https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUQiUFZ5RDw
The Rosel Sea
46 Kilometers north of Rig Cluster Bellissima
Jan Fleisher suspected that under most circumstances, he would have found himself severely disliking the monotony of eventless patrol flights. Currently, however, he found the boredom to be somewhat welcoming. The mercenary pilot had a rather compelling reason to hope for something that was usually anathema to his breed: an assignment without any action. The airmen and -women employed by Carelia’s PMCs had a strong appetite for battle, where they could hone and test their skills against the foes they had been paid to fight. The bonus they earned for each kill was the cherry on top of this decidedly bloodthirsty mindset. That being said, the aforementioned foes were usually underequipped third-world insurgents or militaries that craft such as the F-4 Phantom he was currently piloting could handily deal with.
Said aforementioned foes were not meant to be one of the largest modern militaries on the planet.
His employer, Valm Security, had been contracted to guard an expansive network of oil rigs in the Rosel– one of the largest such networks of its kind. Typically, Valm’s presence would have been unnecessary; the pirates or seaborne terrorists who were the usual threats to oil rigs were a rare sight in this part of the world. Due to a certain communist elephant in the room, however, the situation was anything but typical. The proximity of the Carrie-controlled rigs to Velkanikan fisheries had long been a sore point with the Red Giant up north. Lately, the Velk navy had been breathing down the necks of the rig workers more so than usual. They had apparently gotten aggressive enough over the past few months to spook the energy corporations back home into splurging on armed protection for their maritime investments.
Valm had gathered the better part of its not-insignificant military power for this uniquely lucrative assignment. Three of their competitors had also been contracted and had done the same. For any other job, the combined rosters of some of the largest PMCs in the country would have been the definition of overkill. Scores of fighter aircraft and over three dozen warships were more than enough to topple a small country. Against the Velkanikans, however, their last-generation equipment– refurbished and refitted as it was– fell somewhat short. Of course, there were the better-armed veteran units who could fight them on equal terms, but many combat personnel, Jan Fleisher included, would be just one step above cannon fodder if it came to blows with the Velks. At least the presence of so many warm bodies in the area had the commies acting cautious for the time being. He hoped it would stay that way. If things went pear-shaped, Amalia would be worried sick about him. And then she would kill him once he got back home. If he got back home–
Jan’s train of thought was interrupted by a transmission from one of the AWACS birds loitering about local airspace.
"Buckshot Flight, this is AWACS Shaman. Adjust your bearing to heading zero-three-one. Long range radar is picking up a pair of unidentified ships moving towards rig cluster Bravo. HQ wants a visual, and you’re the closest available unit."
The annoyingly boisterous voice of Samuel Hamns, his flight leader, replied almost immediately.
"Roger that, checkin’ it out. Buckshot 2-1 out. ...Alright-y, Nugget, follow my lead."
Jan– Buckshot 2-2– hated the nickname given to every new pilot, but he knew better than to complain. “Nugget” may not have been a true personal callsign, but as with any other, complaining about it would invariably net the whiner a worse one. Letting out a sigh, he gently pushed the throttle forward, keeping pace with his superior. So much for an eventless patrol.
––
Now below the cloud layer, the two jets of Buckshot Flight flew in a wide circle around a pair of stark gray forms cutting through the dark surface of the water. In addition to their numbered and orange-striped bows, the turrets and missile launchers on the decks of the ships made their allegiance and purpose perfectly clear. Of course, ol' Hammy Sam still felt the need to point out their presence in his grating Sudentor accent.
"Those ain’t no fishing boats, that’s for sure, eh, Nugget? Looks like, uh, Coast Guard, innit? Well, I’m gonna dial it in."
"No need. Already on it." The terse response of Hamns’ RIO, Matches, stood in stark contrast to the pilot’s… hamminess. "AWACS, Buckshot 2-1. We have visual on the ships. Victor Kilo Coast Guard. One patrol boat and one large frigate."
“Acknowledged, Buckshot 2-1. Destroyers Trugschluss and Sparklighter are being redirected to tail them. ...Continue on modified patrol path, Buckshot flight. "
As Jan made to swing around his flying brick of a plane, he heard his flight lead say something that caused him to let out a lengthy sigh.
“Hey, 2-2. Whaddya say we buzz some Velks, eh?”
He looked up, sharing a glance with his own RIO, Sparksy, through the rearview mirror. Peering over the cover of a magazine, she simply shook her head and turned a page, burying her nose in... pictures of Southern Meridiq’s wildlife, judging by the cover. Sparks had the potentially dangerous habit of bringing reading material on flights, but Jan didn’t complain. She was competent when she needed to be, and Jan suspected that the rather reserved woman was more experienced than she let on. In any case, her opinion on the matter was quite clear to him.
Remembering that he hadn’t yet answered Hammy’s query, Jan thumbed his mic and replied, “Sir, that might not be the best course of...
...You’re gonna do it anyways, aren’t you?”
"Hah, damn right! Try to keep up, Nugget. Or not. Suit yourself.”
Of course.
Still circling the pair of ships, Jan lifted his helmet’s visor and applied a single palm to his forehead as Hammy Sam swung around and dived for the space just in front of the bridge of the larger ship. Wasn’t a flight leader supposed to act as a mentor and role model to his less experienced wingmen?
