown to Memphis. He'd turned on his radar only to get a quick fix on the departing aircraft, unaware that his emissions would be detected so quickly.

With the success of the operation over, the Republic of Texas expressed its quiet gratitude to the Emperor directly, which ultimately trickled down to the men of the operation. However, that day and well into the night and the morning, the 20th Fighter Wing and Peoria Air Force Base had become a massive party. The crews from Bishop, Shell, and Nimbus flights all came in to join and it would go down in history as one of the largest and more rowdy parties though MAJ Fordham quietly disappeared from view shortly before 17:00 hours, finding himself a dark and a quiet place in his own quarters, away from the revelry and where he could think. Ultimately, he'd be presented with another medal, a third Distinguished Flying Cross.

by **Layarteb** » Mon Oct 17, 2016 7:29 pm

Operation IRON GRIZZLY

October 4, 1988 - 16:00 hrs [UTC+2]
Mediterranean Sea
ILNS Layarteb (CVN-68)
(33° 10' 42" N, 18° 39' 30" E)

The squadron ready room was a hive of activity as a dozen air crews shuffled about, getting into the open seats. At the front of the room was the skipper, the squadron's commander along with the ops officer and the intel officer were standing by the podium looking down at a few sheets of paper. The skipper looked up and did a quick headcount and then tapped on the podium, his ring echoing against a piece of metal, immediately quieting the room. Commander Ryan McLean didn't need a microphone but then again few of the ready rooms had them, they were excellent acoustic rooms, "All right gentlemen settle down, let's get the doors shut." With two booms, the rear and front doors were shut and a quietness filled the room so that only the air moving through the vents and the rumble of the carrier's machinery were audible. "All right today is the day gentlemen; we're going to strike Cyrenaica. We're calling it Operation IRON GRIZZLY and we're pairing with the Romans and some air force squadrons. As you are no doubt aware, the Cyrenaican military has been harassing Layartebian, Roman, and merchant shipping in the Gulf of Sidra and the Mediterranean Sea for four years now. After two months of near weekly encounters with Cyrenaican aircraft and ships, the politicians have finally decided to strike back and strike back we will. Ops, you want to talk us through the strike?"

"Roger that Skip," the ops officer, Lieutenant Darnell George moved up to the podium while the skipper took a seat on the desk. "Rick hit the lights will you?" The room went dark and the projector buzzed on, filling the screen to the left and behind Darnell with a detailed and blown up map of the area. "There are four target zones in Cyrenaica, we're responsible for Al Marj and Benghazi while the Romans are going after Bumbah and Marsa al Brega. We're currently about one hundred and twenty nautical miles north of the Libyan coastline and sailing to the southwest. At 20:00, we're going to turn into the wind and begin launching sorties.

"First off the decks will be the Tomcats of VF-52 who are tasked with CAP for the operation. VF-54 is handling HAVCAP and BARCAP protecting the task force and Mother 201, the Hawkeye from VAW-50 coordinating the air strikes. Bulls-eye will be Benghazi International Airport," on the map they could see the approximate position of the carrier group, the E-2's patrol zone, the BARCAP line, and the Bulls-eye over Benghazi. "Now listen up because here is the full frag order, I want to make sure you're all paying attention so don't zone out here. The air force will fly out of Sigonella on Sicily and strike three major targets. They will have two flights of Strike Eagles and Aardvarks hitting Al Khadim Air Force Base, two flights of Aardvarks hitting Al Marj Scud Base, which contains, we believe, eight Scud-C launchers. And lastly two flights of Aardvarks hitting the Benghazi Military Barracks, where the senior leadership of the Cyrenaican military is headquartered. They'll be dropping heavy bombs, two thousand pound Paveways and some of the newer GBU-28s that only the Aardvarks can carry. The air force has seen fit to allow each strike element to fly under Raven escort. Callsigns for the Ravens will be 'Volt', for the Strike Eagles it will be 'Ford', and for the Aardvarks it will be 'Thunder' okay?" Heads nodded. "The navy, that's us boys, is almost wholly responsible for the Benghazi Target Zone with the exception of the military barracks.

"We're going to have some initial SEAD elements leading the strike. The Cyrenaicans have a sizeable contingent of surface-to-air defenses chief among them are the long-range SA-5 Gammon missiles. If you are unfamiliar with this gigantic missile then get familiar with it. The thing is thirty-five feet long, weighs nearly eight tons, and it carries a five hundred pound warhead. It's got the ability to hit targets as high up as ninety-five thousand feet and as far away as one hundred and fifty miles. There's no escaping them and they move at Mach 7.5. They're semi-active and they might not be the most maneuverable missiles in the sky but that doesn't mean you should discredit them. If your RWR lights up with an SA-5 coming at you, you will evade it as if it's the best damn missile out there! We don't want to have to send the RESCAP to pick up your body parts floating on the ocean.

"Primary SEAD is on the A-7Es of VA-56 and they'll have the EA-6Bs of VAQ-51 to support them. They'll run the callsigns Chevy and Spark, respectively. Just behind them will be the secondary SEAD elements. These are the guys protecting our butts. The A-7Es of VA-55 are going for the Bengahzi Navy Base and they're going to be wholly contained with aircraft on SEAD and aircraft on strike duties, they'll be under Joker. Our target is the Benghazi airport and we'll have the Intruders of VA-53 escorting our way in with a SEAD flight. We'll be sharing strike responsibility with these guys so here's how the run-in is supposed to work." The map flipped to a blown up photograph of Benghazi IAP. "First flight, that'll be under the Skipper's direction, is going for the runway, these hardened aircraft shelters here, and the tower," Darnell pointed with a stick showing each group. "Ordinance is four Paveway IIIs each so that's sixteen bombs. Let's make them all count. We want four bombs on the runway, one into the tower, and the rest against these hardened aircraft shelters. The second flight under the direction of the XO will strike these bunkers here. For this you'll be carrying Walleyes and Mavericks. Raptor 203 and 204 will orbit for targets of opportunity, again with Paveway IIIs and to serve as backup for missed targets.

"The Intruders callsign Devil will be have a SEAD flight with Rockeyes and HARMs. Then a second flight will attack the tarmac with iron bombs striking parked aircraft. They have a pair of Intruders flying backup for targets of opportunity as well. That's it in a nutshell. Intel will give you the rundown on defenses and threats." Darnell stepped aside for LT Jay Trueman, the squadron's ops officer. He came to the podium next and the slide changed to show a number of intersecting rings and dots in the center.

"There are four SA-2 sites here in red protecting the capital, two SA-3 sits here in blue, and two SA-5 sites. They have four EWR radars, which will be struck by Tomahawk strikes. Point defense at the airport can be expected to be four SA-8s and a number of handheld SA-14s. Triple-A is going to be six ZPU-4s, four ZU-23s, at least four Shilkas, and one or two ZSU-57s. We're setting a hard deck of 10,000 feet to avoid the triple-A and the SA-14s. Now the Corsairs will handle the SA-3 and the SA-5 sites, the Intruders will tackle the SA-2 sites and the point defense units. Triple-A on the other hand will be struck as ordinance permits. We're staying high to avoid them but if there's extra ordinance believe you me, we want them struck and taken out of action! Whatever survives the strikes we'll hit with follow-on strikes, chiefly cruise missiles from the destroyers. The navy has eighty-four TLAM-Cs out here and if we have to fire every one of them we will.

"Following our initial strikes and any follow-on strikes we will conduct BDA to determine whether we need to launch another wave, if we do it will come from the squadrons. Now let's go over air threats." The map changed, "I'll start with the Roman target zones. At Al Bumbah North, the Cyrenaicans have sixteen Flogger-Ks and twelve Fitter-Hs. At Marsa al Brega they have the same number of Floggers but also a dozen Foxbats with some Hinds. There are some ASW Haze helicopters up at Al Bumbah but they aren't that much of a threat to us. The navy will be shooting them down in case they are being used for OTH targeting.

"Al Khadim has sixteen Floggers, twelve Fitters, and four Blinder bombs. If these get airborne they are high priority. The Tu-22s can carry an AS-4 Kitchen each and we know what these missiles can do. Mach 4.6, range of two hundred and fifty miles. They have a one ton warhead that will put a hole sixteen feet across and forty feet deep into a ship. One of those hits the carrier and we're in trouble! Everyone is going to be swatting these guys down if they get airborne. You're all carrying Sidewinders now you aren't supposed to go after these guys but if you see one in your HUD by God you fire, you fire both missiles and call out the position. The Tomcats will expedite and get there ASAP. Now except for the Tomcats on BARCAP and HAVCAP, these guys are carrying Sparrows, no Phoenix missiles. The skies are going to be crowded so we don't want any fratricide. That being said, against the Tu-22s, the ROE is to fire. We don't need visual confirmation for the launching plane. Mother 201 will handle the guidance. So if you hear 'Fox Three' over the channel you better clear out of any Tu-22s. Shoot your missiles and bug out fast!

"At Benghazi you'll have sixteen Floggers, twelve Foxbats, and some Candids. The Intruders will make sure if these guys are on the ground they're gone and never get into the skies. We're going to blind the Cyrenaicans with Tomahawk sorties, the initial strike is for twenty-four missiles into their EWR sites. The aircraft will do the rest. The Romans and their two carrier groups will definitely help. They've got thirty-six attack aircraft and fighters on their first carrier and seventy on the other. We're going to stick to our sectors and our target zones and make sure this goes off without a hitch to us. Back to your Skipper."

"Thanks Jay, all right so any questions?"

"What about gas?" A young pilot, a lieutenant junior grade who would be flying Raptor 204 asked.

"Right gas, how could we forget," the Skipper said. "VA-53 will have a pair of KA-6Ds up with the callsign Buddy and the air force will rotate their sixteen tankers. Now of those sixteen only two are going to be good to us, all KC-10As with the callsign Texaco. They'll have two up there for us with the ability to refuel us but trust me you don't want to hit those guys unless it's absolutely necessary. Boom operators are god awful atrocious with the basket. Go for the KA-6s if you need a sip. They'll have two spare tankers ready to launch too but we're expecting clear weather and calm seas, there's no reason any pilot should miss the first trap. If you do, calm down, get back into the orbit, and get your second chance. We like to say that hardest part of flying navy is getting home but on a night like tonight it's going to be over Benghazi. Any other questions?"

"RESCAP?"

"Priority is over the water and HS-59 will come out to get you if you have to go down over Benghazi it's up to the Romans. They have a Marine unit on standby and will chopper in the guys with the guns. There's going to be a lot of aircraft over the skies so it's going to get dicey. Stay off of the radios unless it's necessary, make your on and off calls, and if you see bandits call them out immediately! Mother 201 is coordinating everything but just because they're doing it doesn't mean you have to act like a drone. We know how those Hawkeye crews get so you're not on your own and you don't do anything stupid but don't take any risks."

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October 4, 1988 - 20:30 hrs [UTC+2]
Mediterranean Sea
ILNS Layarteb (CVN-68)
(33° 10' 42" N, 18° 39' 30" E)

CDR McLean noted the sliver of moonlight in the sky for the new moon had only been a few days earlier. It was the perfect night to launch strikes and that was evident by the bustle on the flight deck. The Event 1 aircraft, which were the twelve A-7E Corsair IIs from VA-56 and the eight F-14A Tomcats from VF-52 were going through their final inspections. Engines were being run up and air crews were making their in-the-cockpit preflight inspections. The carrier deck was completely awash with the roar of jet engines but CDR McLean was used to it. His bombardier/navigator, LT Kim Myrick was used to it as well and the two men went around their aircraft doing their external checks. It was forty-five minutes until launch time for them and for the next fifteen minutes they would be tugging on ordinance, making sure it was secure, shining their lights on chaff and flare dispensers, checking the wheels, and so on and so forth.

When he and his BN were done they climbed into the cockpit of the venerable aircraft and listened as the tone of the flight deck changed. The ship's speed was increasing and aircraft were being moved up to their catapult positions or pre-launch positions. Launch and recovery events were normally no more than twenty aircraft but this was different, they were launching an alpha strike against Cyrenaica and that meant a complete and total change. The first aircraft would throw off of the ship and immediately, the second group would be moved up to launch. Inside of the cockpit of the aircraft CDR McLean paid little attention to what an amazing machine it was. He and his BN still had work to do though the story of the A-5D Super Vigilante wasn't lost on them.

The A-5D came about because of hunger. Following the end of the Second Civil War, the Layartebian military was in poor shape and a report in 1981 concluded that it was essentially in shambles. Older aircraft were stretched to their maximum flight hours and serviceable parts were difficult to acquire. Among the many recommendations of this report - which geared to getting the Layartebian military back into a fighting position - was the return of the A-5 Vigilante to service to provide a boost in carrier airpower. There had been two hundred and forty A-5A, A-5B, and RA-5C aircraft built and only one hundred and twenty-eight, all of them unarmed RA-5Cs, remained flight worthy in 1981. The A-5As and the A-5Bs were cannibalized to keep the RA-5Cs in service because of their exceptional low-altitude reconnaissance capabilities. While the navy had the Corsair II, the Intruder, and the Phantom in service, these were largely in poor shape. The F-18 Hornet was still too new to be considered a reliable ground attack aircraft and it lacked the range of its counterparts. The premier aircraft, the F-14 Tomcat, was purely an interceptor and so the navy was in trouble.

To make matters worse, the air force maintained enough flightworthy F-111 Aardvarks to take many bombing missions away from the navy and the F-15E Strike Eagle was showing very promising capabilities in testing. The navy wanted to get back into bombing and they needed something that could match the F-111. The only airframe capable of such a task was the Vigilante. While the A-5A had a maximum takeoff weight of just 62,950 lb, the A-5B and the RA-5C could take off at 80,000 lb, the maximum catapult limit. Thus the navy looked to bring its RA-5Cs back into service but as conventional attack bombers, not nuclear bombers. From 1982 through 1984, designers worked tirelessly to upgrade the aircraft's components. They started with the engines, replacing them with those used on the F-15E Strike Eagle, which offered considerably more thrust and better fuel efficiency since they were turbofans and not turbojets. The wings were strengthened to allow four hardpoints capable of carrying 5,000 lb of ordinance each, matching that of the F-111. In addition, two Sidewinder rails were installed near the wingtips for self-defense. This wasn't enough though and significant work went into upgrading the aircraft's avionics from its ECM systems to its attack systems.

What resulted was an entirely new aircraft. Equipped with LANTIRN pods and the radar from the A-6E Intruder, the A-5D Super Vigilante could self-designate its laser-guided bombs and drop them onto targets with high degrees of success. A CCIP bombing system was added to aid in diving bombing. The aircraft were now in their Block 10 phase and there was question about whether or not to keep them in service. The F-18C/D Hornet was in service and it had considerable promise over the F-18A/B. Yet A-5 pilots knew something that the navy brass didn't know. Hornets weren't ideal strike aircraft. They couldn't carry the payload and they couldn't fly the distance. The joke was that a Hornet driver knew how to refuel better than anyone since he did it after takeoff, before he hit the target, after he hit the target, and before he landed. A-5s could fly six hundred and forty miles and back!

CDR McClean was one of many Super Vigilante pilots. The navy had converted sixty-four such aircraft and put them into eight squadrons across the fleet. The strike capabilities of the Super Vigilante were more than known. The Intruder could do it too but the Intruder was facing a bleak future as well in the wake of the readiness of Hornet squadrons. The future of navy airpower was in a strange place as the newer, fourth generation fighters and aircraft clashed with the older, third generation ones. F-4 Phantom IIs were being replaced by Tomcats in the fighter role and Hornets in the attack role. The A-6 Intruders and the A-7 Corsair IIs were nearing the end of their lifespan, also to be replaced by Hornets. The future was scary, just Tomcats and Hornets, and for the A-5 pilots, they were the bridge between fighter generations.

The ship turned into the wind and was at flank speed as the first catapults fired, throwing two F-14A Tomcats off of the deck at once. Just as the blast deflectors lowered, two more were on their way forward. A third flew off of the waist catapult and into the skies as three more hooked up and were ready to go. The flight deck was at a roar now as afterburning turbofans from the F-14s spewed fire ten feet long before being thrown into the skies. "I love this time," CDR McLean said to no one in particular as he strapped on his helmet and gave the plane captain a thumb's up, which was returned by a similar gesture. The man dropped to the deck and gave the signal for the engine start. One at a time, CDR McLean fired up the two massive, Pratt & Whitney F100-PW-220 afterburning turbofan engines. Each one put out a maximum thrust of 23,770 lbf which was nearly 7,000 lbf more than the J79 turbojets of the older A-5s.

Fifteen minutes later he was following the yellow shirt up to the blast deflector, which was dropped. The cockpit was enclosed around him, the canopy locked tight. All CDR McLean had to do now was follow the instructions of the yellow shirts in front and he did, taxiing the aircraft slowly forward into the shuttle. Underneath the aircraft a green shirt was already hooking the nose wheel up to it. Steam vented from the catapult and filled the flight deck around him. In the darkness of the night it was tough to see far but he could easily see the men around the deck who would make sure that not only did he get aloft but that he did so safely, quickly, and with style. The Vigilante put out a lot of thrust and made a lot of noise on the flight deck but so did most other aircraft, his just happened to be massive.

On cue he ran through the flight controls, giving them all a thorough run through just to make sure everything was working. The yellow shirt gave him a thumb's up from the starboard side and looked around the deck. Men were crouching down now and he ran up the engines to full throttle. The afterburners kicked in and spat flames nearly into the blast deflector. CDR McLean looked at the gauges, looked out of the canopy, returned the salute, and leaned his body back, bracing for the launch. Though he'd flown thousands of missions before nothing quite replaced the sensation of a catapult launch and there it was, +4Gs as the aircraft was thrown forward. The catapult had a run length of just three hundred and twenty-five feet and at that end of it, when the massive aircraft was thrown over the bow, it was moving at 140 knots. He felt the disconnect of the shuttle and eased back slightly on the stick, reaching for the gear lever almost immediately.

"Raptor 101 is airborne," LT Myrick said into the radio as CDR McLean concentrated on flying. As the aircraft passed through 220 knots he turned off the afterburner and looked to his right to see the strobes of his wingman, Raptor 102, right on his side flying in tight formation.

"Good formation Two, let's turn out now and enter pattern."

"Two, copy," his wingman said and both aircraft climbed to 1,000 feet and began a slow orbit around the ship. They would meet up with Raptor 103 and Raptor 104 before proceeding to the target. Raptor 201 would do the same, linking up with his full flight of four aircraft before proceeding towards Benghazi.

"Diagnostics complete Skipper," CDR McLean heard over the intercom, "we're green across the board."

"Glad to hear it," CDR McLean was indeed glad to hear this. The ECM and radars couldn't be fully tested on the ship lest the radiation from them harm the deck crew. Up in the skies however, it was a different story and the powerful AN/APQ-156 was ready to go. The AN/AAQ-14 Targeting Pod had already been checked out but for good measure, LT Myrick checked it again. Sometimes catapult launches jiggered the LANTIRN pods in a specific way as to make them fail. It was a pain in the ass but it was just because of its mounting. The hardpoints were sturdy but they were based on the F-15Es hardpoints and the F-15E wasn't subjected to catapult launches. The last system to test was the AN/ALQ-165 ASPJ, the jamming system that would protect them from surface-to-air and even air-to-air threats. The Vigilante was equipped with eight AN/ALE-40 Countermeasures Dispensers and the standard load was one hundred and twenty bundles of chaff and sixty flares. "Glad to hear it," the skipper repeated.

When all four aircraft were formed up, the flight turned towards its first steerpoint and began the climb up to 20,000 feet. Up there the triple-A could touch them and only the SAMs could but if the Corsair IIs and the Intruders did their jobs right, the SAMs would never be a threat. That left CDR McLean the freedom to bomb at will. Benghazi IAP had two runways and four bombs would be enough to put them out of commission. CDR McLean had already walked his men through where they would drop so that all four aircraft could drop at once and put the runways out of commission simultaneously. From there they would hit the eight hardened shelters and the tower leaving three bombs to spare. CDR McLean already had targets for them - if all of their bombs hit they would drop them on three additional hangars that were likely to hold or service military aircraft, all located on the southwestern corner of the airport, near the hardened shelters. The whole attack was expected to last five minutes, long enough to be an eternity but short enough that the Cyrenaicans wouldn't be able to respond in an organized fashion.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

October 4, 1988 - 21:40 hrs [UTC+2]
Benghazi, Libya
A-5D Super Vigilante (Raptor 201)
(32° 5' 58" N, 20° 16' 22" E)

"Five minutes to release," LT Myrick reported from the backseat. Raptor flight was on time. Operation IRON GRIZZLY had been something extraordinary so far. Over the past five minutes, the twenty-four TLAM-C cruise missiles slammed into their targets, blacking out the radar screens for the Cyrenaicans. Tomcats over the skies had shot down two Floggers, one Foxbat, and one Fitter. One crew had managed to get two kills, a Flogger and a Fitter. The SA-3 and SA-5 sites had been wiped out and the last SA-2 site was about to eat an AGM-88 HARM missile in ten seconds. The Intruders were already rolling in on the flight line to strike the aircraft on the ground. Only two Floggers were moving on the ground, everything else was silent, likely because the pilots knew it was futile to get into the skies. They knew all too well the power of the Tomcat.

From the front seat of the cockpit, CDR McLean shifted in his seat. He'd only been airborne for twenty-five minutes now and he'd let the autopilot fly the aircraft to the coast but now it was time to get ready. They would be dropping bombs from altitude, in level flight so there wasn't much to do but turn through the orbit and ensure proper separation from the other aircraft. The LANTIRN pods would lock onto the target and lase it at the appropriate time for the GBU-24B/B Paveway III bombs. Each bomb was carrying a BLU-109A/B I-2000 penetrator warhead. Combined with the kinetic energy of a Mach 1 impact, the BLU-109 could penetrate through 6 feet of reinforced concrete where its 530 lb Tritonal warhead would turn whatever it hit into nothing but pulverized dust. Against the runway, the BLU-109 would penetrate into the ground before detonating, causing a massive crater and buckling the runway. The shockwave of four such bombs striking would cause the runway to buckle nearly along its entire length, disabling it.

"Target is in range, locking laser now," LT Myrick said and with that he pushed a few buttons, slew the joystick to the target, and put the crosshairs right on the runway intersection. "Drop in fifteen…fourteen…thirteen…" He knew that the HUD was showing the skipper the countdown timer but he was caught up in the moment, having never dropped live ordinance on a target before. Before he even had to tell the skipper to release the bomb, the first one was off and the autotrim was already working to level out the aircraft. The bomb fell away and a countdown timer on the MFD showed the BN how long until impact. "Come left to One-Zero-Five, maintain altitude." The plane turned and the BN watched the crosshairs remain locked onto the target. Then an "L" flashed showing that the laser was functioning. Seconds later, the MFD was wiped out in a bright flash as the bomb struck. Three other bombs hit nearly simultaneously as the runway was put out of commission completely and thoroughly for good.

Coming around, CDR McLean dropped his other three bombs, taking out the tower, and two hardened shelters. This left his plane some 9,400 lb lighter and the autotrim immediately put the aircraft back into a level configuration, correcting its work. The aircraft was now balanced again. "Raptor lead we're moving to feet wet." CDR McLean said into the radio as he turned the aircraft back towards the carrier. The skies were quiet and down below, Benghazi was aflame. The F-111F Aardvarks of the 6807th Fighter Squadron had turned the military barracks into rubble, the A-6Es turned the airport into smoldering piles of wreckage, and the A-5Ds had wiped out the runway, the tower, all eight of the hardened structures, and two of the remaining hangars. No one was coming home with unused ordinance except for the AIM-9M Sidewinders on their rails though these missiles would go unused for the Tomcats had swatted everyone out of the skies.

The entirety of the Layarteb's carrier air wing was heading home. Tomcats covered their escape lest some brave pilot in an undamaged MiG manage to get airborne. No one had any idea how the whole mission went. Word hadn't reached the attack pilots yet that the fighters had been downed, that the air force had wiped out the entirety of the Al Marj Scud Base, that the Corsair IIs of VA-55 had sunk two Nanuchkas and that the Romans had sunk two patrol boats, and certainly no one knew yet that the Romans had an ace card still up their sleeves. The air wing instead returned to a massive celebration aboard the Layarteb as aircraft after aircraft trapped successfully. The buddy tankers were brought in last and carrier operations quieted down for the remainder of the night. Air crews celebrated after their debriefings where each squadron learned of the full effects of the strikes. There would be eighteen TLAM-C sorties as follow up strikes but that was as far as it would need to go. However, the real news would come after the sun rose over the Mediterranean.

When it did, the Layartebians would learn that Roman intelligence tracked General Omar Osman, the military dictator of Cyrenaica to a VIP bunker in Benghazi. Thereon, the Romans launched a final strike with a pair of F-117A Nighthawk stealth fighters. Each Nighthawk dropped two, GBU-27/B Paveway III bombs, which were also equipped with the BLU-109 penetrator warhead. The first two bombs penetrated through the bunker's roof allowing the second two the opportunity to explode inside of the bunker, which they did, killing Osman and his entire senior staff. This was the real success of Operation IRON GRIZZLY. Of course the Cyrenaican military was never to recover. The air force and the navy had been wiped out, Osman was dead, the air defense network was shattered, and the Scud threat to Rome had been removed. All Cyrenaica had now was its army and they were in shambles after losing so many battles with the Libyans next door.

Operation IRON GRIZZLY was it, the operation that put Cyrenaica into the dark ages and left them there. The country would never recover from the devastation of the operation and subsequent coups and countercoups kept the government completely and wholly ineffective until December 5, 1991 when the Cyrenaican Civil War commenced. Three and a half years later, when an uneasy truce settled over the country, Cyrenaica was but a shell of a country, the tattered remains of a failed state while the Kingdom of Libya next door had flourished beyond their wildest dreams, especially thanks to assistance from Rome.

[Earth II] Short Story Index

[Earth II] Short Story Index

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