We Will Win [IC/MT/Atlas Only/Finished]

[New Chilokver]

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"Sometimes by losing a battle you find a new way to win the war.
Don't ever get down on yourself, just keep fighting - in the end, you WIN!"
~ Donald J. Trump

Apelia, Chilokver

---

Victoria International Airport. It was the first thing anyone flying into the capital of Chilokver could see- a sprawling mass of glittering lights, reflected off the Stygian mirror of the harbor. Here was the beating heart of the city, where aviation carried the lifeblood of commerce, trade and tourism to Apelia. Each and every year, fifty-six million passengers flew in and out of this hub.

At the center of this asphalt plain, rows of aircraft stood spotlighted in a blaze of yellow by the herringbone arrangement of terminals and air bridges. Like stars on stage, they were constantly attended to by an entourage of vehicles- pallet loaders, refueling trucks, tugs & tractors. The further away you went from this beehive of activity however, the more the hubbub and skirl of jet engines diminished. As one moved toward the working areas of the airport, the warehouses and hangars grew increasingly darker and closer together. Often, whole sections were shrouded in shadow, illuminated only by the light of the far away runways. The low grey clouds that overcast the sky and hinted at rain only served to blacken the mood further.

Incongruous against this backdrop of desertion, a lone building stood in a pool of pale lime seeping out from a crack underneath its corrugated sliding doors. Splashed across the front in bold scarlet letters was a number- Hangar 13. Tonight, it was the holding cell for a business jet embellished in a royal livery, formerly of the Chazicarian government. Much like the other Chazicarian aircraft following sanctions leveled against Chilokver by the United Imperial Republic, it had been promptly seized as a retaliatory “Fuck you”. Unlike the other aircraft however, it had been moved from the hardstand where Vazandian airliners remained parked. Earlier this evening, it had been separated from its crimson and cobalt brethren for a very special purpose.

4 hours earlier

---

“Back, back.. OK that’s good!”

There was a dull clunk as the tractor connected to the front wheel of the jet. The driver signaled his approval to the rest of the ground crew.

“Chocks away-”

As he floored the accelerator, the powerful diesel engine of the tractor began to reluctantly pull the Chazicarian jet forward. Herding it from the back were two black SUVs, belonging to the private contractor hired by the airport- Paolomo Security. They were a well recommended group, with the vast majority of employees having served in the military in some capacity. And no wonder, David Lee mused. ’With pay this good, I don’t even mind staying overnight for this job.’

As the convoy turned along the asphalt, his reflection flashed in the side mirror- close cropped hair and dark eyes. David was on the short side, but stocky, with a body like a bull. It was a sharp contrast to his colleague in the driver’s seat, whose name tag read Yeon See. He too was on the large size, but more round than defined, with a pair of glasses. Despite his looks and quietness, Yeon was far from unintelligent- the guy could be surprisingly insightful. Often, he knew the most of all the security officers assigned to the airport. Thus, when the irregularity of their piece of work occurred to him, it was to Yeon he turned for answers.

“Hey- got any idea why we’re holding this one separately? Diplomatic jet, ain’t it?”

Yeon grunted in affirmative as they pulled alongside the hangar. “Yeah, I reckon the spooks want to take a good long look at her. See if there are any documents or the like inside I should think.”

That had been four hours ago. Since then, nothing much had happened after the aircraft had been transferred. Yeon had won the coin toss to take communications duties from the air-conditioned comfort of the four-wheel drive, which meant he got sentry duty, a monotonous routine of constant patrolling. The guys in the second SUV weren’t due to spell them until midnight, and from the digital watch on David’s wrist, that was a good 2 hours away. One circle of the perimeter every five minutes had gradually grown to one every fifteen. Instead, he had taken to lying against the nose wheel of the jet in between. He shivered. After the sun had gone down, the temperature had fallen to a cool 6 degrees centigrade, and the bare walls of the hangar did nothing to keep the icy wind out. His breath frosted the air in a cloud of white when he exhaled, making him regret not bringing his packet of cigarettes even more.

A quick beep from his watch told him it was time for his next circuit of the building. He spat loudly as he got up, watching the gob of spit splatter and slide down the polished white gloss of the plane. The pump action shotgun he carried had long since grown heavy on his arms; he carried it resting barrel backwards on his shoulder now. As he reached the end of the building, he peered through the crack of the doors for any sign of activity outside. Nothing. Just pitch black quiet. David sighed. Nothing ever happened on his shifts.

[Chazicaria]

11:09PM, January 17th, 2017
Victoria International Airport, Apelia, Chilokver

It was freezing out.

The temperature hadn't bothered the security team so much when they still worked at the embassy, or even when they were driving to the airport while trying to evade authorities. It hadn't bothered the team when they smashed the gates down with their SUVs as they approached the row of hangars they knew their plane should be at.

When it bothered them was when they had to sneakily check half the hangars in the airport for their own damn plane. For 2 hours they maneuvered around the airport on foot before finally arriving at Hangar 13 and coming upon their goal.

Over the radio, a signal was given and the SUVs moved from their well-hidden positions to just outside the hangar. Each armed man dismounted, leaving their much softer charges, the diplomatic staff and Ambassador Hux, inside the vehicles. The plan had been discussed quite simply over the radio. There were 12 members of the security team led by Gunnery Sergeant Jackson Jimenez, which gave the Chazicarians a pretty large advantage.

Obviously, the moment the team entered the hangar through a side door, the Chilokveri guards snapped into alertness and had their weapons at the ready, but not before all 12 of the security team had done the same. The unlucky guards knew instantly their wasn't going to be a fair fight, and that they likely intended to lay down their arms, but that wasn't going to happen. In roughly 3 seconds, 12 men discharged their weapons simultaneously into 2 men, lathering them with a less than delicious spread of jacketed hollow point bullets. Before they were completely eviscerated, the two men had got off a couple shots, one of which had struck a security team member in the forearm.

It wasn't 2 minutes before the entire diplomatic staff and the Ambassador had been loaded onto the plane, and the Embassy pilot put in the cockpit. With one of the security team members, an experienced flier, as his copilot, the pilot pulled the plane onto the proper runway and began a taxi, and eventually an ascent. In the back of the plane, a terrified staff attempted to use their combined medical knowledge to keep the wounded security team member from bleeding too much. With what would likely be hostile skies and a wounded man on board, the Gunnery Sergeant ordered the pilot to head directly northeast to neutral Zoboyizakoplayoklot, and even radioed ahead to try and secure access to the airspace.

It had been a daring move, but perhaps this might just work.

[Valdiu]

Lincoln Flight
Above Chilokver

---

It was a moonlit night. It was a neutral one, too; for a couple laying on a rooftop gazing at the stars from beneath a comfy blanket, it was poetic as could be; for a high schooler gazing despondently at the ethereal white orb suspended from the heavens, it could be sorrowful; for the lazy, hunched at a desk lightly dusted with orange Cheeto powder whilst staring at a screen soaked with blood, it was a night utterly neutral and likely greasy.

This night, however, was shaping up to be sinister. Not that that was anything new - even before the bright moon whom belonged to no one rose its weary way to drench the Chilokveri countryside in a pale, somber light, the cogs in the infinitely complex geopolitics machine were at work, bringing Atlas from relative peace to the brink of nuclear war in a little over a week. About the geopolitical chicken field, landmines had been scattered liberally.

One of the outputs of the curious and vast geopolitical machine was the presence of two sleek metal objects in the skies over Chilokver that night. Those that were acquainted with them knew them as Type F-36 Peregrines. These were absolute beasts of aircraft. Despite their elegant, graceful lines, at full clip, their twin engines shot the planes through the air atop a chariot of 24 combined tons-force of thrust.

Tonight, however, was quiet, and so they remained aloft on cruising power alone, coasting comfortably at an altitude of 10,000 feet, winging aloft like the bird for which they were named.

Still, unlike the speedy, steely-eyed predatory namesake hawk, these birds of prey were not looking for a target: rather, trying to keep targets away. Based out of local Chilokveri airfields, the Valdian planes were there to protect CHAV and Chilokveri airspace from any probing planes. It was normally quiet work: their job mostly consisted of pleasant conversations with private pilots enjoying the aerial vantage of the picturesque lakes and coastlines of the Chilokveri border. Perhaps the best part of the job was the terrible fright that the poor sightseers got when two 120 million-arian air superiority fighters informed them to turn back or be vaporized by twenty pounds of explosives.

“Quiet night, ain’it?”

The ethereal silence of the black night was broken by a snare-drum crackle. The quiet, sober voice belonged to Capt. Justin Knokie, who was sitting in the front seat of the forward jet. He glanced to his right. The moon reflected dimly off of the twitching canard directly abeam his compartment; a stark, illuminated grey contrast to the silhouette of faint mountains miles away.

“Sure is,” said his RIO, 1Lt. Rhonda Jones. The other ship remained silent, perhaps busy staring at the view through the cold and crisp nighttime air.

Knokie looked over. The faint lights of some city shone in the far distance, a pulsating, spider-legged oasis in the desert of black countryside. It was -

“Lincoln Flight, Lincoln Flight, this is Chilokveri Northwestern Command.” Knokie raised his eyebrow briefly before his military instinct took over.

“Chilokveri Northwestern Command, Lincoln One-One. Do you need something?”

“Lincoln One-One, there is a hostile aircraft approaching your position along vector zero-one-zero. Turn bearing two-three-three to coordinates 029157 and prepare to engage.”

“Well, shit,” muttered Knokie. He keyed his mic. “This Lincoln One-One. Turning two-three-two to 029157. ETA two mikes.”

[Chazicaria]

11:59PM, January 17th, 2017
In the skies above Chilokver

There's was a tension among the staff on the plane.

Even though their little heist had gone off almost without a hitch, and the plane was well on its way towards Zoboyizakoplayoklot, they were still in enormous danger. No one on the aircraft wanted to admit it, but they were all absolutely terrified.

Some of the embassy staff had secluded themselves in individual rooms of the plane, trying to calm down and regain their compunction, while others were still making every attempt to keep the wounded security team member from fading out of consciousness.

In the cockpit, things were especially heavy. Just moments before, 2 radar signatures had popped up and were gaining on the diplomatic craft. Both the pilot and copilot knew what they probably were, but neither wanted to accept that reality. The copilot was frantically communicating with authorities in both Chazicaria and Zoboyizakoplayoklot, trying to get them to contact the Chilokveri government.

It was right at that point that the radar identified both aircraft as Valdian fighters.

The only sound heard before the missile lock alert was a whispered, "Fuck."

[Valdiu]

Lincoln Flight
Above Chilokver

---

“Lock,” the computer said monotonously.

In the dark of the night, all that was visible of the Chazicarian jet were its navigation. An even syncopation of red, green, white, red, green, white pierced through the black and provided a reference point for the two jets. The Peregrines, canards fluttering and jerking and shifting and adjusting, formed up on either side of the jet, matching its relatively slow clip. “Chilokveri Central Command, this is Lincoln Flight,” said Knokie into the microphone. “We have intercepted the contact, please advise.”

“Lincoln Flight, CHICENTCOM,” replied the radiolady. Her voice was cool and crisp, like Paul Desmond. “Please order target to return to and land at the nearest Chilokveri airport and submit themselves to Chilokveri authorities. If they refuse or approach within ten klicks of the Zoboyizakolayokloti border, you have permission to engage.”


“We copy, CHICENTCOM.” Knokie turned to the Chazicarians, whose interior lights were brightly lit. Through them, Knokie and his men (and woman) could see the security team, peeping out towards the two hundred-million-Arian fighters in fright, curiosity, intimidation, disbelief, and anticipation. Knokie gave them no regard: there was no time for it. His goal was to prevent the Chazicarians from escaping into territory where neither Chilokver nor Valdiu had any jurisdiction, and his time was running out. “Chazicarian aircraft, this is Captain Justin Knokie of the Air Force of the Republic of Valdiu,” he said calmly and authoritatively. “Turn around and return to the nearest Chilokveri airport immediately to be dealt with by the proper authorities.”

The ground below them sped by in a faintly green blur. No response. He decided to try again. “Chazicarian aircraft,” he said. “I repeat, return to the nearest Chilokveri airport immediately or be dealt with by the proper authorities. If you continue on this heading you will be shot down.” Another five miles passed. No response. The border approached fast. “Chazicarian aircraft, this is the Valdian Air Force serving under control of the Karlaesist Meritocracy of Chilokver. This is your final warning. Change heading one hundred and eighty degrees immediately or be shot down.”

Finally, an agitated, recalcitrant voice crackled into Knokie’s ears. “No.”

Knokie grew frustrated at the defiance of the Chazicarians. His hand was about to be forced, with grave repercussions.

The minutes ticked by as the ten-kilometer boundary approached. Fifteen kilometers. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. The Valdians steadily drew farther back, hoping to avoid flying into the debris cloud should the unthinkable happen. “Chazicarian aircraft,” said Knokie finally and despondently. “This is Captain Justin Knokie of the Valdian Air Force. Under orders from the Central Command of the Karlaesist Meritocracy of Chilokver, we are engaging your aircraft in five. Four. Three. Two. One. Lincoln Flight, engage!”

Before the Chazicarian jet could react, Knokie announced: “May God help us all. Fox two, fox two!”

Two short-range air-to-air missiles dropped from their perch underslung on the wings of the jet, igniting almost instanteously and hurtling towards their prey. At this range, no matter what the jet did, it was simply too cumbersome and too close for their fate to differ: the Chazicarians were going to die, along with the surviving Chilokveri. The Chazicarian plane was summarily enveloped in a bright orange budding flower and white-hot metal shards began to rain down on the imaginary line straddling Zoboyizakoplayoklot and Chilokver.

“CHICENTCOM, this is Lincoln Flight,” said Knokie with a sense of finality. “It’s done. The Chazicarians are dead.”