1st Lt. Victoria "Abel" Cain
0552 November 24th, 2015 // Campagna Airport, Vitoze, Emmeria
The plane she sat in right now, a J35J, was an old Norddenavik surplus. Part of the Anea initiative was a small but still noticable transfer of arms for familiarity and what not. When that idea came to a close when the Estovakian Civil War kicked up, Emmeria was stuck with close to three whole squadrons worth of fighters they had never adopted in the first place. Namely Stovie Sukhois and MiGs, and the previously mentioned Nord J35s.
The part that bothered her wasn't the fact it was old, or reasonably cramped, or not even the plane she was mainly trained to fly. It was the fact there was no space in the cockpit for any kind of heater beside the generic radioshack radio she stuffed in with her. Victoria wasn't one to complain much, at least openly, but being on midnight alert was an exemplary pain in the ass. From 1800 last night, to 0600 this morning, she, along with the rest of both her squadron, as well as Hitman and Windhover, were to sit in their planes and wait for another air space breach, break the speed of sound, and scare off imaginary fighters in one of many drills. It was one of those things that wouldn't last forever. High command was no doubt already going through counterattack options, though all things considered, most of their ground forces were still encircled on the mainland. It grated on her, knowing most of the remains of the Emmerian Air Force was cooped up in their hangars, but flying east with no plan and with their dicks in their hands wasn't the answer either.
Looking at the timepiece strapped to her arm, the clock read 0559. Victoria's hand reached for the buckle that would unlock her from her seat. It was at that exact moment that the air raid siren started wailing. Outside the hangar doors she could see other pilots about to make the shift change already hauling ass to their respective planes.
Scrambles during wartime were high strung moments, especially on the back step, the kind of moments where, despite doing so three hours ago, you still were doing preflight checks, even while taxiing to the runway. Such was how pressed for time the aircraft here were. Managing to pull in to the lead of Griffin's Alpha Flight on the runway, the mirrors mounted to the inside of her canopy gave her a view of the ragtag number behind her craft eager to get off the taxi way.
Campagna Airport ATC: <<Lion Flight, you are cleared for takeoff.>>
Abel: <<Copy, takeoff clearance granted.>>
With that, Abel punched the throttle, as the craft burned down the runway with the rest of Lion in tow, the craft each attained lift and went airborne. Gear went up, and Abel started her distant loiter.
Campagna Airport ATC: <<Lion Flight, liftoff. Assassin flight runway clearance granted. Takeoff when ready. All aircraft under airborne command's jurisdiction following, takeoff. This is not a drill, repeat, not a drill.>>
AWACS Ghost Eye: <<Airborne Warning and Control Systems Ghost Eye to all scrambling defense craft. Four times Estovakian Bear bombers and eight times Fitter-Hs are on a bombing run for the town of Vitoze and Campagne Airport incoming from heading Triple Zero at 86 kilometers out and angels eight point eight. Escorts of ten times Fishbeds are accompanying. Should they succeed in their attack, our nation and it's way of life will be wiped out. Ground based radar and ESM facilities are available for datalink, and SAM sites are available to pick off any craft that make it through air command's net, but don't rely on them. Griffin, Hitman, Avalanche, Sky Kid, and Windhover Squadrons, you all have clearance to engage. Take them out.>>
As Abel went to afterburner and made a beeline for 000, the lead of another squadron piped up.
Windhover: << Look at all that smoke.>>
Abel: <<Our frontline has already been hammered. Air defense is likely about to follow suit, so let's stop them from doing that.>>